“You’re wandering around the woods with a sprained ankle and a loaded shotgun pretending to hunt?”
Toby shook his head. “I took the shells out.”
He’d left them in until right before he exited the forest, just in case Owen was silently following him and preparing to pounce, and had almost forgotten the detail of emptying the gun before he walked back in the house. He looked like less of a foolhardy idiot explaining the situation if the gun was unloaded.
“You’re a strange kid,” Dad said.
“Genetics.”
Dad frowned.
“Sorry,” Toby said.
“No need to apologize. It’s all recessive traits.”
Toby grinned and walked upstairs to get washed up for dinner, forcing himself to keep the limp to a minimum.
Toby hadn’t broken his ankle, but the next day it was abundantly clear that another trek into the woods anytime soon was out of the question. He’d be lucky to make it to school.
“Hey, Cripple, how’s it going?” asked Larry. Toby had been lost in thought as he took books out of his locker, and the bully’s sudden appearance startled him so much that his history book fell to the floor. Larry laughed louder than merited by the humor of the situation as Toby reached down to retrieve it.
“Fine,” said Toby, hoping he would just go away.
“What’s that?”
“I said fine.”
“What’s that? You said you were looking for somebody to kick your ass?”
This wasn’t typical Larry behavior. He usually saved his intimidation attempts for more private settings. It wasn’t his style to harass somebody right in the middle of the hallway-Toby’s injured foot must have been boosting his courage.
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, that’s not what I said.”
“Then what did you say?”
“I said fine.”
“That’s not what I heard. I heard that you want me to beat the shit out of you.”
Toby sighed. Someday he’d like to get Owen on a leash, bring him to school, and turn him loose on jerks like Larry. He wouldn’t be cruel-he’d pull Owen away before his jaws and talons got down to the bone.
Larry smacked him on the shoulder. Not too hard, but hard enough to jostle him a bit. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
“Hey!” It was Sam Conley. He wasn’t captain of the football team, but he was one of the more popular players. Toby didn’t know what position he played.
Larry glared at him. “What?”
“What are you doing picking on a kid with a hurt foot? Pick on somebody who can fight back, you chickenshit.”
“Screw you.”
Toby glanced around. At least fifteen other kids were watching the altercation.
“You wanna start something with me?” Sam asked. “Because I’ll be more than happy to finish it.”
Larry stood there for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to stare him down. Then he shrugged. “Forget this. I’ve got better things to do.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Larry gave Toby a “you’re dead” look and then walked away.
Toby’s face felt as if a fly landing on it would burst into flame. It was almost more embarrassing to be rescued with everybody watching than to be bullied. Still, it couldn’t hurt to have a football player on his side. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
Sam regarded him with disgust. “Stick up for yourself, man. That’s just pathetic.”
Toby immediately imagined himself delivering a lengthy, profanity-laden monologue where he verbally reduced Sam to a pool of sizzling goo. Then he imagined the goo reconfiguring into the normal Sam, whom Toby proceeded to punch in the face repeatedly, accompanied by loud cheers and whistles from his classmates.
Instead, he said: “Whatever.”
News of Toby’s upcoming beating apparently reached 85 percent of the Orange Leaf High students before word made it to Toby himself. Reportedly, Larry and Nick planned to “meet” him right after school and administer a severe pounding as retribution for Larry’s mild humiliation.
“I didn’t do anything to them!” Toby protested, when a girl named Helen informed him of the afternoon schedule.
“They’re still planning to get you,” Helen said, in a tone that suggested “This is kind of worrisome and not nearly as funny as the idea of you having your head dunked in the toilet” but also “I plan to get good seats.”
What was he supposed to do? Too many people were aware of the situation for him to sneak past the bullies after school, and getting a teacher involved wasn’t an option. Unless Sam offered to do battle for him, which was unlikely, he was in serious trouble.
The rest of the day passed very, very slowly.
It wasn’t as if there was a huge crowd gathered outside to witness his destruction, but there were certainly more kids lingering in the schoolyard than usual.
C’mon, Toby thought, somebody had to have alerted a teacher to this. Sure, given the choice most kids would opt to see a fight, but wasn’t there even one peer who said something to an authority figure? Or were the teachers fully aware of what was happening and placing bets back in the teachers’ lounge? He figured the odds against him were 1,500,000 to 1, but that would be one hell of a payout if he threw a lucky punch.
Toby kept his head up high and limped toward the sidewalk. Almost any other day, he gave thanks for the fact that he didn’t have to take the bus. Today, he’d be more than happy to sit up front and be pelted with spitballs and boogers the entire ride.
As he walked off school grounds, he sensed that somebody was quickly coming up behind him. The amused reactions of the onlookers contributed to this perception. He didn’t look back, just kept walking at his normal-that is, normal with a sprained ankle-pace, resisting the urge to run for it.
“Hey!” said Larry behind him.
Toby stopped walking and turned around. Nick was also with him. “What?”
“I didn’t forget about what happened today.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“I think you did.”
There had to be at least twenty kids watching, most of them the regulars who smoked just outside of school grounds. Normally, Larry had a look of sadistic pleasure on his face-now he just looked angry. Even a little twitchy. He clearly wasn’t leaving before a punch was thrown.
Knowing that the violence was inevitable was strangely liberating for Toby. If he couldn’t talk his way out of his problem, why not just say what he really felt? Yeah, it might increase the velocity and quantity of the punches, but did it really matter at this point?
“I didn’t do anything,” said Toby, speaking slowly and clearly. “I was at my locker, minding my own business. You walked over there and tried to intimidate me. When Sam came over, you chickened out and ran away. If you want to blame somebody for your cowardice, blame Sam, he’s the one who scared you.”
Toby inwardly cringed and braced himself for a punch.
Larry’s look of anger deepened. “That’s not how it happened.”
“There were witnesses.”
“Yeah, well, there are witnesses now who are gonna see me kick your ass into the ground.”
“Uh-huh. They’ll be really impressed. How come you have Nick with you? I weigh sixteen pounds. You should be able to handle me without a bodyguard.”
“Are you trying to get hurt?” Larry asked.
