All Good Children - Catherine Austen [83]
Dallas waits in the far corner, so tall that he has to hunch. He stares at me, his eyes deep in his thoughts, his face twitching, his jaw moving up and down in a chewing motion. He has a weight belt wrapped tight around his right fist.
“No,” I whisper. “No way.”
“So where’s the list?” Mr. Graham asks.
Dallas points to the wall beside him. “It’s right here, sir, behind this bench.”
“No, it’s not,” I say. “I erased it earlier when we cleaned the trailer. I saw that Dallas found it so I erased it.”
“No, you didn’t. It’s still there,” Dallas says. “It’s just hard to read.”
“Mr. Graham, there’s nothing there. Let’s just go.” I strain against my bonds. “Just get out of here.”
“How can you care about people who care nothing about you?” Dallas asks.
“I care about you,” I tell him. “Where are you going to go after this? You’re not thinking straight. You haven’t slept or eaten for days. You’re all messed up.”
Mr. Graham eyes me suspiciously and shuts the trailer door. He looks at Dallas, raises his hands, rolls his eyes. “Move the bench so I can see.”
“No. This can’t happen,” I say. “I’ll take the shot. I’ll take the shot and Mom will take us somewhere safe until it wears off.”
Mr. Graham snorts like I’m a babbling recall. “I want to see that list.”
Dallas leans over, grabs the bottom of the bench with his left hand and tugs it out from the wall. He rises, points and waits.
Mr. Graham shoves my shoulder down. I realize I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet, edgy with nerves and the fear that my best friend is about to kill our principal. “Keep an eye on him,” he says to Dallas.
“Yes, sir.” Dallas’s eyes track Mr. Graham as he walks to the bench.
“No!” I shout.
Mr. Graham leans over, hands on the bench, looking for the writing on the wall. “I don’t see anything.” His belly grazes the wood, his head hangs there like an offering.
Dallas raises his fist, ready to slam the weight belt into Mr. Graham’s skull.
I dive for him. I pitch forward and ram my head into Dallas’s hollow belly as fast and hard as I can. He smashes into the wall and slams his weighted fist into my back. I jerk to my knees. We fall, knocking the principal off his feet. Mr. Graham collapses in the crowded corner. His arms give way beneath him, his cheek hits the bench. Oomph, crack, crash.
Dallas lifts me off him like a weight bar and hurls me aside with a strength that doesn’t come from calories. I fall into a pile of ripped pads and cracked helmets, smashing my elbow and my ass.
Dallas rises to his feet. He straddles Mr. Graham’s broad back, lifts him by the suit collar, and slams his head into the bench. Crunch.
“No!” I shriek. “Stop!”
Mr. Graham isn’t moving. Dallas presses a hand on his back while he leans over to pick up the weight belt from the floor.
“Untie me!” I yell. “My arm’s twisted. It’s going to break!”
I grimace and moan.
He doesn’t even look. “In a second.”
I kick at his feet. “Now, man! There’s something wrong with my elbow. I think it’s going to break.”
He rolls his eyes and swears. He keeps his legs around Mr. Graham, holding him in place with his head on the bench, and gestures impatiently at me.
I rise and offer the wrists behind my back. “What are you doing, Dallas?” I whisper.
He shoves my shoulder down, yanks my arms up until I scream, and frees his necktie from my hands.
“Thanks, man.” I grab his arm and fake a smile. “Let’s go.”
He doesn’t smile back, doesn’t even seem to recognize me.
He turns away and wraps the tie around Mr. Graham’s throat.
“No!” I claw at him and pull him off the principal. He tumbles onto his shoulder and swears. He knees me in the gut and slams his palm into my temple. I roll away from him, my head ringing in pain. He kicks at me furiously, knocking the bench onto its side. Mr. Graham thumps to the floor. Thud.
Dallas whips his head toward the sound. He sees a job half finished.
I grab the necktie and throw it across the room. Dallas reaches for the weight belt. I throw myself on it and trap it beneath my knee. He tugs, sighs, looks at me like this silliness won’t be tolerated.
“You