S.E. Hinton Classic Collection: Rumble Fish, Some of Tim's Stories, Taming the Star Runner, and Tex

S.E. Hinton Classic Collection

Rumble Fish

Tex

Taming the Star Runner

Some of Tim’s Stories

Copyright

Diversion Books

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Copyright © S.E. Hinton

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

Diversion Books Omnibus Edition October 2014

ISBN: 978-1-62681-522-3

Rumble Fish

S.E. Hinton

Copyright

Diversion Books

A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

New York, NY 10016

www.DiversionBooks.com

A portion of this work first appeared in different form in The University of Tulsa Alumni Magazine. Copyright © 1968 by Susan Hinton

Copyright © 1975 by S.E. Hinton

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

First Diversion Books edition April 2013

ISBN: 978-1-938120-82-4

Another one for David

1

I ran into Steve a couple of days ago. He was real surprised to see me. We hadn’t seen each other for a long time.

I was sitting on the beach and he come up to me and said, Rusty-James?

I said, Yeah? because I didn’t recognize him right off. My memory’s screwed up some.

It’s me, he said. It’s Steve Hays.

Then I remembered and got up, brushing sand off. Hey, yeah.

What are you doing here? he kept saying, looking at me like he couldn’t believe it.

I live here, I said. What are you doin’ here?

I’m on vacation. I’m going to college here.

Yeah? I said. What you goin’ to college for?

I’m going to teach when I get out. High school, probably. I can’t believe it! I never thought I’d see you again. And here of all places!

I figured I had as much chance of being here as he did, even if we were a long way from where we’d seen each other last. People get excited over the weirdest things. I wondered why I wasn’t glad to see him.

You’re goin’ to be a teacher, huh? I said. It figured. He was always reading and stuff.

What do you do here? he asked.

Nothin’. Bum around, I answered. Bumming around is a real popular profession here. You could paint, write, barkeep, or bum around. I tried barkeeping once and didn’t much like it.

Lord, Rusty-James, he said. How long has it been now?

I thought for a minute and said, Five or six years. Math ain’t never been my strong point.

How did you get here? He just couldn’t seem to get over it.

Me and a friend of mine, Alex, a guy I met in the reformatory, we just started knockin’ around after we got out. We been here awhile.

No kidding? Steve hadn’t changed much. He looked about the same, except for the moustache that made him look like a little kid going to a Halloween party. But a lot of people are growing moustaches these days. I never went in for them myself.

How long were you in for? he asked. I never found out. We moved, you know, right after…

Five years, I said. I can’t remember much about it. Like I said, my memory’s screwed up some. If somebody says something to remind me, I can remember things. But if I’m left alone I don’t seem to be able to. Sometimes Alex’ll say something that brings back the reformatory, but mostly he don’t. He don’t like remembering it either.

They put me in solitary once, I said, because Steve seemed to be waiting for something.

He looked at me strangely and said, Oh? I’m sorry.

He was staring at a scar that runs down my side. It looks like a raised white line. It don’t get tan, either.

I got that in a knife fight, I told him. A long time ago.

I know, I was there.

Yeah, I said, you were.

For a second I remembered the fight. It was like seeing a movie of it. Steve glanced away for a second. I could tell he was trying not to look for the other scars. They’re not real noticeable, but they’re not that hard to see either, if you know where to look.

Hey, he said, too sudden, like he was trying to change the subject. I want you to meet my girl friend. She won’t believe it. I haven’t seen you since we were thirteen? Fourteen? I don’t know though—he gave me a look that was half kidding and half serious—you leave other guys’ chicks alone?

Yeah, I said. I got a girl.

Or two, or three?

Just one, I said. I like to keep things simple, and God knows even one can get complicated enough.

Let’s meet for dinner somewhere, he said. We can talk about the good old days. Man, I have come so far since then…

I didn’t stop him from naming a time and a place, even though I didn’t much want to talk about the good old days. I didn’t even remember them.

Rusty-James, he was saying, you gave me a real scare when I first saw you. I thought I’d flipped out. You know who I thought you were for a second?

My stomach clenched itself into a fist, and an old fear started creeping up my backbone.

You know who you look just like?

Yeah, I said, and remembered everything. I could of been really glad to see ol’ Steve, if he hadn’t made me remember everything.

2

I was hanging out in Benny’s, playing pool, when I heard Biff Wilcox was looking to kill me.

Benny’s was the hangout for the junior high kids. The high schoolers used to go there, but when the younger kids moved in, they moved out. Benny was pretty mad about it. Junior high kids don’t have as much money to spend. He couldn’t do much about it except hate the kids, though. If a place gets marked as a hangout, that’s it.

Steve was there, and B.J. Jackson, and Smokey Bennet, and some other guys. I was playing pool with Smokey. I was probably winning, since I was a pretty good pool player. Smokey was hacked off because he already owed me some money. He was glad when Midget came in and said, Biff is lookin’ for you, Rusty-James.

I missed my shot.

I ain’t hidin’. I stood there, leaning on my cue, knowing good and well I wasn’t going to be able to finish the game. I can’t think about two things at the same time.

He says he’s gonna kill you. Midget was a tall, skinny kid, taller than anybody else our age. That was why we called him Midget.

Sayin’ ain’t doin’, I said.

Smokey was putting his cue away. Biff is a mean cat, Rusty-James, he told me.

He ain’t so tough. What’s he shook about, anyway?

Somethin’ you said to Anita at school, Midget said.

Shoot, I didn’t say nothin’ but the truth.

I told them what I said to Anita. B.J. and Smokey agreed it was the truth. Steve and Midget turned red.

Hell, I said. Now why does he have to go and get shook over somethin’ like that?

I get annoyed when people want to kill me for some stupid little reason. Something big, and I don’t mind it so much.

I went up to the counter and got a chocolate milk. I always drank chocolate milk instead of Coke or something. That Coke junk will rot your insides. This gave me a little time to think things over. Benny was making a big production out of a sandwich, and he let me know he wasn’t going to drop what he was doing and rush over with my chocolate milk.

So what’s he doin’ about it? Killin’ me, I mean.

I sat down at a booth and Midget slid in across from me. Everybody else gathered around.

He wants you to meet him in the vacant lot behind the pet store.

All right. I guess he’s comin’ alone, huh?

I wouldn’t count on it, Smokey said. He was trying to let me know he was on my side, so I’d forget about our messed-up pool game.

If he’s bringin’ friends, I’m bringin’ friends. I wasn’t afraid of fighting Biff, but I didn’t see any need to be stupid about it.

Yeah, but you know how that’s gonna turn out, Steve put in. Everybody’ll end up gettin’ into it. You bring people, he brings people…

Steve was always cautious about things.

You think I’m goin’ to that empty lot by myself, you’re nuts, I told him.

But—

Lookit, me an’ Biff’ll settle this thing ourselves. You guys’ll just be an audience, huh? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with an audience.

You know it ain’t gonna end up like that. Steve was fourteen, like me. He looked twelve. He acted forty. He was my best friend, though, so he could say stuff that I wouldn’t let anybody else get away with. Dammit, Rusty-James, we haven’t had any trouble like that for a long time now.

He was scared it was going to end up in a gang fight. There hadn’t been a real honest-to-goodness gang fight around here in years. As far as I knew, Steve had never been in one. I could never understand people being scared of things they didn’t know nothing about.

You don’t have to be there, I said. Everybody else had to be there to protect their rep. Steve didn’t have any rep. He was my best friend. That was his rep.

You know I’m gonna be there, he said to me angrily. But you know what the Motorcycle Boy said about gang—

He ain’t here, I said. He ain’t been here for two weeks. So don’t go tellin’ me about the Motorcycle Boy.

B.J. spoke up. But even back when we was rumblin’, we never fought Biff’s gang. They was allies. Remember when Wilson got jumped over on the Tigers’ turf…

This started a discussion on who had been jumped, when and where and why. I didn’t need to think about that—I had all those records straight in my head anyway. But I did need to think about how I was going to fight Biff, so I wasn’t listening much when somebody said, Anyway, when the Motorcycle Boy gets back—

I jumped up and slammed my fist down on the table so hard, the table in the next booth rattled and Benny stopped whistling and making his sandwich. Everybody else sat like they was holding their breath.

The Motorcycle Boy ain’t back, I said. I can’t see good when I get mad, and my voice was shaking. I don’t know when he’s comin’ back, if he’s comin’ back. So if you wanna wait around the rest of your life to see what he says, okay. But I’m gonna stomp Biff Wilcox’s guts tonight, and I think I oughta have some friends there.

We’ll be there, Smokey said. He stared at me with those funny, colorless eyes that gave him his nickname. But let’s try an’ keep it between you two, okay?

I couldn’t say anything because I was too mad. I walked out and slammed the door behind me. In about five seconds I heard footsteps behind me and I didn’t turn around because I knew it’d be Steve.

What’s the matter with you? he said.

Give me a cigarette.

You know I don’t have any cigarettes.

Yeah, I forgot.

I hunted around and found one in my shirt pocket.

What’s wrong? Steve asked again.

Nothin’s wrong.

Is it the Motorcycle Boy being gone?

Don’t start in on me, I said. He kept quiet for a few minutes. He’d pestered me once before when he shouldn’t of and I’d punched the wind out of him. I was real sorry about that, but it wasn’t my fault. He should have known better than to pester me when I’m mad.

Finally he said, Slow down, willya? You’re running my legs off.

I stopped. We were on the bridge, right where the Motorcycle Boy used to stop to watch the water. I threw my cigarette butt into the river. It was so full of trash that a little more wasn’t going to hurt it any.

You’ve been acting funny ever since the Motorcycle Boy left.

He’s been gone before, I said. I get mad quick, and I get over it quick.

Not for this long.

Two weeks. That ain’t long.

Maybe he’s gone for good.

Shut up, willya, I said. I closed my eyes. I’d been out till four in the morning the night before and I was kind of tired.

This is a crummy neighborhood, Steve said suddenly.

It ain’t the slums, I told him, keeping my eyes shut. There’s worse places.

I didn’t say it was the slums. I said it was a crummy neighborhood, and it is.

If you don’t like it, move.

I am. Someday I am.

I quit listening. I don’t see any sense in thinking about things far off in the future.

You have to face the fact that the Motorcycle Boy may be gone for good.

I don’t have to face nothin’, I said tiredly.

He sighed and stared down at the river.

I saw a rabbit once at the zoo. My old man took me there on the bus a long time ago. I really liked that zoo. I tried to go again by myself, but I was a little kid and I got lost when I had to change buses. I never did get around to trying to get there again. But I remembered it pretty good. The animals reminded me of people. Steve looked like a rabbit. He had dark-blond hair and dark-brown eyes and a face like a real sincere rabbit. He was smarter than me. I ain’t never been a particularly smart person. But I get along all right.

I wondered why Steve was my best friend. I let him hang around and kept people from beating him up and listened to all his worries. God, did that kid worry about things! I did all that for him and sometimes he did my math homework and let me copy his history stuff, so I never flunked a grade. But I didn’t care about flunking, so that wasn’t why he was my best friend. Maybe it was because I had known him longer than I’d known anybody I wasn’t related to. For a tough kid I had a bad habit of getting attached to people.

3

When Steve had to go home I went over to my girl friend’s place. I knew she’d be home because her mother was a nurse and worked nights and Patty had to take care of her little brothers.

I’m not supposed to have company when Mother’s out. She stood there blocking the doorway, not making a move to let me in.

Since when?

Since a long time ago.

Well, that ain’t stopped you before, I said. She was mad about something. She wanted to start a fight. She wasn’t mad about me coming over when I wasn’t supposed to, but that was what she wanted to fight about. It seemed like whenever we had fights it was never over what she was mad about.

I haven’t seen you in a long time, she said coldly.

I been busy.

So I heard.

Aw, come on, I said. Let’s talk about it inside.

She looked at me for a long time, then held the door open. I knew she would. She was crazy about me.

We sat and watched TV for a while. Patty’s little brothers took turns jumping up and down on the only other chair in the room.

What were you busy with?

Nothin’. Messin’ around. Me and Smokey and his cousin went to the lake.

Oh, yeah? Did you take any girls with you?

What’re you talkin’ about, take any girls? No.

Okay, she said, settling down in my arms. When we started making out, one of the brats started yelling, I’m gonna tell Mama, until I promised to knock his block off. But after that I just sat there holding her and sometimes kissed the top of her hair. She had blond hair with dark roots. I like blond girls. I don’t care how they get that way.

Rusty-James, she said.

I jumped. Was I asleep?

The room was dark, except for the black-and-white glare from the TV.

Is it morning or night? I was confused. I still felt like I was asleep or something.

Night. Boy, you’ve been great company.

I felt shivery. Then I remembered.

What time is it?

Seven thirty.

Hell, I said, getting up. I’m supposed to fight Biff Wilcox at eight. You got anything to drink around here?

I went into the kitchen and hunted through her refrigerator. I found a can of beer and gulped it down.

Now Mama’ll think I drank it. Thanks a lot. She sounded like she was going to cry.

What’s the matter, honey? I said.

You said you were going to quit fighting all the time.

Since when?

Since you beat up Skip Handly. You promised me you wouldn’t be fighting all the time.

Oh, yeah. Well, this ain’t all the time. This is just once.

You always say that. She was crying. I backed her up against the wall and hugged her awhile.

Love you, babe, I said, and turned her loose.

I wish you wouldn’t fight all the time. She wasn’t crying anymore. She could quit crying the easiest of any girl I knew.

Well, what about you? I asked. You took after Judy McGee with a busted pop bottle not too long ago.

She was flirting with you, she said. Patty was a hellcat sometimes.

Ain’t my fault, I said. I grabbed my jacket on the way to the door. I stopped and gave her a good long kiss. Pretty little thing, she looked like a dandelion with her hair messed up.

Be careful, she said. I love you.

I waved good-bye and jumped off the porch. I thought maybe I’d have time to stop by my place and have a good swig of wine, but going by Benny’s I saw everybody waiting around for me, so I went in.

There were more people there than had been there in the afternoon. I guess word had gotten around.

We just about give up on you, Smokey said.

Better watch out or I’ll take you on for a warm-up, I warned him. I counted the guys and decided maybe six of them would show up at the lot. I didn’t see Steve, but didn’t worry about it. He couldn’t get out much at night.

Split up and meet me there, I told them, or we’ll have the cops on our tail.

I left with Smokey and B.J. I felt so good. I love fights. I love how I feel before a fight, kind of high, like I can do anything.

Slow down, B.J. said. You’d better be savin’ your energy.

If you wasn’t so fat you could keep up.

Don’t start that stuff again, B.J. said. He was fat, but he was tough, too. Tough fat guys ain’t as rare as you’d think.

Man, this is just like the old days, ain’t it? I said.

I wouldn’t know, Smokey said. Fights made him edgy. Before a fight he’d get quieter and quieter, and it always bugged the hell out of him that I’d get louder and louder. We had a funny kind of tension between us anyway. He would have been number-one tough cat in our neighborhood if it wasn’t for me. Sometimes I could tell he was thinking about fighting me. So far, either he was scared or wanted to stay friends.

Yeah, I said, that’s right. It was all over before you got into it.

Hell, that gang stuff was out of style when you was ten years old, Rusty-James, he told me.

Eleven. I can remember it. I was in the Little Leaguers.

The Little Leaguers was the peewee branch of the local gang, the Packers. Gang stuff was out of style now.

Man, I said, a gang really meant somethin’ back then.

Meant gettin’ sent to the hospital once a week.

Okay, so he was edgy. So was I. I was the one doing the fighting, after all. You’re almost talkin’ chicken, Smokey, I said.

I’m almost talkin’ sense.

I kept quiet. It took a lot of self-control, but I kept quiet. Smokey got nervous, since quiet ain’t my natural state.

Lookit, he said, I’m goin’, ain’t I?

I guess the thought that he was really going made him brave again, ’cause he went on: If you think this is gonna turn out to be a rumble, you’re crazy. You and Biff are gonna go at it and the rest of us is gonna watch. I doubt too many’s gonna show up for that much.

Sure, I said, only half listening to him. We had come to the pet store. We turned into the alley that ran alongside of it, crawled through a hole in the back fence and came out onto the vacant lot that led right down to the river. The lot was damp and it stank. The area around here always stinks from that river, but it’s worse in the lot. Further down, a bunch of plants and factories dump their garbage into the water. You don’t notice the stink if you live there awhile. It’s just extra strong in that lot.

Smokey was right—only four of the guys who were in Benny’s were there waiting for us. B.J. looked around and said, I thought Steve was gonna be here. He said it sarcastic. They never could understand why I let Steve hang around.

So, maybe he’s late, I said. I didn’t really expect him to show up, except that he said he would.

Across the field was Biff and his gang. I counted them, just like the Motorcycle Boy taught me to. Know everything you can about the enemy. There was six. Even enough. I was getting so high on excitement I couldn’t stand still.

Rusty-James!

It was Biff, coming across the lot to meet me. Oh, man, I couldn’t wait. I was going to stomp him good. It seemed like my fists ached to be pounding something. I’m here! I called.

Not for long, you punk, Biff said. He was close enough for me to see him clearly. My eyes get supersharp before a fight. Everything gets supersharp before a fight—like with a little effort I could fly. During a fight, though, I almost go blind; everything turns red.

Biff was sixteen, but not any bigger than me; husky; his arms hung off his shoulders like an ape’s. He had a pug-ugly face and wiry blond hair. He was dancing around worse than I was.

He’s been poppin’ pills, Smokey said behind me.

Now, I hate fighting hopped-up people. They’re crazy. You get crazy enough in a fight without being doped up. You fight some cat who’s been washing down bennies with sneaky pete and they can’t tell if you kill ’em. Your only advantage is a little more control. I never do dope, as a rule. Dope ruined the gangs.

Biff looked high. The light from the street-lamps was bouncing off his eyes in a way that made him look crazy.

I hear you’re lookin’ for me, I said. Here I am.

I’ve done this lots of times before. I’d get in a fight about once a week. I hadn’t lost a fight in almost two years. But Biff was a little tougher than the usual kid. If the gang wars had still been going on he would have been leader of the Devilhawks. He didn’t like anybody to forget that, either. You can’t take it for granted you’re going to stomp some snotty-nosed seventh-grader, so when you go up against somebody like Biff Wilcox you think about it.

We started in on the warm up, cussing each other out, name-calling, threats. This was according to the rules. I don’t know who made up the rules.

Come on, I said finally. I like to get down to business. Take a swing at me.

Take a swing at you? Biff’s hand went to his back pocket and came out flashing silver. I’m gonna cut you to ribbons.

I didn’t have a knife with me. Most people didn’t knife-fight these days. I usually carried a switchblade, but I got caught with it at school and they took it away from me and I hadn’t gotten around to getting another one. Biff should of told me it was going to be knife-fighting. God that made me mad! People don’t pay attention to the rules anymore.

Biff’s friends were cheering and screaming and my friends were grumbling and I said, Anybody lend me a blade? I still thought I could win—Biff wouldn’t have pulled a knife if he thought he could win in a fair fight. All I had to do was equal things up.

Nobody had a knife. That’s what comes of not gang-fighting. People are never prepared.

Somebody said, Here’s a bike chain, and I held back my hand for it, never taking my eyes off Biff.

Just like I expected, he tried to make the most of that moment, lunging at me. I was quick enough, though, grabbing the chain, dodging the knife, and sticking out my foot to trip him. He just stumbled, and whirled around, jabbing at me. I sucked in my gut and wrapped the chain around his neck, jerking him to the ground. All I wanted to do was get the knife away from him. I’d kill him later. First things first. I jumped on top of him, caught his arm as he swung the knife at me, and for what seemed like hours we wrestled for that knife. I took a risk I thought was worth taking and tried holding his knife hand with one arm, and used the other to smash his face. It worked, he loosened his hold on the knife long enough for me to get it away from him. It fell a few feet away from us, far enough away that I didn’t bother trying to reach for it, which was good. If I had gotten a hold of it, I’d have killed Biff. As it was, I was pounding his brains out. If he’d give up on that damned knife he might of stood a chance; he was older than me, and just as tough. But he didn’t come there to fight fair, so instead of fighting back, he’d just keep trying to get away and crawl over to the knife. Gradually I started to calm down, the red tinge to everything went away, I could hear everyone screaming and yelling. I looked at Biff. His whole face was bloody and swollen.

You give? I sat back on his gut and waited. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. He didn’t say anything, just lay there breathing heavy, watching me out of the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut. Everybody was quiet. I could feel his gang tensed, ready, like a dog pack about to be set loose. One word from Biff would do it. I glanced over to Smokey. He was ready. My gang would fight, even if they weren’t crazy about the idea.

Then a voice I knew said, Hey, what’s this? I thought we signed a treaty. The Motorcycle Boy was back. People cleared a path for him. Everybody was quiet.

I got to my feet. Biff rolled over and lay a few feet away from me, swearing.

I thought we’d stopped this cowboys and Indians crap, said the Motorcycle Boy.

I heard Biff dragging himself to his feet, but didn’t pay any attention. Usually I’m not that stupid, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the Motorcycle Boy. I’d thought he was gone for good. I was almost sure he was gone for good.

Look out! somebody screamed. I whipped around, and felt the knife slide down my side, cold. It was meant to split me open from throat to gut, but I had moved just in time. It didn’t hurt. You can’t feel a knife cut, at first.

Biff stood a few feet away from me, laughing like a maniac. He was wiping the blood off the blade on his already-splattered T-shirt. You are one dead cat, Rusty-James. His voice was thick and funny-sounding, because of his swollen nose. He wasn’t dancing around anymore, and you could tell by the way he moved he was hurtin’. But at least he was on his feet, and I wouldn’t be much longer. I was cold, and everything looked watery around the edges. I’d been knife cut before, I knew what it felt like to be bleeding bad.

The Motorcycle Boy stepped out, grabbed Biff’s wrist and snapped it backwards. You could hear it crack like a matchstick. It was broke, sure enough.

The Motorcycle Boy picked up Biff’s switchblade, and looked at the blood running down over the handle. Everybody was frozen. They knew what he had said about gang-fighting being over with.

I think, he said thoughtfully, that the show is over.

Biff held his wrist with his other arm. He was swearing, but softly, under his breath. The others were leaving, breaking up into twos and threes, edging away, leaving quieter than you’ll ever see people leave a battle ground.

Steve was there beside me. You okay?

When did you get here? Smokey asked him. Then, to me, he said, You’re hurt, man.

The Motorcycle Boy stood behind them, tall and dark like a shadow.

I thought you were gone for good, I said.

He shrugged. So did I.

Steve picked up my jacket, where I’d thrown it on the ground. Rusty-James, you better go to the hospital.

I looked down at my hand, where it was clutching my side. I saw Smokey Bennet watching me.

For this? I said scornfully. This ain’t nothin’.

But maybe you better go home, the Motorcycle Boy said.

I nodded. I threw an arm across Steve’s shoulders. I knew you was gonna show up.

He knew I would have fallen down if I wasn’t leaning on him, but he didn’t show it. He was a good kid, Steve, even if he did read too much.

I had to sneak out, Steve said. They’d kill me if they knew. Boy, I thought Biff was gonna kill you.

Not me. It was Biff who was gonna get killed.

I could feel the Motorcycle Boy laughing. But then, I never expected to fool him. I tried not to lean on Steve too much. Smokey walked along with us until we came to his block. I guess I had convinced him I wasn’t going to drop dead.

Where ya been? I asked the Motorcycle Boy. He’d been gone for two weeks. He had stolen a cycle and left. Everybody called him the Motorcycle Boy because he was crazy about Motorcycles. It was like a title or something. I was probably one of the few people on the block who knew what his real name was. He had this bad habit of borrowing cycles and going for rides without telling the owner. But that was just one of the things he could get away with. He could get away with anything. You’d think he’d have a cycle of his own by now, but he never had and never would. It seemed like he didn’t want to own anything.

California, he said.

No kiddin’? I was amazed. The ocean and everything? How was it?

Kid, he said to me, I never got past the river.

I didn’t understand what he meant. I spent a lot of time trying to understand what he meant. It was like the time, years ago, when our gang, the Packers, was having a big rumble with the gang next door. The Motorcycle Boy—he was president—said, Okay, let’s get it straight what we’re fighting for.

And everybody was all set to kill or be killed, raring to go, and some cat—I forget his name, he’s in prison now—said, We’re fighting to own this street.

And the Motorcycle Boy said, Bull. We’re fighting for fun.

He always saw things different from everybody else. It would help me a lot if I could understand what he meant.

We climbed up the wooden stairs that went up the outside of the dry cleaners to our apartment. Steve eased me onto the platform railing. I hung over the railing and said, I ain’t got my key, so the Motorcycle Boy jimmied the lock and we went on in.

You better lay down, he said. I laid down on the cot. We had a mattress and a cot to lay down on. It didn’t matter which.

Boy, are you bleeding! Steve said.

I sat up and pulled off my sweatshirt. It was soggy with blood. I threw it over into the corner with the other dirty clothes and inspected my wound. I was gashed down the side. It was deep over my ribs; I could see white bone gleaming through. It was a bad cut.

Where’s the old man? asked the Motorcycle Boy. He was going through the bottles in the sink. He found one with some wine still in it.

Take a swallow, he told me. I knew what was coming. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but I wasn’t scared either. Pain don’t scare me much.

Lay down and hang on.

The old man ain’t home yet, I said, laying down on my good side and grabbing hold of the head of the cot.

The Motorcycle Boy poured the rest of the wine over the cut. It hurt like hell. I held my breath and counted and counted and counted until I was sure I could open my mouth without yelling.

Poor Steve was white. God, that must hurt, he whispered.

Ain’t all that bad, I said, but my voice came out hoarse and funny.

He oughta go to a doctor, Steve said. The Motorcycle Boy sat down against the wall. He had an expressionless face. He stared at Steve till the poor kid wiggled. The Motorcycle Boy wasn’t seeing him, though. He saw things other people couldn’t see, and laughed when nothing was funny. He had strange eyes—they made me think of a two-way mirror. Like you could feel somebody on the other side watching you, but the only reflection you saw was your own.

He’s been hurt worse than this, said the Motorcycle Boy. That was the truth. I got cut bad two or three years before.

But it could get infected, Steve said.

And they’d have to cut my side off, I added. I shouldn’t have teased him. He was only trying to help.

The Motorcycle Boy just sat and stared and stayed quiet.

He looks different, Steve said to me. Sometimes the Motorcycle Boy went stone deaf—he’d had a lot of concussions in motorcycle wrecks.

I looked at him, trying to figure out what was different. He didn’t seem to see either one of us watching him.

The tan, Steve said.

Yeah, well, I guess you get tan in California, I said. I couldn’t picture the Motorcycle Boy in California, by the ocean. He liked rivers, not oceans.

Did you know I got expelled from school? the Motorcycle Boy said out of the clear blue sky.

How come? I started to sit up, and changed my mind. They were always threatening to expel me. They’d suspended me for carrying that knife. But the Motorcycle Boy never gave them any trouble. I talked to a guy in one of his classes, once. He said the Motorcycle Boy just sat there and never gave them any trouble, except that a couple of the teachers couldn’t stand for him to stare at them.

How come you got expelled? I asked.

Perfect tests.

You could always feel the laughter around him, just under the surface, but this time it came to the top and he grinned. It was a flash, like lightning, far off.

I handed in perfect semester tests. He shook his head. Man, I can understand that. A tough district school like that, they got enough to put up with.

I was surprised. I don’t surprise easy. But that ain’t fair, I said finally.

When the hell did you start expecting anything to be fair? he asked. He didn’t sound bitter, only a little bit curious.

Be back in a while, he said, getting to his feet.

I forgot he was still in school, Steve said after he left. He looks so old, I forget he’s just seventeen.

That’s pretty old.

Yeah, but he looks really old, like twenty-one or something.

I didn’t say anything. I got to thinking—when the Motorcycle Boy was fourteen, that had seemed old. When he was fourteen, like me, he could buy beer. They quit asking for his ID at fourteen. He was president of the Packers then, too. Older guys, eighteen years old, would do anything he said. I thought it would be the same way for me. I thought I would be really big-time, junior high and fourteen. I thought it would be really neat, being that old—but whenever I got to where he had been, nothing was changed except he’d gone further on. It should of been the same way for me.

Steve, I said, bring me the old man’s shavin’ mirror. It’s over there by the sink.

When he handed it to me I studied the way I looked.

We look just like each other, I said.

Who?

Me an’ the Motorcycle Boy.

Naw.

Yeah, we do.

We had the same color of hair, an odd shade of dark red, like black-cherry pop. I’ve never seen anybody else with hair that color. Our eyes were the same, the color of a Hershey bar. He was six foot one, but I was getting there.

Well, what’s the difference? I said finally. I knew there was a difference. People looked at him, and stopped, and looked again. He looked like a panther or something. Me, I just looked like a tough kid, too big for my age.

Well, Steve said—I liked that kid, he’d think about things—"the Motorcycle Boy … I don’t know. You can never tell what he’s thinking. But you can tell exactly what you’re thinking."

No kiddin’? I said, looking in the mirror. It had to be something more than that.

Rusty-James, Steve said, I gotta go home. If they find out I’m gone, I’m gonna get killed, man. Killed.

Aw, stick around awhile. I was scared he would go. I can’t stand being by myself. That is the only thing I am honest-to-God scared of. If nobody was at home, I would stay up all night, out on the streets where there was some people. I didn’t mind being cut up. I just couldn’t stay there by myself and I wasn’t too sure I could walk.

Steve shifted around, uneasy-like. He was one of the few people who knew about that hang-up. I don’t go around telling people.

Just for a little bit, I told him. The old man oughta be back pretty soon.

Okay, he said finally. He sat down where the Motorcycle Boy had been sitting. After a while I was kind of dozing off and on. It seemed like I went through the whole fight again in slow motion. I knew I was sort of asleep, but I couldn’t stop dreaming.

I never thought he’d go clear to the ocean, I said to Steve. But Steve wasn’t there. The Motorcycle Boy was there, reading a book. He always read books. I’d thought when I got older it’d be easy for me to read books, too, but I knew by now it never would.

It was different when the Motorcycle Boy read books, different from Steve. I don’t know why.

The old man was home, snoring away on the mattress. I wondered who’d gotten home first. I couldn’t tell what time it was. The lights were still on. I can’t tell what time it is when I sleep with the lights on.

I thought you was gone for good, I said to him.

Not me. He didn’t look up from his page, and for a second I thought I was still dreaming. I get homesick.

I made a list in my head of people I liked. I do that a lot. It makes me feel good to think of people I like—not so alone. I wondered if I loved anybody. Patty, for sure. The Motorcycle Boy. My father, sort of. Steve, sort of. Then I thought of people I thought I could really count on, and couldn’t come up with anybody, but it wasn’t as depressing as it sounds.

I was so glad the Motorcycle Boy came home. He was the coolest person in the whole world. Even if he hadn’t been my brother he would have been the coolest person in the whole world.

And I was going to be just like him.

4

I went to school the next day. I wasn’t feeling too hot and I was bleeding off and on, but I usually go to school if I can. I see all my friends at school.

I got there late and had to go get a late pass and ended up missing math. So I didn’t know Steve was absent till lunch and he didn’t show up. I asked around about him—Jeannie Martin told me he didn’t come to school because his mother had a stroke or something. I worried about that awhile. I hoped it wasn’t him sneaking out of the house that give her the stroke. His parents were kind of weird. They never let him do anything.

Jeannie Martin wasn’t too thrilled to talk to me. She liked Steve. Poor kid. He wouldn’t believe that her tipping his chair over in English meant she liked him. He was still funny about girls. And him fourteen, too! Anyway, she liked him and didn’t like me because she thought I’d turn him into a hood. Fat chance. I’d known him since I don’t remember when, and nobody thought he was a hood. Try and tell her that.

So I went to the basement and played poker with B.J. and Smokey and lost fifty cents.

You guys must cheat, I told them. I can’t have rotten luck all the time.

B.J. grinned at me and said, Naw, you’re just a lousy poker player, Rusty-James.

I ain’t either.

Yeah, you are. Every time you get a good hand, we can tell it. Every time you get a bad hand, we can tell. You ain’t gonna earn your livin’ gamblin’, man.

Don’t give me that. Them cards was marked. I knew they weren’t, but I didn’t believe that garbage B.J. was giving me. He just wanted to crow about winning.

In gym I just stood around watching basketball practice. I wasn’t about to do any basketball. Coach Ryan finally asked me why, and I said I didn’t feel like it. I thought I could leave it at that. Coach Ryan was all the time trying to be friends with me. He let me get away with murder. It was like he’d