Shine - Lauren Myracle [77]
Knowledge wasn’t all I had. I had Jason, who was an ally and possibly a friend, and who thought I had pretty eyes. I had Christian, my brother, who loved me. Knowledge was more powerful than fear. Love was stronger than hate.
So guess what, Tommy? I said silently. Step closer. Feel my lips against your ear. You don’t scare me anymore.
CHRISTIAN CAME BACK SAFE AND SOUND. WHEN he woke me, it was past midnight. He rapped once on my door, stuck his head in, and said, “Done.”
That’s all, just done.
I tried to get my bearings. “Huh?”
“I knocked him around. Now I’m going to bed.”
I nodded, and then I slept some more, and the next thing I knew, it was morning. I tiptoed past Christian’s room and into the kitchen. Aunt Tildy wasn’t there. She’d left a note saying she’d gone to a prayer shawl gathering, which was where ladies got together and made shawls for people who were grieving. Whatever.
Quietly, I got a Coke, took it outside, and popped the top. I chugged it down despite my queasy stomach, knowing I’d need the buzz of energy when I confronted Tommy. For him to leave that note meant he was running scared. I was an expert in that, so I knew. I also knew that running did no good. It was time I faced my fear square on.
The articles I’d read taught me that the manner in which Patrick was attacked was called ethnic intimidation, and when a case involved ethnic intimidation, the stakes went way up. Just using words like fag or homo could get a person up to three years in prison. Add in assault, and add to that an attempted break-in at the hospital, and Tommy was in doo-doo so deep that even his daddy’s money wouldn’t be able wash him clean.
Tommy was nineteen, half a year older than my brother. If the case went to court, he’d be tried as an adult. So I’d tell him he had two choices: Either turn himself in to Sheriff Doyle, or I’d do it for him. And yes, it had to be me. Not Christian, not Sheriff Doyle or Deputy Doyle.
When Daddy was no more than Robert’s age, rats used to come sniffing into his cramped bedroom. Daddy told me and Christian how he would wait in the night with a flashlight in his left hand and a gun in his right, a Spanish pistol bought cheap at a military surplus store. When he heard the scribbling of claws, he’d quick turn on the flashlight, blinding the buggers, so he could pick off as many as he could before they scurried back to their hidey-holes.
They didn’t always flee. Not all of them. Sometimes they’d face Daddy and hiss. They’d lash their tales and show their needle teeth, and once Daddy was so startled, he dropped the flashlight, casting the room into darkness. One rat—big as a man’s arm, Daddy said—came right at him, and Daddy shot it point-blank.
“It was the King Rat, see,” Daddy said. “Crazy and dangerous as heck. And listen up to your daddy, kids. The only way to stop a King Rat is to get it before it gets you.”
Daddy’s mama, my dead granny Mae, cooked up that King Rat and served it as stew, because as Daddy said, “Why waste good meat?”
The rat I was after wasn’t worth eating. I’d gag if I tried. Yet I kept Daddy’s advice in mind, and before I biked over to Tommy’s house, I hunted through the garage until I found Daddy’s Spanish pistol. I stuck it in the back of my shorts for easy access.
I hoped I wouldn’t need it, especially knowing that I’d be catching Tommy when he’d already been worked over. Done, Christian had said. I reckoned I’d find him sniveling and licking his wounds.
But like Daddy said, a trapped rat was gonna fight. This time, if it came to it, I was going to fight back.
I WAS SWEATY WHEN I ARRIVED AT TOMMY’S HOUSE. I didn’t care. I saw his yellow Beemer parked out front. I didn’t care. I was so hot with fear and fury that I strode right to his fancy front door and lifted my finger to jab the bell.
He answered before I got the chance. He was holding an ice pack to his left eye. Behind him, in the living room, Bailee-Ann sat on the sofa. She had no makeup on, and she was wearing shorts and a T-shirt,