The Girl from Felony Bay (2 page)

The kids who were getting off at that stop had mostly cleared the aisle. Mr. Jancowski was looking in his mirror. “If you're not getting off, sit down. Simmons, that means you. Don't make me come back there.”

I don't think Mr. Jancowski could see me behind Jimmy Simmons's mass, so he wasn't yelling at me. For the record, I may be small, but I'm as fast as a scalded lizard. I also know how to hit. My father taught me to box because he said girls should be able to protect themselves just the same as boys. He also said that if I was ever going to start a fight, I needed to try and finish it before the other guy got in a good punch.

I saw Jimmy's big hands coming at me, right for my throat like he was planning to give me a good choking. So I used my boxing and hit him with a three-punch combination, all of them on his big, zitty nose.

Jimmy's hands stopped, and his eyes went wide. He seemed amazed that I had hit him so fast. He seemed even more amazed when he wiped his hand under his nostrils and saw that there was blood pouring out.

“Simmons,” Mr. Jancowski shouted again, “I told you to sit down. Don't make me come back there.

Jimmy's nose was bleeding bad enough that he had to try and stop it with his T-shirt. One of the other kids on the bus called out, “Simmons just got his butt whipped by a girl.” Laughter followed. I guess everybody loves to see a bully get what he deserves.

Jimmy's eyes were cutting from me to the kids who were laughing, then back to me. He seemed enraged, confused, and embarrassed all at the same time. I used the opportunity to scoot into the seat beside Skoogie.

“Simmons!” Mr. Jancowski was nearly apoplectic now. “Y'all sit down 'fore I come back there and make you sit.”

Jimmy looked at me and growled, “I'm gonna kill you, Force,” but he walked toward the rear of the bus and took a seat.

I almost laughed. It was the last day of school, and Skoogie's and my stop was just ahead. Jimmy Simmons was as mad as a hornet, but I didn't think he was smart enough to remember anything into next week. With any luck I wouldn't see him again for at least three months.

The bus started moving again, but I sat at an angle so I could keep an eye on Jimmy, in case of a last-minute surprise attack. “You okay, Skoogie?” I whispered.

He nodded and gave me a smile. “Thanks, Abbey.”

I just winked and gave him a gentle poke with my elbow. “Us Felony Bay kids gotta stick together.”

Felony Bay Road was the name of the little dirt road we both lived on and also the name of a small, hidden bay just off the Leadenwah River that had a lot of history. As we got closer to our stop, I stayed on my guard. Even though he seemed busy with his bloody nose, I figured Jimmy Simmons would never let us off the bus without trying a punch or kick or some other last-minute stunt to get even.

I heard the brakes squeal and felt the bus begin to slow. We came to a halt, and the doors opened. I stood and moved into the aisle to let Skoogie get ahead of me; then we walked to the front of the bus and got off. I was holding my breath the entire time, expecting at any second to hear Jimmy's enraged cry and see him charging down the aisle. To my amazement nothing happened. When I looked back, he was still dabbing his blood-soaked T-shirt to his nose.

When our feet hit the pavement, we turned and waved back at Mr. Jancowski. “Have a great summer,” he said. The doors swung closed, and the bus started to move. Skoogie and I smiled at each other.

Unfortunately, like I said before, luck is fickle. This time it lasted only about five seconds. To my horror, the bus's flashers went back on, and it pulled over to the side of the road.

A moment later the doors opened, and Jimmy Simmons stepped onto the soft shoulder. He waved good-bye to Mr. Jancowski, but as soon as the doors closed and the bus started to drive away, he took his bloody T-shirt away from his nose and gave me a wolfish smile.

“Like I said, Force, I'm gonna kill you,” Jimmy shouted. He sounded like somebody with a bad head cold, but it made the blood freeze in my veins.

I shot a glance at Skoogie. “Run,” I whispered.

“No,” he said, his voice trembling with fright.

“Go. Tell your grandmother what's happening.” I knew even as I said it that it wouldn't do any good. What was an old lady who wasn't exactly mobile going to do? Still, it sounded better than nothing.

Jimmy Simmons was coming toward us, taking his time and enjoying himself.

“Run,” I said again.

Skoogie looked at Jimmy, then nodded. “Okay.” He took off.

“Ain't y'all gonna try and run away, too, Force?” Jimmy asked. “You ain't got Jancowski to protect you now.”

I was scared, but I certainly wasn't going to turn and run, not from an idiot like Jimmy Simmons. My father always told me that running away from problems only made them worse. Of course, Daddy was in the hospital, in a coma, but I had to assume if he had been on his feet, he would have told me that fights and problems were in the same category.

“I don't need anybody to protect me from you,” I said, desperately hoping it was true.

Jimmy came to a stop just out of range of my fists. “Y'all're quite the little lucky puncher,” he said, giving me a mocking smile.

“Not lucky. You're just easy to hit.”

That made his lower lip stick out, and his nose wrinkled until his whole face was bunched up like a pig's. “Let's see how y'all like to wrestle.”

He took a step toward me, and I snapped a jab at his nose. He ducked back, just out of range, my fist missing by a fraction of an inch; then he charged, managing to grab a handful of my hair and hold on. I tried to spin and get loose, but he had too good a grip.

He pulled me closer and tried to get me in a hammerlock. I threw a few punches, but Jimmy was too close, wrapping me up with his arms so I couldn't hit. His armpit was in my face, and I could smell his stink, a combination of bacon grease and old sweat. I fought and kicked and tried to jerk free, but he got an arm around my neck and started to squeeze.

“Like this, Force? Feel good?” he grunted.

I said nothing. I clawed at his hands and arms, but my fingernails were too short to do much damage. I cursed myself for not growing them long like some of the other girls did.

“Beg for mercy, Force,” he said, squeezing harder.

I tried to elbow him, but I was in the wrong position. My elbow just bounced off his belt. I still said nothing, but I felt his arm tighten around my windpipe. My vision started to go dark at the corners, and I felt my knees buckle.

He squeezed even harder. My lungs were burning, and I was running out of air. I was starting to realize that if Jimmy didn't let go, I might actually die right here on the side of the road, in the choke hold of an idiot. In that same instant, I thought about Daddy. If I died, I wouldn't be able to go to the hospital and talk to him and read to him. And I certainly wouldn't be able to finally prove that he was innocent.

“Mercy,” I said, using up the last of my air, the word no more than a choking gasp.

Jimmy didn't let up. “Too late,” he said.

I was too far gone to feel panic. I was about to pass out when I heard a sound like a dull
bong
. In the next instant, I felt Jimmy's arm relax and cool air rush into my lungs.

When my vision returned, I was down on my hands and knees in the gravel. Jimmy Simmons was several feet away. He was bent over, holding his head, saying, “Ow, ow, ow.”

I looked around and saw Skoogie and beside him his grandmother, Mrs. Middleton. She was an old African American lady who looked like she could be a hundred but was probably in her sixties or seventies. She was as skinny as a stick and kind of hunched over. Her legs were bad, and she had to use a walker to get around.

In spite of that, she had managed to drag herself all the way here from the trailer where she and Skoogie lived. She had also brought her garden spade, and she had used it to whack Jimmy over the head. I guessed that her shovel blade connecting with Jimmy's skull had been the
bong
I'd heard.

“You all right, child?” Mrs. Middleton asked.

I nodded, even though I really wasn't sure.

“That boy like to have choked the life outta you.”

“Y'all tried to kill me,” Jimmy whined. “I'm gonna tell my dad, and he's gonna arrest y'all. Then you'll be sorry.”

“Tell him whatever you want,” Mrs. Middleton said. “I tell him the truth.”

“You hurt my head. You need to drive me home.”

Mrs. Middleton coughed out a bitter laugh. “Y'all got off the bus at the wrong stop. You get your own self home.”

I looked at Jimmy. His head wasn't bleeding, but he probably had a big goose egg. It served him right. “We're not done,” I managed to say, even though my throat felt like I'd been gargling with sandpaper.

Mrs. Middleton let out another laugh, this one warm and full from deep in her belly. “Girl, you a spitfire.”

Jimmy turned his eyes to me, and I could see the storm clouds gathered there. “Next time I'll finish this,” he said.

“Next time you won't even get to lay a hand on me,” I said.

D
inner that night with Uncle Charlie
and Ruth started out like most nights. Ruth was in the kitchen either thawing dinner or opening a can of dinner and getting ready to heat it up in the microwave. Along with the premade stuff, there was a bag of chopped lettuce and a bottle of dressing. That was basically how we ate every night, unless we had leftovers.

Uncle Charlie was sitting on the porch drinking a big glass of bourbon. He drank two of them out there every night unless it was too hot, too cold, or too rainy, in which case he would drink his bourbon in front of the TV in the living room. Sometimes the bourbon made him goofy; those were his good nights. Other nights it just made him mean. It made him double mean on the days when he'd been playing cards in town and had lost money.

Uncle Charlie was Daddy's brother, but he wasn't anything like Daddy. Daddy was smart and funny and kind and hardworking, and Uncle Charlie was, well . . . the opposite. Daddy always said you didn't get to choose your family, and Uncle Charlie sure proved it. Choosing him for a brother would be like asking for a broken arm for Christmas, maybe worse. Ruth was Uncle Charlie's wife. She was technically my aunt, but she didn't seem like an aunt. So I just called her Ruth.

As a rule I tried to avoid Uncle Charlie when he was drinking or getting ready to start drinking. That meant I pretty much avoided him all the time. I stayed in my room reading or doing homework until it was time to do chores, and then I snuck downstairs to the kitchen, did them as fast as I could, and snuck back upstairs. Most nights Uncle Charlie just sucked on his bourbon and didn't think about me, but that wasn't the case on this night.

“Hey, Squib,” he shouted from the porch. Squib was a nickname he had given me. I had looked it up in the dictionary and knew that a squib was either a sarcastic saying or a little firecracker that burned with a hissing noise and then made a small pop. I was pretty sure Uncle Charlie had no idea what the word actually meant, but from the way he said it, his own meaning wasn't anything very nice. He knew I didn't like the name, and that made him use it even more.

“Squib,” he shouted a second later. “I'm talking to you. Get out here.”

I tried to read his tone to figure out how bad his mood was. I just knew if he was in a good mood, there was no way he'd be calling me outside, and if he was in a really bad mood there was no way I wanted him to come up to my room and corner me where there was no escape. I closed my book and hurried downstairs and out onto the porch, where I was careful to keep some distance. Sometimes when he'd been drinking Uncle Charlie liked to hit.

“What?” I asked.

He sipped on his drink and squinted at me with the same face he'd use if he'd just discovered the meat in his lunch sandwich had gone bad. Uncle Charlie is about six feet two, nearly as tall as Daddy, but no longer thin. He's not exactly fat, either, at least not yet. He reminds me of a candle that's been sitting in the sun too long and is starting to bulge in the wrong places. Also, he has the beginning of three chins, red broken veins on his cheeks, and wispy hair that can't seem to make a decision whether to lie down or stand up. Kind of like Uncle Charlie, now that I think about it.

“Deputy Simmons called. Told me you sucker punched his son. Told me you and some other kids ganged up on the boy.”

I laughed. “That's a lie.”

Uncle Charlie brought his hand down hard on the arm of the chair. “Bubba Simmons don't lie. Not to his friends.”

“His son, Jimmy, lies like a rug.”

“You sayin' you didn't punch his kid?”

“I punched him, but I didn't sucker punch him. We were face-to-face. He went for me first.”

“Young ladies aren't supposed to hit boys.”