He twitched, grunted. “Forget it. Don’t even think about including me.” He pulled himself up.
“And I can’t do all the swashbuckler crap anymore,” I said. “My hernia’s gotten worse.”
“We’re artists,” said Tim, meaning outlaws. “What would Picasso do in a situation like this? This is our last year. We can’t just fade away.”
Besides Rusty leaving, it seemed Wade’s mother would marrythe architect she was dating and move Wade with her to South Carolina. My parents were saving to send me to Benedictine, the local military school run by monks. Tim was going North to prep school.
“This’ll be good for all of us, and it’ll prevent us from getting expelled.”
“I need to think about it,” I said. Tim grimaced.
“Not me,” said Joey. “Hell no.” He wiped under both eyes. Twin dirt smudges.
“Remember that panel you drew?” Tim said. “Kavanagh flogging Ascension’s bare ass with the cat-o’-nine-tails?”
“No! No, no, no!” Joey hustled away, thighs slapping against each other.
Rusty made a meowing noise.
Mrs. Barnes stood in the field and shook a hand bell that meant recess was over. The softball games stopped, one side cheering, backslapping, the other side swearing and abusing the equipment. Boys stuffed their shirttails in and cinched their ties and milled into a rambling line where the girls were already gathered. We collected at the rear and began to trudge back to Blessed Heart. The man with the metal detector was on one knee, turning over sod with a minispade.
We passed the sandy area where the swing sets and slides were, then entered the near field. A white duck waddled towards us from the pond on the other side. Another duck scooted after it, nipping at its neck with his bright orange bill and trying to climb on its back. The rear of the line giggled and snickered, marched towards the intersection. Mrs. Barnes and most of the students had already been ushered across by red-belted patrol boys with the power to stop traffic.
Craig Dockery, tallest of the black boys, trotted out from the line and raised a baseball bat. He ran at the male duck. The duck whirled, scampered. Craig hit the duck and something popped. The duck squawked and flung itself in circles, dragging one wing.
“Got that motherfucker,” Craig said. He laughed, deep-voiced.
It was unbelievable. We didn’t know what to do.
Rusty put his hands on his hips and dropped his mouth open. “Aw, what the hell’d he do that for?”
Therese Parker, the girl who kept a pet raccoon, ran after the duck. The duck flapped towards the pond. She followed, plaid skirt swishing.
I wanted to murder Craig, but I was suddenly very aware of my hernia, like a burr in my groin, and my knees were shaking and I felt weak. I watched Therese and the squalling duck. Something flashed beside me. I stumbled out of the way. Tim was on Craig’s back, his arm around the boy’s throat. Tim fumbled in his knife pocket. Rusty stepped over to stop him, and Craig grabbed the back of Tim’s shirt and bent over and flung Tim down at Rusty’s feet.
Tim jumped up, face flaming, and stood rigid with his fists out. Craig made a show of looking him up and down. Rusty lunged forward and Craig raised the bat. Rusty froze. Wade stood behind him, fists balled with the bandaged thumb flagging up. I realized it was just our gang and the black eighth-grade boys. The others had all gone in.
Tim panted, hair splayed out over his ears, grass stains on his back.
“Ain’t nothin but a nasty old duck,” Craig said. “It wasn’t Donald Duck, little man.”
Tim screamed a catalog of obscenities, conspicuously leaving out anything racial. The variety and combinations shocked us all. Craig’s face slackened.
“Put the goddamn bat down,” Rusty said, pointing jerkily, excited. “Mess with somethin your own size.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” I said.
Lewis Epps, a boy so dark his skin looked blue in the sunlight, said, “Let’s