Ten Thousand Saints - Eleanor Henderson [94]
“Call him my little friend again, Hippie.”
Hippie stood there with his jaw clenched, joint burning defiantly between his lips. For a few seconds, no one said anything. No one cared to ask what friend they were talking about. They were there to fight, their X ’d hands curled into fists, ready to swing.
“Hippie’s heard things about you straight edge guys,” said Hippie, nodding at all of them. “No sex, right? No sex with girls—too busy sucking each other’s dicks.”
They lurched and seethed behind Jude; he nudged them back. He wanted to be the one to throw the first punch. Who was this new Hippie? Why was he provoking them?
“Call him my little friend again, Hippie!”
Hippie ducked, pretending to put out his joint on the sidewalk. He was leaning over, looking up, the leather tassels of his jacket swinging.
“Is that what you and your little friend used to do? Suck each other’s dicks?”
How strange and pure this high—wanting to hurt someone, and knowing he could. There Jude was, standing above him. He swung his leg back and thrust his knee forward, clipping Hippie under the chin. Hippie sprawled backward against the chain-link fence.
They went as easy on him as eleven guys could—kicking him gingerly, roughing up his dreads. He kept squealing, “Peace, peace,” and then he was just crying. They let Jude take the lead, clamping down Hippie’s limbs while Jude pounded his shoulders, his stomach, his jaw. “Call him my little friend now, you hippie shit!” Jude’s voice visited from far away. “You worthless hippie fuck!” Hippie didn’t answer, but he was conscious; his glasses had fallen off, and his eyes, exposed, were blinking involuntarily. Straddling him, Jude leaned back and gaped up at the black sky, gulping air.
He shouldn’t have let up. He should have known that Hippie wouldn’t have goaded them if he hadn’t expected backup. Here they came, charging across the street, led by the fat girl with the ring in her nose, the messenger. Not only six or seven hippies, but six or seven jocks, plus a dozen other hungry-faced boys in a number of uniforms. What were the teams? Who was winning? It didn’t seem to matter. Someone opened the gate and the crowd emptied into the schoolyard, plunging headlong into the tall grass. The Phrog-heads, the jocks, the rest of the college stoners in bleached jeans and boat shoes who had nowhere else to go, met the straight edge kids running, and they all went tumbling down the hill. The skinheads found themselves on the straight edge team, and the little kid with the Mohawk—his hands stained the same green as his hair—was pummeling away on a jock. Jude couldn’t account for Hippie—the guys holding him down had become otherwise engaged, and now Jude was the one on the ground. Some dude in a varsity jacket attacked him, and they rolled through the grass, Jude gripping the guy’s jacket in his hands, the guy’s stubble burning Jude’s face. Jude took a punch in the hip, gave one in the chin, took one in the nose. Then, confused, turning, the guy leapt up and tackled a hippie. Jude stood, safe for the moment, his body a frozen column in the middle of the yard. Maybe the guy was just having fun. Roughhousing. Some people were in fact laughing. It looked like a hastily choreographed dance. Rumble was the word that came to mind. Like West Side Story. Never more so than when Johnny, appearing out of nowhere, pulled a switchblade on Hippie.
Jude saw the metal gleaming white under the single streetlight, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Johnny, kneeling, held the knife low at his side. It was all Hippie needed to see. Putting his hands up, beard dark with blood, he backed away, limping swiftly across the lawn. His glasses were gone.
“You guys! Let’s get out of here. These guys are crazy.”
Heads rose; final punches were thrown. The whole thing had lasted no longer than five minutes, and within another five, most of the field was clear. Some members of the straight edge crew remained, catching their breath, hobbling to the swings.
Jude stood in