have any food. No candy.”
When John Prince laughed, it was a snarling sound full of teeth and phlegm. “Yeah, you’re ‘know-nuthin’ all right, retard. Whatcha got in the bag?” he demanded again. “Show me.” Prince shoved me to the side and took the bag in a chapped hand. He opened it and looked in. His eyes widened. “Hey, it’s a fuckin’
turtle
! Brown Nose kidnapped a fuckin’
turtle!
” He laughed again, showing all his yellow teeth. He reached inside and took Manitou out, bringing the small creature right up to his face. For one horrible moment I was sure Prince was going to eat him, was going to tear Manitou’s head off with those teeth and crack his shell with his jaws. The turtle’s legs were kicking helplessly in the air and its head swayed from side to side in terror. Prince swung Manitou through the air between his thumb and index finger like a child with a model airplane.
“
Give him back to me!
” I screamed. “
You’re
scaring
him! Give him to me!
”
Prince said, “Make me, Brown Nose. I fuckin’ dare you. Make me.”
The bus driver half-turned. He shouted, “Sit down, you two! Get back to your seats
right now
, or I’ll pull this bus right over to the side of the road till the police come, you hear me? And then you’ll be headed straight for reform school!”
But of course, it was too late for any of that.
Prince swung Manitou through the air, making
vroom vroom
airplane noises as he did. His friends in the back seat all laughed as though it were the funniest thing they’d ever seen. A few of them started to clap, and one of them—I didn’t see which one—said,
Throw it! Let’s see if turtles can fly!
What happened next is still a bit unclear after all these years, but my memory is that I had glanced up at the driver’s rear-view mirror and seen nothing in it but clouds.
In one second, the mirror reflected the entire rear aisle of the bus and the faces of forty shouting, jeering prepubescent boys; in the next, it went blank, the view—if it could even be called that—was something akin to looking out the window on one of those mornings in late fall, right before winter, when the fog lies as thickly on the glass as white paint.
Then my vision blurred. I tasted blood in my mouth, and the world was reduced to the sweet music of Prince’s screams. I found myself standing up in my seat with a handful of Prince’s hair in my fist, smashing his head against the metal bar of the seat. I felt the vibration of the impact thrum up my forearm. I was possessed of a sudden, vicious strength that was so entirely
unlike
me that I felt myself observing the scene as though from a distance. It was a dark and delicious, even voluptuous, violence that lifted me up above myself on black wings.
It occurred to me that Prince sounded much less terrifying with blood from the gash over his eye smearing the chrome and the cheap vinyl upholstery of the bus seat. I loved the sound of his screaming. I
loved
it. I adored it with a barbarism that was entirely alien to my nature. I wanted to lick the air around him and taste that sound. Then I was punching him in the face, hitting his nose, his forehead, and his chin.
The bus swerved as the driver pulled over to the side of the road and the boys were all screaming,
Fight! Fight! Fight!
But there was an undercurrent of awe beneath it all, because someone had changed the rules of dominance, neglecting to tell John Prince or his friends that the impossible had occurred, and Brown Nose was going to kill him unless someone pulled them apart.
At the roadside, the bus diver did just that. He pulled the bus to a stop and broke up the fight, though “fight” was a bit of misnomer: Prince was out cold and his face looked as though someone had swished it around in a tub of blood. It would be closer to the truth to say that the driver pulled me off Prince, and Prince slid to the ground like someone had poured him from a pitcher.
I looked down at his
When John Prince laughed, it was a snarling sound full of teeth and phlegm. “Yeah, you’re ‘know-nuthin’ all right, retard. Whatcha got in the bag?” he demanded again. “Show me.” Prince shoved me to the side and took the bag in a chapped hand. He opened it and looked in. His eyes widened. “Hey, it’s a fuckin’
turtle
! Brown Nose kidnapped a fuckin’
turtle!
” He laughed again, showing all his yellow teeth. He reached inside and took Manitou out, bringing the small creature right up to his face. For one horrible moment I was sure Prince was going to eat him, was going to tear Manitou’s head off with those teeth and crack his shell with his jaws. The turtle’s legs were kicking helplessly in the air and its head swayed from side to side in terror. Prince swung Manitou through the air between his thumb and index finger like a child with a model airplane.
“
Give him back to me!
” I screamed. “
You’re
scaring
him! Give him to me!
”
Prince said, “Make me, Brown Nose. I fuckin’ dare you. Make me.”
The bus driver half-turned. He shouted, “Sit down, you two! Get back to your seats
right now
, or I’ll pull this bus right over to the side of the road till the police come, you hear me? And then you’ll be headed straight for reform school!”
But of course, it was too late for any of that.
Prince swung Manitou through the air, making
vroom vroom
airplane noises as he did. His friends in the back seat all laughed as though it were the funniest thing they’d ever seen. A few of them started to clap, and one of them—I didn’t see which one—said,
Throw it! Let’s see if turtles can fly!
What happened next is still a bit unclear after all these years, but my memory is that I had glanced up at the driver’s rear-view mirror and seen nothing in it but clouds.
In one second, the mirror reflected the entire rear aisle of the bus and the faces of forty shouting, jeering prepubescent boys; in the next, it went blank, the view—if it could even be called that—was something akin to looking out the window on one of those mornings in late fall, right before winter, when the fog lies as thickly on the glass as white paint.
Then my vision blurred. I tasted blood in my mouth, and the world was reduced to the sweet music of Prince’s screams. I found myself standing up in my seat with a handful of Prince’s hair in my fist, smashing his head against the metal bar of the seat. I felt the vibration of the impact thrum up my forearm. I was possessed of a sudden, vicious strength that was so entirely
unlike
me that I felt myself observing the scene as though from a distance. It was a dark and delicious, even voluptuous, violence that lifted me up above myself on black wings.
It occurred to me that Prince sounded much less terrifying with blood from the gash over his eye smearing the chrome and the cheap vinyl upholstery of the bus seat. I loved the sound of his screaming. I
loved
it. I adored it with a barbarism that was entirely alien to my nature. I wanted to lick the air around him and taste that sound. Then I was punching him in the face, hitting his nose, his forehead, and his chin.
The bus swerved as the driver pulled over to the side of the road and the boys were all screaming,
Fight! Fight! Fight!
But there was an undercurrent of awe beneath it all, because someone had changed the rules of dominance, neglecting to tell John Prince or his friends that the impossible had occurred, and Brown Nose was going to kill him unless someone pulled them apart.
At the roadside, the bus diver did just that. He pulled the bus to a stop and broke up the fight, though “fight” was a bit of misnomer: Prince was out cold and his face looked as though someone had swished it around in a tub of blood. It would be closer to the truth to say that the driver pulled me off Prince, and Prince slid to the ground like someone had poured him from a pitcher.
I looked down at his
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