Читать книгу Lion in the Night - Jack Armstrong - Страница 7

Lynn shifted in her chair, her black, short-haired head bobbing up and down in anger.

“You did this, didn’t you?” she hissed.

I remained silent as only a guilty, ten-year-old boy is capable of doing.

“How am I supposed to take notes without a pencil?” she asked. “If I tell Mr. Hubbard I can’t take notes because someone broke off all my pencil ends, he’ll know it was you. And you know how hot he gets!” Mr. Hubbard was a large former Marine who was capable of great feats of anger and placing offending students under his desk when provoked.

I reached over Lynn’s shoulder and placed a sharp pencil in her now-outstretched hand.

As we exited the fifth grade classroom, Gordon was visible, leaning against the cinderblock wall of Vetal Elementary School. Gordon was a full foot taller than me, and a notorious, crude prankster. His smirk told me I was his next victim.

“Going to play a little baseball today, Armstrong?” he asked.

“Yeah, after I get my mitt, Gordon,” I said as I tried to slip by him.

Gordon reached out a long arm to block me. “Good luck finding your mitt, Armweak,” Gordon said.

I turned to face Gordon, a quick memory of my brother’s fighting lesson passing through my mind. Plant your feet, face your enemy, land the first punch, hit from the shoulders straight ahead, no roundhouse throws, thrust your body forward with the punch, and keep your right hand up in front of your face to take the counterpunch. “Most fights end after one or two hits,” Mike had said as I wiped the tears from my eyes after he demonstrated with a short jab to my vulnerable nose.

“What ya gonna do, Armpit?” Gordon taunted.

My fist struck Gordon square in the nose. He fell back on the wall, a thin trail of blood dripping from his nose. His eyes teared. I had to reach up to grab his neck, a haze of red anger clouding my vision.

“Go get my damn mitt, Gordon, or you’ll be getting a face full of fists,” I said.

Gordon wiped the blood from his nose, staring at it in studied disbelief as if the blood belonged to another. Gordon had never been hit for his mischief.

“OK, OK, I’ll get it now, Armstrong,” Gordon almost shouted. He hurried away, then returned quickly, mitt in hand. Lynn was watching from the shadow of the classroom door.

“Good punch, Jack. Where’d you learn that?” she asked.

“My brothers and friends box in the garage. I’m the youngest and usually the one getting punched,” I remarked.

“I’d like to fight, Jack. How about you and me going at it after school?” she asked.

“Why don’t you go fight some tough girl instead, Lynn?” I replied.

“Aw, they’re so lame. Nancy gave up after I just knocked her on the ground,” she said with a hand on her hip.

Lynn was easily the toughest girl in school. Vetal Elementary School straddled two distinct Detroit social networks. On the west side were tree-lined, middle-class neighborhoods with trim lawns and functioning street lights. On the east was a working-class, rough-and-tumble neighborhood, front yards as likely to be occupied by a car that needed to be fixed up as by a manicured lawn. Lynn and Gordon grew up east while I safely walked the streets west. Fighting Lynn was a no-win for me. If I was lucky enough to land the first punch and take her down, the guys would all joke that I just bested a girl. If she took me out, I would never live down losing to a girl.

“No, Lynn, I’m not going to fight you,” I mumbled, as I walked away down the hall.

A week passed; then one Monday morning Lynn turned partly sideways and whispered, “They’re after you, Jack.”

In profile, Lynn was attractive, with dark brown eyes, short but soft black hair, and a fine, straight, Italian nose. At ten, I could observe these features but feel no arousal.

“Who’s after me, Lynn?” I asked.

“Jimmy Hill and his gang,” she replied.

“Why on earth would Jimmy Hill care about me?” I asked. Jimmy Hill was the toughest fighter in Vetal. Having somehow failed third grade, Jimmy was a year older and a mile tougher than the rest of us. His gang consisted of his older brother, Vince, and his friend, Lou. Lou, like Lynn, was Italian and liked to think of himself as the second toughest guy in school.

“He heard about your one-punch takedown of Gordon last week,” she replied. “Some people are saying you’re the toughest guy in school. Jimmy Hill doesn’t like that idea. They’ll be waiting for you after school. And Lou will be there with his knife, just in case you get Jimmy first.”

“A knife!” I exclaimed. “Jimmy Hill and Lou with a knife. Oh my God!”

“Look for Terry in the circle when everyone knows there’s going to be a fight. This is big, Jack!” Lynn exclaimed.

Terry Ontario was my biking friend. Terry and I also collected metal toy soldiers and Tonka trucks. But Terry was an unlikely fight ally, being overweight, out of shape, garrulous, nonathletic, and confrontation adverse.

“How is Terry watching in the crowd going to help me?” I asked.

“He’ll step to the side and for a few seconds there will be an opening for a get away,” said Lynn.

“You mean, run?” I gasped.

“You bet!” Lynn replied.

Running was not a fight strategy my brothers taught, but on reflection seemed like a good idea.

Upon exiting the school at 4 p.m., Jimmy Hill was easy to spot. Although only a year older, Jimmy could have been a ninth grader, with muscular, nonboy-like arms under a tight, black t-shirt and a face dominated by a wide, unsmiling mouth and piercing dark eyes. Jimmy was flanked by his even larger brother, Vince, and Lou, the knife boy.

“Let’s go, Armpit,” said Jimmy, as he pushed me with his right hand against my chest.

“I don’t think so, Jimmy. Why don’t you just hit me and I’ll fall down and we’ll call you the winner,” I offered.

He pushed my chest again. “No, Jack, that’s no fight. We’ll do the real thing!” he retorted.

I looked to my right as I bounced back from Jimmy’s chest shove. There in the circle of onlookers was unobtrusive Terry. He took a step to the side, creating a small opening in the circle of onlookers. I bolted through the gap, sprinting the next three blocks. As I slowed, the idea dawned on me that now I might be perceived as a coward. Cowardice would not be well received at home. A block away I spotted Dwight walking slowly toward our homes four blocks ahead. Dwight was two years older, tall and broad and wearing the white cross belt of the safety patrol.

“Hey, Jack, what’s the hurry?” asked Dwight as I jogged up to him.

I explained to Dwight the circumstances of my rapid exit from the Jimmy Hill fight.

Dwight looked toward Vetal. “Look who’s coming down the road, Jack, it’s Lou,” Dwight observed. Lou dismounted from his bike. He was thin, wiry, with a mean, weasel-like face.

“You thought you’d run away, Armweak,” said Lou as he pulled his knife out and extended the thin steel blade.

“Whoa, this is between you two guys,” said Dwight as he stepped aside. Lou took a step forward, his arm extended underhanded, his eyes fixed on mine.

I stood still, quiet, watching. Dwight quickly slipped behind Lou, pinned his arms to his sides, and knocked the knife from his hand. Dwight kicked the knife to the grass at the edge of the sidewalk.

“All right then, now it’s just between the two of you. A fair fight,” Dwight said as he stepped off the sidewalk and planted his foot over the open knife.

I now met Lou’s gaze directly. He hadn’t assumed a fighting stance. His arms hung from his sides. I took a step toward Lou and raised my fists into the fighting position my brothers had taught me.

“Let’s go Lou,” I said.

Lou looked at his knife beneath Dwight’s foot, then at Dwight, and finally at me. “You think you’re so tough. Wait till tomorrow with Jimmy, tough guy,” Lou hissed.

Dwight reached down and handed me Lou’s knife. “You might need this tomorrow, Jack,” Dwight commented.

Lou backed up quickly, mounted his bike, and rode back toward Vetal.

Dwight and I walked slowly home, nothing left to say but “Thanks, man.”

I debated telling my parents and brothers what had happened, but still not sure if I was smart, lucky, or a coward, I remained silent and sleepless.

The next day as I closed the hall locker, Jimmy Hill approached, alone. He smiled slightly. I felt the knife in my pocket.

“Hey, Armstrong. I heard about Lou and you last night. He backed down, huh?” Jimmy lightly punched my shoulder.

“He didn’t want a fair fight, Jimmy,” I said. “You and I don’t have a problem, right? You’re the King.”

“Yeah, I’m the King. Don’t you forget about that, Armstrong! You’re OK!” Jimmy said, then turned and sauntered down the hall.

When I left Vetal to move to the countryside the next year, my classmates signed a note wishing me well. Lynn signed the note with a picture of a sharp pencil and a good luck wish. Lynn was my good luck.