The Fourth Stall - Chris Rylander [80]
Staples’s eyes turned pure red. His hands made fists, and I heard his teeth grind together. He punched a nearby stall door and it dented with a bang. I flinched. Then he punched the mirror and it splintered and a few shards shattered on the tile floor. I looked at his fist as he turned to face me; it wasn’t pretty.
“Well, it doesn’t look like I have a choice, then, does it?” Staples said with such intense vehemence that it almost made me want to die in fear right there on the spot.
“Your choice is to leave my school forever or go to prison,” I said quietly.
“No, no. I don’t have a choice. You’re a sneaky little liar and you’re going to turn me in no matter what I say, aren’t you?” he said, taking a few more steps toward me.
I backed up more and realized that I was now cornered. I was back by the high window with nowhere to go.
“No! I wouldn’t do that. I keep my word. A deal is a deal.”
“Right. Just like you lied to me to get me here, right?” he said.
“No, that was just . . . I mean . . . I swear I’ll give you your stuff back, all I want is my money that you stole,” I said, trying to take the offensive.
He laughed and moved within a few feet of me.
“Well, here’s the thing: your little friends can do whatever they want with the stuff they stole from my shed. Let them call the cops. All you need to worry about is the fact that you will pay for it.” He was speaking so harshly that his spit sprinkled my face. “I’m already going to prison, right? So who cares if they add more time for what I’m about to do to you?”
I knew he was done bargaining. Staples had gone off the deep end. I kicked out my foot at his shin, but he was too fast. He stepped away from my kick and I lost my balance. Then he moved with mongooselike speed and grabbed my wrist. His bony fingers dug into my arm.
I yelped in pain and tried to get away, but his grip was like a bear trap.
“Fred, help me!” I yelled.
He just cowered even more in his chair. His feet were up on the seat and his arms were wrapped around his legs. He had basically curled into a little ball like an armadillo under duress.
At that point I realized that I had no choice but to fight dirty. I grabbed the hand that was holding my wrist and pulled my face to it. He tried to push my head away with his other hand, but it was too late. I didn’t really want to do it, but I closed my eyes and bit. Staples yelled in pain and let go of me.
Then I ran.
I ran out the door of the bathroom and then quickly out the East Wing entrance to the upper-grade playground. I stopped and looked back to see if he was following me. He was only like ten feet behind me and closing the distance quickly. I panicked and ran down the hill leading to the football field.
I could hear Staples right behind me, growling like a rabid dog. When I got to the bottom, I crouched and grabbed a handful of gravel. I spun around while backpedaling and threw it into his face. He yelled and turned away from me.
I kicked into high gear and headed toward the street. I knew it would not take long for him to catch me on foot, but if I could just get somewhere more visible to passing cars . . .
I didn’t even get close. His legs were longer and stronger. I had gotten only thirty yards down the football field when I felt someone shove me hard in the back, and I went sprawling onto the ground, my elbow scraping over the dry fall grass. It burned and the wind got knocked right out of me. I felt my elbow moisten with blood as I tried to catch my breath.
But then he was on me. He grabbed my shirt and lifted me off the ground easily. I could have kicked him or something, but I was too busy trying to get some air into my lungs. I wheezed as he carried me by my shirt collar back toward the parking lot.
As I finally caught my breath, Staples set me on my feet. His hand moved from my shirt to the back of my