American Outlaw - Jesse James [36]
“You thought you were the baddest dude at the Youth Authority, huh?” Jackson said, his voice low and soft.
“Was I wrong?” I said, disliking him more every second.
He nodded. “Real wrong.”
A sick feeling filled my stomach as I studied my teammates. But my mood darkened further that evening, when I discovered that I had been assigned to live in the “football dorm.”
“BREWWWWW!” Peter Ososoppo bellowed. The curly-haired, three-hundred-pound Samoan was the cornerstone of our offensive line. “BREWWWW!”
“Line up, bitches,” cried Kevin Ososoppo, Peter’s fraternal twin. “Get your mouth open, it’s chuggin’ time!”
“Yo, Jesse, what the fuck!” Peter yelled happily. “Get in here, man. It’s Miller time!”
“Hi,” I said politely. “Look, I think I might try to get some sleep. Up early, you know?”
“Sleep? In this place?” Kevin shouted. “Good LUCK!”
As if to further convince me of the futility of ever closing my eyes again, Kevin wrenched the volume knob of his stereo violently forward. Def Leppard’s Hysteria exploded forth at top decibel.
“Pour . . . some . . . sugar on meeeee!” the giant lineman sang.
“In the name of love!” added Peter. The twins shared a long, silent moment of fraternity, followed by a sweaty embrace.
“Love you, big dog,” Kevin sniffed.
“Love you, too, baby bro.”
I winced. Fuck. This.
I hefted my book bag over my shoulder and scuttled down the hallway, toward any kinder fate. For example, swallowing a box of razor blades.
Outside, away from the chaos, I felt more sane. I tried to assess the situation with some calm: this was college, or close enough, so the library might be a relatively okay place to be. There would be books there, and comfortable chairs to lounge in. I hadn’t started my classes yet, but being in an environment where the smart kids hung out might make me feel like I hadn’t deliberately stationed myself in a sea of degenerates for the remainder of my education.
I hoofed it to the library and made my way to the bottom floor, where I collapsed in an uninhabited corner. Feeling the strong need to rinse the last vestiges of Def Leppard from my eardrums, I pulled my Walkman out of my backpack and popped in one of my favorite albums, Slayer’s Hell Awaits. Pulling the plastic headphones over my ears, I settled back happily in my chair, where I closed my eyes and let the music flow over me.
My peace was short-lived.
“Motherfucker, hey!” A brisk knocking on my desk interrupted the music. A huge black dude with a shaved head and a gold front tooth swayed over me. “Turn off that shit.”
I slipped the headphones off my head, angrily. “Why should I?”
“Because this is a library,” he said. “You have the volume up so high, I can hear every last goddamn drum solo.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t realize you could hear it.”
“You should have, with those cheap-ass headphones,” the giant said, laughing. I realized this guy was a football player, too—I’d seen him at the meeting, but we’d never talked. “You got those for free, huh? Found ’em in the trash?”
“I bought them.” I scowled.
“Well, you overpaid, tell you that much,” he said and laughed cheerfully. “Man, that’s not even Slayer’s best album. All that Satan shit? Corny as a motherfucker!”
I inspected him more closely. “What do you know about Slayer?”
“Oh, because I’m black, I can’t know metal?” His thick eyebrows knitted together, and suddenly, he looked annoyed. “Are you for real, man? Are you actually saying this shit to me?”
“Calm down,” I told him. “I just didn’t expect it. That’s all.”
“I guess we’re all just some Run D.M.C. fans to you, huh?” His gargantuan head bobbed in front of my face, eliminating all other fields of vision. “Man, I know Tom Araya. I feel his pain.”
“Shut up already,” I said. “You just caught me by surprise.