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'Mike wasn't afraid of anyone.'
When a pair of black biker boots stepped into his path, Mike Webster's face morphed from its usual sunny skies to rumbling stormclouds. Brad Jaworski had selected Mike to be his lucky scapegoat this week. It was Thursday, and so far, he had thrown Mike's books down the stairs, stolen his clothes while he was in the shower, tripped him in class, and shut his locker while he was using it an average of four times a day. Mike was getting fed up, but he'd been in detention twice already this year for fighting, and he'd promised his mother that it wouldn't happen again.
"What do you want, Jaworski?"
Brad was a solid four inches taller than Mike, and their football team's best linebacker. That didn't mean Mike was afraid of him. Mike wasn't afraid of anyone. Rudy called it part of his charm, usually while holding ice to his knuckles.
Looming closer, Brad snatched the brown paper sack out of Mike's hand, holding it up out of Mike's reach as he inspected the drawing on the front. There were five hearts, the largest of which had a smiley face, all surrounding Mike's name in curlicued script.
"Your mom pack your lunch for you, Webster?" Brad sneered.
Mike folded his arms in lieu of continuing to stand on his tiptoes to try to retrieve his lunch. "So what if she did?"
Seeing as Mike had apparently abandoned any further rescue attempts, Brad opened the bag and pulled out a saran-wrapped stack of cookies. Then he ripped the bag in half.
Stealing his mother's homemade cookies, Mike would later muse as ice was fondly applied to his smarting hand, was insult enough. Tearing apart her lovingly-decorated paper sack and scattering the rest of the lunch on the floor was more than someone like Mike — who had been gallantly holding back until now — could possibly be asked to put up with.
Brad took Mike's fist to the left side of his jaw and stumbled, dropping his ill-gotten cookies before he recovered. Then he hit back.
Mike saw nothing but stars until Brad was hauled bodily off of him.
"Jaworski!" Mike didn't recognize the voice, but he was so dazed, he wasn't sure he'd recognize his own mother. He picked himself up off the wall and put a tender hand to his lower lip, which was welling with blood. His sight began to return to him slowly.
Brad was backing away, hands in the air, looking surly as ever but somehow — Mike squinted and immediately regretted it — sheepish? Apologetic, even?
"Sorry, Boots," he said then, confirming Mike's bewildered suspicions. "He hit me first. A guy's gotta protect his reputation, you know?"
Boots, for his part, looked unimpressed. "I can only talk the coach into keeping you on the team through so many detentions, Jaworski." He looked Mike's way (cool blue eyes, Mike noticed with a heavy thump of his heart) and said, "You okay, Webster?"
"Yeah. What? Yeah." Mike shook his head, looking down at his bloody palm. "I need Rudy. Some ice. I need some ice."
As he crouched to pick up the cookies, most of which were broken in their wrapping, he heard Boots talking to Brad again, voice low.
"And I can't talk Rudy Miller out of destroying your life. Get out of here before he shows up."
Casting a rueful glance Mike's way, which Mike met with a scowl that split his lip all over again, Brad departed, leaving Mike alone in the hall with unfortunately attractive quarterback Boots O'Neal, who now crouched beside him. Together, they collected the parts of Mike's lunch. It was ostensibly still edible, aside from the pear, which had taken a beating from the floor.
"Thanks," Mike muttered as he accepted his slightly-limp sandwich. "I did hit him first."
"I'd have hit him, too," Boots admitted with a laugh. He stood and helped Mike to his feet. "Sorry about him. Jaworski's not a bad guy, but you have to hold your ground against him, or he'll walk all over you."
Mike wasn't so convinced, but he didn't say as much. His Rudy senses were tingling, and he said this to Boots, instead. Boots looked somewhat troubled, but before he could utter a word of skepticism, Rudy glided around the corner.
"There you are," he declared, not as if he'd been looking for Mike so much as if he'd known he'd find him here. Even as he spoke, his dark eyes were taking in every nuance of the situation, and before he'd finished, he'd insinuated himself gracefully between Mike and Boots. "Finding trouble again," he remarked mildly.
He sounded less than concerned, but his hands were on Mike and they were attentive and delicate. Mike smiled to placate him, if to little effect. "I hit him first."
"Not O'Neal," Rudy answered with a rising brow. "He's still standing."
Over Rudy's shoulder, Mike saw Boots's face cycle through mild indignation, concern, and finally resignation. Mike shrugged.
"Not O'Neal," he agreed, but didn't offer Brad's name, either. "I need ice, Rudy."
Rudy's eyes narrowed and his lips thinned almost imperceptibly, but he took Mike's hand and led him away without a backwards glance at Boots. Mike, on the other hand, did look back, and was the recipient of a grateful smile from the quarterback.
Thank you, he mouthed, and Mike lost his second fight of the day to a stupid smile.
"You're making it bleed again," Rudy pointed out helpfully.
Mike turned his eyes forward. "I hit him first," he offered.
"You usually do, and they usually deserve it."
"What do you want, Jaworski?"
Brad was a solid four inches taller than Mike, and their football team's best linebacker. That didn't mean Mike was afraid of him. Mike wasn't afraid of anyone. Rudy called it part of his charm, usually while holding ice to his knuckles.
Looming closer, Brad snatched the brown paper sack out of Mike's hand, holding it up out of Mike's reach as he inspected the drawing on the front. There were five hearts, the largest of which had a smiley face, all surrounding Mike's name in curlicued script.
"Your mom pack your lunch for you, Webster?" Brad sneered.
Mike folded his arms in lieu of continuing to stand on his tiptoes to try to retrieve his lunch. "So what if she did?"
Seeing as Mike had apparently abandoned any further rescue attempts, Brad opened the bag and pulled out a saran-wrapped stack of cookies. Then he ripped the bag in half.
Stealing his mother's homemade cookies, Mike would later muse as ice was fondly applied to his smarting hand, was insult enough. Tearing apart her lovingly-decorated paper sack and scattering the rest of the lunch on the floor was more than someone like Mike — who had been gallantly holding back until now — could possibly be asked to put up with.
Brad took Mike's fist to the left side of his jaw and stumbled, dropping his ill-gotten cookies before he recovered. Then he hit back.
Mike saw nothing but stars until Brad was hauled bodily off of him.
"Jaworski!" Mike didn't recognize the voice, but he was so dazed, he wasn't sure he'd recognize his own mother. He picked himself up off the wall and put a tender hand to his lower lip, which was welling with blood. His sight began to return to him slowly.
Brad was backing away, hands in the air, looking surly as ever but somehow — Mike squinted and immediately regretted it — sheepish? Apologetic, even?
"Sorry, Boots," he said then, confirming Mike's bewildered suspicions. "He hit me first. A guy's gotta protect his reputation, you know?"
Boots, for his part, looked unimpressed. "I can only talk the coach into keeping you on the team through so many detentions, Jaworski." He looked Mike's way (cool blue eyes, Mike noticed with a heavy thump of his heart) and said, "You okay, Webster?"
"Yeah. What? Yeah." Mike shook his head, looking down at his bloody palm. "I need Rudy. Some ice. I need some ice."
As he crouched to pick up the cookies, most of which were broken in their wrapping, he heard Boots talking to Brad again, voice low.
"And I can't talk Rudy Miller out of destroying your life. Get out of here before he shows up."
Casting a rueful glance Mike's way, which Mike met with a scowl that split his lip all over again, Brad departed, leaving Mike alone in the hall with unfortunately attractive quarterback Boots O'Neal, who now crouched beside him. Together, they collected the parts of Mike's lunch. It was ostensibly still edible, aside from the pear, which had taken a beating from the floor.
"Thanks," Mike muttered as he accepted his slightly-limp sandwich. "I did hit him first."
"I'd have hit him, too," Boots admitted with a laugh. He stood and helped Mike to his feet. "Sorry about him. Jaworski's not a bad guy, but you have to hold your ground against him, or he'll walk all over you."
Mike wasn't so convinced, but he didn't say as much. His Rudy senses were tingling, and he said this to Boots, instead. Boots looked somewhat troubled, but before he could utter a word of skepticism, Rudy glided around the corner.
"There you are," he declared, not as if he'd been looking for Mike so much as if he'd known he'd find him here. Even as he spoke, his dark eyes were taking in every nuance of the situation, and before he'd finished, he'd insinuated himself gracefully between Mike and Boots. "Finding trouble again," he remarked mildly.
He sounded less than concerned, but his hands were on Mike and they were attentive and delicate. Mike smiled to placate him, if to little effect. "I hit him first."
"Not O'Neal," Rudy answered with a rising brow. "He's still standing."
Over Rudy's shoulder, Mike saw Boots's face cycle through mild indignation, concern, and finally resignation. Mike shrugged.
"Not O'Neal," he agreed, but didn't offer Brad's name, either. "I need ice, Rudy."
Rudy's eyes narrowed and his lips thinned almost imperceptibly, but he took Mike's hand and led him away without a backwards glance at Boots. Mike, on the other hand, did look back, and was the recipient of a grateful smile from the quarterback.
Thank you, he mouthed, and Mike lost his second fight of the day to a stupid smile.
"You're making it bleed again," Rudy pointed out helpfully.
Mike turned his eyes forward. "I hit him first," he offered.
"You usually do, and they usually deserve it."