said, “Claw-man, let Lessing here see your hand. He’s never had a close-up of a cripple before.”
Both laughed. Three girls walking by made tsking noises. Red splashed Joey’s cheeks. His effort to grin failed.
Sam’s chest tangled with a snake. Claw-man. He looked at Joey. His friend looked away. O-kay. Thanks, dude.
Readjusting his bookpack, Sam pushed his bike back to the street and hopped on the seat. “See ya around, Joe.”
“Yeah.”
“Running, wimp?” Huller singsonged. “Can’t take the heat?”
Sam skidded to a stop. A year older than Sam, Huller stood six inches taller and reminded him of a weed his mother yanked from her flower beds last year. Skinny and ugly. “I’m not afraid of you, loser.”
Joey’s jaw dropped. Lessing hooted.
Huller stepped into Sam’s face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
With one hand, the kid shoved Sam back against his bike. Hard. He stumbled, went down, the bike twisting clumsily under him on the pavement. The rear wheel axle caught him in the lower part of his spine, arrowed pain straight up to his skull and down to his toes. Tears pricked his eyes.
Lessing giggled.
Joey stepped forward. “Hey, Cody, take it easy, man.”
The bigger boy swung around. “Who’s side you on, Fraser?”
Joey backed off, flashing a what-can-I-do? look at Sam.
Ignoring the sting in his back, Sam scrambled to his feet, left fist clenched at his side. A hot ball of rage coiled in his stomach. “You sonuva—”
Huller leaned forward. “Say it, cripple. I dare ya.”
Sam spat on the ground between them. Fury blinded him. Through the red haze he saw his father sneering at him. He saw his mother cowering on the floor. He hauled back and rammed his fist into Cody Huller’s gut.
The older boy staggered, surprise glittering in his slitty eyes. He rushed Sam. Together they hit the pavement. No time to consider pain or bruises. Huller slammed a fist into Sam’s face and his left cheekbone sang with pain. Then all he could do was cover his head while Cody Huller had his way.
To Sam it felt like hours, though it probably lasted no more than five seconds. Suddenly, Huller was snatched away.
“What’s going on here?” Mr. Kosky boomed. “You boys got nothing better to do?”
The high school principal helped Sam off the pavement. Dirt ground between his molars. He touched his tongue to a lip split like an over-ripe grape. His left eye dripped water worse than the leaky tap in the bathroom at home. Around them students gathered, gawked. Street traffic slowed to a crawl.
“He started it.” Huller pointed at Sam. “He punched first.”
“That right?” Kosky asked.
Sam looked away. Right or wrong, he wasn’t saying. Let the principal think what he wanted.
Trouble was, the man had the body of a compact engine. Muscled forearms, solid thighs, a barrel chest. Hard to ignore a guy like that training his hawk eyes on Sam. “You need to get some antiseptic on that cut, son.”
To the other three standing on the sidewalk, gazes shifting everywhere, Kosky ordered, “Cody, Joey, Mick. I want you all in my office. Immediately. You, too, Sam.”
“I didn’t do nothing!” Huller cried. “It was his fault!”
“We’ll deal with it in the office, Cody.” The principal scanned the crowd. “The rest of you go home.”
The crowd of students began splitting up. By suppertime, the whole school would know. By tomorrow, half of Chinook Elementary would have heard from their older brothers and sisters.
Shame washed over Sam. Emily. He imagined her big eyes brimming with panic again. He’d bet every cent he had in the meager savings account his mom had opened for him that tonight his sister would sleep with her blankey and for the next week gnaw her pinky until it resembled a raw breakfast sausage.
As for his mother’s reaction…forget it.
Rianne unlocked the back door and waited for Sam and Emily to proceed into the house. Barely half over, the week was turning into a spiel to rival CNN news. First, her car battery, then Jon and his outrageous installation fee, and now Sam played action hero and reaped a two-day school suspension.
Pointing to the kitchen table, she said, “Sit, both of you. We have some things to discuss.”
Sam dropped his bag and threw himself onto a chair. “What for? Everything was said in Mr. Kosky’s office.”
Hugging her bookpack, Emily sat across the table, myopic eyes on her brother.
“What I need to say is private.” Rianne leaned against the counter. She couldn’t sit, not while anger churned her blood. Sam’s eye looked awful. Beneath it, puffy half moons pushed the lids to a slit. Yellow antiseptic—which Greg Kosky had applied—colored the boy’s thin cheekbone.
A ringing quiet fell. Sam jiggled the toe of one dusty sneaker. He refused to look at Rianne.
Emily stuck her little finger into the corner of her mouth.
On the floor by the corner window, Sweetpea lounged on a small flowered mat with her two-week-old offspring tumbling playfully around her. The animal gave Rianne a squint-eyed look, licked the face of Squeak, a scruffy-tailed, dappled kitten that walked with its hips to one side.
Rianne took a deep breath. “Sam, I understand why you hit Cody. He said some cruel things.”
Sam looked out the window. “He called me a cripple.”
“Yes, he did,” she conceded, wondering if her heart could shred further. In Greg Kosky’s office, with students and parents present, the Huller boy had admitted to the fact.
“Just like Dad used to.” A tear dripped from Sam’s wounded eye. He swiped it with the heel of his hand and winced.
“Yes, just like your father,” she echoed, wanting to hold her son, shield him, protect him from all abhorrences in the world.
Sam lifted his head, fighting not to cry. “When Cody pushed me all I could see was Dad and—and you. I had to stop him.”
Without delay, Rianne knelt in front of her child and clasped his dirt-stained hands. “Sam, don’t let your father’s behavior influence your emotions when someone hurts you verbally. It isn’t right.”
“What Dad did wasn’t right either, but you let him do it.”
She squelched a cry. Oh, Lord, she had to make him see. She had to show him that fists, foul words and rages were not the way to solve problems or get what he wanted, when he wanted it.
“Do
