Richard Laymon - Fiends

Pretty soon, he started to sock his fist into his mitt.

I really couldn’t take that. It’s no fun at all, being left out of stuff.

So I called, ‘Heads up, kid,’ and threw him the ball. I didn’t burn it in, nothing like that. I tossed it high and easy and right to him. He lit up for a second, then looked alarmed as the ball got closer. Ducking and turning his face away, he reached up with his huge scoop of a glove and didn’t even come close. The ball flew past him and went sailing off down the street. About the time it bounced on the pavement, he checked his mitt. He frowned, like he was really surprised to find it empty. Then he said, ‘Sorry.’

That was the first word I ever heard him say. Sorry.

Then he went chasing after the ball.

‘Good going, Ricky babes,’ Jim said.

‘What do you want? What was I supposed to do, ignore him?’

‘Now we’ll probably be stuck with the little creep.’

‘It’s getting dark, anyway. Maybe we’d better call it a night pretty soon.’

‘Yeah, I’m all for that.’

But we had to wait for the ball. The kid took a while trying to find it. Finally, he dug it out of the flower bed in front of the Watson house and came loping up the street. Still a ways off, he gave it a throw.

‘God!’ Jim muttered. ‘What is he, a girl?’

It was my ball, my fault, so I had to chase it down. I wasn’t eager to pick it up, considering it had been in the kid’s hand and was probably sticky. So I snatched it off the grass with my mitt. By the time I got back with it, the kid was stepping over the curb, walking toward Jim.

‘Getting pretty dark,’ I said. ‘I guess we’d better call it quits for now.’

‘Do we have to?’ the kid asked.

I didn’t like the sound of that ‘we.’

‘Yeah, we’d lose the ball.’

‘Well, all right.’ He sniffed and backhanded some goo off his upper lip. ‘I’m George Johnson. We just moved in.’ He swung a pudgy arm out behind him. ‘Over there.’

‘I’m Rick. This is Jim.’

Luckily, he didn’t try to shake hands with us.

‘You guys sure are good.’

‘It just takes practice,’ I said, figuring he meant we were good with the ball.

‘You want a Twinkie?’ He shoved a hand down into a bulging front pocket of his shorts and pulled out a cellophane pack. The twin, cream-filled yellow cakes inside looked pretty smashed.

‘Thanks anyhow,’ I said. ‘I just had dinner.’

‘Please,’ George said. ‘They’re good.’

‘What the hell,’ Jim said. He stuck his mitt under his arm, took the package from George, said ‘Thanks,’ and ripped it open. He scooted one of the mooshed Twinkies off the cardboard backing and held it toward me.

‘There’s only two of ’em,’ I said. ‘You eat it, George.’

‘Oh, I got plenty. I want it to be yours.’

Well, it had been wrapped up. So I went ahead and took it.

Jim and I both had our mouths full when George said, ‘Will you be my friends?’

How can you say no to a kid who has just given you a Twinkie?

‘Yeah, well…’ I said.

‘What the hell,’ Jim said.

The next day, we made the mistake of riding our bikes past George’s house. We were heading for the Fashion Mall, a good place to hang out and watch the babes - especially Cyndi Taylor. She was a varsity cheerleader and didn’t know we existed, but she had a summer job working at Music World. We could pretend to brouse through the CDs and tapes for about an hour, and spend the whole time scoping her out. I know, that might sound kind of dumb. You wouldn’t think so, though, if you’d ever seen Cyndi.

The only thing was, George must’ve been keeping a lookout. We hadn’t even gotten past his house when the screen door banged and he ran out, yelling, ‘Hey, guys! Wait up!’

Jim gave me a disgusted look, but George was still in his pajamas so I figured we were safe. We swung our bikes to the curb.

‘Hiya, George,' Jim said.

George stopped beside us, huffing and grinning. ‘Hey, where we going?’

‘Nowhere,’ I said. ‘Just tooling around.’

‘Great! I’ll be right out!’

‘That’s all right,’ Jim said. ‘Don’t you have something else you’ve gotta do?’

‘Nope!’ And off he ran, his big butt bouncing the seat of his Pajamas.

The screen door whammed shut.

‘Terrific,’ I muttered.

‘Let’s beat it,’ Jim said.

So that’s what we did.

We sprinted our bikes for the corner, sped around it, then cut down the first alley. All the way to the mall, we kept glancing back, afraid George might be on our tails. But he wasn’t.

He didn’t show up at the mall, either.

He ruined everything, anyway. I couldn’t quit thinking about him. He’d been so damn excited about coming with us. He’d probably rushed to get dressed, and yelled something to his mom like, ‘Hey, I’m going off with my pals!’ He’d probably been hurrying out to the garage for his bike when he saw we were gone. I wondered if he’d cried. I wondered how he explained to his mom that his friends had left him behind. I felt like a jerk.

I couldn’t even work up much excitement watching Cyndi Taylor glide around the music store. I’d look at her, but mostly I’d see George. I’ve been ditched a few times. I know how it feels.

And it doesn’t always feel much better when you’re the one who did the ditching.

To get home that afternoon, we took a back route so we wouldn’t have to ride past George’s house.

Every night since school let out, we’d been playing catch in my front lawn after dinner. But not that night. I cut across backyards to reach Jim’s place. He had a pool, so he also had a fence. I scrambled over the fence. Jim was waiting. We shot the ball back and forth across the length of the pool. Later on, Jim stood on the diving board. I threw just out of his reach, trying to get him to fall in. After a couple of close calls with him teetering and flapping his arms, he said, ‘I go in and wreck my mitt, it’s your ass!’

‘Language!’ his mom called from inside the house.

When it was almost too dark to see the ball, someone turned on the lights. Then his sister, Joan, came out with a friend. They were both seniors and wearing bikinis. They didn’t talk to us or anything, but it was great while it lasted. They splashed around, all shiny in the water, while we fired the ball from one end of the pool to the other. I think they liked having us there. They floated around on their backs quite a lot.

But then I guess Jim’s mom noticed what was going on and got scared we might bean someone, so she told us to quit.

We went up into the living room and played some Super Mario Brothers till it was time for me to go home.

I took the front way. Off in the distance, I could see George’s house. I realized that, somewhere along the way, I’d stopped feeling rotten about ditching him.

When it was time to set out for the mall the next day, I sped over to Jim’s place. He was waiting on his driveway.

‘Wanta drop by George’s house and see if he wants to come along?’ Jim asked, grinning.

‘In your dreams.’

‘The little shit.’

‘You said it.’

Not only had I quit feeling sorry for the twerp, but I’d found myself really resenting the way he’d messed with our lives. Hell, we couldn’t play catch in my frontyard, we couldn’t ride our bikes past his house. We were like fugitives on our own block, hiding from him. And then we felt guilty about it. I did, anyway. And I didn’t like it. He had no right. So the hell with him.

We coasted down Jim’s driveway. At the street, Jim swung to the right.