shadow across half his face, but there was nothing pretty about the kid who squatted down next to me and told me to tilt back my chin. Someone had shaved his head and I could see through the fuzzy stubble to the tiny razor cuts on his scalp. Despite the weather, he wasn't wearing a coat, just a blue and gray flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off.
In a calm voice, he told me that he'd seen everything—how the big kid had sucker punched me and my friend had let me down. It was disorienting to hear his version of events. I felt like I'd bled my way to at least a draw, but Zirko made it sound terrible, like I'd gotten the shit kicked out of me in a dirty fight.
“You wanna get that guy?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, not really meaning it.
The word was barely out of my mouth when he jumped up and waved his skinny arm. It seemed to me that he somehow conjured a car out of thin air, a jacked-up Monte Carlo that skidded to a halt in front of us, the back passenger door swinging open just inches from my face. I heard Neil calling my name from down the block as Zirko helped me up and shoved me into the car. We swung a U-turn on the busy street and accelerated toward Cranwood.
“Kid on a bike,” Zirko snapped at the driver. He snatched an oily undershirt off the floor and pressed it to my nose.
At the first red light I reached under my butt to remove the hard piece of cardboard I'd mistakenly sat upon, and found myself staring at a pretty little girl with ribbons in her hair and elaborate braces on her arms and legs. The poster child was smiling bravely, floating on a field of blackness, the words “WON'T YOU PLEASE HELP?” blazing above her head in bold white letters. It was a fund-raising card for muscular dystrophy, with rows of tiny slots cut into it for nickels, dimes, and quarters. Most of the slots had coins in them. Zirko yanked it out of my hand and kept on talking.
“I'm telling you,” he said. “It was the cheapest shot I ever saw. They were just standing there talking and Pow! I couldn't believe it. He didn't even get off the bike.”
The driver turned to me for confirmation. His name was Cockroach, and he was an ugly kid with squinty eyes, a greenish complexion, and one stray tooth that poked across his bottom lip like a fang. Still, I appreciated his concern.
“He started it?”
“Yeah.” I pulled the undershirt away from my face. “He called me an asshole so I said, 'Fuck you.’ He was bigger, but I didn't care.”
Cockroach's friend Danny peered at me over the passenger headrest. He was normal looking, except for a ring of whitehead zits encircling his mouth. I wondered why he didn't just pop them.
“He suckered you?”
“Totally.”
“I
saw
it,” Zirko reminded them. He took the undershirt out of my hand and dabbed gently at my lips and chin. “His pussy friend just stood there and watched. He should've whacked that faggot across the face with his shovel.”
The Monte Carlo's engine throbbed like a bad headache. Cockroach hit the gas a split second before the light changed and we roared through the intersection like cops on a chase. Zirko licked his fingertips and rubbed at the dried blood on my cheek.
“Don't worry,” he said. “We'll find the fucker.”
* * *
On a hunch of Zirko's we turned off Grand and snaked our way through the developments on the outskirts of Cranwood. He navigated like a psychic, leaning over the front seat and gazing through the windshield with fierce intensity, directing Cockroach on an elaborate series of loops and turns. We scoured the neighborhood for at least fifteen minutes, but the kid was nowhere in sight.
By that point my nose had stopped bleeding and my head had cleared. I thought about Neil and wondered if he'd made it to the playground. I wanted to be there with him, shooting “horse” and working on my behind-the-back dribble. The fight seemed stupid now, a wrong turn in the middle of an otherwise decent Saturday. It would have
In a calm voice, he told me that he'd seen everything—how the big kid had sucker punched me and my friend had let me down. It was disorienting to hear his version of events. I felt like I'd bled my way to at least a draw, but Zirko made it sound terrible, like I'd gotten the shit kicked out of me in a dirty fight.
“You wanna get that guy?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, not really meaning it.
The word was barely out of my mouth when he jumped up and waved his skinny arm. It seemed to me that he somehow conjured a car out of thin air, a jacked-up Monte Carlo that skidded to a halt in front of us, the back passenger door swinging open just inches from my face. I heard Neil calling my name from down the block as Zirko helped me up and shoved me into the car. We swung a U-turn on the busy street and accelerated toward Cranwood.
“Kid on a bike,” Zirko snapped at the driver. He snatched an oily undershirt off the floor and pressed it to my nose.
At the first red light I reached under my butt to remove the hard piece of cardboard I'd mistakenly sat upon, and found myself staring at a pretty little girl with ribbons in her hair and elaborate braces on her arms and legs. The poster child was smiling bravely, floating on a field of blackness, the words “WON'T YOU PLEASE HELP?” blazing above her head in bold white letters. It was a fund-raising card for muscular dystrophy, with rows of tiny slots cut into it for nickels, dimes, and quarters. Most of the slots had coins in them. Zirko yanked it out of my hand and kept on talking.
“I'm telling you,” he said. “It was the cheapest shot I ever saw. They were just standing there talking and Pow! I couldn't believe it. He didn't even get off the bike.”
The driver turned to me for confirmation. His name was Cockroach, and he was an ugly kid with squinty eyes, a greenish complexion, and one stray tooth that poked across his bottom lip like a fang. Still, I appreciated his concern.
“He started it?”
“Yeah.” I pulled the undershirt away from my face. “He called me an asshole so I said, 'Fuck you.’ He was bigger, but I didn't care.”
Cockroach's friend Danny peered at me over the passenger headrest. He was normal looking, except for a ring of whitehead zits encircling his mouth. I wondered why he didn't just pop them.
“He suckered you?”
“Totally.”
“I
saw
it,” Zirko reminded them. He took the undershirt out of my hand and dabbed gently at my lips and chin. “His pussy friend just stood there and watched. He should've whacked that faggot across the face with his shovel.”
The Monte Carlo's engine throbbed like a bad headache. Cockroach hit the gas a split second before the light changed and we roared through the intersection like cops on a chase. Zirko licked his fingertips and rubbed at the dried blood on my cheek.
“Don't worry,” he said. “We'll find the fucker.”
* * *
On a hunch of Zirko's we turned off Grand and snaked our way through the developments on the outskirts of Cranwood. He navigated like a psychic, leaning over the front seat and gazing through the windshield with fierce intensity, directing Cockroach on an elaborate series of loops and turns. We scoured the neighborhood for at least fifteen minutes, but the kid was nowhere in sight.
By that point my nose had stopped bleeding and my head had cleared. I thought about Neil and wondered if he'd made it to the playground. I wanted to be there with him, shooting “horse” and working on my behind-the-back dribble. The fight seemed stupid now, a wrong turn in the middle of an otherwise decent Saturday. It would have
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