Part 9 (1/2)

Not so long ago, about a year back, a very rotten kid named Clyde Edson walked the earth. He was street-mean and full of savvy and he knew what he wanted and got it any way he wanted.

He lived in a big, evil house on a dying, grey street in Galveston, Texas, and he collected to him, like an old lady who brings in cats half-starved and near-eaten with mange, the human refuse and the young discards of a sick society.

He molded them. He breathed life into them. He made them feel they belonged.

They were his creations, but he did not love them. They were just things to be toyed with until the paint wore thin and the batteries ran down, then out they went.

And this is the way it was until he met Brian Blackwood.

Things got worse after that.

TWO.

-guy had a black leather jacket and dark hair combed back virgin-a.s.s tight, slicked down with enough grease to lube a bone-dry Buick; came down the hall walking slow, head up, ice-blue eye working like acid on everyone in sight; had the hall nearly to himself, plenty of room for his slow-stroll swagger. The other high school kids were shouldering the wall, shedding out of his path like frenzied snakes shedding out of their skins.

You could see this Clyde was bad news. Hung in time. Fifties-looking. Out of step. But who's going to say, ”Hey, dude, you look funny”?

Tough, this guy. Hide like the jacket he wore. No books under his arm, nothing at all. Just cool.

Brian was standing at the water fountain when he first saw him, sipping water, just blowing time between cla.s.ses; thinking about nothing until along came Clyde, and suddenly he found himself attracted to him. Not in a s.e.xual way. He wasn't funny. But in the manner metal shavings are attracted to a magnet-can't do a thing about it, just got to go to it and cling.

Brian knew who Clyde was, but this was the first time he'd ever been close enough to feel the heat. Before, the guy'd been a tough greaser in a leather jacket who spent most of his time expelled from school. Nothing more.

But now he saw for the first time that the guy had something; something that up close shone like a well-honed razor in the noonday sun.

Cool. He had that.

Cla.s.s. He had that.

Difference. He had that.

He was a walking power plant.

Name was Clyde. Ol', mean, weird, don't-f.u.c.k-with-me Clyde.

”You looking at something?” Clyde growled.

Brian just stood there, one hand resting on the water fountain.

After a while he said innocently: ”You.”

”That right?”

”Uh-huh.”

”Staring at me?”

”I guess.”

”I see.”

And then Clyde was on Brian, had him by the hair, jerking his head down, driving a knee into his face. Brian went back seeing constellations. Got kicked in the ribs then.

Hit in the eye as he leaned forward from that. Clyde was making a regular bop bag out of him.

He hit Clyde back, aimed a nose shot through a swirling haze of colored dots.

And it hurt so good. Like when he made that fat pig Betty Sue Flowers fingernail his back until he bled; thrust up her hips until his c.o.c.k ached and the rotten-fish smell of her filled his brain . . . Only this hurt better. Ten times better.

Clyde wasn't expecting that. This guy was coming back like he liked it.

Clyde dug that.

He kicked Brian in the nuts, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his forehead against the kid's nose. Made him bleed good, but didn't get a good enough lick in to break it.

Brian went down, grabbed Clyde's ankle, bit it.

Clyde yowled, drug Brian around the hall.

The students watched, fascinated. Some wanted to laugh at what was happening, but none dared.

Clyde used his free foot to kick Brian in the face. That made Brian let go ... for a moment.

He dove at Clyde, slammed the top of his head into Clyde's bread basket, carried him back against the wall crying loudly, ”Motherf.u.c.ker!”

Then the princ.i.p.al came, separated them, screamed at them, and Clyde hit the princ.i.p.al and the princ.i.p.al went down and now Clyde and Brian were both standing up, together, kicking the G.o.dd.a.m.ned s.h.i.+t out of the G.o.dd.a.m.ned princ.i.p.al in the middle of the G.o.dd.a.m.ned hall.

Side by side they stood. Kicking.

One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.

Left leg. Right leg. Feet moving together like the legs of a scurrying centipede . . .

THREE.

They got some heat slapped on them for that; juvenile court action. It was a bad scene.

Brian's mother sat at a long table with his lawyer and whined like a blender on whip.

Good old mom. She was actually good for something. She had told the judge: ”He's a good boy, your honor. Never got in any trouble before. Probably wouldn't have gotten into this, but he's got no father at home to be an example . . . ,” and so forth.