The Traveling Vampire Show

That’s when I knew she would win next week’s archery contest.

She held fire while I straightened the box and came back.

Her second arrow poked through Eichmann’s other eye. He looked as if his big, black-rimmed spectacles had come equipped with feathered shafts.

Though the impact had twisted the box, she managed to put her next arrow into Eichmann’s nose.

Then someone called out, “Well, if it ain’t Robin Hood and his merry fags.”

Even before turning around, we recognized the voice.

Scotty Douglas.

When we did turn around, we saw that he wasn’t alone. Scotty had his sidekicks with him: Tim Hancock and Andy “Smack” Malone.

Smack got the nickname because it was what he enjoyed doing to kids like us. But he was no worse than Scotty and Jim.

Sneering and smirking, the three guys swaggered toward us like desperados on their way to a gunfight.

Nobody had any guns, thank God.

Their empty hands dangled in front of them, thumbs hooked under their belts.

Slim had the bow.

Rusty and I appeared to be unarmed, but we both had knives in our pockets. So did Scotty’s gang, probably. Except their knives were sure to be bigger than ours, and switchblades.

In big greasy hair, sideburns down to their jaws, black leather jackets, white T-shirts, blue jeans, wide leather belts and black motorcycle boots with buckles on the sides, they were a trio of Marlon Brandos from The Wild One, half-baked but scary.

Scotty and Tim were older than us by a couple of years, and Smack was at least a year older than them. Bigger, too. In spite of his hood costume, Smack looked like an eight year old balloon boy somebody’d pumped up till he was ready to burst. Hairy, though. His belly, bulging out between the bottom of his T-shirt and the belt of his low-hanging jeans, was extremely white and overgrown with curly black hair that got thicker near his belt.

Smack was in the same grade as his buddies because he’d gotten held back once or twice. He wasn’t exactly a sharp tool. Neither were Scotty or Tim, for that matter.

Scotty raised his hands. “Don’t shoot,” he told Phoebe.

Though she lowered her bow, she kept an arrow nocked and her hand on it. “We were here first,” she said.

“So what?” Scotty asked.

“So maybe you can go somewhere else till we’re done.”

“Maybe we don’t wanta.”

“Maybe we like it here,” said Tim.

Grinning like a dope, Smack glanced at his two pals and said, “Anyways, she didn’t use the magic word.”

They laughed. Smack was such a card.

“Please, Phoebe said, even though she knew the magic word would work no magic on these three losers. We all knew that. We knew they wouldn’t simply go away. Not until they’d had their “fun” with us, whatever that might be.

Scotty, Tim and Smack came to a halt about four or five paces away from us. They smiled as if they owned us.

Flanked by his buddies, Scotty asked, “Please what?”

“Please go away and leave us alone.” Though she must’ve been shaking inside, she seemed very calm.

“What’ll you give us if we do?” Scotty asked.

“What do you want?” Phoebe asked.

Pursing his lips, Scotty stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger and frowned as if giving deep thought to the matter. “Wellllll,” he said, “let me seeeee.”

“You guys better leave us alone,” Rusty said, a whine in his voice. “Dwight’s dad’s the police chief.”

As if they didn’t already know that.

“As if we give a shit,” said Scotty. Fixing his eyes on me, he asked, “You gonna tell on us?”

“No,” I said.

“That’s what I thought.”

Rusty glanced at his wristwatch. Then he looked surprised. “Oh, gosh, I have to get home.”

“To your mommy? ” Smack asked. He gave his pals a hopeful glance, and looked disappointed when they didn’t laugh or even crack smiles over his wit.

“Go home if you want,” Scotty said.

“Really? You mean it?”