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Authors: Robert Cormier
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his throat. Yet Eric took his time, letting him struggle, exulting in this contact, at last, with flesh and bone.
As Sonny Boy went limp in his arms, Eric realized the futility of what he was doing. There was no intimacy in this act, no tenderness at all. The horror of what would happen to him if Sonny Boy should die swept over him as he looked down at the boy’s still face. Relieved, he saw his eyes fluttering a bit. He placed his hand over Sonny Boy’s eyes, hoping that he would not be recognized.
As Sonny Boy began to struggle again, trying to rise to his feet, letting out a stream of the swear words Eric hated, that terrible
F
word flying outwith spittle from his mouth, Eric found a way out of this situation. “Leave Sweet Lefty alone,” he whispered into Sonny Boy’s ear. Repeated the words so that there would be no mistaking them. “Leave Sweet Lefty alone.” A stroke of genius, Eric told himself, providing a motive for the attack other than the real one. “Understand?” Eric asked, voice hoarse and strained.
Sonny Boy nodded, then went limp once more in Eric’s arms. Eric cradled him gently. Looked around: no one in sight. He closed the door. He checked Sonny Boy’s pulse, gratified to feel its feeble movement.
There were no repercussions from the assault. Business as usual in the classrooms, at mealtimes in the cafeteria, the athletic field and gym. Eric saw the Señorita two days in succession but she did not look his way. He noticed that Sonny Boy and Sweet Lefty did not come into contact with each other, sat at different tables at mealtimes. At the end of the midday meal three days later, he saw Sonny Boy summon a fat, slow-moving kid called the Bulk to his table. He indicated that the Bulk should return his tray to the service table. Which the Bulk did eagerly, moving quickly despite the weight he carried.
The next day, Sweet Lefty Stanton brushed by Eric as they walked to the cafeteria. “I owe you one, Ice Man,” he drawled.
Watch your step
.
That’s what Sweet Lefty had written in the note. Payback time. Eric thought immediately of Lieutenant Proctor, knowing now why he had not accepted Friday as the day of Eric’s release. Because he intended to prevent Eric from leaving.
Eric looked at the calendar. Three days to go. Three days to get through, to be on his guard. He had memorized Sweet Lefty’s note, and he ran the words through his mind.
Don’t be provoked
. Which meant someone would try to provoke him. His sentence would be extended and his freedom denied if he responded to provocation and got into trouble as a result. If more trouble followed—incidents in a facility could quickly escalate—he could be transferred, when he reached eighteen, to an adult institution. Which meant state prison, a chilling prospect.
At dinnertime that evening, as he stood in line, holding his tray with his utensils on it, he was pushed from behind. A slight push, a nudge. His first instinct was to turn around and push back. But he did neither. The gentle push on his back reverberated throughout his body, reminding himthat he had hardly been touched by another person in his years at the facility.
He braced himself, prepared for another nudge, knowing that this is what Sweet Lefty meant by being provoked. Hunching his shoulders, he shuffled forward and received a real push this time, sending him against Dude Man, ahead of him in line. Dude Man turned, staring at Eric in mild disbelief. Dude Man was a sleek and elegant Hispanic, quick to laugh and smile, never in trouble.
“Hey, man,” he said. “Whass goin’ on? You drunk or somethin’?”
“Sorry,” Eric muttered, rearranging the utensils on his tray.
“Thass awright, man,” Dude Man said, shrugging, facing forward again.
A push this time caught Eric by surprise with its intensity. A foot was shoved between his legs and sent him crashing to the floor, the tray clattering on the tile, the utensils scattering away.
Grateful for Sweet
As Sonny Boy went limp in his arms, Eric realized the futility of what he was doing. There was no intimacy in this act, no tenderness at all. The horror of what would happen to him if Sonny Boy should die swept over him as he looked down at the boy’s still face. Relieved, he saw his eyes fluttering a bit. He placed his hand over Sonny Boy’s eyes, hoping that he would not be recognized.
As Sonny Boy began to struggle again, trying to rise to his feet, letting out a stream of the swear words Eric hated, that terrible
F
word flying outwith spittle from his mouth, Eric found a way out of this situation. “Leave Sweet Lefty alone,” he whispered into Sonny Boy’s ear. Repeated the words so that there would be no mistaking them. “Leave Sweet Lefty alone.” A stroke of genius, Eric told himself, providing a motive for the attack other than the real one. “Understand?” Eric asked, voice hoarse and strained.
Sonny Boy nodded, then went limp once more in Eric’s arms. Eric cradled him gently. Looked around: no one in sight. He closed the door. He checked Sonny Boy’s pulse, gratified to feel its feeble movement.
There were no repercussions from the assault. Business as usual in the classrooms, at mealtimes in the cafeteria, the athletic field and gym. Eric saw the Señorita two days in succession but she did not look his way. He noticed that Sonny Boy and Sweet Lefty did not come into contact with each other, sat at different tables at mealtimes. At the end of the midday meal three days later, he saw Sonny Boy summon a fat, slow-moving kid called the Bulk to his table. He indicated that the Bulk should return his tray to the service table. Which the Bulk did eagerly, moving quickly despite the weight he carried.
The next day, Sweet Lefty Stanton brushed by Eric as they walked to the cafeteria. “I owe you one, Ice Man,” he drawled.
Watch your step
.
That’s what Sweet Lefty had written in the note. Payback time. Eric thought immediately of Lieutenant Proctor, knowing now why he had not accepted Friday as the day of Eric’s release. Because he intended to prevent Eric from leaving.
Eric looked at the calendar. Three days to go. Three days to get through, to be on his guard. He had memorized Sweet Lefty’s note, and he ran the words through his mind.
Don’t be provoked
. Which meant someone would try to provoke him. His sentence would be extended and his freedom denied if he responded to provocation and got into trouble as a result. If more trouble followed—incidents in a facility could quickly escalate—he could be transferred, when he reached eighteen, to an adult institution. Which meant state prison, a chilling prospect.
At dinnertime that evening, as he stood in line, holding his tray with his utensils on it, he was pushed from behind. A slight push, a nudge. His first instinct was to turn around and push back. But he did neither. The gentle push on his back reverberated throughout his body, reminding himthat he had hardly been touched by another person in his years at the facility.
He braced himself, prepared for another nudge, knowing that this is what Sweet Lefty meant by being provoked. Hunching his shoulders, he shuffled forward and received a real push this time, sending him against Dude Man, ahead of him in line. Dude Man turned, staring at Eric in mild disbelief. Dude Man was a sleek and elegant Hispanic, quick to laugh and smile, never in trouble.
“Hey, man,” he said. “Whass goin’ on? You drunk or somethin’?”
“Sorry,” Eric muttered, rearranging the utensils on his tray.
“Thass awright, man,” Dude Man said, shrugging, facing forward again.
A push this time caught Eric by surprise with its intensity. A foot was shoved between his legs and sent him crashing to the floor, the tray clattering on the tile, the utensils scattering away.
Grateful for Sweet
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