The Fourth Stall - Chris Rylander [55]
The kid with Justin was his best friend, Mitch. The two are always together. And they are usually up to no good, like cheating, skipping school, smoking, or beating up younger kids, either for money or just because they feel like it. They’re basically a walking-talking duo of terror.
Mitch also wore baggy jean shorts and a black T-shirt. His head wasn’t shaved, though; instead he was sporting his usual greasy brown hair and a white, straight-brimmed New York Yankees baseball hat worn slightly off to the side. He had his hands behind his back. I didn’t like that, but in just a few moments it wouldn’t matter.
“Thanks for coming,” I said.
“Whatever, man, just say what you gotta say,” Justin said.
At that moment I saw Mitch take three quick steps toward the Shed. His hands came out from around his back to reveal a bike lock. The kind that is like a big U shape with a little bar that locks on to the end. I knew immediately what he was going to do with it.
“Blue jay!” I shouted as loud as I could.
But it was too late. Mitch slid the bike lock into the Shed’s door handles and then snapped on the lock bar. The doors clanked as the bullies and Joe tried to jump out. But the lock was in place, and the doors clattered harmlessly against themselves, the bullies yelling from inside.
Mitch and Justin laughed at their pleas.
“Trying to pull a fast one on me?” Justin scoffed.
My stomach sank. I had been double-crossed. They knew. They had known everything about our plan. The worst part was that the Shed was like a sauna inside, and now the bullies and Joe would be trapped in there for who knew how long.
The natural thing to do at that point would probably have been to run. But I couldn’t leave behind my hired muscle to cook like that—it wouldn’t be right. Besides, there were only two of them; maybe I could still get us out of this.
But that’s when the chunky ham and fish-head gravy really hit the fan, as Vince’s grandma says. A car squealed to a stop behind me. I turned around and saw a black Honda with a spoiler so huge the car could probably have taken flight if it was going fast enough. The four high school kids from last Tuesday clamored out of the car and walked toward me, with PJ in the lead.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Problem Solver Guy,” PJ said. “How nice to see you again.”
I just looked at him right in the eyes and said nothing, trying to stay calm.
“Oooh, looks like we got a tough guy on our hands, boys,” PJ said with a sickening grin.
The four high school kids, Justin, and Mitch grouped around me in a circle. Their shadows blocked out what little sunlight there was that day.
“You won’t be so tough after we’re finished with you,” PJ said.
I knew that my only chance of survival was to strike first. To surprise them. I wasn’t much of a fighter; in fact, I’d never gotten into a real fight before. But I figured I was smarter than all of these guys combined and that gave me at least one advantage.
I spun around as they enveloped me. I quickly determined PJ to be the closest, and one of the high school kids with greasy black hair to be the biggest.
“Hey, let’s talk about this, guys. I’ve got money. I’ll pay you. I can double what you’re making now.”
PJ scoffed.
“I doubt it,” Justin said.
“Right here in my pocket I have a roll of money, and I have even more in my office.” I reached into the pocket of my jeans.
They leaned forward eagerly. All that was in my pocket was the note I had sent to Justin. I grabbed it and pulled it out. But as my hand cleared my pocket I let the paper flutter to the grass. I made a motion like I wanted to pick it back up.
PJ predictably bent over to get it first. That’s when I struck at him with my foot. I didn’t really have a clear plan, because like I said, I’m not a fighter. But in this case it was them or me.
I quickly kicked back the same foot so my heel slammed into the shin of the big