Boys Life

“Cory said so, didn’t he?”
    Davy Ray made a noise like the breaking of wind, but I knew he didn’t mean it. He had a part to play in our group-the part of scoffer and agitator-and this he played very well. I knew what Davy Ray was inside; after all, it was he who had brought Five Thunders to life.
    I heard Ladd Devine hollering, “Get away from me with those squirrel heads!” Some girl screamed and somebody shouted, “Oh, gross!” The Demon was in her element.
    As I had predicted, the sight of cinematic monsters in her classroom enraged Leatherlungs. She threw a tantrum that made one of Five Thunders’ outbreaks seem more like Half-a-Pipsqueak. Leatherlungs demanded to know if my parents knew what kind of garbage I was stuffing my mind with. Then she went into a tirade about how all decency and thoughtfulness in this world was going to ruin, just going to ruin, and why wasn’t I interested in good reading instead of this monster trash? I just sat there and took it on the chin, like I was supposed to. Then the Demon opened up the shoebox she’d brought and stuck it in Leatherlungs’ face and the sight of those four squirrel heads crawling with ants and their eyes poked out with a toothpick made Leatherlungs beat a hasty retreat to the teachers’ lounge.
    At last the three o’clock bell rang, and school was behind us for another day. We left Leatherlungs reduced to a raspy whisper. Out on the playground under the hot afternoon sun, clouds of dust stormed through the air as kids ran for freedom. As usual, Davy Ray was ragging Ben about something or other. Johnny put his tackle box on the ground as he unlocked his bike chain, and I knelt down to work the combination lock that secured Rocket.
    It happened very fast. Such things always do.
    They came out of the dust. I felt them before I saw them. The skin at the back of my neck drew tight.
    “Four little pussies, all in a row,” came the first taunt.
    My head whipped around, because I knew that voice. Davy Ray and Ben ceased their wrangling. Johnny looked up, his eyes darkening with dread.
    “There they are,” Gotha Branlin said, with Gordo at his side. They wore their grins like open razors, their black bikes crouched behind them. “Ain’t they sweet, Gordo?”
    “Yeah, ain’t they?”
    “What’s this?” With one quick movement, Gotha tore from my hand the magazine I’d brought for show-and-tell. It ripped along the staples, and on the cover Christopher Lee’s Count Dracula hissed with impotent rage. “Look at this shit!” Gotha told his brother, and Gordo laughed at a picture of the sleek female robot from Metropolis. “I can see her fuckin’ titties!” Gordo said. “Gimme it!” He grabbed the page, Gotha grabbed for it, and between their hands the picture dissolved as if consumed by acid. Gotha got most of it, though-the part showing a glimpse of metallic breasts-and it went down crumpled and dirty in his jeans pocket. Gordo squalled, “You shithole, give it here!” and he wrenched at the rest of the magazine while Gotha pulled at it, too. In another second the rest of the staples surrendered and pages of dark and glittering dreams, heroes and villains and fantastic visions, fluttered through the dust like bats in daylight. “You ruined it!” Gotha shrieked, and he shoved his brother so hard Gordo slammed to the ground on his back and a geyser of saliva shot from his mouth. Gordo sat up, his face swollen with rage and his eyes unspeakable, but Gotha cocked a fist back and stood over him like Godzilla over Ghidrah. “Come on and try it!” Gotha said. “Just come on!”
    Gordo stayed where he was. His elbow was crushing a picture of King Kong fighting a wet-fleshed giant serpent. Even monsters had their collisions and death battles. Gordo’s face was hard and bitter. Any other kid who’d taken so hard a blow would’ve sobbed at least once. I imagine a tear in the Branlin household was as rare as a dragon’s tooth, and all those unshed tears and simmering rages had twisted Gotha and Gordo into what they were: two animals who could not escape their cages, no matter how hard they fought or how far away they roamed on those vulture bikes.
    I might have felt sorry for them if they’d given you room to. But then Gotha said, “What’s in here?” and he scooped the tackle box off the ground before Johnny could think to grab for it. Johnny made a choking sound as Gotha flipped the latch up and lifted the lid. The big rude hand