windows red last Halloween, or let the air out of the ambulance tires in back of the Depot, or threw enough cherry bombs on top of creepy Parrish’s office roof last month to start a small fire that had the whole town running around like it was at war or something.
No one believed it because they were the Mohawks.
Ian was a new member, and when Keith had finished he shook his head sadly. “I don’t know, Keith. It isn’t right. My father would kill me.”
“He won’t find out, stupid,” Artie sneered.
“I’m not stupid.”
“The only way your old man will find out is if you tell him, stupid.”
“I’m not stupid!”
Artie pushed his bulk up until he was kneeling; Ian was standing with his fists at his sides.
“Take it back,” the boy said, the sun reflecting red in the lenses of his glasses. “Take it back.”
Artie sniffed and grinned. “Make me.”
“Oh, knock it off, huh?” Dirk said in disgust. “You guys are sick, you know that? Really stupid.”
“I . . . am . . . not . . . stupid.”
“Aw shit.”
“Shut up!” Keith shouted. “Damnit, you guys, shut up!” They stared at him, shrugged, sat again and waited. It was the heat, he knew. The heat did really weird things to people, made them fight all the time, and this time the heat had lasted nearly all week, making you feel like you lived in an oven. Maybe he should’ve stayed home like Mom told him to. “It’s a great idea, Dirk,” he said with quiet enthusiasm. “Really great. But I can’t do it.”
“See?” Ian said.
“Why not?” Artie challenged. “Why not, huh?” Then he pointed. “I get it! Your momma’s not home, right? You gotta be in by dark. You gotta be babysat by your fairy sister!”
Ian couldn’t understand why that was such a big deal, but when Keith, looking sour and angry, didn’t deny it, Artie and Dirk started hooting, rolling on the ground, pulling at the grass, and laughing until their faces turned red.
Keith took it as long as he could, staring at the ground and at the fists on his knees. Then he jumped up with a shout, a shout so loud the others fell immediately silent and saw him standing angrily over them.
Dirk instantly looked shame-faced, but Artie only said, “Uh oh, the chief’s ticked, men,” and stood up, his attitude a dare that Keith desparately wanted to take. He didn’t. He only met the fat boy’s gaze as long as he could before he was chilled by disgust, shook his head, and walked slowly to his bike. This wasn’t fun; the heat was making them all crazy.
“Hey, where ya goin?” Ian called.
“He’s goin home to momma,” Artie explained loudly, shaking off Dirk’s restraining hand. “He’s goin home ‘cause he’s a little pissant, ‘cause he’s chicken.”
Keith froze, his hands already out to grab the handlebars.
“Cluck,” Dirk said softly.
This, Ian understood. “Cluck,” he said gleefully.
Keith turned around. “I am not chicken.”
“Pissant,” Artie said. “Pissant chickenshit.”
“I said I wasn’t,” he insisted, and was ashamed to feel a stinging behind his eyes.
“Okay, then,” Artie said, “I call for a torture.”
Ian’s eyes widened; he remembered the torture he had to go through to become part of the Gang, and he knew that calling for one now meant that Artie wanted to be chief instead of Keith. He hoped they wouldn’t make him try to take something from the Mogas station like he had to—god, Mr. Hallman was a giant, hated kids, and had almost caught him. God, he hoped they wouldn’t make him do that.
Dirk stood beside Artie. “You heard. A torture, Keith. You gonna do it?”
It wasn’t fair. He had started the Gang; it was his idea and they were having a great time. Now that fat slimeball was trying to take it all away. “Sure,” he said as calmly as he could. “Sure, why not?”
“What’s it gonna be?” Ian asked, and Artie said without a moment’s hesitation, “Winterrest.”
Keith didn’t blink.
Artie
No one believed it because they were the Mohawks.
Ian was a new member, and when Keith had finished he shook his head sadly. “I don’t know, Keith. It isn’t right. My father would kill me.”
“He won’t find out, stupid,” Artie sneered.
“I’m not stupid.”
“The only way your old man will find out is if you tell him, stupid.”
“I’m not stupid!”
Artie pushed his bulk up until he was kneeling; Ian was standing with his fists at his sides.
“Take it back,” the boy said, the sun reflecting red in the lenses of his glasses. “Take it back.”
Artie sniffed and grinned. “Make me.”
“Oh, knock it off, huh?” Dirk said in disgust. “You guys are sick, you know that? Really stupid.”
“I . . . am . . . not . . . stupid.”
“Aw shit.”
“Shut up!” Keith shouted. “Damnit, you guys, shut up!” They stared at him, shrugged, sat again and waited. It was the heat, he knew. The heat did really weird things to people, made them fight all the time, and this time the heat had lasted nearly all week, making you feel like you lived in an oven. Maybe he should’ve stayed home like Mom told him to. “It’s a great idea, Dirk,” he said with quiet enthusiasm. “Really great. But I can’t do it.”
“See?” Ian said.
“Why not?” Artie challenged. “Why not, huh?” Then he pointed. “I get it! Your momma’s not home, right? You gotta be in by dark. You gotta be babysat by your fairy sister!”
Ian couldn’t understand why that was such a big deal, but when Keith, looking sour and angry, didn’t deny it, Artie and Dirk started hooting, rolling on the ground, pulling at the grass, and laughing until their faces turned red.
Keith took it as long as he could, staring at the ground and at the fists on his knees. Then he jumped up with a shout, a shout so loud the others fell immediately silent and saw him standing angrily over them.
Dirk instantly looked shame-faced, but Artie only said, “Uh oh, the chief’s ticked, men,” and stood up, his attitude a dare that Keith desparately wanted to take. He didn’t. He only met the fat boy’s gaze as long as he could before he was chilled by disgust, shook his head, and walked slowly to his bike. This wasn’t fun; the heat was making them all crazy.
“Hey, where ya goin?” Ian called.
“He’s goin home to momma,” Artie explained loudly, shaking off Dirk’s restraining hand. “He’s goin home ‘cause he’s a little pissant, ‘cause he’s chicken.”
Keith froze, his hands already out to grab the handlebars.
“Cluck,” Dirk said softly.
This, Ian understood. “Cluck,” he said gleefully.
Keith turned around. “I am not chicken.”
“Pissant,” Artie said. “Pissant chickenshit.”
“I said I wasn’t,” he insisted, and was ashamed to feel a stinging behind his eyes.
“Okay, then,” Artie said, “I call for a torture.”
Ian’s eyes widened; he remembered the torture he had to go through to become part of the Gang, and he knew that calling for one now meant that Artie wanted to be chief instead of Keith. He hoped they wouldn’t make him try to take something from the Mogas station like he had to—god, Mr. Hallman was a giant, hated kids, and had almost caught him. God, he hoped they wouldn’t make him do that.
Dirk stood beside Artie. “You heard. A torture, Keith. You gonna do it?”
It wasn’t fair. He had started the Gang; it was his idea and they were having a great time. Now that fat slimeball was trying to take it all away. “Sure,” he said as calmly as he could. “Sure, why not?”
“What’s it gonna be?” Ian asked, and Artie said without a moment’s hesitation, “Winterrest.”
Keith didn’t blink.
Artie
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