Dweller - Jeff Strand [17]
Maybe he’d injured his brain instead of his foot.
Dad was already home when Toby got back. That wasn’t such a good thing.
“Any special reason you’re walking around in the woods with my shotgun?” Dad asked as he walked inside.
“Fake hunting.”
“Fake hunting?”
“You know, pretending to hunt.”
“You’re wandering around the woods with a sprained ankle and a loaded shotgun pretending to hunt?”
Toby shook his head. “I took the shells out.”
He’d left them in until right before he exited the forest, just in case Owen was silently following him and preparing to pounce, and had almost forgotten the detail of emptying the gun before he walked back in the house. He looked like less of a foolhardy idiot explaining the situation if the gun was unloaded.
“You’re a strange kid,” Dad said.
“Genetics.”
Dad frowned.
“Sorry,” Toby said.
“No need to apologize. It’s all recessive traits.”
Toby grinned and walked upstairs to get washed up for dinner, forcing himself to keep the limp to a minimum.
Toby hadn’t broken his ankle, but the next day it was abundantly clear that another trek into the woods anytime soon was out of the question. He’d be lucky to make it to school.
“Hey, Cripple, how’s it going?” asked Larry. Toby had been lost in thought as he took books out of his locker, and the bully’s sudden appearance startled him so much that his history book fell to the floor. Larry laughed louder than merited by the humor of the situation as Toby reached down to retrieve it.
“Fine,” said Toby, hoping he would just go away.
“What’s that?”
“I said fine.”
“What’s that? You said you were looking for somebody to kick your ass?”
This wasn’t typical Larry behavior. He usually saved his intimidation attempts for more private settings. It wasn’t his style to harass somebody right in the middle of the hallway—Toby’s injured foot must have been boosting his courage.
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, that’s not what I said.”
“Then what did you say?”
“I said fine.”
“That’s not what I heard. I heard that you want me to beat the shit out of you.”
Toby sighed. Someday he’d like to get Owen on a leash, bring him to school, and turn him loose on jerks like Larry. He wouldn’t be cruel—he’d pull Owen away before his jaws and talons got down to the bone.
Larry smacked him on the shoulder. Not too hard, but hard enough to jostle him a bit. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
“Hey!” It was Sam Conley. He wasn’t captain of the football team, but he was one of the more popular players. Toby didn’t know what position he played.
Larry glared at him. “What?”
“What are you doing picking on a kid with a hurt foot? Pick on somebody who can fight back, you chickenshit.”
“Screw you.”
Toby glanced around. At least fifteen other kids were watching the altercation.
“You wanna start something with me?” Sam asked. “Because I’ll be more than happy to finish it.”
Larry stood there for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to stare him down. Then he shrugged. “Forget this. I’ve got better things to do.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Larry gave Toby a “you’re dead” look and then walked away.
Toby’s face felt as if a fly landing on it would burst into flame. It was almost more embarrassing to be rescued with everybody watching than to be bullied. Still, it couldn’t hurt to have a football player on his side. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
Sam regarded him with disgust. “Stick up for yourself, man. That’s just pathetic.”
Toby immediately imagined himself delivering a lengthy, profanity-laden monologue where he verbally reduced Sam to a pool of sizzling goo. Then he imagined the goo reconfiguring into the normal Sam, whom Toby proceeded to punch in the face repeatedly, accompanied by loud cheers and whistles from his classmates.
Instead, he said: “Whatever.”
News of Toby’s upcoming beating apparently reached 85 percent of the Orange Leaf High students before word made it