Freaks and Revelations (19 page)

They scatter like cockroaches, scrambling in all directions. We spread out. I angle along the parking lot side. Jack goes around. The counter guy stares. I flip him off and yell, “YOU WANT SOME GOOD SHIT, ASSHOLE?” He drops his head, gets real busy.

I know I’m running but it’s taking forever. I can’t seem to reach the alley and when I do—the skinheads appear, their laser eyes trapping me. Everything blurs. I should have thought, I should have known, I should have been careful.
God, are you there?

Kill the faggots!

We split up and close in, like a military tactic, shutting off all sides. Two faggots bolt; people chase them. The other two are trapped. One’s on the ground. I almost step on him. Another tries for the alley.

A hand whirls me around. Boots thud on flesh; I hear grunts in reply. Is that me? Coco yells, “Nazi assholes!” I try to yell too, but I get punched in my stomach and all my air disappears. I double over, can’t speak, can’t run. Is Jesus watching?

The first one fights like crazy. He calls us names, throws punches, lands a direct kick on Jack’s knee so hard it makes him stumble back. In that one second—the faggot’s up and running. Gone. I’ve never seen anything run that fast.

No faces. Only hands, pulling and shoving me; only feet, kicking so hard I drop to my knees, cradle my head in my arms. Is this it? Voices yelling “FAGGOT! FAGGOT!” Thuds, grunts, chains jangling as boots connect to my thigh, to my back, shoulder, legs, head, arms. “FAGGOT!!” A siren somewhere far. Coco, getting away.
“FAGGOT!!!”

That chemical crap still floats in the back of my throat. My lips are dry, my head pounds from the fucking tear gas. I’m amped, like speeding on the freeway, zooming through those tunnels on the 110 where you curve around way too fast and the wall’s way too close and you don’t slow down.

These must be demons my mother’s sent to punish me. I taste blood inside my mouth, around my teeth. I pull my knees to my chest. I pee my pants. Why don’t the boots hurt? Am I dead?

Sirens closing in. This is taking too long. These Punks are too slow. I get into the circle to see the kid. The faggot. He’s curled up on his side, crying.
“He’s not out yet?! SHIT. Can’t you fuckers handle this?”

I hear one voice above the others and something makes me raise my head. The biggest demon of all stands with his face in half shadow, laser eyes boring down. I can’t look away.

Fucking faggot looks dead at me. Reflex, habit—I don’t think, I just kick him, once, hard—right in the face. Be done with it. His head snaps back and forth, drops, lays against the street. Blood leaks and pools on the concrete. I remember the razor blade tucked into the toe of my boot.

Time stops, like it did in the hall inside the dance school, like it did in the moment of my mother’s face.