The other two recovered from their surprise and leaped on Rourke. He barely even slowed down. Jerking his head up, he smashed Jacobs in the face with the back of his skull. He slammed an elbow into Robson, who staggered, the wind knocked out of him. Trent threw a few punches but Rourke barely felt them. He didn’t punch in return but pounded with both fists, methodically and mindlessly, ignoring Trent’s bleating pleas for mercy.
Finally, something broke through the rage. Rourke wasn’t sure how he was even able to sense the light, fluttery touch at his shoulder.
“Stop,” said a quiet, trembling voice. “That’s enough.”
Rourke’s inner fire glimmered and went out. Trent scrambled to his feet, his bloody, swollen face a mask of fear. “Jesus Christ,” he said, catching a drop of blood with the back of his hand. “You could have killed me. You’re crazy, man. You’re fucking insane.”
His friends led him off, probably to the infirmary. Rourke watched them go. His insides felt absolutely empty, scoured by rage.
“Hey,” said the girl.
His attention snapped to her and she jumped back, hands raised in self-protection. All of a sudden he felt sheepish, as though she’d seen him naked or something. “Hey,” he said, and forced himself to relax, to show her he meant no harm.
“There’s a first-aid kit in the truck. Come on.” She went around the side of the panel truck and took out a well-stocked first-aid kit. “Hold out your hands,” she said.
He was amazed to see that the skin of his knuckles was red and broken in several places. She dabbed at the raw spots with an antiseptic wipe, then used some sort of liquid from a bottle to brush a stinging film over the broken skin and then cover the cuts with Band-Aids.
Though surprised by the violence of his response to Trent, Rourke had to admit to himself that this was not the first time he’d gone all defensive on behalf of somebody else. There was something that happened to him. He hated, absolutely freaking hated, seeing a person—anyone, even a dog—being bullied by someone else. It made him—how had Trent put it?—fucking insane. Last year, when he’d seen some guys from Joey’s school teasing Joey about his long hair and baby face, Rourke had run the guys off with little more than a threat delivered with low-voiced menace. If it had come to blows, he might have done something permanent to them.
“Now I need to do your cheek,” the girl said.
“My cheek?” Rourke angled the truck’s side mirror and was amazed to see a livid cut high on his cheekbone. “I didn’t even feel that happen,” he said.
She used a fresh antiseptic wipe to clean the cut. “It’s not bleeding very much but you might need stitches.”
“No way. Then they’d have to report it to my parents and I’d get sent home.” He didn’t think he could stand it if he had to leave camp now. And if they called his parents, his mother would probably have him airlifted to Mount Sinai for plastic surgery, to save his face.
Up close, the girl was even prettier than she seemed from far away. He could see the gold and brown facets of her eyes. He could see a constellation of freckles scattered across her nose. And he could smell her scent, something like Kool-Aid. Some completely alien part of him suddenly understood why Trent had been so determined to steal a kiss.
Cut it out, Rourke told himself. Don’t even think about it. Yet he was surprised to see that she was staring at him, too, at his mouth and at his chest where his torn shirt gaped open.
Then she blushed and got busy. She peeled open two Band-Aids and covered the cut on his cheekbone. “It’s gonna scar.”
“I don’t care.”
She snapped the first-aid kit shut. “So you don’t think you’ll get in trouble?” she repeated.
He narrowed his eyes. “That’s kind of up to you.”
She narrowed her eyes right back at him, as if calling his bluff. “What do you mean, up to me?”
“Depends on how bad you want those guys to pay for stealing and for—” He didn’t even want to say it. “For messing with you.”
“Why does it depend on me? Suppose that boy with the bleeding mouth squeals on you.”
“Trent? No way. If he says I hit him, he knows I’ll say why—that they were stealing, and that he—” Rourke paused again, studied her. “Did he hurt you?”
She absently rubbed her wrist. “I’m okay.”
He wasn’t sure whether or not to believe her. She seemed a little embarrassed, so he didn’t push for an answer. “Anyway,” he continued, “they don’t want to get in trouble any more than I do, so they’ll keep their mouths shut.”
“I see.”
“I could make them pay for the stuff they stole—”
“No,” she said quickly. “I think you already made them pay. It wasn’t that much stuff, anyway.”
He looked at the blueberry pie, now spreading a purple stain in the mud. “You’re not going to get in trouble either?” he asked.
For the first time, she smiled. And when she did, something crazy happened to Rourke. It was completely random, but suddenly the world seemed different just because she was smiling. He half expected some kind of theme song to start playing.
“The driver’s my grandfather,” she said. “I never get in trouble with him.”
“That’s good.” He found an old newspaper and cleaned up the worst of the pie. “I’m Rourke,” he added, realizing they didn’t know each other’s names. “Rourke McKnight.”
“I’m Jenny Majesky,” she said. “My grandparents have the Sky River Bakery in town. I’m working for them this summer. Saving up to
