Mobile Library by David Whitehouse Page B

attack imbued it with a poetry he couldn’t resist.
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    Amir and the two Kevins arrived twenty minutes later, clambering over the gate and sauntering across the yard in a slovenly three-pointed prong. Bobby remained still until they crossed the painted yellow line of the basketball court, then crouched, shutting his mouth tight to trap the hummingbird of his breath inside it. When they were in just the right place, he sprinted toward them, but the tool belt proved too cumbersome. He was not as quick as he had hoped.
    Roused by the slap of Bobby’s shoes on the ground, the three boys spun to face him. What a sight it was. The boy they had watched piss through his own trousers, caked in thick makeup, moving as deftly as a rusted tin man. Amir laughed, which permitted the others to join in. Bobby recognized him as the ringleader, hair shorn clumsily close to his skull, scalp dotted with dried bloody nicks. A thick brow hung over his eyes, so the light could not reach them to be reflected. Bobby slowed, then stopped, just a meter away.
    â€œHello again,” Amir said. Bobby looked at the ground and mumbled, as if in prayer. He pulled up his sweater. Loosened by movement the tool belt rode down over his hips, but he caught it before it hit the floor. The larger of the boys bent over with his hands anchored to his knees and brought his face close enough to Bobby’s that Bobby could smell chewing gum. He rubbed Bobby’s cheek with his right forefinger and studied the brown smudge of makeup left on the tip.
    Biting his tongue until it drew blood, Bobby plunged his hand into the front pocket of the tool belt and pulled out a bottle of denatured alcohol. He had pre-loosened the child lock. This was the benefit of planning. The cap spun off at the flick of his thumb. With a sharp stabbing motion he splashed half a bottle’s worth into Amir Kindell’s eyes.
    They all held their breath, Bobby included, as if in mourning for a moment that had only just passed. They knew, in their flawed togetherness, that when they exhaled again it could never be undone. Amir dropped to the ground, clawing at his face, and screamed so loudly that Bobby was sure the entire school must have heard it. Without further thought, Bobby emptied the rest of the bottle in a large skyward arc into the wide-open targets of the other boys’ mouths. They both fell to their knees at his feet.
    He took the match from his pocket and saw how, with its shiny red hat, it looked like a soldier reporting for duty. Kneeling, he struck the match against the concrete floor. The three boys clambered around one another, eyes streaming, and Bobby held the lit match in the air above them. Amir grabbed at the hem of Bobby’s trousers. He could not see what was in Bobby’s hand, but he had sensed it. Fear, that cruel cramp of the soul. This, which the boy had given to Rosa in the mud, is what Bobby saw, and loved, on the twist of his face.
    Running as fast as she could, Mrs. Pound’s movement had a balletic quality, as if the small doll-like shoes she wore were mementoes from a past calling to dance. She snatched the match from Bobby’s hand, extinguished it, and slapped the empty bottle from his grasp. It bounced five times and spun before stopping, a gelastic little dance of its own.
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    Bored but keen not to show it, the younger of the two policemen, standing in the corner of Mrs. Pound’s office, cradled his hat in his hands. The older of the two had turned his chair to face Bobby’s. Occasionally their legs touched and the static in his uniform rushed across his thighs. His own children had grown up years ago. Dealing with kids now seemed an alien task, one with which he was wholly uncomfortable, though his wife would have argued that little had changed.
    â€œSon,” he said. Thick black hairs hung from his nostrils, levers moving when he spoke.