Стивен Кинг - If It Bleeds

Then I thought of what Mr. Harrigan would think if he ever saw me down on my knees, humbly shining this oaf’s shoes.

“No,” I said.

“No’s a mistake you don’t want to make,” the kid said. “You better fucking believe it.”

“Boys? Say, boys? Is there a problem here?”

It was Ms. Hargensen, my earth science teacher. She was young and pretty, couldn’t have been long out of college, but she had an air of confidence about her that said she took no shit.

The big boy shook his head: no problem here.

“All good,” I said, handing the bag back to its owner.

“What’s your name?” Ms. Hargensen asked. She wasn’t looking at me.

“Kenny Yanko.”

“And what’s in your bag, Kenny?”

“Nothing.”

“It wouldn’t be an initiation kit, would it?”

“No,” he said. “I gotta go to class.”

I did, too. The crowd of kids going downstairs was thinning out, and pretty soon the bell was going to ring.

“I’m sure you do, Kenny, but one more second.” She switched her attention to me. “Craig, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What’s in that bag, Craig? I’m curious.”

I thought of telling her. Not out of any Boy Scout honesty-is-the-best-policy bullshit, but because he had scared me and now I was pissed off. And (might as well admit it) because I had an adult here to run interference. Then I thought, How would Mr. Harrigan handle this? Would he snitch?

“The rest of his lunch,” I said. “Half a sandwich. He asked me if I wanted it.”

If she had taken the bag and looked inside, we both would have been in trouble, but she didn’t… although I bet she knew. She just told us to get to class and went clicking away on her medium just-right-for-school heels.

I started down the stairs, and Kenny Yanko grabbed me again. “You should have shined em, new boy.”

That pissed me off more. “I just saved your ass. You should be saying thank you.”

He flushed, which did not complement all those erupting volcanos on his face. “You should have shined em.” He started away, then turned back, still holding his stupid paper bag. “Fuck your thanks, new boy. And fuck you.”

A week later, Kenny Yanko got into it with Mr. Arsenault, the woodshop teacher, and hucked a hand sander at him. Kenny had had no less than three suspensions during his two years at Gates Falls Middle—after my confrontation with him at the top of the stairs, I found out he was sort of a legend—and that was the last straw. He was expelled, and I thought my problems with him were over.

Like most smalltown schools, Gates Falls Middle was very big on traditions. Dress-Up Fridays was just one of many. There was Carrying the Boot (which meant standing in front of the IGA and asking for contributions to the fire department), and Doing the Mile (running around the gym twenty times in phys ed), and singing the school song at the monthly assemblies.

Another of these traditions was the Autumn Dance, a Sadie Hawkins kind of deal where the girls were supposed to ask the boys. Margie Washburn asked me, and of course I said yes, because I wanted to go on being friends with her even though I didn’t like her, you know, that way. I asked my dad to drive us, which he was more than happy to do. Regina Michaels asked Billy Bogan, so it was a double date. It was especially good because Regina whispered to me in study hall that she’d only asked Billy because he was my friend.

I had a hell of a good time until the first intermission, when I left the gym to offload some of the punch I’d put away. I got as far as the boys’ room door, then someone seized me by the belt with one hand and the back of my neck with the other and propelled me straight down the hall to the side exit that gave on the faculty parking lot. If I hadn’t put out a hand to shove the crash bar, Kenny would have run me into the door face-first.

I have total recall of what followed. I have no idea why the bad memories of childhood and early adolescence are so clear, I only know they are. And this is a very bad memory.

The night air was shockingly cold after the heat of the gym (not to mention the humidity exuded by all those adolescent fruiting bodies). I could see moonlight gleaming on the chrome of the two parked cars belonging to that night’s chaperones, Mr. Taylor and Ms. Hargensen (new teachers got stuck chaperoning because it was, you guessed it, a GFMS tradition). I could hear exhaust banging away through some car’s shot muffler up on Highway 96. And I could feel the hot raw scrape of my palms when Kenny Yanko pushed me down on the parking lot pavement.

“Now get up,” he said. “You got a job to do.”

I got up. I looked at my palms and saw they were bleeding.

There was a bag sitting on one of the parked cars. He took it and held it out. “Shine my boots. Do that and we’ll call it square.”

“Fuck you,” I said, and punched him in the eye.

Total recall, okay? I can remember every time he hit me: five blows in all. I can remember how the last one drove me back against the cinderblock wall of the building and how I told my legs to hold me up and they declined. I just slid slowly down until my butt was on the macadam. I can remember the Black Eyed Peas, faint but audible, doing “Boom Boom Pow.” I can remember Kenny standing over me, breathing hard and saying, “Tell anyone and you’re dead.” But of all the things I can remember, the one I recall best—and treasure—is the sublime and savage satisfaction I felt when my fist connected with his face. It was the only one I got in, but it was a hell of a shot.

Boom boom pow.

When he was gone, I took my phone out of my pocket. After making sure it wasn’t broken, I called Billy. It was all I could think of to do. He answered on the third ring, shouting to be heard over the chanting of Flo Rida. I told him to come outside and bring Ms. Hargensen. I didn’t want to involve a teacher, but even with my chimes rung pretty good, I knew that was bound to happen eventually, so it seemed best to do it from the jump. I thought it was the way Mr. Harrigan would have handled it.

“Why? What’s up, dude?”

“Some kid beat me up,” I said. “I don’t think I better go back inside. I don’t look so great.”

He came out three minutes later, not only with Ms. Hargensen but Regina and Margie. My friends stared with dismay at my split lip and bloody nose. My clothes were also speckled with blood and my shirt (brand new) was torn.

“Come with me,” Ms. Hargensen said. She didn’t seem upset by the blood, the bruise on my cheek, or the way my mouth was fattening up. “All of you.”

“I don’t want to go in there,” I said, meaning back into the gym annex. “I don’t want to get stared at.”

“Don’t blame you,” she said. “This way.”

She led us to an entrance that said STAFF ONLY, used a key to let us in, and took us to the teachers’ room. It wasn’t exactly luxurious, I’d seen better furniture out on Harlow lawns when people had yard sales, but there were chairs, and I sat in one. She found a first aid kit and sent Regina into the bathroom to get a cold washcloth to put on my nose, which she said didn’t look broken.

Regina came back looking impressed. “There’s Aveda hand cream in there!”

“It’s mine,” Ms. Hargensen said. “Have some if you want. Put this on your nose, Craig. Hold it. Who brought you kids?”

“Craig’s dad,” Margie said. She was looking around at this undiscovered country with wide eyes. Since it was clear I wasn’t going to die, she was cataloguing everything for later discussion with her gal pals.

“Call him,” Ms. Hargensen said. “Give Margie your phone, Craig.”