Kevin Bither, Mouth Almighty, stands in front of her, staring at the goop in the steamtable.
“Hey, Mutie, you didn’t like hawk into this crap or nothin’, did ya?”
He looks around him at his friends for approval of his wit. Then he tucks his chin and wrinkles his piggy little nose in distaste. He is the same color as the food—worm pale, tinged tomato soup red.
The Mutant scrapes up a Mount Saint Helens of American chop suey—limp macaroni, canned tomatoes and scabs of fried hamburger, blandly flavored with bits of slick tick-like onion and boogery chopped celery—and plops it onto his tray.
“Jeez-us,” Bither moans, “do I have to eat this shit?”
The Mutant plunges her fist into the macaroni, reaches across the gutter with her other hand to grab Bither by the front of his shirt and jerk him close enough to wash his face with the goop.
“Eat me,” she tells him calmly and then shoves him backward.
Sputtering and blowing, the spud staggers against the guy behind him.
“Food fight!” someone screams.
The cafeteria erupts.
A meaty hand falls on the Mutant’s shoulder.
“Gauthier,” says the supervisor, “we have to talk.”
Sam ducks a flying brownie. Grabbing his Thermos and his lunch bucket, he safeguards his grub. No way is it going for ammunition. He zigzags through the battle toward the cafeteria line where it erupted. The double doors are flung open by the vice-principal and several teachers rushing in. They start shouting for order. Sam catches a glimpse of Liggott taking a square-on face hit of something that looks like a fistful of pale pink maggots. Bither straddles the steamtables abandoned by the cafeteria workers.
Coming up behind him, Sam wraps gorilla arms around Bither and hauls him down as the yelping Mouth rubs a fistful of cooked peas into Sam’s hair. The outcome is inevitable; Bither falls under Sam’s superior assault force.
This time, he promises himself as she climbs into the truck cab after practice, he’s not going to say one damn thing to her she can read as a put-down. She reaches for his lunch bucket without asking and holds it in her lap with her back against her door and legs stretched out straight on the seat between them.
“You lucked out,” he says. “I thought they’d boot you.”
She grins. “Me too.”
Like she’s done something clever. Irritation gets the better of him. “First day on the job, you get your ass fired. And on probation, too.”
“Hey,” she snaps, “fuck you. I didn’t ask you—”
“To do dick,” he finishes. “I know, I know. You’re welcome, Deanie.”
She kicks out at him, connecting solidly with his thigh.
“Ouch. Shit, cut that out!”
She keeps on doing it and he grabs her ankle and shoves her leg back toward her. Her knee buckles with the force, which drives her back against the door.
“Shithead!” She heaves the open lunch bucket at him.
He deflects it with one hand. Braking, he spins the wheel right and fishtails into the breakdown lane. He throws the truck into park, jumps out and strides around to jerk open her door. Grabbing her by the waist, he yanks her out and dumps her on the ground. He hauls out her gear and drops it next to her.
He holds up his palms. “You win, Gauthier. I’m done doing dick for you.”
“Fuck you very much!” she screams at him as he turns on his heel and stalks around to the driver’s side.
When he looks back in the rearview, she is still sitting there, her legs Y’ed straight out, and her middle fingers straight up. Her small face chained and icy.
9
A twenty-watt bulb of sun lurks behind the dirty sheet of cloud ceiling. The cold has tightened its grip overnight and there is no relief in the forecast. Out of doors, everyone walks in a heat-conserving hunch.
Most of the players turn out for the morning session. As the Mutant drives the girls and herself furiously, the boys begin to respond to the relentless pressure with a certain admiration. On Friday, the last holdouts—Fosse and Dupre—wander in, jauntily pretending they were never boycotting the session. And that day, both teams record another win in after-school games at home, pasting Dyer’s Mills—the Weavers, the Weaverbirds—as expected.
“You going to make it to the dance tomorrow?” Rick Woods asks Sam in the locker room. “Be some women there. You make a little effort, you could take care of that problem of yours.”
Pumped from the win, Sam feels the pull of the suggestion. It’s just easier to go to work than have to deal with some of his teammates—possibly including Rick—sneaking beers and blowing weed in the parking lot and the invitations to him to do the same. As an underclassman, he had gone along, uneasily, to get along, to the extent of cracking an occasional beer. His choices come down to participating in the wink of conspiracy at the violation of their athletic contracts to stay substance-free during training or trying—gag—to play team cop. Or team rat. He reverts to a holding pattern: he can still keep his face out of it when the rest of them are into it.
“Working,” he tells Rick.
Stuffing his uniform into his gym bag, Rick snorts. “No wonder you work so goddamn hard to win the state. It’s gotten to be the only time you ever let yourself party. It’s frigging unhealthy, Sambo. You ever heard of moderation? You don’t have to get puking drunk, you don’t have to burn any bud if you don’t want. Couple beers, get some loving in the backseat of your daddy’s Eldorado, you’ll feel like a whole new man.”
“I got Bible verses to read. And,” Sam repeats, slinging his duffel over his shoulder, “I’m working. I need the money for new sneaks, Woodsie.”
Rick’s grin fades and he grabs his gear and follows Sam. Lengthening his stride to keep up with him,
