Blood Brothers (30 page)

“We’d be doing better if you’d buy us
something. Maybe a costume for Halloween?” That was Bethany.

“Yeah,” Cindy said stepping over to the wall
and plucking out a small tiara with plastic diamonds in it, which
she placed it on her head. “I think I’d like to be a princess.”

Before she could stop herself, Christal
laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Bethany demanded.

Christal knew she shouldn’t have laughed, but
the sight of that tiara on Cindy was just too much. “Nothing.
Nothing’s funny.”

“Then why were you laughing? Were you
laughing at me?” Cindy tossed the tiara to the floor and moved
closer to Christal.

“No, Cindy, honest.” All of a sudden Christal
was very scared. Cindy was a lot bigger up close. “I was just
laughing.”

“What do you think we are? Idiots?” Bethany
asked.

“Yeah, people don’t laugh unless they think
something’s funny. Do you think I’m funny? Do you think I’m
something to laugh at?”

Christal saw the fat girl’s hands work into
fists. She tried to move but was blocked on all sides; Cindy to her
front, Bethany to her left, a rack of wigs to her right and the
wall behind her.

“I promise I wasn’t laughing. Not at you.”
Her voice was breaking. She was tuning up to cry. She fought the
sensation. If she started crying in front of these two it’d be all
over the school by lunchtime Monday.

“What do you think, Cindy? You believe
her?”

“I don’t know.” Christal was standing so
close to Cindy she could smell her breath. And it stunk, like tuna
fish left out of the fridge too long.

“I tell you what,” Bethany began. “Buy us
both a Halloween costume, and we’ll forget this ever happened.
Sound good to you, Cindy?”

“Sounds good, Bethany.”

“I…I don’t have any money.”

“What?” Cindy said. “You don’t have any
money. You’re a Cole. You’ve got plenty of money.”

“Yeah, since your daddy bought out the
furniture factory and put my dad out of work, I know you have more
money than I do. You probably use twenty dollars bills to wipe your
butt.” They both cracked up at that.

There were tears brimming at the edges of
Christal’s eyes.

“Christal. Christal, honey, are you back
there? We’ve got to go, sweetie.” It was Mrs. Wylder and she’d
found her, saved her, really.

“Oh, there you are, Christal. Tell your
friends bye. We’ve really got to get going.” Mrs. Wylder was
looking very tired.

Christal’s relief was overwhelming. “Bye,
Bethany. Bye, Cindy. See you guys later.” Christal stole off after
Mrs. Wylder, giving a look back over her shoulder at the two girls.
They both looked like they’d been caught with their hands in the
cookie jar.

Safely out of the store and heading for the
car, Christal wondered if Daddy ever had to put up with “meanies”
like that.

She really doubted it. Nobody would mess with
Daddy, not even “meanies.”

Then

This was going to be the best Halloween party
ever. Jack Kemp was the most popular guy in the eighth-grade class.
Jack enjoyed this status largely due to the kick-ass parties he
threw on a regular basis. Both his parents worked corporate jobs
and were away much more than they were ever at home. Jack and his
older brother, Jeff, used this to not only further their own social
rank, but to have a good time as well.

Jack’s parties were always the talk of the
school and an invitation—a highly coveted honor—meant almost
invariably two things: you were going to make out with a girl, and
you were going to get to drink beer.

Michael was picked up by Jerry and his
high-school girlfriend, Beverly, and rode with them to the big
house on Confederate Way, one of the ritziest addresses in the
entire town. They arrived at a little after seven and immediately
made his way to the keg of Budweiser in the garage.

With plastic cup in hand, he started looking
around for a girl to have a little fun with.

It didn’t take long.

Veronica Marshal was propped against a wall
in the living room looking like she was going out of her mind from
boredom as some guy Michael didn’t recognize talked incessantly to
her. She sipped from a similar cup as his, only she looked as if
she needed hers much more. Veronica was a sophomore at Winchester
Central and one of the most coveted conquests of the high school
class. He wanted to get to know her a whole lot better.

Michael downed half his beer and started
making his way across the room. People were everywhere. Punk rock
music beat against his eardrums and suddenly the room was far too
hot. He turned and walked back the way he’d come. Outside, the
chilled night air prickled his skin, cooling the sweat on his face
and arms.

The yard was filled with people as well.
Michael moved to the side of the house to get away from the crowd.
He stepped into the shadow of the big mansion, into the darkness
that the multitude of exterior lights could not reach.

“What’s the problem, bud?” a voice asked from
behind.

“I just needed some air, Jerry. That’s
all.”

“You look a little shook up. You sure you’re
okay?” Mike’s best friend moved into step with him and they
continued onto the back lawn.

“Yeah.” Michael took another long pull from
his plastic cup, draining it. “I was heading over to Veronica
Marshal, but I…I just lost my nerve.”

“Veronica? Oh, yeah. That’s the chick with
the long hair and ‘milk me’ tits.”

“That’s her,” Michael said, a sly grin across
his face.

“Well, what happened?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know. Everything was
gravy, then the closer I got to her…it was like I didn’t have any
damn business being there. Does that make any sense?”

Jerry placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder. The
two were about the same size. Michael had lost the majority of his
baby fat and was working out every day. The effects were becoming
obvious. Still, sometimes he didn’t feel any different than that
fat little kid being chased across the playground by kids wanting
to pound him a couple of hundred times.

“Look pal, I’m not trying to tell you your
business, but I’ve seen the looks that Veronica’s been giving you
in class. I’m thinking you can make second base. Hell, maybe even a
slide into third.”

“You really think so?”

“Either you or that punk who’s giving her the
whole poetry spiel.”

“That’s what they were talking about?”

“Yep. He’s been misquoting Shakespeare for
thirty minutes.”

They both sniggered at that. And suddenly
Michael felt better. Jerry always had that effect on him, without
fail. They’d been through a lot together. A whole lot. Through
thick and thin Jerry had always been there for him. His advice had
continuously been right on the mark. Why should now be any
different?

“Maybe you got something there.”

“Maybe, pal, maybe.”

“One more beer and we’ll find out.”

“Cool, I’m going to check on my girl, see if
I can play a little base-sliding myself.”

***

To Michael’s intense pleasure, Jerry had been
right on the money. Michael had forgone that other beer and
instead, gone directly to Veronica, whispered how nice she looked
into her ear, squeezed her arm, and walked off. She followed suit,
leaving the wannabe poet offering up sonnets to a bare wall.

Michael led a more than slightly inebriated
Veronica up the stairs and down a long paneled corridor. The couple
came to a halt in front of a closed door. Michael pulled Veronica
close, so close he could feel her hot breath on his face. It felt
real and it felt good.

Michael swallowed hard and kissed her.

She kissed him back.

“I saw you come in the room and leave back
out. I was hoping I’d get a chance to tell you how much I wanted to
spend a little time with you.” Michael could tell she meant it.
“I’ve had my eye on you for a while. You’re big for a guy your
age…and good-looking, too.”

“Thank you. By the way, you look really,
really good tonight.” Though he’d fantasized about this exact
encounter numerous times, now that he was actually living it, he
was nervous and shy. It had taken all of his nerve to kiss her.
Now, with that done, he was at a complete loss as to what to do
next.

She took his hand in hers.

Two hands turned the doorknob; one was his,
the other, hers.

Through the door they entered a bedroom,
dimly lit by a single lamp. The room was well appointed, lavishly
so. Their feet sunk deep into tall white carpet that was as thick
as pure cotton. Expensive oil paintings were hung in commanding
positions along the walls. The bed, high off the ground, with four
soaring posts boasting intricate etchings, stood center in the
great room.

When Michael hefted Veronica up on the bed
her hands grabbed for him. Her mouth searched him out aggressively;
when she found his lips she consumed them like a rare delicacy. He
would have thought about how lucky his was, if he’d had time to
think. Presently, however, he was concerned with the silky feel of
her soft hands, the fruity aroma of her hair, the vague wafting of
perfume.

“Love me, Mike. Love me hard.”

That was the night that eighth-grader Michael
Cole became a man.

Later, they took turns returning to the party
downstairs. Veronica had given him her phone number—he’d scribbled
it onto his palm with a pen found in the bedside table. Their
parting kiss wasn’t nearly as long as their first, but just as
passionate. Michael watched her walk away, admiring the way her
butt bounced beneath the denim of her jeans.

When she’d disappeared below the landing,
Michael looked over his shoulder to make sure everything was as
it’d been before they’d entered. They’d remade the bed and
attempted to erase all evidence of their rendezvous. But in his
mind, the memory had been made and nothing could ever take it
away.

Michael left the bedroom and pulled the door
closed behind him. His heart was light and his mood upbeat. Jerry
had been right and Michael was glad of that. Two feet before he
reached the stairwell, pain exploded inside his head. Michael was
thrown into the opposite wall and crumpled to the floor.

The hallway, already murky, went completely
black. His temples screamed, the pain the only thing that kept him
from slipping completely into unconsciousness.

“I’ll bet that’ll get your attention.”

Michael looked up. In fuzzy focus, Michael
saw the guy that had been spouting Shakespeare at Veronica just a
while ago. Funny how much bigger he was from this perspective.
Looked like Goliath and Michael was his David. For some reason,
however, Michael was inclined to believe that this confrontation
might not unfold in the same way as the Biblical tale.

“That could have been my ass tonight, punk.
I’d been pumping her all night long. Then, here you come, and steal
my booty. You’re gonna pay for that.”

A kick to the left side of his ribcage yanked
the air from Mike’s lungs. With a chest as empty as a burst
balloon, he wanted to suck in air, but the pain wouldn’t let it
happen.

“Get up, Mike. Get your butt up and fight
back!” The words were screamed into his head. Jerry was there,
right beside him. Just the sight of his friend brought energy back
into Mike—an energy that he much needed.

Michael was on his feet, his hands in an
offense position before the bigger boy could react. Jerry was right
behind him urging him on. Michael threw a right cross to his
opponent’s eye. The poet took it well, though he stumbled back a
step or two. He threw a wild haymaker at Mike. Michael crouched and
twisted to his right, the fist missing by only an angel’s hair.

The bigger guy started after Mike, but a
well-placed ankle from Jerry tripped him and he plunged backwards
down the stairwell.

Head over tail, he bounced down the hard
wooden steps, coming to a hard crash against a wall on a landing in
the middle of the stairwell, where it split in two different
directions.

Michael heard excited voices from below. He
descended the steps as quickly as his injured ribs would allow. He
stepped beside the big bully who was now nothing more than a tangle
of arms and legs.

The music ceased and for a moment the house
was as silent as a monastery filled with cleric who took the vow of
silence seriously. Michael realized all eyes were on him. And there
were hundreds of them. Suddenly it occurred to him that the asshole
might have friends in the crowd amongst the students of Winchester
Central, and God knows how many other schools.

“Hell yeah, Mike!” Jack Kemp yelled. As if
following their host’s lead, the entire house erupted in similar
cheers. Michael would learn later that night that the poet was none
other than Craig Ferguson, a second year college student who also
happened to be the school’s first-string running back and was known
not only for his on-field ability but also for his cruelty and high
level of skill for intimidation. In fact, Jack’s brother was a
member of the same football team and only through intimidation had
Craig managed an invite to the Halloween party.

Michael felt his face flush. The son of Mr.
and Mrs. Martin Cole was not one acquainted with such a display of
praise. It not only humbled him, but also embarrassed him. As the
crowd continued to hoot, Michael stepped down one single step.

He heard Jerry call out, “Watch out, Mike!”
through the crowd. Michael turned to meet the knuckles of Craig’s
right hand. At the moment of impact, Michael heard the breaking of
his nose and felt the blood begin to rush in an almost simultaneous
instance.

But Michael would not be cowed. He grabbed
the running back by either side of his shirt and lifted him with
all his might. Amazingly, he raised Craig from his feet.
Considering he was a full step below and at a serious disadvantage
when it came to leverage, the feat itself was cause for
celebration.