The Revealers Read Free

lunchroom, was empty. I was starting to turn my combination when, at the end of the corridor, Richie appeared.
    He leaned against a locker, looking at me. My fingers
turned slippery. The combination was wrong. I couldn’t get the lock open—I couldn’t do it!
    He started walking toward me.
    There was total silence except for his footsteps. The hallway was echoing. I wasn’t breathing. My fingers were paralyzed.
    Beside me, he stopped.
    I didn’t want to look up. But it was like I had to … like he had control.
    Richie smiled.
    â€œHow you feeling today, little boy?”
    My mouth opened, but there was no sound.
    â€œHey, don’t worry about it,” he said. “You needed to learn something. And you learned. Right?”
    â€œUh …” I blushed.
    He leaned closer. “Little boy. Am I right?”
    Finally I whispered, “Okay.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYeah.” He smiled, stepping back. “That’s that,” he said. He looked me up and down.
    â€œListen,” he said. “You need to stop by the Farms after school today.”
    â€œI do?”
    â€œYeah. You do.”
    â€œWhy?”
    His forehead wrinkled. “Because I told you to,” he said, patiently.
    â€œOh.”
    He started to walk away. “Be there,” he said without turning around.
    Â 
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    That afternoon, I started filling up again with happiness. Hey … Richie smiled at me? He said that was that!
    Maybe he wants to be friends. Maybe I passed some kind of test or something. Maybe that’s why he told me to come to the Farms.
    Yeah!
    I even started thinking about that black army jacket again. I guessed maybe I had earned it now. It’d be like special identincation—only he and I would have them. Only we would know.
    After school I went up quiet old Chamber again. I walked by the police building and crossed the parking lot. Just when I was coming up to the back of Convenience Farms, the side door opened and Richie stepped out. It was like he knew when I’d be there, like he had extrasensitive perception.
    He leaned against the building and flicked his head toward the door.
    â€œGo ahead,” he said. “Get your soda.”
    â€œOh. Well, okay. You want one?”
    But I didn’t have money for two. Why did I …
    â€œNo,” he said, smiling in a funny way. “I don’t want one.”
    I went in and got my root beer. This felt great! I was going to have a soda! Everything was going to be okay. Really okay.
    When I came back out Richie was still leaning against the wall. He flicked his head again in a motion that told me: Come over here.
    I went over.
    He stuck out his hand. His thumb and fingers were curved, the way you’d hold a bottle. He looked at me. He lifted his eyebrows.
    I put the bottle in his hand.
    He studied it, frowned, and handed it back.
    â€œIt’s not open,” he said.
    I turned the white cap. The plastic catches broke, one af-
ter another, slowly, like each little snap was the only sound in the world.
    I gave him the bottle.
    He took it and stood up straight, and with his free hand he gripped the front of my shirt. He lifted the bottle over my head, slowly tipped it, and started to pour.
    Â 
    Here’s how an ice-cold twenty-ounce A&W root beer feels being poured over your head:
    It’s cold and wet and it fizzes horribly on your scalp. Down your hair! It fizzes so hard your face hurts—it’s like burning, dribbling down the back of your neck, soaking cold the front of your shirt. (Aw no, not more … ) It actually hurts on top of your head. You can taste root beer on your tongue, and the drops look golden brown at the tips of your eyelashes. Everything drips. You’re already getting sticky.
    I just stood there. Richie put the empty bottle in my hand and walked away.
    â€œRecycle,” he said, without looking back.