right up and smacked her in the mouth.
âGo, Jo, go, Jo,â a handful of the kids yelled as they jumped to their feet to watch the two girls tumble down the stairs.
âKill her, Celeste,â somebody yelled. âSnatch her bald. Rip her face off.â
They were all twined up, the two girls looking like a single alligator caught in a net and twisting, rolling, slapping on the ground. Joanne had Celesteâs long loose black hair wrapped around and around her fist like a cowboy roping a bronco. Celeste, from her position on her back, had both arms outstretched, both hands on Joanneâs face, both sets of long nails digging into the face. Celeste dug in and pulled at the flesh, her thumbnails catching inside Joanneâs mouth and pulling the lip up to make her look like a snarling dog. Joanne started listing one way, looking about to tumble over, as Celesteâs fingernails caught the lower rim of both eyes and started ripping down.
Davey watched, like everybody else. Inside, in his stomachand in his chest and in his temples, he was sick. He was screaming. He was wielding an aluminum baseball bat, raising it high over his head, and bringing it crashing down on Celesteâs head. He could see it like it was happening, Celeste falling with no life in her rolled-back eyes, falling with her face right on Daveyâs shoes, the soak of blood warming his toes. And the disgusting animals beside him, across from him, behind him, in the fight-circle that had formed on the sidewalk, all backing away giving Davey his due as he helped his wounded sister off the ground. Inside, it all happened. Outside, he did nothing but look on, hyperventilate so shallowly that you had to put an ear to his lips to tell, and wipe his eye once.
As she was about to fall, to land on her back with Celeste on topâthe certain death spotâJoanne pumped her fist one hard time. The fist with the hair in it. Everyone heard it, the scrape and bang sound like a baseball landing in a parking lot. Celeste stopped clawing momentarily, stunned. So Joanne did it again, BANG . Celeste just tried to push Joanne away now, or hold her off, rather than attack, but it was no use. Joanne finally got her other hand close enough to grab more hair and, with two good grips, pounded and pounded and pounded Celesteâs head on the pavement. People stopped cheering. Blood started showing, a spot, a blot, a puddle, on the sidewalk behind Celesteâs head as well as on her face,dripping from Joanneâs mouth. Out of the crowd, one boy grabbed Joanneâs left arm, one her right.
And it was over just like that. Joanne got up peacefully, as if a timer had sounded or a referee had declared it over. Gradually the whole pride went back to flopping in their spots. Two girls and a boy helped Celeste up and took her, crying lowly and spitting, into the house. Joanne pulled Davey by the hand and sat on the bottom step. Shaking, but silent, looking everybody in the eye.
The blood, a red cloud floating on the white concrete, was the only sign that anything had happened.
There was a slap on Joanneâs shoulder, then another, and she started feeling a little good. Nobody said anything about it, but she knew what sheâd done. Celeste, hated though she was, was still the queen, but she was more of a figurehead now. Joanne had the real stuff . Then she felt Daveyâs hand lightly touching her face. He reached out and laid two fingers on the hurt part just below one eye, ran the fingers down slowly over the long skid marks of nail that ran straight to her mouth where the gums were still bleeding. She grabbed his hand there, put it back in his own lap, turned away, and spat some blood.
She looked at him. But what had she done for him ? This is what she knew. She knew, before sheâd even put a hand on Celeste, that there was nothing she could really do about thegimp thing or the half-wit thing or any other thing anybody wanted to pull on
âGo, Jo, go, Jo,â a handful of the kids yelled as they jumped to their feet to watch the two girls tumble down the stairs.
âKill her, Celeste,â somebody yelled. âSnatch her bald. Rip her face off.â
They were all twined up, the two girls looking like a single alligator caught in a net and twisting, rolling, slapping on the ground. Joanne had Celesteâs long loose black hair wrapped around and around her fist like a cowboy roping a bronco. Celeste, from her position on her back, had both arms outstretched, both hands on Joanneâs face, both sets of long nails digging into the face. Celeste dug in and pulled at the flesh, her thumbnails catching inside Joanneâs mouth and pulling the lip up to make her look like a snarling dog. Joanne started listing one way, looking about to tumble over, as Celesteâs fingernails caught the lower rim of both eyes and started ripping down.
Davey watched, like everybody else. Inside, in his stomachand in his chest and in his temples, he was sick. He was screaming. He was wielding an aluminum baseball bat, raising it high over his head, and bringing it crashing down on Celesteâs head. He could see it like it was happening, Celeste falling with no life in her rolled-back eyes, falling with her face right on Daveyâs shoes, the soak of blood warming his toes. And the disgusting animals beside him, across from him, behind him, in the fight-circle that had formed on the sidewalk, all backing away giving Davey his due as he helped his wounded sister off the ground. Inside, it all happened. Outside, he did nothing but look on, hyperventilate so shallowly that you had to put an ear to his lips to tell, and wipe his eye once.
As she was about to fall, to land on her back with Celeste on topâthe certain death spotâJoanne pumped her fist one hard time. The fist with the hair in it. Everyone heard it, the scrape and bang sound like a baseball landing in a parking lot. Celeste stopped clawing momentarily, stunned. So Joanne did it again, BANG . Celeste just tried to push Joanne away now, or hold her off, rather than attack, but it was no use. Joanne finally got her other hand close enough to grab more hair and, with two good grips, pounded and pounded and pounded Celesteâs head on the pavement. People stopped cheering. Blood started showing, a spot, a blot, a puddle, on the sidewalk behind Celesteâs head as well as on her face,dripping from Joanneâs mouth. Out of the crowd, one boy grabbed Joanneâs left arm, one her right.
And it was over just like that. Joanne got up peacefully, as if a timer had sounded or a referee had declared it over. Gradually the whole pride went back to flopping in their spots. Two girls and a boy helped Celeste up and took her, crying lowly and spitting, into the house. Joanne pulled Davey by the hand and sat on the bottom step. Shaking, but silent, looking everybody in the eye.
The blood, a red cloud floating on the white concrete, was the only sign that anything had happened.
There was a slap on Joanneâs shoulder, then another, and she started feeling a little good. Nobody said anything about it, but she knew what sheâd done. Celeste, hated though she was, was still the queen, but she was more of a figurehead now. Joanne had the real stuff . Then she felt Daveyâs hand lightly touching her face. He reached out and laid two fingers on the hurt part just below one eye, ran the fingers down slowly over the long skid marks of nail that ran straight to her mouth where the gums were still bleeding. She grabbed his hand there, put it back in his own lap, turned away, and spat some blood.
She looked at him. But what had she done for him ? This is what she knew. She knew, before sheâd even put a hand on Celeste, that there was nothing she could really do about thegimp thing or the half-wit thing or any other thing anybody wanted to pull on
Similar Books
