Rumble Fish Read Free Page A

natural state.
    â€œLookit,” he said, “I’m goin’, ain’t I?”
    I guess the thought that he was really going made him brave again, ’cause he went on: “If you think this is gonna turn out to be a rumble, you’re crazy. You and Biff are gonna go at it and the rest of us is gonna watch. I doubt too many’s gonna show up for that much.”
    â€œSure,” I said, only half listening to him. We had come to the pet store. We turned into the alley that ran alongside of it, crawled through a hole in the back fence and came out onto the vacant lot that led right down to the river. The lot was damp and it stank. The area around here always stinks from that river, but it’s worse in the lot. Further down, a bunch of plants and factories dump their garbage into the water. You don’t notice the stink if you live there awhile. It’s just extra strong in that lot.
    Smokey was right—only four of the guys who were in Benny’s were there waiting for us. B.J. looked around and said, “I thought Steve was gonna be here.” He said it sarcastic. They never could understand why I let Steve hang around.
    â€œSo, maybe he’s late,” I said. I didn’t really expect him to show up, except that he said he would.
    Across the field was Biff and his gang. I counted them, just like the Motorcycle Boy taught me to. Know everything you can about the enemy. There was six. Even enough. I was getting so high on excitement I couldn’t stand still.
    â€œRusty-James!”
    It was Biff, coming across the lot to meet me. Oh, man, I couldn’t wait. I was going to stomp him good. It seemed like my fists ached to be pounding something. “I’m here!” I called.
    â€œNot for long, you punk,” Biff said. He was close enough for me to see him clearly. My eyes get supersharp before a fight. Everything gets supersharp before a fight—like with a little effort I could fly. During a fight, though, I almost go blind; everything turns red.
    Biff was sixteen, but not any bigger than me; husky; his arms hung off his shoulders like an ape’s. He had a pug-ugly face and wiry blond hair. He was dancing around worse than I was.
    â€œHe’s been poppin’ pills,” Smokey said behind me.
    Now, I hate fighting hopped-up people. They’re crazy. You get crazy enough in a fight without being doped up. You fight some cat who’s been washing down bennies with sneaky pete and they can’t tell if you kill ’em. Your only advantage is a little more control. I never do dope, as a rule. Dope ruined the gangs.
    Biff looked high. The light from the street-lamps was bouncing off his eyes in a way that made him look crazy.
    â€œI hear you’re lookin’ for me,” I said. “Here I am.”
    I’ve done this lots of times before. I’d get in a fight about once a week. I hadn’t lost a fight in almost two years. But Biff was a little tougher than the usual kid. If the gang wars had still been going on he would have been leader of the Devilhawks. He didn’t like anybody to forget that, either. You can’t take it for granted you’re going to stomp some snotty-nosed seventh-grader, so when you go up against somebody like Biff Wilcox you think about it.
    We started in on the warm up, cussing each other out, name-calling, threats. This was according to the rules. I don’t know who made up the rules.
    â€œCome on,” I said finally. I like to get down to business. “Take a swing at me.”
    â€œTake a swing at you?” Biff’s hand went to his back pocket and came out flashing silver. “I’m gonna cut you to ribbons.”
    I didn’t have a knife with me. Most people didn’t knife-fight these days. I usually carried a switchblade, but I got caught with it at school and they took it away from me and I hadn’t gotten around to getting another one. Biff should of told me it