‘Gotcha,’ Boyce said.
We handed the bottle to Thompson and scored enough shit to get us both seriously f**ked up. ‘I don’t wanna roll until I find Richards,’ I said, unaware until I said the words that I needed to beat the shit out of him, and I didn’t want anything dulling the rage.
Ten minutes later, I got my wish. Richards was parked on a cooler with a blue cup in his hand. Once I saw him, I didn’t see anything else. Not his friends, not mine.
Boyce: You up?
Me: Yeah. Trying to remember last night. You at school?
Boyce: Yeah. Richards is out today too. Man you pounded him. I knew you had it in you but holy shit.
Me: Do I have any possibility of a cracked rib?
Boyce: Shit. Maybe. I’ll be over after school.
I poured another cup of coffee and opened the door to Grandpa’s room. It already smelled musty. Sunlight filtered through tiny gaps in the ancient metal blinds, which were rusted in a few places where the paint was scratched. Dust motes drifted in the beams, disturbed and swirling from my entry. The furniture was stripped bare – no sheets on the bed or glasses on the night table. Dad had stacked a few ledger boxes against a wall. The years were labelled in his jagged scrawl.
It hadn’t occurred to me that I could ask to move into this room instead of remaining in the pantry. Evidently, it hadn’t occurred to Dad, either.
I sat on the edge of the bare mattress and sipped a second cup of coffee, my head clearing little by little. After my fight with Boyce, Grandpa had taught me the proper way to make a fist and throw a punch.
I’d stalked straight to Richards last night and yanked him up, fisting both hands in his shirt. He dropped his cup and jerked free, stumbling back a step. If his friends moved to defend him, Boyce and Mateo convinced them to stay out of it. No one interfered.
‘W-what the f**k, Maxfield?’
I stepped closer and leaned into his space. ‘You’re a cowardly f**king pu**y, Richards.’
He drew himself up, eyes shifting to the gathering audience, and laughed. ‘Whatsa matter, freak – upset because my girlfriend didn’t wanna suck your dick?’ He shoved me back with both hands, or tried to.
I felt my mocking half smile shift into place. ‘Oh, she sucked it all right.’
His eyes blazed wide and he swung a fist that glanced off my jaw. I drew back and punched him in the mouth, his teeth scraping my knuckles. He tried to land a body blow, but I blocked it with an elbow and belted him in the gut, and he gave a satisfying oof. We separated and circled each other.
‘You’re a sore loser, freak,’ he panted. ‘You need to learn not to get between another guy and what belongs to him.’ He repeated the hit to my jaw with the same glance-off result.
I laughed, the sound caustic. ‘You think this is about Melody?’ I didn’t expect the spear of pain that shot through me from saying her name. He took advantage of my pause and landed a better blow. My nose crunched and I saw stars. He moved in for another hit but I ducked and drove into him, knocking him flat in the sand.
‘Of course it’s about Melody,’ he said. We rolled and punched each other a couple more times, each landing solid enough hits to draw blood. ‘You want what you can’t have and will never be good enough for.’
As soon as we were on our feet, I swung too wide and missed. He tackled me and I landed on the ice chest, but I took him with me and used his momentum to throw him back over my head. Before he could get up, I jumped on him and punched him twice.
‘I don’t give a shit about her, you conceited f**king dickhole.’ I hit him once more and his eyes unfocused. Before I could knock him unconscious, I felt hands hauling me up and off him and he struggled to rise with the help of his friends. Clutching my side and panting shallow breaths, every one of which generated shooting pain, I pointed a finger at him. ‘But you touch my truck again and I will end you.’
When Boyce showed up, he brought, of all people, Pearl. I had no idea they were on speaking terms. ‘I won’t be a doctor for ten years, you know,’ she said, glaring at Boyce. ‘He should go to the ER. I don’t see the big deal. It’s not like he’s got knife wounds from a gang initiation.’
Boyce sighed. ‘You’re here. Just look?’
‘Fine.’ She rolled her eyes and turned to me. ‘Lie down on the sofa.’
After pressing in several places – painful but not excruciating – and listening to my lungs with a stethoscope borrowed from her stepfather’s dresser, she said she didn’t think anything else was injured. ‘You may have fractured a rib – but there’s no treatment for that. It just has to heal. It’ll take six weeks. No fighting and no roughhousing.’ She levelled a scowl at Boyce.
‘What? I didn’t do it. And shouldn’t we like, tape him up?’
‘I’m sure you encouraged it. And no.’ She looked at me. ‘Take deep breaths as often as possible and cough several times per day, to make sure your lungs stay clear.’ Turning towards Boyce, she stored the stethoscope in her purse and said, ‘Taping him up would keep him from doing those things. He could use an ice pack for the pain – you can make one from a Ziploc and ice – crushed, if possible.’
Boyce said, ‘On it,’ saluted, and headed for the kitchen.
‘Thanks for coming over,’ I said, still confused. Pearl and Boyce never spoke at school unless required to in biology, and though he clearly lusted after her, she’d never seemed the slightest bit interested. Plus, I’d just beat the shit out of her best friend’s boyfriend.