The Fourth Stall - Chris Rylander [50]
“Do you want some milk, Christian?” my mom asked.
“No . . . no thanks,” I said, relieved that my jaw and voice were working again.
“Okay, I’ll give you and your friend some privacy, then.” She left the kitchen.
I wanted to yell out for her to stay, but I didn’t. This was between Staples and me, not my mom. I couldn’t drag her into this.
“So we finally meet. I’ve been looking forward to this, Christian.” Staples smiled. It was the sort of smile that a hyena might give a rotting zebra carcass.
He had also used my real name. Nobody but my family did that.
“Please, have a seat,” he said, motioning to a chair across from him.
I sat down and tried to look calm. I was everything but calm. I was even afraid for my mom right now. I didn’t think she could defend herself from this monster sitting in our kitchen.
Staples’s smile grew wider. “It’s really hot in here,” he said, pulling at his sweater. “Do you mind?”
Without waiting for a response, he took off the sweater. He wore a simple white T-shirt underneath that revealed a pair of thick arms covered in tattoos. His arms were so muscular that his veins looked as if they were trying to escape his body. They wriggled like worms in rain with every movement of his hand. His tattoos covered his arms like second sleeves. One of them read “The Creek” in Old English–style lettering. But the others were all so bunched together that I couldn’t even make them out.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked, and then took a drink of milk. It would have been much more fitting had it been a glass of blood.
I nodded but said nothing.
“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” He had a small milk mustache.
I just looked at him.
He laughed. It was evil. But it also sounded easy, as if he laughed a lot.
“So you’re going to sit there and act all tough, right? That’s not a bad strategy. It might even work on some of the little wusses at your school. But I can see right through it, Christian.” He gave me a stare that almost melted my bones. I half expected to turn into jelly and slide right off the chair onto the floor, forming a small pile of cowardly goo. But I just shrugged. That only made him laugh more. I thought I saw an Oreo cookie flinch as he reached out to grab another one off of the plate.
“Did your parents enjoy the decorating that we did this weekend?” he asked. It seemed as if he was having the time of his life.
“Yeah, the red paint went well with our white house. Thanks,” I managed to say as casually as I could.
He just laughed again.
“Did you like what we did to your Collector last week?” I asked, interrupting his laughter. I’d heard enough of it already.
He looked at me and his eyes turned black.
“You are a dead man, Christian,” he said.
“Yeah, you’ve said that a few times now. Why am I still here, then? I know it was you who tried to run me over, and I still outran you. On my bike, no less,” I said. I wished I would stop talking. I was only digging my grave even deeper.
Staples slammed his fist onto the table. The milk glass rattled and spun and almost tipped over before settling. An Oreo cookie flopped off the plate. We both looked at it and then he snatched it up and ate it in one bite.
After swallowing, he scoffed.
“Christian, Christian. I always did like to play with my food before eating it. I want to watch as your business crumbles right out from under you. I’ll be there laughing as you cry because you’ve lost everything. Mark my words; you’ll be left with no money, no employees, no business, and no friends. Then you’ll realize how much you had and how much you’ve lost. And then, only then, after I’ve enjoyed your suffering for a while, will I finally destroy you,” he said, leaning forward.
His eyes seemed to vibrate. His mouth twitched into a smile. Then he rubbed the corner of his left eye and sat back in his chair again.
“You really think you’ll be able to do all that?” I asked, letting a grin sneak up to my lips.
Staples grinned back. His confidence was making me nervous. And you