Ten Thousand Saints - Eleanor Henderson [104]
“Who was Prom Queen this year?”
“Who the fuck knows? Some chick.”
“Karen St. John.”
“So he’s riding around the field. He’s doing whatever. It seems like it’s taking forever. Finally Ben’s like, ‘Heads up, he’s coming out.’ We get in position. We all pull on these ski masks, scary as hell. It’s Delph, Matthew, and the twins in the van and me and Jude in the LeBaron. There’s this blanket that’s got this grass and dirt all over it, and we cover ourselves up with it. We wait a shitload of time. But finally, here he comes, all drunk and loud, and he’s laughing with his girl. He gets in the car and she gets in the car. We let them get settled, get a little smoochy, and then all at once we jump up and grab them from behind. They yell for their lives, like we’re going to kill them. I’ve got my belt around Tory faster than shit. Not around his neck like with the wire in Godfather—just around his chest, to keep him in place. Jude’s got his belt around the girl and his hand over her mouth, and thank God she’s stopped screaming. He stays there shutting her up while the boys pile out of the van—Green Mountain Boys, fuck right—and help me shove Tory in there. We get the door closed and, Little Ben, we just go ape shit. Some of us are holding him down, some are just pummeling, kicking, whatever. We let the twins have some fun. They’re in ski masks—what’s Tory going to know? I got in a good lick across his shins. Who’s a pussy now? Who’s a faggot now? And he’s dressed up like Prom King. He’s got the furry red cape on, I’m not shitting, and Delph is going to town on him with his golden staff. Pussy used to give our boy shit—Teddy McNicholas? That prick thinks he can give our Teddy Bear a hard time? And I’ll tell you what: it felt fucking good. We left him sprawled across the backseat of his car. His girl’s not screaming anymore. We told her to drive the poor bastard home. No party for Salvatore. I found this tiara in the van. Isn’t it nice? I think it makes me look glamorous.”
“It’s called a crown.”
“Jeezum Crow, you guys.”
“Tell him about the keg.”
“Oh. We emptied it. Set it on a storm drain and just—fzzzt—pumped it right out. Then we put it back. That was Jude’s idea. Add insult to injury. This morning, or this afternoon, or whenever Tory can walk again, he’ll open up his trunk and take out his keg and it’ll be light as a beach ball.”
Prudence came home later that morning, storming into Jude’s room. Jude didn’t even know she’d been out. “Where have you been?” he asked her. “You look like shit.” All the guys had gone home, off to graduation parties of their own, off to church with their families.
“I hate you,” she said, throwing her backpack down on the floor. Jude was stretched out on the bottom bunk, reading Schism.
“Did you have a good time?” he asked, putting the zine down. “Getting wasted at some loser’s house?”
“I hate you so much.”
“What? What’d I do?”
“You know what you did!”
“What?”
“You put Tory Ventura in the hospital!”
Jude sat up. “Would you keep it down?” Harriet wasn’t home, but the sound of his sister’s voice made him want to clap a hand over her mouth. Maybe in the hospital was a manner of speaking. “Do you even know what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying you and your convict friends beat up Tory. Missy Sherman told everyone. He’s got a concussion, Jude! Do you know what that means?” Prudence put her hands on her hips. “It means you’re in serious trouble.”
“Fucker deserved it,” Jude said, although his heart had begun a swift climb up into his throat. He stood up and started pacing. “I won’t get in trouble if you don’t tell Mom.”
“Mom? Mom’s the least of your worries. You know how long you go to juvie for aggravated battery?”
“It wasn’t aggravated. I didn’t lay a hand on him.” It was true.