Peter’s Hierarchy of Shit He Can Live Without
It was the last day before the Snow Moon, and when the eighth-period bell rang it dismissed not only the student body for the day but also the last hot minute of denial on Peter’s part of what he had been putting off for the last two weeks: now he would have to tell her. Women and talking, the way it just went together like drawn and quartered. He walked from study hall to his bus, wincing at the prospect, when Alex Finster and Tom Dublyk appeared at his flanks, with an additional one or two behind. This was not the reprieve Peter had in mind. “Full moon tomorrow,” said Alex. Peter said nothing. “You got spunk in your ears, Rumancek? I’m talking to you, you dirty Gypsy piece of shit.” Peter did not take his eyes from the exit sign down the hall over the wave of heads. “Aw, he’s probably just down his girlfriend’s in a coma,” said Tom. The question, Peter knew, was simple: make it to the bus. They wanted him to give them a reason. If people were going to jump you, they just jumped you; these shitheads needed him to give them a reason. So it was the simple question of just keeping his mouth shut and getting on his bus. Alex called him a deaf Gypsy faggot and as they passed through the door the crush pressed their bodies together and Alex turned his head and breathed hot in Peter’s ear. “Probably needs to run home and suck Sleeping Beauty’s dick,” said Tom. Just keep his mouth shut long enough to board bus 89. They wanted him to give them a reason but Peter had been on the wrong end of enough beatings to know that nothing was worth it. This was what made Peter not like Roman; Peter had control. When they can take that from you there is no floor under what else you can lose. Tom drew two fingers under his own nostrils, inhaling deeply. “Is that pussy I smell?” They were outside now and the buses were in an idling line no more than fifteen yards away. Fifteen yards, an achievable goal. Alex put an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “So where’s the wolf half come from, anyway?” he said. He thought this intrusive familiarity would goad Peter into reacting. Just enough smart to get on the bus. “Your mom toss a steak between her legs and say, ‘Come and get it, boys’?” said Alex. Peter hit Alex in the balls. Alex doubled over and tripped over his own feet and fell and Peter broke for it. The other boys were just behind him, but the moment’s lapse in their reaction was all he needed to get to the bus, whatever was nearest, something at least he could hang on to and kick. He made passing eye contact through the bus window with those girls, the Sworn twins, staring at him with those spooky little eyes, but if staring was the worst of it there were things worse than eyes. He leaped up the steps but then one of the twins’ eyes widened (which?—lost to history) and she yelled, “Watch out!” but Peter knew: he had lost, and a hand seized him by the ponytail and wrenched him down off the bus and he was shoved to the pavement, finding himself in a ring of boys and looking up