Susan Hinton - Rumble Fish

“I was supposed to be home at ten o’clock last night,” he said flatly. “I got in at six this morning.”

“Your father did that?” I couldn’t believe it. I’ve come out of gang fights looking better than he did.

“Come on in,” he said.

I’d never been in his house before. It was real nice, with furniture and carpets and stuff sitting on shelves. It was nicer than Patty’s house, but then, she had those little kids tearing up everything. I sat down on a sofa, hoping I wasn’t messing anything up. You’d think it would have gotten sloppy, with his mother in the hospital for so long.

“Your father did that to you?” I asked again. I thought maybe I had missed something last night, that those two punks had worked him over. I didn’t remember much about the morning, or going home. I think it might have been then that my memory went goofy on me.

“Don’t tell anybody, huh?” he said. “I’m gonna say I got it last night, across the river.”

“Okay,” I said. It was hard for me to imagine anybody hitting Steve, anybody besides me, I mean. I had gone to a lot of trouble making sure nobody hit him. It made me mad. He was my friend. Nobody had any right beating him up like that. What difference did it make if he came home at ten or at six? He got home, didn’t he? Why did people get upset about stupid stuff like that? I tried picturing my father beating me up, and couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even imagine him telling me when to be home.

“He didn’t mean to hit me so much,” Steve said. But he was just repeating something he’d been told. “He’s been worried about Mom. I didn’t need to worry him, too. I just didn’t think about that.”

It was like he had been brainwashed, repeating that stuff. I tried to figure out why Steve wasn’t mad about getting knocked around like that. If somebody had done that to me—

“What really set him off,” Steve was saying, “was that orange junk all over my shirt. I guess that girl, that girl was wearing a lot of makeup, I guess. I don’t remember her being orange.”

We sat there without saying anything for a long time. Finally Steve said, “What’d you come over for, Rusty-James?”

I opened my mouth, and closed it, trying to think of the best way to tell him.

“Steve, I think we’d better follow the Motorcycle Boy around for a while.”

He said, “Why?” I wasn’t ready for that. I was ready to talk him into it.

“Well,” I said, “I just think we ought to.” I hadn’t really thought of why myself. It just seemed like something that needed doing. “I think maybe we ought to watch him for a while, that’s all.”

“Count me out,” Steve said.

“You gotta help me,” I said. I had been feeling funny all day. It had started the night before, when the Motorcycle Boy told me why I was scared to be by myself. It sort of felt like nothing was solid, like the street would tilt all of a sudden and throw me off. I knew that wasn’t going to happen, but that’s what it felt like. And since getting clobbered, everything even looked funny, like I was seeing things through distorted glass. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one bit. All my life, all I had to worry about was real things, things you could touch, or punch, or run away from. I had been scared before, but it was always something real to be scared of — not having any money, or some big kid looking to beat you up, or wondering if the Motorcycle Boy was gone for good. I didn’t like this being scared of something and not knowing exactly what it was. I couldn’t fight it if I didn’t know what it was.

“I won’t help you,” Steve said again.

“Just follow him around for a little bit,” I said. “He won’t go across the river again. He just went last night because I asked him to. He’ll stick around here. We won’t get into any trouble again.”

“I have to go to school,” Steve said.

“So meet me after school.”

“You don’t need me there.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Ask B.J. or Smokey.”

I started to say, “They’d laugh at me,” but changed it to: “Oh, they don’t know anything. I mean, they think the Motorcycle Boy’s cool and everything, but they don’t know him like me and you do.”

“You mean they don’t know he’s nuts.”

I jumped up, grabbed him by his shirt front and slammed him back against the wall.

“You don’t ever say that!” I shouted at him. I knocked him back against the wall so he’d remember. “You hear me?”

“Yes,” he said. I let him go. Then all of a sudden I couldn’t see, and the pain was like an awful noise in my head. I sort of fell against the wall, trying to get my breath and my vision.

When my eyes cleared up I saw Steve standing there, worried-looking. His lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear anything. Then my hearing came back.

“…all right?” he asked.

If it had been anybody else I would have laughed, shrugged it off and left. But it was only Steve, and I had known him all my life and I was just too plain tired to put up a front. Maybe that was why Steve was my best friend instead of B.J. I didn’t have to keep on being the toughest cat in the neighborhood for Steve.

I sat down and dropped my head onto my hands. For a second my throat swelled up on the inside and I had a sudden picture of Patty bouncing on down the street. That was what I felt like. Close to crying.

“Steve,” I said. “I never asked you for nothing. I never let anybody punch you around, and I never bummed money off you. I’m asking you now.”

“Don’t,” he said. “ ’Cause I won’t do it.”

I couldn’t talk. If I tried to talk I’d be crying. I couldn’t remember crying. You didn’t cry if you were tough.

“Rusty-James,” Steve said. I didn’t look up. He sounded like he felt sorry for me and I didn’t want to see him feeling sorry for me, because if I did I would hit him, no matter what.

“I’ve tried to help you,” he said. “But I’ve got to think about myself some.”

I wondered what he was talking about.

“You’re just like a ball in a pinball machine. Getting slammed back and forth; and you never think about anything, about where you’re going or how you’re going to get there. I got to think for myself, I can’t keep on thinking for you, too.”

I didn’t understand what he was talking about. Why did all the people I liked talk about such weird things? I did think about where I was going. I wanted to be like the Motorcycle Boy. I wanted to be tough like him, and stay calm and laughing when things got dangerous. I wanted to be the toughest street-fighter and the most respected hood on our side of the river. I had tried everything, even tried to learn to read good to be like him. Even though nothing had worked so far, that didn’t mean nothing ever would. There wasn’t anything wrong with wanting to be like the Motorcycle Boy. Even Steve admired him—

“You don’t like the Motorcycle Boy, do you, Steve? Then why do you think he’s cool?”

Steve looked surprised. “Well,” he said slowly, “he is the only person I have ever met who is like somebody out of a book. To look like that, and be good at everything, and all that.”

That struck me as funny. I laughed and got up to leave. I wasn’t going to pester him anymore. Steve walked with me to the door.

“You better go to a doctor,” he said.

“I been.”

“You better let go of the Motorcycle Boy,” he said. “If you’re around him very long you won’t believe in anything.”

“I been around him all my life,” I told him. “And I believe everything.”

Steve sort of grinned at me. “You would.”

“ ’Bye,” I said.

“Rusty-James,” he said, really sincere, “I’m sorry.”