Rumble Fish Read Free Page B

was going to be knife-fighting. God that made me mad! People don’t pay attention to the rules anymore.
    Biff’s friends were cheering and screaming and my friends were grumbling and I said, “Anybody lend me a blade?” I still thought I could win—Biff wouldn’t have pulled a knife if he thought he could win in a fair fight. All I had to do was equal things up.
    Nobody had a knife. That’s what comes of not gang-fighting. People are never prepared.
    Somebody said, “Here’s a bike chain,” and I held back my hand for it, never taking my eyes off Biff.
    Just like I expected, he tried to make the most of that moment, lunging at me. I was quick enough, though, grabbing the chain, dodging the knife, and sticking out my foot to trip him. He just stumbled, and whirled around, jabbing at me. I sucked in my gut and wrapped the chain around his neck, jerking him to the ground. All I wanted to do was get the knife away from him. I’d kill him later. First things first. I jumped on top of him, caught his arm as he swung the knife at me, and for what seemed like hours we wrestled for that knife. I took a risk I thought was worth taking and tried holding his knife hand with one arm, and used the other to smash his face. It worked, he loosened his hold on the knife long enough for me to get it away from him. It fell a few feet away from us, far enough away that I didn’t bother trying to reach for it, which was good. If I had gotten a hold of it, I’d have killed Biff. As it was, I was pounding his brains out. If he’d give up on that damned knife he might of stood a chance; he was older than me, and just as tough. But he didn’t come there to fight fair, so instead of fighting back, he’d just keep trying to get away and crawl over to the knife. Gradually I started to calm down, the red tinge to everything went away, I could hear everyone screaming and yelling. I looked at Biff. His whole face was bloody and swollen.
    â€œYou give?” I sat back on his gut and waited. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. He didn’t say anything, just lay there breathing heavy, watching me out of the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut. Everybody was quiet. I could feel his gang tensed, ready, like a dog pack about to be set loose. One word from Biff would do it. I glanced over to Smokey. He was ready. My gang would fight, even if they weren’t crazy about the idea.
    Then a voice I knew said, “Hey, what’s this? I thought we signed a treaty.” The Motorcycle Boy was back. People cleared a path for him. Everybody was quiet.
    I got to my feet. Biff rolled over and lay a few feet away from me, swearing.
    â€œI thought we’d stopped this cowboys and Indians crap,” said the Motorcycle Boy.
    I heard Biff dragging himself to his feet, but didn’t pay any attention. Usually I’m not that stupid, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the Motorcycle Boy. I’d thought he was gone for good. I was almost sure he was gone for good.
    â€œLook out!” somebody screamed. I whipped around, and felt the knife slide down my side, cold. It was meant to split me open from throat to gut, but I had moved just in time. It didn’t hurt. You can’t feel a knife cut, at first.
    Biff stood a few feet away from me, laughing like a maniac. He was wiping the blood off the blade on his already-splattered T-shirt. “You are one dead cat, Rusty-James.” His voice was thick and funny-sounding, because of his swollen nose. He wasn’t dancing around anymore, and you could tell by the way he moved he was hurtin’. But at least he was on his feet, and I wouldn’t be much longer. I was cold, and everything looked watery around the edges. I’d been knife cut before, I knew what it felt like to be bleeding bad.
    The Motorcycle Boy stepped out, grabbed Biff’s wrist and snapped it backwards. You could hear it crack like a