Chapter Seven

When Raymond pulled up in Larissa's driveway, she came out immediately. He didn't have to honk or knock or meet the family. She took short steps, careful in her high heels, her stride limited by the snug calf-length hem line of her one-piece, knitted dress.

She didn't give him time to get out and open her door for her, but instead trotted around and climbed in. Maybe that was what she was used to. (Or, as first-period Sela put it, "useta to.")

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," he said back.

So much for small talk, Raymond thought. The motor was still running so he shifted into reverse and backed out. In seconds they were down the little lane and out onto the highway, clipping along toward Wailele. She sat with her hands folded over the tiny change purse in her lap, twisted in the bucket seat so that she could face Raymond. Raymond stared ahead at the road.

"You look great," he told her, wishing in a way that it wasn't so true. The dress showed off her topography the same way her bathing suit had.

"So do you."

He'd gone to the extent of buying a packet of razors and a sample-can of shaving cream that smelled like toothpaste. Besides shaving, he'd also slicked back his hair so his bangs wouldn't get in his eyes as much. One lock had already broken free and flopped down onto his forehead, and he pushed it away with a finger.

Barely five minutes passed before they turned into the parking lot at Wailele. Even as Raymond pulled into a space he could feel the rhythmic booming of giant speakers inside the gymnasium, like giant footsteps in the pit of his stomach. He went around and opened her door for Larissa, surprising her. She thanked him and got out.

Another "L. B. I. Over ALL" tag had been sprayed on the side of the office building and the Bloods sat on the concrete benches outside the gym, dressed down for the occasion. Every one of them wore either white leather basketball shoes or rubber flip-flops. Some had on dirty basketball jerseys or tee-shirts with the arms cut off, cropped around the midriff. One guy wore a red tank top under a white dress shirt, once crisp, with the arms and collar ripped out. This is why the Salvation Army needs store detectives, Raymond thought. As he began to sweat in anticipation of running the gauntlet of Bloods, all he could think about was Susan, saying Wailele dances were boring. Funny—he wasn't bored a bit.

Larissa led the way between the two columns of Samoans. One of them slapped Larissa on the rear. When she stopped to talk to another one, a relatively puny guy with a Gilligan hat, Raymond walked past her and waited at the door.

While Larissa talked to the little Blood, a huge Samoan came around the corner of the gymnasium. He stopped beneath a light pole and crushed out his cigarette with his foot. Raymond leaned against a column and watched him approach Larissa.

Their argument was brief. He tried to touch her but she moved away. All eyes—including Saul's—swung around to the haole. Raymond consciously unclenched his fists as they approached him. As Larissa moved to his other side, putting Raymond between herself and the big Polynesian, he felt like he was playing the flinching game again. But Saul didn't move or speak. Instead, Larissa, smiled thinly at Ray and put her arm through his.

"I not going come wit' you, Saul." Her accent surprised Raymond. When she dropped into pidgin she sounded like she'd shed forty IQ points.

"Shut up. Try listen!"

"You shut up!" There was a pause. Raymond stayed out. Or wanted to, but Larissa took his hand. "Come on, Raymond, let's go in and dance."

He brushed against Saul as they walked past, and he could feel the heat coming off of the huge Samoan. Larissa slipped Raymond the tickets as he tried to ignore the curses from the group and they approached the entrance. The two security guards smiled at Larissa and frowned at Raymond, and opened the double doors when he presented the tickets. Thudding speakers drowned out the noise from outside. They were in; Raymond relaxed.

The gymnasium was dark but filled with light, coming from strings of flashing Christmas lights, a couple of intermittent spotlights, a slowly revolving disco ball, and bits and pieces of moon and stars let in through long, rectangular skylights. The nearest two bleachers had been pulled out to the edge of the red vinyl court-blanket, and a row of rolling blackboards across the gym cut the basketball court in half, making things cozier. The place smelled like petrified ceiling insulation and the insides of shoes. As they entered the record hesitated slightly, and Raymond noticed a variation in the pattern of the noise. New song, he thought.

Larissa led Raymond to a spot, staked her claim on the floor and set into a pattern, moving to the heavy throb of the music. Raymond began to dance self-consciously, ignoring the nosy stares from their neighbors. As they danced the first song, Larissa leaned close and fed Raymond all the juiciest about the students dancing around them. Raymond grinned like he cared and absorbed the information like a shellacked sponge.

A couple more songs and a slow one began, fitting right into the groove of the others. Couples made their way off, regrouped, then clustered in the center of the floor. Larissa didn't show any intentions of leaving. She approached Raymond, smiling, and there was that moment of uncertainty when Raymond didn't know if he should try the "PG" slow-dance position (one hand on hip, other hand holding hers), or the more "PG-13" one (her hands around his shoulders, his around her waist, with an option to migrate south). He'd eventually graduated to the second with Julie, but not for several dances. Larissa solved the problem by slinging both arms over Raymond's shoulders and locking them in place, so that he was forced to put his arms around her waist to keep them out of the way. She hung there and swayed with him, keeping her head on his chest. Her hair smelled like one of those food shampoos—with wheat germ or honey or oatmeal.

As the music cranked on, Raymond watched the couples dancing around them, seeing basically the same things that he had seen at Mountain View. There were the young ones, new at this, maintaining the standard position with sweaty hands and looking as if they might bolt to the bathrooms at any minute. There were the long-timers, as close as he and Larissa were, licking each others' tonsils right there on the floor. There were the weirdoes, windmilling by themselves or alone with other people, not touching anyone else. The second chorus started and Larissa moved closer, if that was possible. He glanced down to see her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted.

Just as Raymond was in the process of censoring some mildly carnal thoughts, somebody pushed him from behind, forcing Raymond's pelvis into Larissa's, revealing to her exactly what he was thinking at just that moment. He wheeled, red, but nobody was there—just couples hugging each other to the music. Larissa turned him gently by his shoulder and pushed up against him again. "Don't mind the animals," she said. The loud music gave her words the effect of a whisper. He flipped his hair out of his eyes and hugged her more tightly and they swayed gently again until the music double-timed into another fast tune.

When they separated, Raymond spotted Ed and his girlfriend performing what looked like a mating ritual. They remained connecting to each other in one way or another: holding hands, arms around waists, little kisses. Some of the other students were pointing and giggling, but Ed didn't seem to care. The next song was mixed in, and Raymond led Larissa over by Tina and Ed. Ed looked up, saw them, and smiled a little snide smile as they lined up, with the guys on one side and the girls on the other. They danced like that for a long time, until Larissa took Raymond by the hand and led him off the floor.

"You thirsty?" she asked, screaming over the noise.

Raymond was sweating all over. Perspiration soaked his shirt and there were odd, dark spots showing on the legs of his jeans. He wondered how much moisture he'd lost. "Thirsty," he agreed.

"Want to go get something?"

He nodded vigorously, peeling his shirt away from his slick body to let some air in. She lead him through the crowd by the hand, into the lobby. Raymond hesitated by the drinking fountain but Larissa yanked him on. "That water's room temperature," she told him, "and it tastes like the pipes." They pushed out the doors.

The Bloods were still there, standing in a circle and laughing. One of them turned and saw Raymond and Larissa in the doorway, and motioned to the rest of them to look. Larissa pulled Raymond back into the dance and they pushed back across the dance floor. Beyond the barrier of blackboards was the other half of the basketball court, shadowy and strangely empty They crossed and went out the back exit. Quietly, they cut through somebody's side yard, crossed the street and walked the quarter mile along the highway to the little grocery store and the Union '76 station. Larissa clutched Raymond's arm as they crunched across the pocketed blacktop.

"Don't the Bloods ever go inside?" Raymond asked her.

"Not when they're ticket dances." She leaned on him to flip a pebble out of her shoe. "They'll drink a while and wait outside until guys up front stop watching the door. Then they'll go in."

A burst of raucous laughter echoed from across the street, backgrounded by the ominous thumping of the dance. "The music wasn't that bad," he admitted to her. It wasn't that good, either, but he wasn't saying.

"Told you. Here's the machine—I've got change."

She supplied the quarters, and he plunked them in. Both chose Sprite, and it burned going down. They sat on the wobbly bench next to the vending machine and sipped silently. It burned good.

Another scream came across the street, and Raymond looked up to see a cluster of dark figures shuffle through the puddle of light under the bus stop street lamp. It was the Bloods. He looked at Larissa, and saw that she was watching them, too.

"Oh shit," Larissa said.

"You're telling me?"

"Maybe you'd better get out of here."

"And leave you alone?"

He stood up and moved in front of her as the Bloods drifted across the crosswalk.

"They won't hurt me," she said, quietly. "I won't think bad about you if you run."

It wasn't her he was thinking about. He didn't want Them to see him turn tail.

"Shit," she whispered. She stood next to him. He stood ground.

The Bloods stopped laughing as they circled the Coke machine. Raymond took another swish of Sprite, feeling the same way he'd felt on Monday as he'd walked away from slamming that Blood. His can was still half full, and he poured the liquid out onto the ground, musing offhandedly that it sounded like someone urinating in the gravel. He played with the can, crushing it together and clicking it back and forth as the aluminum made corners and little drops of Sprite spilled out on his hands and jeans. His mind wandered, trying to deny that there were twelve Samoans surrounding him, smiling and drunk.

Twelve? He tried to count, but couldn't, in the light. He glanced over and saw that Larissa was crying.

"Eh, haole boy," one of them slurred, swaying slightly, "whach you t'ink you doin' out heah inna dahk?"

Raymond didn't answer, and they cackled.

"Eh—small haole shit, try come ovah heah so we can talk, li' dat." That was Anthony. He spit and it landed next to Raymond's right shoe.

The mass parted and a huge figure crunched through. Raymond's muscles tightened around his lungs and he strained with all he had to keep his knees from buckling. Behind him, Larissa sobbed quietly.

The Blood stopped in front of him. He kicked some dirty gravel on Anthony's spittle, then backed up one step. It was Saul. His shoulders stuck further out of the armholes of his cut-apart tee-shirt than any human shoulders should have. The red light from the Coke machine colored the darkness of his skin, lending him an infernal glow. The muscles of his arms bulged, quivering slightly, as he stood there with the wind sliding off his sweat.

"What's yo' name, haole boy?"

Raymond stood there without answering, using all of his energy simply keeping his face from twitching off.

Without saying anything else, the Blood curled up his enormous fist and slugged Raymond in the side of the face, ripping his inner mouth and sending him reeling. The haole managed to keep on feet, leaning against the Coke machine until he caught his balance. The ring of insane laughter dared him to fall down. The circle widened and one of the Bloods near Larissa pushed him back toward the center, and Saul grabbed him by the shirt front. All Raymond could do was watch that hand and brace himself.

"No, Saul."

Saul turned and looked at his ex-girlfriend. Raymond didn't dare.

Larissa sniffed. "Stop, Saul," she said.

The hand went down and tapped Saul's leg. Raymond watched it tapping, becoming a fist and pounding. Larissa moved closer, coming right behind the haole.

Saul spoke "You like me stop?"

"Please," Larissa said.

"Kay, den." He pushed Raymond down, making him fall hard on the gravel. "We go, den." Saul grabbed Larissa's hand and pulled through the ring. Raymond listened until their footsteps faded.

He struggled to get up, stumbling to his knees before the circle closed in further. Anthony came to the center, planted his basketball shoes in the gravel and spit in Raymond's hair. Raymond grimaced, not bothering to wipe at it with his hand—that would just spread it around. As he got to his feet he felt it oozing back a little. The Bloods laughed, and Raymond made no attempt to hide his disgust.

"Like that, eh, haole? Eh, palangi?" More laughter.

Anthony came closer, and Raymond could smell the alcohol on his breath. He resisted the impulse to push his hair out of his face; he didn't want to touch it. Without thinking, he swished his tongue around in his mouth, tasting Sprite and blood, then hacked and spit, splattering Anthony's face. Maniacal laughter. The Blood wiped his face with the back of his hand and flicked as much of it as he could onto the ground. He shook his head and raised his fist suddenly. Raymond didn't flinch. He smiled and Raymond did too, remembering that day at school. Both knew what had to happen next.

Anthony advanced and threw a tentative punch. Raymond watched it come, dodged it, and poked one himself, scoring on Anthony's jaw. The Bloods wailed as Anthony came around again, swearing in several different languages. He swung again and cuffed Raymond in the ear, but Raymond rode and ducked the rest of its force, then turned and thrust his fist into the Blood's belly, feeling it give like a balloon full of cottage cheese.

Blearily, almost like he was required to, Anthony dragged himself over to Raymond again. He threw two hooks, one left and one right; both missed. Nearly smiling, Raymond pasted him on the side of the face and added a kick to the groin. He felt it connect, and the Blood crumpled to the ground with a pitiful gasp.

The laughter stopped. Raymond stepped back, looking down on Anthony, who rocked back and forth on the ground, trying to get up. The haole looked from face to face, seeing fresh worry and old hatred on each one.

"Let me go, now," he said simply.

"Da fuck we will," Anthony said as he staggered to his feet. "Sole," he said to his friends. "Sole, try take him."

Before Raymond could even remember what sole meant, two Bloods yanked his arms behind him. Another knelt behind him and held his legs. The haole struggled, but his heart wasn't in it. He knew he had no chance. It was rugby time. Raymond could hear Saul and Larissa arguing across the street. Over someone's shoulders, he saw her sitting on the bus stop bench while Saul towered over her.

Anthony seemed to gain strength as he gained the upper hand. He sauntered up to Raymond, smiling, dribbling blood from his ear and not bothering to wipe it away. At once he set into Raymond, hitting him again and again, in the shoulders, face, gut, chest. Raymond tried at first not to struggle, but as the pain grew worse and blacker and more and more all-enveloping he found himself using up what precious strength he had, trying to get away. Pain pumped his frenzied squirming higher. He yanked an arm free, jabbing someone in the neck with his elbow before they caught him again. He kicked the Blood holding his legs, a heel to a jaw. They struggled to restrain him, twisting his arm behind his back to make him stop.

Then he stopped. Raymond watched Anthony as he stepped back, smiled wickedly, and then kicked him in the stomach. The other Bloods dropped him and he landed on the gravel, protecting the base of his skull with his hands as his head fell back, feeling the sharp edges of the rocks as they bit into the skin on his knuckles. He couldn't tell if the little crowd was laughing now, or not. He guessed not. They took turns kicking him in the ribs, then stopped suddenly and walked off, muttering to each other. He lay there, fighting with the blackness that threatened to overtake him.

He lost again.

* * *

When he heard his name, he thought he was just hearing things, like the mirages on the road to Tucson, shimmering silver in the dip in the road, moving ahead so they're always just out of reach. The voice came through the rain that was pouring down, sparkling like the drops and mixing with the rush of the water. Water filled the pothole his head was in, overrunning and spilling down his neck, trickling along his back. He tried to relax the muscles of his scalp, his ears.

Mentally, he scanned his body for pain, but it was impossible to separate specific injuries from the overall, general agony. His right hand cradled his head where it lay and the other arm was twisted unnaturally behind his back. The rain had made mud, and every part of him touching the ground was peppered with wet, dirty grit.

Then came the footsteps, crunching in the gravel. He was too tired to be frightened. When he saw her, Susan masked her concern with a sarcastic smile. She stood above him, the rain slicking her short cotton skirt against her legs. She leaned down and asked what he wished was a stupid question.

"You alive?"

His nose had clotted by then. The water washed the old blood in pink crescents down his cheeks. Blood streaked his neck. His shirt was torn open, all the buttons popped. Scratches and scrapes ran up and down his arms, with bruises beginning where he'd been punched. "Bloods," he managed.

"Duh," she smiled. "They're drunk. You need a hospital."

He shook his head, rocking it back and forth in the boggy pothole. "I just need some rest. I'll be all right."

She knelt down next to him and lifted his head out of the puddle. She was smiling in spite of the rocks and ragged blacktop that bit into her bare knees. Her hands bent his head up, straining his neck, while she scooted closer and slipped her bent leg between his skull and the pavement. Careful fingers peeled his hair out of his eyes and slicked it back as the rain continued to fall.

"What are you doing here?" he asked her.

Water dripped from her hair to his face as she bent over him. "I saw Larissa with Saul and heard those Neanderthals come back, put two and two together and came up with four and a half."

"No," he smiled, "what are you doing at the dance? I didn't think you went to Wailele dances."

She shrugged. The rain had soaked her tee-shirt and he could see the outline of her bra underneath. She had a little drop of water hanging off her nose. "I couldn't think of anything to do that didn't involve shampoo or a VCR."

"You just felt like it."

"I just felt like it. Plus, I knew you were going to be here, and knowing you …"

He tried to nod, then grinned when he couldn't. Her concerned look came back.

"Are you ready to get up? I mean, how much does it hurt?"

He just kept smiling. "A lot. Trust me on this."

"Do you have your car here?" she asked. He told her yes. "Should I bring it to you or you to it?"

He had his pride. "Help me up. But slowly."

She nodded and moved into a squat, cradling his head with one hand and reaching around under his armpit to clutch his shoulder blade. "Easy," he told her. Tightening his abdomen, he forced himself to sit, bracing himself with his bruised arms. Then she stood and took his arm and literally pulled him to his feet, hurting his shoulder and ribs the most. She lifted his arm and put herself underneath him, supporting most of his weight with her back.

She was helping him on the side where he'd been kicked, but he didn't complain. With his arm stretched across her shoulder, breathing sent regular jolts through his body. They turned around like contestants in a three-legged race. When he looked down, he could see little grains of gravel stuck to her knees and legs.

They headed to the street, stopping at the crosswalk to let a car whiz by in a swirling spray of street-lit raindrops. He looked across and saw the two security guards standing and watching them with walkie-talkies in hand. He limped across, letting Susan help him into his car. It's their job to help, Raymond thought as she started the engine. The taller one raised his radio and mumbled something into it. The final static "tsch" got lost in the rain.

As Susan backed out, Raymond had a thought.

"Larissa," he said.

"Forget about her," Susan said. "She may have come with you, but she's going home with Saul. Or wherever."

"I was her ride."

Susan shook her head. "You amaze me."

The windshield wipers beat to the rhythm of the dance still going on. The two security guards watched them from the crosswalk as they pulled out of the parking lot. When they were almost past, Susan clutched, revved the engine and peeled out. The jolt forced Raymond's head back against the cushion, which hurt. He didn't complain. They were out of Wailele.

"You do have a license, don't you?" he asked her as they sped past the police station.

"Practically," she said. "Did you know that one of your headlights is kaput?"

"No," he said, clearing his throat.

Susan flipped on the brights for the country stretch. "Maybe you should've run them over after all," she suggested.

"Huh?"

"Remember last week. Monday. You almost hit them."

His mouth was ragged from the first punch. "Should've wiped the bastards all over the road."

"No," she told him.

"Yeah, probably would've thrown out my front end." It hurt to smile.

"No."

She slowed down for Kalohe and turned the wiper speed up. He tasted the inside of his mouth, rolled down the window and spit.

"Violence isn't the solution."

"Who are you, Gandhi?" He was surprised by the irritation in his voice. "Try telling them that."

She didn't answer, and they rode in silence until he had to give her directions to his house. The rain was easing off by then, and they sat in the dark car in the driveway, waiting to see if it would stop altogether.

She took the keys out of the ignition and handed them to him, then reached over and in an almost maternal gesture closed his buttonless shirt, as if that would keep out the cold. "Sorry," she said. "I'm just incredibly anti-violence and anti-hate."

"I hate them," he said, more to himself than her. "And I feel like killing them."

"You ought to meet some nice locals. It would do you good."

"There is such a thing?"

"Of course. You can't generalize everybody."

He remembered their voices. Haole this, haole that. "Why not? They seem to be allowed to."

"Then they're wrong. Be bigger."

"I'm beyond that." He yawned, and his chest assaulted him. Inside his nose, something cracked, and he felt blood begin to drip.

"I'd better get you inside."

"What about you?"

"Can you drive?" He thought for a moment, and decided he probably couldn't. She suggested that she could simply crash at his place.

"Wouldn't your parents mind?"

"At this point, I don't care. Just get me in onto the couch and you can have my bed."

"Deal," she said, and he handed her back the keys.

She helped him limp inside, and left him sprawling on the couch as she used the phone. Raymond listened with his eyes closed, grinning at the way she tried to explain things. "No, he's not a boyfriend or anything." She tapped her nails on the bar top. "No, not yet. He was somebody else's date. He just needed help." The tapping stopped. "No, not that kind." When she hung up, she came back into the living room and asked him where the towels were.

"In the closet just outside the bathroom, second door on the left."

"And where's your room?"

"End of the hall. Door's probably shut." It always blew shut in the drafts.

He stared at the ceiling, listening to her open cupboards and doors. A faucet in the sink ran, and she came back, wearing a pair of his sweats and a tee-shirt. She had a blanket for him and a towel with one end sopping.

"Pardon me for being brazen, but I'm going to get you out of this wet stuff." She knelt beside the couch and helped him off with his shirt, then slid his jeans down over his feet. He hoped his mother was asleep. There was none of the usual sarcasm in her face, or in her eyes. With the wet end of the towel she'd brought, she rubbed him all over, hurting him at will as she twisted him around to get every angle. She ended with an invigorating rub of his hair, first with the wet and then with the dry. He hoped that got most of the spit out. Then she spread the blanket over him, left him to toss the sopping things into the bathtub, and lifted his head and shoulders to slide underneath. She positioned herself so his head rested perfectly and comfortably in the hollow of her lap, and tucked the blanket up under his chin.

She was playing with his hair when he fell asleep.

© Copyright 2002 by David S. Baker