"Hey, Cathy," I said, while we were on the way home. "If I got a ring, would you wear it?"
"Yeah," she said. That's how we started going steady.
*
After I dropped Cathy off at her house, I headed for Terry Jones's place. I was supposed to pick up Mark there, but when I got to the house, nobody was home. Terry's parents were out of town for the weekend, which normally meant it was party-and-poker time at the Joneses'. I figured everybody had gone out scouting for booze and broads, so I sat down on the front steps to wait.
It was a cool night, but not too cool. It was getting to be spring. It had been a real weird winter. Last fall Mark and me had thought just alike, as one person; now we couldn't even talk. Charlie had been alive and griping about our Coke bill. I had been a hustler, both with pool and chicks. M&M had been reading Newsweek and getting his kicks baby-sitting. Now everything was different.
While I was sitting there, smoking and thinking, a car pulled up. I thought it was some guys coming to party and so forth, so I didn't pay any attention. The four guys were standing right in front of me before I came to and realized that two of them were Tim and Curly Shepard.
"I thought you guys were in the cooler," I said pleasantly, just like I didn't know they were here for the sole purpose of stomping out my guts.
"We're out now," Tim said. He scared me. He was what I would call a rough guy. Curly was mostly mouth, but Tim backed up anything he said. He really was a hood. I know most people call any kid from over here on the East Side a hood, but Tim really was.
"I guess so," I said, still smoking, not blowing my cool. If I kept them talking long enough, maybe Mark and Terry and God knows who else would show up.
"Seen Angela lately?" Tim said. Curly was keeping his mouth shut--even he was awed by his big brother. There was something about Tim Shepard--his scarred face, his fighter's slouch, the flickering of his black eyes--that really let you know he meant business.
"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I saw her over on the Ribbon last night, and she went for a drive with me." I decided I didn't need to drag Mark into this--it was plain they weren't worried about him.
"No kidding? Did you know Angel got her hair cut this morning? At least that's what people say. She told me something different."
I was sweating. I could feel it running down my back and wetting my palms, and my cigarette was shaking, so I ground it out on the porch. But I sounded calm as I said, "What's she telling you?"
"She says you got her drunk and cut her hair off. That the truth?"
"Yeah, that's the truth, and I'm sorry it happened." I decided to tell it straight for once, without all this hedging and playing the game. "It was a rotten thing to do and I'm sorry."
"You ain't half as sorry as you're going to be," Tim said, and the two guys I didn't know rushed me, pinned my arms, and held me while Tim and Curly took turns punching me.
I passed out finally, but not as soon as I had hoped I would.
*
When I came to, Mark was wiping my face off with a wet rag.
"Bryon, you O.K.? Don't move, man."
I bit back a groan because I could tell there were other guys in the room. Normally I wouldn't have to knock myself out playing the tough guy for just Mark, but I did have a rep to keep.
"What happened? Who did this to you?"
"Shepards," I said finally, but it hurt to draw the breath to say it. Something was stabbing me in the sides. My whole face was throbbing and I couldn't open my eyes. They were swollen shut. There was a funny taste in my mouth--I guessed it was blood.
"You want to go to the hospital?" Mark asked. He sounded so worried that I felt sorry for him.
"No," I said. I didn't want to go anywhere. I felt that if I moved I'd fall apart. "Can I stay here?" I figured I was in Terry's house somewhere. I could tell I was lying on a bed.
"Sure, man, you stay here." I recognized Terry's voice. "Brother, you look like you been through a meat grinder."
"That's what it feels like too," I said, even though this witticism cost me more stabbing pains in my sides. A reputation is one hell of a thing to have; you got to kill yourself to keep it.
"I'll call the old lady," Mark said. "Then we'll go look up the Shepards."
"Mark!" I said. "I want to talk to you, personal-like."
"Sure, buddy. Clear out, you guys." And because he was Mark, they obeyed him.
"Listen, it hurts like hell to talk, so I'm only goin' to say it once, an' I don't want to argue."
"Sure." Mark's voice sounded puzzled. I wished I could see him; I knew he wasn't going to dig what I had to say. I could tell he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and I reached for where his hand should have been and caught it. "I don't want anybody to fight the Shepards."
"What?"
"I don't want to keep this up, this getting-even jazz. It's stupid and I'm sick of it and it keeps going in circles. I have had it--so if you're planning any get-even mugging, forget it." I was trying to keep my voice from trembling with pain, but not only did talking hurt my sides, it was killing my face.
"I got you, Bryon," Mark said after a silence. "You just take it easy." He left to call Mom, and I heard him yelling at the rest of the guys to keep the record player down. He stayed all night on the other side of the bed, guarding me.
9
Mark drove me to the hospital the next day and I got fifteen stitches in my face and had my ribs taped. As luck would have it I got the same doctor that had sewed up Mark a few months before when he had been busted with a bottle. He remembered Mark all right; most people did. He gave us a disgusted look and said, "Don't you punks ever do anything besides fight?"
Mark growled something real cute, but I couldn't get mad. I felt sick, ashamed of myself, even though I hadn't done anything. All I could think about was Mike's getting beat up for driving a black girl home. I kept remembering him saying he didn't hate the guys who did it. Well, I didn't hate the Shepards either. I tried to explain this to Mark as we drove home. I was so wrapped up in what I was trying to get across to him that I was startled when Mark suddenly burst out, "Whatdaya tryin' to do to me, Bryon?"
"What?" I said, confused. Mark had turned white and his voice was shaking as if he was about to cry. I couldn't believe that; I had never seen Mark cry except from physical pain.
"How do you think I feel, man? You won't let me get the Shepards for you, and here you go givin' me this song and dance about how you don't feel bad about gettin' beat up. You think I don't know they beat you up for something I did? And here you are, practically sayin' you had it comin', when it was me who cut Angela's hair, it was me who planned it, and me who did it--and it's you who gets beat up for it. Like that damn fool, Mike, he feels like he had it coming, feels guilty for something somebody else did. Man, that is sick! How do you think I felt, finding you lying there in the yard? I knew it was the Shepards. If they had killed you it woulda been my fault. That is eating me up, Bryon, and you won't even let me get even for you."
He was crying. I just went sick inside. "Mark, it ain't your fault. It's just that I'm sick of fighting. I'm sick of this circle of beating up people and getting beat up. It's stupid." I reached over and gave him an easy punch on the shoulder. "I ain't dead, man; there's nothing to worry about."
Mark took a deep breath, and, even though his voice was normal, he was gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were white. "I don't know what's the matter with me. I never worry about 'what if?' I never did until me and Terry came home and found you lyin' there smashed up. Then I think, 'what if?' and look what happens to me." He shrugged. "You don't want to get even with the Shepards, that's your business."
We just couldn't get through to each other. He didn't understand why I didn't dig fights any more; I didn't understand how he could accept everything that came along without question, without wanting to change it.
Mom nearly had a fit when she saw me. She was well by then, back at her job. I almost gave her a relapse. I had n
ever been so messed up. A black eye she could take, stitches in my lip she could take, smashed ribs she could take, but not all at the same time. I was feeling so lousy that I didn't mind her fussing at me. I pretended that it was her who made me go to bed, but I was glad to be there.
"You want me to call Cathy?" Mark asked after I had been put to bed.
"Yeah--you mind?" He could get to a pay phone and I couldn't.
"Sure, I mind. Beating up the Shepards would be easier. But for you, buddy, I'll do it." He gave me his famous Mark grin. "I know she'll be glad to hear from me."
I tried to grin back at him, but it was difficult. It's pretty lousy to have the two people you care about most hate each other.
I must have dozed off after Mark left. I felt pretty bad--the painkiller shots had worn off and I was running a fever. I don't know how long I was asleep, but when I came to, Cathy was sitting next to the bed.
"Hi, Bryon," she said, and her voice and her face were so serious that for a dazed second I couldn't figure out if it was Cathy or M&M. I really felt dizzy and drunk and confused.
"How do you feel?" she asked, when I couldn't say anything; I just lay there and looked at her stupid-like.
"Oh, all right," I said, which made a lot of sense "I'm glad you're here."
"Are you?" she said, and she was crying. There, I had both her and Mark crying within twenty-four hours. I must be really something.
"Cathy, I am really glad you are here," I said. "I love you."