tomorrow afternoon, my Boy. He hates you, but that's not such a large thing—his kind is always full of hate, though he is rather more a monster than most bullies, I think. Today, though, he became jealous of you, too—he likes the Girl, the Girl who likes you. His jealousy is much more dangerous to you than his hatred. He'll want to do something about his jealousy, something to humiliate you."
“How do you know that? How do you know I call him Rocko?"
“Because I'm the good witch, my Boy, and I want you to defeat your Rival.” She smiled, and the bag in the basket behind her shifted with a clatter.
“What's in that bag?” Cory asked.
She looked behind her, then back at him. “You'll find out soon enough. Have patience. I do. You won't need anything from that bag tomorrow. You'll just need a little bit of magic, a tiny spell ... a turnaround . I'll teach you how to do it. It takes a little blood to start with, but that shouldn't be hard—I bet there will be blood tomorrow afternoon, your own blood, if you're not quick. After the blood is spilled, it's just the matter of a gesture, and a word, and certain ... patterns ... of thought. I'll show you how.” She reached out toward his face, and he flinched away. “Shh, be a good Boy."
He wanted to turn and run, despite her claim to be a “good witch"—nothing about her reassured him, nothing made her seem good. He couldn't believe she had any human feeling, any more than ... than a bicycle would.
He couldn't move, not a muscle, though, and oddly, he didn't feel afraid. He thought frightened thoughts, but panic didn't sing in his veins. The witch touched his face with her fingers, and with her chrome rings.
“You won't remember any of this, my Boy. Not until tomorrow, when you need to."
School the next day was the usual, everything pretty easy except for biology, where Cory struggled to understand what mitochondria did, and why on earth he should care. He'd agreed to meet Heather down by the office when she got done with classes. Earth Science was his last class, and thinking about seeing Heather again soon made it hard for him to think about “the ecology of the microcosm” that his earth science teacher kept talking about.
He didn't think about Rocko all day, until he started reading after school. He sat on a bench near the office and read Good Omens , thinking it'd be pretty cool if he had the kind of powers the kid, Adam, had in that book. There were bullies in that story, but they were pretty harmless—you never got the sense the kids really worried about being beat within an inch of their lives by Greasy Johnson, like Cory feared Rocko and Curly and Angel. Maybe that was because Good Omens took place in England—maybe people just weren't as violent on the other side of the sea.
Cory stuck the book in his bag and wandered down the hall toward the bathroom so he could pee before meeting Heather.
He stepped into the bathroom, and rough hands grabbed him, slamming him against the wall. Angel and Curly had him by the arms, and before he could even think of pulling away they stepped on his insteps, crushing his toes, pinning his feet so he couldn't kick or thrash. “Hiya,” Curly said. “No girls with sticks here to save you today, huh?
“We're still not testing boundaries,” Angel said. “So don't worry about that."
Rocko sauntered out of a toilet stall. “I didn't think you'd ever come to take a piss, kid,” Rocko said, zipping up his pants. “I figured the place to find a shit like you would be right here, in the toilet, but then you made me wait. I'm a busy guy. It's not right, me having to wait for you."
Cory thought about the old movies he'd seen, about Bogart's effortless aplomb, the way he'd casually disarmed the gunsel from The Maltese Falcon . But even Bogart got beaten up sometimes, especially when two or three guys came for him at once. And Cory was no Bogart. He wanted to spit in Rocko's face ... but what if they just planned to
“How do you know that? How do you know I call him Rocko?"
“Because I'm the good witch, my Boy, and I want you to defeat your Rival.” She smiled, and the bag in the basket behind her shifted with a clatter.
“What's in that bag?” Cory asked.
She looked behind her, then back at him. “You'll find out soon enough. Have patience. I do. You won't need anything from that bag tomorrow. You'll just need a little bit of magic, a tiny spell ... a turnaround . I'll teach you how to do it. It takes a little blood to start with, but that shouldn't be hard—I bet there will be blood tomorrow afternoon, your own blood, if you're not quick. After the blood is spilled, it's just the matter of a gesture, and a word, and certain ... patterns ... of thought. I'll show you how.” She reached out toward his face, and he flinched away. “Shh, be a good Boy."
He wanted to turn and run, despite her claim to be a “good witch"—nothing about her reassured him, nothing made her seem good. He couldn't believe she had any human feeling, any more than ... than a bicycle would.
He couldn't move, not a muscle, though, and oddly, he didn't feel afraid. He thought frightened thoughts, but panic didn't sing in his veins. The witch touched his face with her fingers, and with her chrome rings.
“You won't remember any of this, my Boy. Not until tomorrow, when you need to."
School the next day was the usual, everything pretty easy except for biology, where Cory struggled to understand what mitochondria did, and why on earth he should care. He'd agreed to meet Heather down by the office when she got done with classes. Earth Science was his last class, and thinking about seeing Heather again soon made it hard for him to think about “the ecology of the microcosm” that his earth science teacher kept talking about.
He didn't think about Rocko all day, until he started reading after school. He sat on a bench near the office and read Good Omens , thinking it'd be pretty cool if he had the kind of powers the kid, Adam, had in that book. There were bullies in that story, but they were pretty harmless—you never got the sense the kids really worried about being beat within an inch of their lives by Greasy Johnson, like Cory feared Rocko and Curly and Angel. Maybe that was because Good Omens took place in England—maybe people just weren't as violent on the other side of the sea.
Cory stuck the book in his bag and wandered down the hall toward the bathroom so he could pee before meeting Heather.
He stepped into the bathroom, and rough hands grabbed him, slamming him against the wall. Angel and Curly had him by the arms, and before he could even think of pulling away they stepped on his insteps, crushing his toes, pinning his feet so he couldn't kick or thrash. “Hiya,” Curly said. “No girls with sticks here to save you today, huh?
“We're still not testing boundaries,” Angel said. “So don't worry about that."
Rocko sauntered out of a toilet stall. “I didn't think you'd ever come to take a piss, kid,” Rocko said, zipping up his pants. “I figured the place to find a shit like you would be right here, in the toilet, but then you made me wait. I'm a busy guy. It's not right, me having to wait for you."
Cory thought about the old movies he'd seen, about Bogart's effortless aplomb, the way he'd casually disarmed the gunsel from The Maltese Falcon . But even Bogart got beaten up sometimes, especially when two or three guys came for him at once. And Cory was no Bogart. He wanted to spit in Rocko's face ... but what if they just planned to
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