The Indifferent Children of the Earth Page 8

  Chapter 8, Monday 22 August

  Mr. Cherrie, that piece of tanned, human leather, stood at the front of the classroom.

  “The Aztecs were a Mesoamerican people of Central America, in parts of what we now call Mexico,” he said, gesturing to a map of North America.

  “And what the hell do a bunch of Indians have to do with U. S. History?” Chad muttered. The other jocks—Adam Baker, Rob Mitchell, and Jack Campbell—laughed. Not an under-your-breath kind of laugh, the kind you might have with a friend when you’re forced to watch another of those agonizing ‘know-your-body’ videos.

  This was a full out laugh. In the middle of class. And Mr. Cherrie just kept talking, as though nothing had happened. It was like the old boys’ club—once a jock, always a jock.

  I shot Chad an angry glance; he was good-looking, with that strawberry blond hair, but that didn’t stop me from giving him my best glare. I might not like school, but I like jerks even less. No response.

  “Who can tell me the name of the Aztec capital?” Mr. Cherrie asked.

  “Taco Bell,” Chad said, louder.

  This time I gave him a full on, five-second stare. He shot me an angry look in return; so he had noticed me after all.

  A flicker of what might have been irritation—or, could it be, amusement?—in Mr. Cherrie’s dead-animal eyes. “It was in the reading last night.”

  Silence.

  “It was built on the shore of Lake Texcoco.”

  “Isn’t that like a gas station or something?” Chad asked, this time at full volume.

  “No,” was Mr. Cherrie’s only response.

  Adam and Jack laughed, and Rob was so carried away he slapped the desk.

  I couldn’t help it; irritation drew me out of that quiet, hiding-in-plain-sight spot inside me. “Man, Chad,” I said. “Anything else you want to say? If you were shooting to be racist douche of the year, I think you already hit the target.”

  The jocks’ laughter cut off.

  “Fag,” Jack muttered, glaring at me from under dark, Neanderthal brows. Not loud enough for Mr. Cherrie to hear, of course.

  I slunk down in my seat. My hands trembled so bad that my pencil left tiny seismograph lines across the notebook. Not because of the kids; I didn’t care what Jack or those other idiots thought about me. It was that word. The way I could hear Isaac saying it, the same tone, toward Christopher. Like he was throwing the word at him, the first stone.

  Lost in the sudden anxiety that had washed up over me, I didn’t hear the next part of Mr. Cherrie’s Google-researched lesson on the Aztecs.

  “I’m going to beat the shit out of you,” Chad whispered. I started, half-glanced back. He had leaned over, close enough that I could smell the ultra-trendy, sporty, metallic cologne he was wearing. “Everybody sees how you look at me, you piece of shit. Now wipe the drool off your desk and quit trying to undress me with your eyes.”

  “Not very creative,” I whispered back, just as Chad was sliding back into his seat.

  He froze. “What did you say to me, faggot?”

  “You’re not very creative,” I said. The girl in front of me flashed me a quiet-I’m-trying-to-learn look, but I ignored her. “You said shit twice. And Jack was the one who came up with calling me fag. So you’re not very creative. And that last part, about me undressing you with my eyes—you sounded like you kind of liked it.”

  Chad’s whole face went an ugly red, but he just slid back into his seat. A few minutes later, when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, he leaned back toward Jack, and I could hear them whispering. Who cared? They were bullies and pricks; I was already at the bottom of the social order, so I had nothing to lose.

  And the threats? Man, I was from New York. I knew bullies like Chad; they’d talk big in front of their friends. Hell, if we were in the hall, he might have even shoved me around, or thrown a punch. But they were just that—bullies. He wouldn’t go to the trouble of hunting me down. Besides, I could take care of myself.

  True to form, Chad shoulder-checked me on the way out of class, knocking me into a one of the desk-chairs, and sending the whole row clattering. Mr. Cherrie glanced up, but Chad just gave him an angry smile and muttered an apology. I straightened the desks, glad that the worst was out of the way, and left.

  The rest of the day was a blur—nothing to draw me out of that quiet place inside me. Calculus just didn’t do it for me, I guess. Or physics. Surprising, huh?

  The last buzzer-bell called an end to the day. I took my time gathering my stuff, made my way down the hall slowly. Giving Chad and company time to get bored and clear out of the high school. No point in antagonizing him further—at least, not today.

  The crowd of students had diminished significantly by the time I reached the hall with my locker.

  “Alex.”

  I glanced over and saw Wyatt, wearing those ridiculous black jeans and a mustard-yellow t-shirt, in the bathroom doorway.

  “Dude, get out of here,” he called in a low voice. “Chad’s going to beat the crap out of you.”

  “It’s fine, he’s all talk.”

  “No,” Wyatt said. “Alex, you don’t understand. He’ll mess you up, he’s the worst one here.”

  “I can handle myself, Wyatt,” I said. Heaven help me, I’d fought monsters and quickeners and a thousand other things. One bully wasn’t going to be much of threat. “Thanks, though.”

  “I’m getting the principal,” Wyatt said. He darted from the safety of the bathroom and scurried down the hall, glancing over his shoulder at me.

  Whatever; the principal could come. If Chad were there, waiting for me, it would just embarrass both of us. If he weren’t, I’d just say I didn’t know what was going on. If I were lucky, I’d be out of there before Wyatt even came back.

  I started down the hallway. Glorious, 1970s era colors met me, each hallway conflicting with the others. This part of the building was done in too-pink salmon and chipped ivory. I opened my locker, unloaded my books. I was torn on the whole homework issue; I needed good grades if I wanted to go to a good college. I knew that. I just couldn’t bring myself to care. That was a long time away, two years, and right now it was easier to sink down inside myself and let the world just carry me forward.

  When I closed the locker, I saw him. Chad stood at far end of the hall; the bastard had been waiting in a classroom, I guess. A quick glance back toward the main building. Jack and Rob.

  “You should have brought Adam,” I said. “It’s not really fair otherwise.”

  “Adam ran into your friend Wyatt,” Chad said. “They’re having a talk.”

  That made me angry. These pricks wanted to pick on me because I had called them on their shit in class—fine. What did I care? I deserved it. I had it coming.

  “Wyatt didn’t do anything to you.”

  “He should have minded his own business,” Chad said. He was lean, average height, well-built. What you’d expect from the star running back. Fast, I’d imagine, or he wouldn’t be winning all those awards. So running was probably out.

  Not to mention that I wasn’t going to run from a bunch of pimply-faced teenage bullies. Not me. I was a quickener. I called lightning, traveled the night sky. I was worth a hundred of them. A thousand.

  I set my backpack on the ground. “Leave me alone, Chad. This is the only time I’m going to warn you.”

  Chad stared at me. I honestly think that he was surprised. Then he let out a laugh. “Come on, fag. You get the first shot, then, if you think you’re so tough.”

  I straightened my shoulders and walked toward him; I could hear Jack and Rob coming behind me. “Look,” I said, when I was three feet from Chad. I let my shoulders drop, relaxed my posture. “This is just going to get us all in trouble.” Two feet. “Let’s just call it even, you know—”

  I was close enough. I swung, and I caught Chad right on the jaw. The pain shook its way up my arm, but I was furious. They had hurt Wyatt, and they were going to hurt me no matter what I did. So
I might as well get a few good shots in while I can.

  I drove my foot down on the inside of Chad’s foot; I thought my right hand was broken, the way it ached, so as he stumbled forward, bringing his injured foot up, I brought my left hand in hard. On his side, right below his ribs, as far back as I could reach and still get some power to the punch. He hunched forward, and I met him with my forehead; the crack of his nose was barely audible over the lightning storm of pain in my head. Black spots swam in front of my eyes.

  I vaguely sensed Chad falling back, but I couldn’t really tell. Everything hurt; my hand, my head. I turned, though; I knew Jack and Rob were still there.

  I was too slow. Something caught me just below the hip and knocked me to one knee. Then a fist caught me on the cheek, whipping my head to the side. White sparkles and the sudden numbness of shock. A kick to the stomach that felt dull and distant, but still forced me forward, onto my hands, my eyes tearing as I tried to breathe.

  It was mostly kicks now—thank goodness with tennis shoes, not steel-toed boots. I covered my head as best I could, tried to curl up, but there were two or three of them—I couldn’t tell—and everything was starting to go fuzzy. One or two slipped past my arms and knocked my head back. The ring of the lockers, chiming in time with my head, seemed to reverberate far longer than it should have.

  Another kick. I couldn’t breathe again. I felt myself slipping away—not into that safe spot behind my heart, but somewhere different, dark and cool. And then a crack, and I realized, with that poor-TV-reception fuzz of thought, that it had come from outside of me.