All Good Children - Catherine Austen [9]
I lean on the hood with my hands clasped, while my mother tells my principal what a good boy I am. “Max knows how fortunate he is to be in academic school. He assured me he won’t skip class or get into any fights.”
“I’ll try not to,” I say. “But if someone starts a fight, I’m going to protect myself.”
They stare at me like I’m a recall.
“My grades are premium,” I remind them.
Mom sighs. “He’ll do his best to stay out of trouble.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Connors,” Mr. Graham says.
“Everything will be fine once our support system gets up and running. What I’m more concerned about is that we didn’t see you on the parent board last Friday. Did you watch from home?”
She shakes her head. “I completely forgot about it.”
“I hope you’ll come out for the fundraiser at the end of the month,” he says.
She shrugs. Mom never quite lies. She just avoids answering.
Mr. Graham frowns. “I’m sure you’re doing your best under the circumstances.” He looks down his nose at me and the car, memorizes the license plate so he’ll never again mistake us for someone he cares about.
“Told you he was a beast,” I say after he leaves. “He pretends to be nice so he can use you, then he feeds you to the sharks.”
“There are no sharks anymore,” Mom says.
“He has his own private shark pond. He dangles me over it when I skip detention.”
She smiles and tells me she loves me. “Have a good day.”
I search for Dallas among five hundred uniformed ninth and tenth graders milling the grounds. They clump near the fence, gab in groups, take photos, message madly. Once we’re inside, all RIG use is prohibited except for Blackboard, the school network, so everyone stays out until the final bell. I see my football team huddled around the picnic tables, reviewing plays I missed in last week’s game. Brennan Emery, the coach’s son, shouts, “Nice to see you back, Max! Sorry about your aunt.”
“Hey!” I reply. I can never think of anything fit to say to Brennan. He outclasses me in every way. He’s tall, unselfish, a winning quarterback, an elected president of the Students of Color Association. He has what people call natural leadership ability—but since he’s an ultimate, it’s not entirely natural.
Dallas jumps up from the picnic bench and slams my shoulder. His jacket strains at the armpits and his pants hover above his shoes. We ordered our uniforms in August and he’s already outgrown his. Life is not fair. “Did you hear about that poor Chinese kid who was beaten to death with a fencepost?” he asks. “Disgusting.”
“Yeah, I saw that. What a bunch of freaks.”
“What would you rather be beaten with? Fencepost or barbed wire?”
“Fencepost,” I say.
“Me too.”
Xavier stands alone across the grounds, waving. The sun shines off his hair like a halo, rippling as he makes his way over to us. He’s three sentences into his speech before he’s within earshot.
Tyler Wilkins rushes in and trips Xavier, who crumples into the pavement. The crowd parts to ensure him a painful landing. Tyler laughs and shouts, “Walk much, unit?”
Tyler is a funhouse mirror image of Xavier. He’s six foot and blond, but skeletal and homely. He reeks of deli meats and cigarettes. One day he’ll slash Xavier’s face out of jealousy. We all know it, every one of us, but we’ll be sure to act surprised.
Tyler’s goons leap over Xavier’s legs, giggling. Tyler puts a foot on his back to stop him from getting up.
It’s like watching the planets align.
I strut over to Tyler and throw a right hook that staggers him. The crowd steps back to form an arena. Xavier commando-crawls to the edge of it.
Tyler swears at me and rubs his jaw. “You’re dead, Connors.”
Somewhere in my brain I wonder if I should be nervous. Nah. I spent two hundred and twenty hours of summer preparing for this moment. I’m zesty.
I let Tyler take a shot. I block it easily with my left forearm and wallop him in the gut with my right fist. I knock the wind out of him and follow with an elbow to the cheek. A hoot of excitement escapes my lips. The crowd starts buzzing.
I bounce