Chapter 4 is almost done!

16: Crossing Swords

1

Just down the hall, an opening to the cafeteria streams out pale, baby blue light. Lincoln feels a certain pressure in his stomach, like it has been tumbling around wetly, sloshing and sloping. He traces the outline of his phone in his jean pocket, checking for the seventh time that it's still there. A strong urge tells him that Arnold is on his ass, and he probably is. Nathaniel has already ratted him out, no doubt about it. Hell's gotta start somewhere.

He feels the need to refresh himself. However, he has already gone outside, and that did him no good. He has checked out some memes, but that did him no good. It may have sparked a bit of laughter in his chest, but that had lived as long as his confidence in telling off Nathaniel did. It may have traced a smile into his lips, but it did damn all to ease the thundering beat of his heart, or the paranoia turning his head every five seconds. He tosses a harried look over his shoulder again; seemingly nobody is behind him.

Now entering the cafeteria, a boy with white hair standing on end (likely because of the wind from outside), his back arched down, he walks to his usual table, not even looking up because his legs already know where to take him. He looks up and sees Clyde, twirling his fingers around nervously, Zach, his glasses canted on his forehead and dragging his red hair back, Rusty, suspiciously sniffing his lunchbox through a half-zipped opening, and Stella, staring down at the table crossly. Birtz isn't there for some reason.

He stands there for a second, but they don't notice him. "Hey," he finally croaks. "Am I a ghost to you?"

Clyde's head jolts up, getting up on his feet. "Oh, sorry about that." They slap their hands together, knit them, and pull away; a kind of handshake greeting that they have always used. "How was P1 and P2 buddy?"

"It was alright, nothing special happened," Lincoln lies. He looks at everyone else at the table. "What about you? You guys look excited."

Zach chuckles. "Yeah, I may not look it, but Rusty bet me 25 bucks on the Pigeon Toss thing and I won. Looks like my movie tickets are covered."

"I should've won. You probably cheated," Rusty says. The left corner of his mouth draws back in a sneer. "But I guess cheaters always win. The world is run by em."

Lincoln has no idea what has initially happened between the two of them, so he has no say in what has happened. However, he does know that this game of Pigeon Toss has been the go-to for a few years now, and has always been won fairly. So, there is an impulse to take Zach's side.

"I didn't cheat. You threw your coin so hard it hit another table. So I won automatically," Zach smiles. "No redo, no exception. You lost."

Rusty bows his head, his face reddened by embarrassment. "Oh goddammit, let's just be quiet!"

A few laughs squeeze through his pressed lips, uncontrollable yet still comforting. He sits down, sliding in between Rusty and Stella. He suddenly realizes now that he doesn't have a lunch; and also realizes that he isn't hungry. He doesn't have money, either. And spending it on a lunch will not do him any good because for one, he is not hungry, and two, he might have to pay for all that damage he did to the sink.

Now he starts to feel warm again. Shoot, he thinks rapidly, hell better not take reign in my damn chest again. Luckily, that is far from what he is experiencing. The warm, tingling, near numbness travels down his legs, up his chest, through his hands, around his neck . . . everywhere. Now, he starts to think this might be a fever, or some type of disease, but decides against it. He may be sensing emotion, again. He just might be.

He looks at Stella and smiles, "Hey, can't believe you'd ditch us like that this morning."

Stella perks up, eyes nearly opened to the point of popping out, and laughs accusingly. "What, I'm not allowed to hang out with other people now?"

"Joke," Lincoln says abruptly. Then he turns to Clyde. "Where's Liam?"

"Probably dead."

"Okay."

He rests both of his hands on the table, ignoring the persisting warmth that is flooding him over. He keeps his face blank, but fights hard to keep it from twisting up into something more worrisome. Propping an elbow onto the table, he rests his head onto his hand. "You guys have an idea on what movie you wanna watch? Stella? Can you even join us? You were . . . noticeably absent earlier."

"Oh I'm sure I can go," Stella replies while tracing the coiled hair around her ear, "I just need the green light from my parents."

Lincoln looks at Clyde, gives him one of those I'm-waiting-for-an-answer eyebrow raises he knows all too well, and adjusts himself. The persistent warmness has started to bother him a little. He cups his hand around his ear and tilts his head forward, trying to be comical. This does little to draw him away from the warmness. It wells up inside him as if he is chocolate fountain, spilling over the top of his head and coating his skin in what feels like muscle pain relief gel. He drums a few fingers on the table.

"We should watch a Sci-Fi movie. Know Zach loves flicks like those," Clyde suggests. He slides his ass up the seat, lacing his arms on the table and leaning in. "I saw a great trailer for one, I got to show you it, it's on my phone."

His hand in a banked thumbs-up, Rusty scans over his fingernails. "Zach has some crap taste, let's watch anything else."

Zach lowers his eyebrows. "Bullshit!"

"Now, now kids, let's calm down," Clyde says semi-sarcastically, raising both hands up once, then pulling them down again. He sounds awfully like a first grade teacher from a 1990s cartoon.

"No! He just dissed me!"

"And? You diss him all the time, big deal."

Zach jets a bunch of hot scoffing-because-you-have-no-argument air out of his nose and casts his look away. "Whatever."

He thrusts a hand into one of his cords' pockets, rifling through some spare change and probably paper clips too, their scuffle spinning out the pitter-patter of nickel and copper. His hand closes around something. It is almost as if a giant masthead of fabric has formed on the side of his pants. His eyes widen and sparkle. Now Lincoln is watching with intent. Zach pulls out a quarter. Its periphery is streaked with what appears to be a red marker. He offers it up with an open hand, but when Lincoln reaches to grab it, his fingers snap shut.

"Hey, don't touch. I'm just showing you my winning quarter."

A hand falls on Lincoln's shoulder. "Your winning quarter? Can I have a go?"

Looking behind him, a smile tracing his lips, Lincoln says, "Oh crap, Birtz has come back."

Birtz is looking down at him, dawning like the morning of a fresh spring day. His eyes seem to shift from one person to the next, and Lincoln has a growing suspicion that he has already met the gang before. Maybe he did. There are definitely many things he missed from the time he had been sick yesterday; far from only being the afternoon classes, or the dinner his parents had made, or . . . yeah. That seems about right. It is not like he can pinpoint much else. Sure, maybe Birtz did talk to Clyde or something, introduced himself. But that is to be expected. They made a deal to introduce Birtz to the friend circle, and he is the kind of guy to go up front and do things himself. A lot unlike Lincoln.

He scoots to the side, bumping into Rusty, looking into his eyes with a certain look (scoot over big fella) and slaps the now open spot next to him. "Get your goddam butt on this seat, Dirtz!"

Birtz laughs hoarsely and sits down. "Got it."

"I'm here too! Clyde let me get in that spot," Liam says hurriedly. "If you don't, I might have to throw you over to Jake. He said he's hungry."

Liam is here too. Looks like he survived being with that strict teacher.

Lincoln chuckles heartily. For the first time in forever, he is so happy that his head feels light to the point of tumbling off his neck and rolling across the floor like an out of control basketball. For the first time in forever, his friends have came together and spent some real time together. For the first time in forever, he has hung out with Birtz without trailing around the guilt of leaving his . . . gang. His squad. The inseparable ACTION NEWS TEAM! from 6th grade. This memory does nothing to stop his laughter, instead wavering more of it out.

Nothing, and he means nothing, could ever ruin this.

2

Arnold is going to make sure that absolutely every single thing Loud enjoys will take a hardy trip down the shitter.

He looks down at his shoes, drawing his knuckles in. His heart has been running laps beneath his ribcage, the big type of running that kills you from the bottom-up. To his side, Xavier snaps his fingers again and again, fixing them with an unwary glance. His eyelids seem pried open, as if by two of those big clamps they use in woodworking. Nate stands in front of the two of them, leaning here against the locker, his nose bellying in and out with the rhythm of his livid breathing, his fists firm at his sides, knuckles digging into his thighs.

"You ready?" Arnold asks.

Nate pounds the locker. "The hell I am!"

"Oh, yeah let's go," Xavier says with a startled wag of the head.

They get underway for the cafeteria, three boys with a certain presence that make passing students steer out of their path, their strutty walk turning heads. Arnold knows this; he has known most of the guys since elementary school. Before they came here, to Royal Woods High, they were running shit back at their old school. At the time, Xavier Ferguson was only 12 years old yet already six feet tall and 130 pounds. He should have been over six-foot five at the start of grade nine, but that never happened. His growth hit a rough patch around the seventh grade, when he was maybe six feet two and a half. Nate was (and still is) considerably average height but had (and still has) slabs for arms and legs. Everyone had (and still has) more than enough sense to mess with Nathaniel Morrison. He throws a mean uppercut and right hook, even good with kicks too. Natural-born fighter.

As for himself, Arnold doesn't know. When he tries to think about it, a list of his abilities aren't conjured up. Instead, all he sees is . . . himself, a kid with a high social profile, but nonetheless, nothing much more special than anybody else in any other sense.

He shakes the culminating thoughts out of his head. For now, all that mattered was imposing that promised beating on that dumbass Loud. A promise is a promise, he thinks, nothing I can do about it. Is what it is. Yes, that's what matters. He continues to walk in unison with these other guys here, Xavier and Nate, doing his best to ignore the nagging thoughts at the back of his head, or the skin-tight khakis hugging his buttocks. Goddammit. Did these pants shrink or something?

Now at the cafeteria entrance, Arnold leans up against the doorframe. "Chandler joining us?"

"No, he's tryin to get the little shit's trust," Nathaniel says. "Prolly gonna make it seem like he's on his side while he's actually working for us, like some spy or somethin, you know?"

Arnold's lips begin to tighten. "Sounds like a plan."

They enter the cafeteria, multiple tables cutting to silence in the horror of their presence. Nathaniel and Xavier huddle up to Arnold's sides. Their faces are oddly the color of spoiled milk and their chins have fallen back as if they're on the verge of throwing up from nerves.

Arnold stops in his tracks, looks at his two friends, and nods. "There he is. You ready? You guys don't look ready."

He wheels his head back at Loud, now staring out of slits. The smile on Loud's face makes him feel a certain way; that stupid buck-toothed grin that has always made him want to grab Loud by his stupid face and slam it into the floor so hard he'd turn into a meat lasagna. Does he deserve to be happy after going against Arnold's word? No, he does not. And Arnold does not need to deal with that shit, no he does not. He'll be sure to end it right here and now.

His legs now moving of their own choosing, he struts to the table, his eyebrows tracking nothing more menacing than a V of fury. "Hey Loud!"

The smile on Loud's face is suddenly gone now, his eyes flying open with deathly surprise. His head turns up with agonizing slowness, its color rushing out in an unseen cascade.

Arnold approaches the table, resting his hands on its end with tented fingers. "You have some nerve to come around and mess with me again. Remember what I said, Loudy-boy? You mess with my business, and I'm gonna beat your fuckin ass. Remember? Think harder. You've never thought hard enough. You didn't think before messing around, did you? Did you think before jumping in to save some kid you don't know?"

Some of Loud's friends have directed their gaze at him, but Arnold doesn't care. He holds Loud with a firm stare, his mouth cracked open in a smile that was not entirely evil, but menacing in the moment. He squints his eyes, watching as Loud's head cants down, shades of red pooling in his cheeks, eyes starting to glisten. "You owe me Loud, don't you? Say it," Arnold laughs. "Say it loud and clear, it's true to your name."

He can feel the oncoming stares of his fellow schoolmates. Reaping the attention makes him feel like a balloon about to explode. It feels . . . great. It's the feeling of payback.

Then that stupid kid Birtz decides to step in, literally shooting out of his seat like a red-hot firework.

"You get the hell away from him!" Birtz rages, his piny voice stabbing into his ears like two dental drills. "Ever been taught to keep your scrawny ass cat in the bag?!"

Arnold laughs; a-deep-from-the-gut belly laugh that starts to turn more heads. "You need to learn to keep that big ass kisser of yours shut. I hear you all the time buttering the guy up. Loud, you think anything he says is true? It's not. It's all bullshit. He's just kissing your ass so he isn't friendless. Just think about it. Kicking a bully's ass? Bullshit. Being good at sports? Bullshit."

His mouth smiles casually, excited to see his reaction. Now the cafeteria is only characterized by deathly silence; and Arnold is sure that this situation is everyone's center of attention. Loud's ass-whooping will be the cafeteria's highlight of the year. The old two for one: first came the whooping, then the commemorating. He looks at the eyes of Loud's friends, and in them he reads horror, directed at nobody else but Birtz. For some good reason too, for them at least, but Arnold couldn't give two shits. Birtz's teeth have bared, his knuckles drawn in and quivering sporadically, the cords in his neck sticking out like a sore thumb.

"And he's only about to make his move on these people, now. He's tired of you, Loud. He wants new friends. You're nothing but an old doormat."

At a rate of knots, Birtz lunges forward, hands reaching. Arnold takes notice, putting some ground between him and the little pansy, but to no avail. His hands claw at his jacket, seizing both of its lapels, nearly making Arnold stagger back. If only he knows… If only he knows what he has gotten himself into. A flaming ball of anger finds Arnold's stomach. He grips Birtz's arms, wheels around, and throws him into the side of the cafeteria table, the impact releasing a low thrum. Pain hisses out of Birtz's mouth, sounding a lot similar to that one Family Guy episode where Peter slipped, bust his ass, and clutched his knee. Just smoked the shit out of him, Arnold thinks.

Arnold brings his attention back to Loud, leaving Birtz as nothing but a blur in the corner of his eye. His eyelids quiver and his lips wrinkle as if he is about to cry, a tuft of snowy-white hair at the back of his head springing back-and-forth with the rhythm of his trembling head. A wave of revenge-driven anger shoots through him, catching him in his joints, making him move closer to Loud. An unconscious smile molds itself onto his lips. His hand comes up, reaching, ready to yank him off that seat to hell . . . then he's gone. The hell?

His eyes flicker up, lips drawn back in a bewildered sneer. Loud has . . . slung back in his seat, doing what looks like a plank, but with his feet planted. With motions nearly too quick for Arnold to comprehend, he bends back more, pushing himself out of his seat on inward palms. His eyes dart side to side nervously, almost as if he is unaware of what has just happened.

"The fuck?" Nate slurs.

Xavier rushes at Loud from behind, but rams himself stomach-first into the table with a clang of wood and metal, a few of the little pansy's friends jumping out of their seats. Loud has done one of those backflips where you use the thing in front of you as a sort of 'stepping stool' to boost you up. Now Loud stands behind Xavier, who has his hands knitted across his stomach, teeth gritting.

A raging fist tears into Arnold's chest, seizing his heart with a type of force which makes his blood boil. Loud is certainly reaching for the blinding lights of heaven, or maybe even a one-way ticket to meet his great-great grandpa.

He starts towards Loud, grimacing in harsh determination. His eyebrows have skewed in the shape of a V, nearly touching ends. He cocks his fist back. A conjured-up image renders Loud with a smashed-in face, teeth falling out and everything, and his legs seem to push him further. He is close to Loud now. This is his chance . . . his chance for payback. The time has come; tax-day. I'm coming to collect.

He throws his fist forward, streaking a path in the shape of a half-circle, ready for the meaty thwack of Loud's cheek getting hammered or the satisfying crack of his cheekbone, but nothing. A note of confusion wrinkles his nose, and he realizes that Loud has disappeared.

Then something bumps off his legs, and now his ass finds the floor with its own meaty thwack. And that fucking hurt.

His hand flies to the brutally warm numbness that has begun to fester in his buttocks, and he seethes in pain. He flips onto his side, his eyes now pointed at the vinyl tiles which have been scuffed by what seems to be a thousand years of foot traffic. A few tears find his eyes but he blinks them away. Loud has wiped him out. Swept his legs and put him down on his ass. How the hell is that even possible?

He struggles to his feet, searching for Loud, his fists tightened into wrecking balls which in the moment, feel like they can take down buildings. A billow of anger swirls in his head, blocking the coherence of his thoughts and making him work through the pain of his searing ass. His eyes search for Loud and he scrounges around in circles like a racoon. Xavier has gotten up, short-winded. Nate, instead of being the last man standing, is now on the floor, clutching his knuckles, mouth in some kind of tragedy-grimace. How? Him too? Now Arnold is even angrier. Hurting my guys huh? Think you can do that Loud?

At long last, he catches Loud with his eyes. He is just in front of Nathaniel, his hands laid on one of those big pillars shoring up the ceiling. His eyes glow with a mixture of confusion and fear. Just the way Arnold likes it.

"You put your hands on my boys even more huh?" Arnold hisses. He grabs Nathaniel by the arm and hoists him up. "I have more than a few words to give you."

Arnold shortens the ground between him and Loud, sending his fist forward, ready to unload a weeks-worth of fury on him. He screws his face up in a sneer. Loud is so close now that he can almost feel his fist crashing into his face. Then that little featherweight is gone again. Where is he now? He halts his step, spinning around, looking for him, but something shoves him forward. This isn't any ordinary shove, this is some muscle-guy-on-the-beach type shit. He ends up flying off his feet, going at least a meter before hitting the floor with a heavy whomp!

This stuns him. A bit too much. He feels a bit light-headed now too . . . maybe he should take a nap right about now— no, no! You have a job to finish!

Driven by nothing else but the adrenaline of the fight and his pent-up hatred, he gets back on his feet, wanting to root out Loud, wanting to stop all this bullshit. Arnold and his guys should've been triumphing, not that human manifestation of a string bean! He convinces himself this is just a matter of luck, not skill. This is just an off-day. Yeah, that must be it. Loud's eyes are still glowing with that same jumble of so many negative emotions, and he doesn't understand why. If anything, they should be focused.

Making one last mad dash to end it all, he bellows at Loud, head down, eyes scrunched into slits. He is numb to the fire rippling through him, blind to Xavier and Nate on the ground near him serving fresh hits from Loud, deaf to a coming teacher's cries to stop.

And . . . down to the floor again. He purses his lip as if on the verge of crying. Knocked down by Loud again. He doesn't even know how or why, he couldn't give a shit even if he wanted to. Now, he can hear the cafeteria's climate; kids screaming, some wavering out ridiculing falsettos, some hollering 'OH SHIT!' and 'GET HIS ASS!' Everybody has seen their washout of a fight and those who haven't will; all three of the big guys . . . Arnold, Xavier, and Nathaniel . . . taken down by Loud. Loud only.

They lost.

They fucking lost.

Someone, probably a teacher, walks closer. "Stop! STOP! All of you quit it!" What sounds like heels start clicking towards them, probably another teacher. Arnold can hear a second pitter-patter of working feet, probably another teacher too. "Loud, Ferguson, Sawyer, Morrison! We need you separated. Now!"

With all the fight knocked out of Arnold Sawyer, he pushes himself up weakly, now really feeling the pain — and not so much that choking anger.