Read Online Dull Boy by Sarah Cross - Free Book Online Page A

guess this would be a good sucker punch moment, if I was going for that.
    Wind rustles the leaves, but no robot head emerges. The toy-loving cons quickly lose interest.
    “I mean it! It shoots laser beams!”
    Nice try , I mouth, giving her a double thumbs-up—right as a huge fist appears in my peripheral vision.
    I dodge out of the way; it’s not my instinct to be a punching bag.
    But I’d better learn. Fast.
    Butch jams his knuckles deep into my stomach, uppercuts me; he’s wailing on me with these big fat clumsy combos, and I’m taking every hit, doubling over and acting like it hurts—like it’s supposed to. Like I’m normal.
    But every punch lands with the intensity of a Nerf arrow. It’s like being in a vicious pillow fight, only more confusing, and scary, because up close their faces are brutish and stupid, flushed with glee as much as rage. They’re getting off on “teaching me a lesson.” Talking trash with their perfect teeth shining in my face.
    A year ago, this assault would’ve had me on the ground with two swollen eyes, blood oozing from my nose and mouth. I would’ve winced at every kick to my broken ribs. And the grand finale, the moment that would finally signal “enough,” would come when I had passed out half dead.
    That’s what they expect—I can’t believe I almost forgot that.
    I’m still on my feet, fake-groaning but bouncing back every time. This could go on indefinitely, until these idiots get tired because this beat-down turns into cardio. And that? Might prompt someone to think about this.
    So I wait for the next blow—a pathetic kick from Big Dawg, who can barely get his meaty leg off the ground—and I take a dive, choke on all the kicked-up field dust, curl into the fetal position, and let them kick the crap out of me.
    I bite down on my lip to try to squeeze some blood out, squint through a dust cloud to see if they’re buying it, and—
    Whoa.
    I must be . . .
    Imagining this?
    There’s a black figure above me on the backstop, on the part that hangs over home plate. She’s crouched like an animal, tangled hair hanging down like a ghost in a horror movie.
    She springs, pounces; flings herself through the air.
    Catherine. Death from above.
    “Oh, shit! Move, move!”
    The Bonecrushers hustle, banging into each other in their haste not to be her target.
    I roll onto my side just in time to see Catherine slice into Big Dawg. She barely pauses before she launches herself at her next victim.
    Meanwhile, Big Dawg can barely speak. The front of his jersey has five long slashes in it like a bear attacked him. Dark red blood is starting to seep through. He touches it with one beefy finger, then he screams, hauls A across the field and through the parking lot and finally into the street, where he just keeps running until he’s out of sight.
    There’s a mad rush to safety then. This might be a school full of badasses, but nobody wants to really get hurt. Even the hardcore thugs who supposedly take a bullet every other weekend don’t want a piece of Catherine.
    I don’t want to get in her way right now, which doesn’t explain why I’m still lying here, sucking blood off my lip as the Mary Janes hurry past us shrieking, and the cornered Bonecrushers are offering up their next homemade Sphinx cakes in exchange for their lives. I’m totally neglecting my own safety.
    I’m thinking.
    It’s impossible for a human fingernail to slice through flesh like that. Impossible —just like lifting a car before you’re old enough to drive it. Or flying. Or getting the crap kicked out of you without a single bruise to show for it.
    Cherchette’s voice pierces my head: Surely you suspected you weren’t the only extraordinary person in the world.
    Catherine shakes her hair out of her face, scrunches her nose, and flicks her fingers like she’s got something gross on them. Then she blinks and it’s like she’s coming back to herself, shifting from an ultraviolent hurt machine to your