*So, here's another chapter for you guys; aren't I all Speedy Gonzales this
week? Unfortunately, this one seems to be infected with the same disease
that struck down my last update; namely, all these crazy symbols in the
place of punctuation! Argh! I've tried everything; does anyone know how to
get rid of them? If you do, PLEASE let me know; they're driving me crazy!
The next chapter will actually feature some Fulton/Portman interaction;
it's about bloody time, wouldn't you say? But I just had to squeeze in all
that damned exposition... Anyway, this one is pretty light on the drama
quotient again; maybe I figured Fulton could use a break. Kidney injuries
really do suck, as Fulton, Soli or lycanthrope will tell you.
RockAndRoll: No, you never told me you liked Iron Maiden, but you mentioned AC/DC and Zep, so I figured... how could you not? I was pretty sure Iron Man would be up your alley as well, and Strutter is my favourite Kiss song, too. I also love the Donnas' version on the Detroit Rock City soundtrack, which is simply one of the best of its kind. I was Peter Pan for Christmas last year, Michelangelo could kick Donatello's ass from here to Pennsylvania, and everyone knows that Eeyore is better than Tigger. So there.
Selena, Solis, and Taiorami: Tai: Sorry about the whole fainting thing. *coughs* Once, my friends and I all breathed into paper bags until we passed out... one of those things almost everyone does, at some point, I think, just to see if they can... Wow, so can I put it on my resume that my story caused Tai "faint amusement"? Yes, Randolph the cowboy kept making me think of Dwayne as well... and I write child abuse like Soli and Sele? Good thing, or bad? I'm still not sure I went about that the right way... was it too... numb? Or graphic? Out-of-character? Anyway, glad to have evoked horror and happiness from you, even if only in small amounts; those are two emotions I'm always striving towards... And yes, I totally think you guys kick my ass on the darkness quotient, if only because my Fulton isn't all... you know, plus I like to give my stuff fairy-tale endings, and, well, you'll see...
Sele: Hmm... Tai on painkillers, falling on her ass, Selena cackling away... you paint a lovely mental image, darling, and no, I would never think less of a giggling Sele... but a Slutty Spears Sele is something else entirely... *shudders* And no way do I want to trade Fultons... I could never handle writing the whole self-pity, self-mutilation, self-loathing thing you guys have going on... And yeah, Fulton is a little slow on the uptake when it comes to Portman-feelings... he really has no idea what to do with those, so he keeps pushing them away... He probably convinced himself he was just going cause he liked Portman's playing style, the deluded little twerp...
Soli: Yeah, I did my best to make sure Portman doesn't fall into the nasty bully category, but don't you dare call those little pricks stoners. They'd be sniffing glue or gasoline if they couldn't get weed, so they get dubbed "losers" instead. Portman, Fulton, and Johnny all qualify, however, and you might as well toss me in there while you're at it, along with Nick Stahl from Disturbing Behaviour, because he is (not counting Fulton) my idea of the perfect male... Forcing school children to peddle goods should be against the law, doesn't your country consider education to be one of those unalienable rights, or whatever?... Woo hoo, woo hoo, my story rings true! (Yay for rhyme time!) Well, my kindly reviewer, that's why I draw on my own experiences as much as I can in this story, so I'm glad it's paying off... And if given the choice between obliterating bad memories and channelling them into a creative outlet, I'd pick creation every time, especially if the results are as spiffy as Star...
Charlie's POV:
"Try it again, honey!"
I turned the key. The engine coughed and sputtered, but didn't catch. I tried again. Nothing.
"Goddamnit!" I winced as my mother slammed the hood down in frustration. This was the last thing she needed. We were in the parking lot outside her work; I'd dropped by on my way back from hockey practice, and boy, was I glad I did. Ha. Ha ha. And, of course, ha.
I got out of the car and walked over to where she was sitting on the curb with her head in her hands. When I sat down beside her, she looked up at me, and managed a weak smile. Then she sighed. "What am I going to do, Charlie? I can barely afford gas for the car, let alone repairs."
"Look, you can bus to work for a few days. I get paid in a week, and we can use that to the car fixed."
She shook her head, just as I knew she would. "Charlie, what did I tell you? That money's yours, you earn it. You need new shoes, and that helmet of yours is way too small..." Tears welled up in her eyes. "Look at this, I can't even support my own son! What kind of mother am I?"
I snorted. "You mean, besides the best?"
She drew herself up and smiled at me; it never took much to cheer her up. "Thanks, sweetie. And don't you worry about a thing; I'll manage somehow, I'm just upset. Crystal said she might be able to get me a weekend job, you know, at that massage parlour she works at..."
I shuddered at the idea of my mom oiling down some sleazy old lech who kept grabbing her ass and telling her he had a king-sized bed back at his place, where they could make beautiful music together. Things hadn't been going too well for my mother lately, and this was the worst possible time to get car trouble, on top of everything else. Our apartment was falling to pieces, but the landlord refused to fix anything, and we were still getting bills and calls from collection agencies looking for Ryan, even though neither of us had laid sight on the guy since he made off in the middle of the night, almost five months ago.
I didn't want to upset my mother any further, but I gestured tentatively to the Chrysler. "What are we going to do about it?"
"I don't know. We can't just leave it here, but I can't pay to get it towed. Maybe I should just write it off." She laughed, but it was the bitter, mirthless little laugh that always made my stomach flip-flop in worry. My mother was very cheery and optimistic by nature; you knew it was bad when she laughed like that.
"Well," I said, taking a deep breath and rising slowly to my feet. "Why don't I take a look at it, just in case?"
My mom raised an eyebrow at me; she knew how clueless I was about stuff like this. I looked at her defensively, and she grinned. "Of course you can dear, but why don't you..."
I stopped listening at that point. I'd just noticed someone watching us from an alleyway across the street. A very large someone. With a hockey stick.
"Fulton!" I called, and I saw him glance around in surprise, as if looking for some other Fulton whose name I'd just called. "Hey, Fulton, come over here!"
He shrugged, and walked over toward us, battered old hockey stick clutched in one ham-like fist, a skateboard under his other arm.
"Charlie, do you know that... oh my..." My mom's voice dropped to a whisper and her eyes widened as she watched Fulton's approach. He stopped about eight feet from where the two of us were standing next to our piece of shit vehicle that had chosen to end its run in the back lot behind Mickey's Dining Car, and stood there, staring at us. My mom seemed even more taken aback, looking at him up close, and to be honest, I could hardly blame her.
The kid was enormous; he topped my own six feet by at least an inch or two, but it was his stocky, muscular framework that was the most impressive; just one of his biceps appeared to be roughly the same diameter as my waist. Basically, he looked like he could crush anything and anyone that got in his way, and I had seen him do precisely that on many occasions over the years. It wasn't just a factor of size and strength, either; he really knew how to fight, and from the look of it, he'd been doing a lot of that lately. His nose and mouth were both cut and slightly swollen and he moved as if it caused him pain, but I imagined there was a guy out there somewhere (probably two or three) who looked much, much worse.
He made me a little nervous, standing there, all towering and silent, with his arms folded across his chest, looking like he could eat me for breakfast. But I reminded myself of how long I'd known him, and how he had never done anything but protect me and my friends, even if it was in a creepy, Boo Radley-type of way.
"How's it going, Fulton? I haven't seen you at school in awhile."
He just blinked at me for a few moments, then nodded. "Yeah, I been... on sabbatical."
I grinned up at him. "You don't say."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, and I breathed an internal sigh of relief. He nodded at the Chrysler. "Something wrong?"
"Oh, don't get me started. Bloody thing up and died on us." I saw him looking at the car thoughtfully. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"
He shrugged. "A little bit. Want me to look at it?"
I reached in the open driver side window, and popped the hood. "Please. Should I turn her over?" He nodded.
My mom keep shooting little glances between Fulton and myself, as if she expected him to pull a gun on me at any moment and demand my money, and though I knew she was only nervous for my sake, it still annoyed me. With his long, black hair poking out from under a dark blue bandanna, wearing worn green army pants, dirty black high-tops and a ragged old Doors t- shirt, Fulton Reed did look rather like your run-of-the-mill street punk, but while I could hardly claim to be well-acquainted with the kid, I knew enough to know that an assessment based solely on his physical appearance was bound to be misleading.
I turned the engine a couple of times, and of course, nothing happened. Fulton lowered the hood and turned to me. "You're not getting any gas."
"Huh?"
"Only two reasons your car won't start; you're not getting fuel, or you're not getting fire. You've got fire."
"Oh. Is there anything you can do?"
"Maybe. Got any tools?" I shook my head. "Okay, I can get some. Be back in a minute." He hopped onto his board and skated off around the corner before I had the chance to say anything else.
"Who was that?" my mom demanded, coming over to stand beside me.
"Fulton Reed. He's in my grade; we have classes together and stuff."
"He's in high school?" she asked disbelievingly.
I nodded. "He can help us; he's just gone to get some tools."
"He's coming back? Oh, Charlie, I don't know..."
"He's cool, mom, he's just real quiet. And don't do anything to scare him off; I think he's kinda shy."
"Me, scare *him*? Charlie, did you *see* him?"
"So he's a little big, that hardly makes him Charles Manson," I said angrily. "Everyone at school's afraid of him too; probably why he doesn't have any friends."
Her expression softened at that. "You're right, Charlie. Look at me, judging people I don't even know. If you say he's okay, then I believe you."
"Good, cause he's coming back."
Fulton had brought a dented, rusty metal toolbox that he set at his feet, and, removing a couple of instruments, he lay down on the ground and scooted under the station wagon without a word. A little while later, he emerged, his hands and face smeared with oil.
"That should do her, at least for the short term," he said, wiping his hands on his pants, leaving greasy black streaks all across them.
"You're kidding, right?"
He shrugged. "Try her."
I hopped behind the wheel, turned the key, and had to choke back a squeal of delight as the engine roared to life.
My mother was less self-conscious; she rushed over to embrace Fulton, but he backed up, looking at her warily, and she had to content herself with beaming at him while she hopped up and down. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou! Oh, my darling boy, what did you do?"
He looked thoroughly uncomfortable as he muttered, "Your fuel line was clogged, I just flushed it out."
"Can I do it myself if it happens again?"
"Maybe, but it shouldn't normally get plugged up like that." He looked at me. "You guys been off-roading, or something?"
"We went camping last weekend; there wasn't much of a road, so we just sort of ploughed though."
He nodded. "That's the problem. Tank sits too low to drive rough like that. It should be okay if you stick to paved roads, otherwise, you're gonna blow the line, and you'll have to get a whole new gas tank."
"Don't worry about that," I said. "Camping sucks anyway. Thanks a lot, Fulton."
He finished packing up his tools, and stood up. "No problem." It was always the same with him; he'd show up with perfect timing, fix everything, and then disappear. That's what he was about to do, too, but my mom stopped him.
"You know, we haven't even been introduced. I'm Casey Conway." She held out her hand, and eventually he took it.
"Fulton Reed."
"Well, Fulton Reed, you're a godsend. I mean it, you saved my life. You have to let me pay you something."
She started digging through her purse, but Fulton backed up again, shaking his head. "No, I mean, uh, no thank you."
"Here, it's the least I can do." She held out a twenty-dollar bill, but he only crossed his arms and stared fixedly at the ground.
"Don't want it."
She looked at him closely for a moment, then put the money away and grabbed his arm. "Fine, then you're coming to dinner. Get in the car."
He looked around rather wildly, and I could tell he was getting ready to bolt, so I smiled at him reassuringly. "It's okay, Fulton, she just wants to thank you for helping us."
He looked at me imploringly. "Really, it was nothing." I had to laugh; he seemed almost frightened.
"To you, maybe, but not to us. Come on, it's just dinner. She makes a mean taco..."
He stood there, blinking at me. Defying all my screaming instincts, I tried a teasing approach. "You know, Fulton, a little social interaction wouldn't kill you. We're not generally considered to be an intimidating family, and I promise not to start coming up to you in the halls at school, and talking to you like we're friends, or something."
He grinned at that, a genuine grin, and the first I'd ever seen from him. Hell, I never even knew the kid had teeth!
"Come on, you two!" my mom called from behind the wheel, giving the horn a happy little toot. "I'm starving!"
As I climbed into the back seat of the Chrysler, after stuffing Fulton's stick and tool box into the trunk, I couldn't help thinking one thing, "Wait till Jesse and Guy hear about this!"
***
"And so they checked me from behind, and I went headfirst into the boards, which was actually a relief, since it left me in a state of semi- consciousness for the rest of the game, and I missed us getting flattened. I think they scored three goals in the last two minutes, didn't they, Fulton?"
"Four."
I laughed. "Four, was it? Even better!"
Despite my initial apprehension at having the scariest, most unapproachable kid in the neighbourhood over for dinner, things were going rather well. I'd made my mom promise not to grill him with questions and stuff, as she is prone to do, and that seemed to have made all the difference.
I didn't know if he was shy or private or just soft-spoken, but I'd had to swear that my mom wasn't going to give him the third degree just to get him to come out of my room when she called us for dinner.
"I just never know how to act around them," was all the response I'd gotten when I asked him about it. I assumed he was referring to adults in general, and I had to agree with him there; I'd seen the way he was with our teachers.
"She's not going to bite you, you know," I'd said teasingly, and upon seeing the look he gave me, started glancing around for weapons I could use to defend myself in the case of attack.
"I know that, I just don't want to have to talk about what I want to do with myself after graduation, and what my parents do for a living, and shit."
And so I'd warned my mom about my classmate's self-imposed reticence, and she'd reluctantly agreed to let him be. So all through dinner, my mom and I talked, and Fulton listened. This seemed to suit him just fine; he smiled and even laughed a few times, and while he only spoke when asked a direct question, towards the end of the meal, he was no longer answering exclusively in monosyllables. I thought about how long I'd known Fulton without ever knowing him at all. It made me feel guilty that I'd never had to guts to try to get acquainted with him until now, despite all he'd done for me over the years, though in my defence, he didn't exactly make it easy.
The three of us were crammed around the tiny fold-out card table that had served as our kitchen table since we'd had to sell that a few months ago to pay the heating bill. Since it's normally just my mom and me now, we hadn't seen the point in shelling out for a new one just yet. I could see that my mom was dying to ask Fulton everything about himself; it wasn't so much that she was nosy--though that was part of it--but that she was honestly interested in other people, and she was as intrigued by this kid as I was. She'd managed to exhibit restraint thus far, and had contented herself instead with seeing that he ate enough food to see him through to his next lifetime. Curiosity finally got the better of her, however, and just as he finished his sixth taco, she asked, with an air of forced lightness: "So, Fulton, what team do you play for?"
"I don't play hockey," he said, in a voice so soft that we both had to strain to hear him.
"But you have your stick, and Charlie says you come to all his games."
"I mean, I don't play for a team."
"But why not, if you like the game so much?"
The look on his face made it plain he'd rather gnaw his leg off at the knee than continue talking, but as that didn't appear to be an option, he turned to me. I could have stepped in and saved him, but this was a question that I had been asking myself for years, and the opportunity to find out proved too tempting. "Yeah, Fulton, why not?"
He shot me a look that made it clear he blamed me for this, but I was no longer very intimidated. I did, however, feel rather guilty, when he muttered, "Can't skate," almost inaudibly, looking more miserable than I'd ever seen him.
My mom must have felt the same way, because she too decided not to press the issue, rising up instead to fix him another couple tacos. "You should come and live with us, Fulton, maybe some of your habits would rub off on Charlie; he's as peckish as a little bird."
Fulton snorted in laughter, and I glared indignantly at my mom. "Just because I can't eat seven or eight tacos in one sitting doesn't make me peckish; it makes me human."
"Tweet, tweet, Spazway," Fulton said with a grin, taking an enormous bite of his taco.
***
After dinner, I was sitting on the counter in the bathroom while Fulton was buried under the sink, fiddling with the pipes. He'd already repaired our VCR, got the toilet flushing properly again, and was nearly done fixing the leaky plumbing as well, which had been causing serious water damage to our floor, as well as the ceiling of the place below.
"Come on, Fulton, why not?" I pleaded, kicking him lightly in the knee. He scooted out from under the sink and glared up at me, a wrench in one hand, a soggy blue bandanna in the other. The pipes had leaked water all down his front, and he used the bandanna to wipe the dripping hair out of his eyes.
"Oh, quit looking at me like that. I don't see why you're so scared..."
"I'm *not* scared."
"Then play with us, damnit! They're all nice kids, and you like them, I know you do, so what's the problem?" I had promised to meet Jesse and Guy and whoever else we could round up that evening for a little street hockey, and was trying to convince Fulton to join us, but the kid had some serious social problems, or something. He just shook his head, and disappeared back under the sink.
"You know, Fulton," I said slyly, and I could hear him stop tinkering to listen to me. "If you don't play with us tonight, I might have to tell my mom that your parents are always away on business, so you never eat properly. I'm sure she'd agree we should have you over more often; think of the chances you'll have to get to know each other better."
There were some clinking noises, and then Fulton re-appeared, shaking the water from his eyes and getting to his feet. He stared at me for a long moment, displeasure plain in his eyes.
"I'll take that as a yes," I said happily, hopping down off the counter and grabbing his arm. "Come on."
***
Hawks. Though we were still pretty far away, I could make out four of them, in their black and blue jerseys and shiny new Rollerblades, their sticks unmarred by dents and dog bites, wearing equipment that wasn't held together by bubble gum and masking tape. They were laughing and jeering as they circled four other kids, who looked to be Jesse, Guy, and a couple other kids we knew who weren't on the team, Mark Whalley and Lester Averman.
I looked over at Fulton; he was watching the Hawks with what can only be described as seething fury; his teeth bared slightly, his knuckles white from clutching his stick so hard. Suddenly, I remembered why Fulton made everyone nervous, even those he'd never so much as looked at the wrong way. I grinned to myself; this was one time that the Hawks weren't going to come out on top. We started walking a little faster.
"Don't you guys ever get tired of being losers?" a kid named Harper Mason asked mockingly.
"Whatever, cake-eater. We could take you guys any day." Jesse, of course, whose specialty had always been writing checks his body couldn't cash. Sure, he and Guy could hold their own against these guys, but Mark and Les? They'd be running for the hills before anyone threw a punch.
"Oh, yeah? The rest of your buddies feel the same way?"
As if to confirm this, Averman spoke up. "Uh, sir? I'd just like to go on record that no, I do not feel the same way. In fact--"
"Shut up, Averman," Jesse cut in angrily, glaring up at the Hawks. "You guys think you're all that, don't you? Well, fancy equipment don't mean shit if you haven't got the skills to back it up."
"You're saying *we* can't play?"
"I'm saying you're a bunch of loud-mouthed, cake-eating assholes in Eddie Bauer who probably piss CK One."
"Wanna see if they bleed it, too?"
Another thing that made Fulton so great at fighting; he always knew what to say in moments like these; I never could have come up with something like that on the spot. We had approached the Hawks from behind, and now they spun around to see Fulton, arms crossed, regarding them appraisingly. There was a slight smile on his lips that made it clear he was going to enjoy what he was about to do. For someone who didn't talk much, he sure made himself heard with perfect clarity.
"Oh, thank God," Averman muttered.
Fulton's sudden appearance had ruffled more than a few Hawk feathers, and they looked back and forth at each other, trying to decide what to do next.
Guy stepped forward, placing himself between Fulton and the Hawks, and I was reminded of the fact that he was, in technical terms, anyway, one of them. "Look, nobody wants a fight, so why don't we all just back off and go home?" he asked, his voice calm, his tone placating.
"Should have known you'd be a traitor, Germaine," the biggest one of them, Tracy McGillis said angrily, shoving him in the chest. "Dad never should have let you join. I told him you were nothing but white trash, just like the rest of these rejects."
WHAM. Tracy flew backwards a few feet, and landed hard on the asphalt. He didn't get up. Fulton stared docilely at the three remaining Hawks, massaging his knuckles absent-mindedly. "That was even more fun than I thought it would be. Can I do it again?"
I heard the sound of a motor approaching, and the next thing I knew, Dean Portman had materialised on my left. He climbed off the old red and white dirt bike he was riding, and strode over to where we were all gathered, tucking his helmet under his arm as he did so.
"What the hell's going on here?"
The Hawks brightened at his arrival; clearly, they thought he was going to save their collective asses. "That goon knocked Tracy out cold!" one of them cried, gesturing to the prostrate form of his fallen comrade.
"So he did," Portman observed, giving Tracy a poke in the ribs with his boot. Tracy groaned slightly, but didn't open his eyes. "And who is the goon responsible for this?"
Fulton took a step forward, so that he and Portman were less than a foot apart. The rest of us backed up automatically, forming a circle around the two boys, who stood there, sizing each other up in silence. I wondered if Fulton would be able to take this Portman kid. I wondered what would happen to the rest of us if he couldn't. But most of all, I wondered what the response time was for an ambulance in this neighbourhood. I bet it wasn't good.
RockAndRoll: No, you never told me you liked Iron Maiden, but you mentioned AC/DC and Zep, so I figured... how could you not? I was pretty sure Iron Man would be up your alley as well, and Strutter is my favourite Kiss song, too. I also love the Donnas' version on the Detroit Rock City soundtrack, which is simply one of the best of its kind. I was Peter Pan for Christmas last year, Michelangelo could kick Donatello's ass from here to Pennsylvania, and everyone knows that Eeyore is better than Tigger. So there.
Selena, Solis, and Taiorami: Tai: Sorry about the whole fainting thing. *coughs* Once, my friends and I all breathed into paper bags until we passed out... one of those things almost everyone does, at some point, I think, just to see if they can... Wow, so can I put it on my resume that my story caused Tai "faint amusement"? Yes, Randolph the cowboy kept making me think of Dwayne as well... and I write child abuse like Soli and Sele? Good thing, or bad? I'm still not sure I went about that the right way... was it too... numb? Or graphic? Out-of-character? Anyway, glad to have evoked horror and happiness from you, even if only in small amounts; those are two emotions I'm always striving towards... And yes, I totally think you guys kick my ass on the darkness quotient, if only because my Fulton isn't all... you know, plus I like to give my stuff fairy-tale endings, and, well, you'll see...
Sele: Hmm... Tai on painkillers, falling on her ass, Selena cackling away... you paint a lovely mental image, darling, and no, I would never think less of a giggling Sele... but a Slutty Spears Sele is something else entirely... *shudders* And no way do I want to trade Fultons... I could never handle writing the whole self-pity, self-mutilation, self-loathing thing you guys have going on... And yeah, Fulton is a little slow on the uptake when it comes to Portman-feelings... he really has no idea what to do with those, so he keeps pushing them away... He probably convinced himself he was just going cause he liked Portman's playing style, the deluded little twerp...
Soli: Yeah, I did my best to make sure Portman doesn't fall into the nasty bully category, but don't you dare call those little pricks stoners. They'd be sniffing glue or gasoline if they couldn't get weed, so they get dubbed "losers" instead. Portman, Fulton, and Johnny all qualify, however, and you might as well toss me in there while you're at it, along with Nick Stahl from Disturbing Behaviour, because he is (not counting Fulton) my idea of the perfect male... Forcing school children to peddle goods should be against the law, doesn't your country consider education to be one of those unalienable rights, or whatever?... Woo hoo, woo hoo, my story rings true! (Yay for rhyme time!) Well, my kindly reviewer, that's why I draw on my own experiences as much as I can in this story, so I'm glad it's paying off... And if given the choice between obliterating bad memories and channelling them into a creative outlet, I'd pick creation every time, especially if the results are as spiffy as Star...
Charlie's POV:
"Try it again, honey!"
I turned the key. The engine coughed and sputtered, but didn't catch. I tried again. Nothing.
"Goddamnit!" I winced as my mother slammed the hood down in frustration. This was the last thing she needed. We were in the parking lot outside her work; I'd dropped by on my way back from hockey practice, and boy, was I glad I did. Ha. Ha ha. And, of course, ha.
I got out of the car and walked over to where she was sitting on the curb with her head in her hands. When I sat down beside her, she looked up at me, and managed a weak smile. Then she sighed. "What am I going to do, Charlie? I can barely afford gas for the car, let alone repairs."
"Look, you can bus to work for a few days. I get paid in a week, and we can use that to the car fixed."
She shook her head, just as I knew she would. "Charlie, what did I tell you? That money's yours, you earn it. You need new shoes, and that helmet of yours is way too small..." Tears welled up in her eyes. "Look at this, I can't even support my own son! What kind of mother am I?"
I snorted. "You mean, besides the best?"
She drew herself up and smiled at me; it never took much to cheer her up. "Thanks, sweetie. And don't you worry about a thing; I'll manage somehow, I'm just upset. Crystal said she might be able to get me a weekend job, you know, at that massage parlour she works at..."
I shuddered at the idea of my mom oiling down some sleazy old lech who kept grabbing her ass and telling her he had a king-sized bed back at his place, where they could make beautiful music together. Things hadn't been going too well for my mother lately, and this was the worst possible time to get car trouble, on top of everything else. Our apartment was falling to pieces, but the landlord refused to fix anything, and we were still getting bills and calls from collection agencies looking for Ryan, even though neither of us had laid sight on the guy since he made off in the middle of the night, almost five months ago.
I didn't want to upset my mother any further, but I gestured tentatively to the Chrysler. "What are we going to do about it?"
"I don't know. We can't just leave it here, but I can't pay to get it towed. Maybe I should just write it off." She laughed, but it was the bitter, mirthless little laugh that always made my stomach flip-flop in worry. My mother was very cheery and optimistic by nature; you knew it was bad when she laughed like that.
"Well," I said, taking a deep breath and rising slowly to my feet. "Why don't I take a look at it, just in case?"
My mom raised an eyebrow at me; she knew how clueless I was about stuff like this. I looked at her defensively, and she grinned. "Of course you can dear, but why don't you..."
I stopped listening at that point. I'd just noticed someone watching us from an alleyway across the street. A very large someone. With a hockey stick.
"Fulton!" I called, and I saw him glance around in surprise, as if looking for some other Fulton whose name I'd just called. "Hey, Fulton, come over here!"
He shrugged, and walked over toward us, battered old hockey stick clutched in one ham-like fist, a skateboard under his other arm.
"Charlie, do you know that... oh my..." My mom's voice dropped to a whisper and her eyes widened as she watched Fulton's approach. He stopped about eight feet from where the two of us were standing next to our piece of shit vehicle that had chosen to end its run in the back lot behind Mickey's Dining Car, and stood there, staring at us. My mom seemed even more taken aback, looking at him up close, and to be honest, I could hardly blame her.
The kid was enormous; he topped my own six feet by at least an inch or two, but it was his stocky, muscular framework that was the most impressive; just one of his biceps appeared to be roughly the same diameter as my waist. Basically, he looked like he could crush anything and anyone that got in his way, and I had seen him do precisely that on many occasions over the years. It wasn't just a factor of size and strength, either; he really knew how to fight, and from the look of it, he'd been doing a lot of that lately. His nose and mouth were both cut and slightly swollen and he moved as if it caused him pain, but I imagined there was a guy out there somewhere (probably two or three) who looked much, much worse.
He made me a little nervous, standing there, all towering and silent, with his arms folded across his chest, looking like he could eat me for breakfast. But I reminded myself of how long I'd known him, and how he had never done anything but protect me and my friends, even if it was in a creepy, Boo Radley-type of way.
"How's it going, Fulton? I haven't seen you at school in awhile."
He just blinked at me for a few moments, then nodded. "Yeah, I been... on sabbatical."
I grinned up at him. "You don't say."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, and I breathed an internal sigh of relief. He nodded at the Chrysler. "Something wrong?"
"Oh, don't get me started. Bloody thing up and died on us." I saw him looking at the car thoughtfully. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"
He shrugged. "A little bit. Want me to look at it?"
I reached in the open driver side window, and popped the hood. "Please. Should I turn her over?" He nodded.
My mom keep shooting little glances between Fulton and myself, as if she expected him to pull a gun on me at any moment and demand my money, and though I knew she was only nervous for my sake, it still annoyed me. With his long, black hair poking out from under a dark blue bandanna, wearing worn green army pants, dirty black high-tops and a ragged old Doors t- shirt, Fulton Reed did look rather like your run-of-the-mill street punk, but while I could hardly claim to be well-acquainted with the kid, I knew enough to know that an assessment based solely on his physical appearance was bound to be misleading.
I turned the engine a couple of times, and of course, nothing happened. Fulton lowered the hood and turned to me. "You're not getting any gas."
"Huh?"
"Only two reasons your car won't start; you're not getting fuel, or you're not getting fire. You've got fire."
"Oh. Is there anything you can do?"
"Maybe. Got any tools?" I shook my head. "Okay, I can get some. Be back in a minute." He hopped onto his board and skated off around the corner before I had the chance to say anything else.
"Who was that?" my mom demanded, coming over to stand beside me.
"Fulton Reed. He's in my grade; we have classes together and stuff."
"He's in high school?" she asked disbelievingly.
I nodded. "He can help us; he's just gone to get some tools."
"He's coming back? Oh, Charlie, I don't know..."
"He's cool, mom, he's just real quiet. And don't do anything to scare him off; I think he's kinda shy."
"Me, scare *him*? Charlie, did you *see* him?"
"So he's a little big, that hardly makes him Charles Manson," I said angrily. "Everyone at school's afraid of him too; probably why he doesn't have any friends."
Her expression softened at that. "You're right, Charlie. Look at me, judging people I don't even know. If you say he's okay, then I believe you."
"Good, cause he's coming back."
Fulton had brought a dented, rusty metal toolbox that he set at his feet, and, removing a couple of instruments, he lay down on the ground and scooted under the station wagon without a word. A little while later, he emerged, his hands and face smeared with oil.
"That should do her, at least for the short term," he said, wiping his hands on his pants, leaving greasy black streaks all across them.
"You're kidding, right?"
He shrugged. "Try her."
I hopped behind the wheel, turned the key, and had to choke back a squeal of delight as the engine roared to life.
My mother was less self-conscious; she rushed over to embrace Fulton, but he backed up, looking at her warily, and she had to content herself with beaming at him while she hopped up and down. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou! Oh, my darling boy, what did you do?"
He looked thoroughly uncomfortable as he muttered, "Your fuel line was clogged, I just flushed it out."
"Can I do it myself if it happens again?"
"Maybe, but it shouldn't normally get plugged up like that." He looked at me. "You guys been off-roading, or something?"
"We went camping last weekend; there wasn't much of a road, so we just sort of ploughed though."
He nodded. "That's the problem. Tank sits too low to drive rough like that. It should be okay if you stick to paved roads, otherwise, you're gonna blow the line, and you'll have to get a whole new gas tank."
"Don't worry about that," I said. "Camping sucks anyway. Thanks a lot, Fulton."
He finished packing up his tools, and stood up. "No problem." It was always the same with him; he'd show up with perfect timing, fix everything, and then disappear. That's what he was about to do, too, but my mom stopped him.
"You know, we haven't even been introduced. I'm Casey Conway." She held out her hand, and eventually he took it.
"Fulton Reed."
"Well, Fulton Reed, you're a godsend. I mean it, you saved my life. You have to let me pay you something."
She started digging through her purse, but Fulton backed up again, shaking his head. "No, I mean, uh, no thank you."
"Here, it's the least I can do." She held out a twenty-dollar bill, but he only crossed his arms and stared fixedly at the ground.
"Don't want it."
She looked at him closely for a moment, then put the money away and grabbed his arm. "Fine, then you're coming to dinner. Get in the car."
He looked around rather wildly, and I could tell he was getting ready to bolt, so I smiled at him reassuringly. "It's okay, Fulton, she just wants to thank you for helping us."
He looked at me imploringly. "Really, it was nothing." I had to laugh; he seemed almost frightened.
"To you, maybe, but not to us. Come on, it's just dinner. She makes a mean taco..."
He stood there, blinking at me. Defying all my screaming instincts, I tried a teasing approach. "You know, Fulton, a little social interaction wouldn't kill you. We're not generally considered to be an intimidating family, and I promise not to start coming up to you in the halls at school, and talking to you like we're friends, or something."
He grinned at that, a genuine grin, and the first I'd ever seen from him. Hell, I never even knew the kid had teeth!
"Come on, you two!" my mom called from behind the wheel, giving the horn a happy little toot. "I'm starving!"
As I climbed into the back seat of the Chrysler, after stuffing Fulton's stick and tool box into the trunk, I couldn't help thinking one thing, "Wait till Jesse and Guy hear about this!"
***
"And so they checked me from behind, and I went headfirst into the boards, which was actually a relief, since it left me in a state of semi- consciousness for the rest of the game, and I missed us getting flattened. I think they scored three goals in the last two minutes, didn't they, Fulton?"
"Four."
I laughed. "Four, was it? Even better!"
Despite my initial apprehension at having the scariest, most unapproachable kid in the neighbourhood over for dinner, things were going rather well. I'd made my mom promise not to grill him with questions and stuff, as she is prone to do, and that seemed to have made all the difference.
I didn't know if he was shy or private or just soft-spoken, but I'd had to swear that my mom wasn't going to give him the third degree just to get him to come out of my room when she called us for dinner.
"I just never know how to act around them," was all the response I'd gotten when I asked him about it. I assumed he was referring to adults in general, and I had to agree with him there; I'd seen the way he was with our teachers.
"She's not going to bite you, you know," I'd said teasingly, and upon seeing the look he gave me, started glancing around for weapons I could use to defend myself in the case of attack.
"I know that, I just don't want to have to talk about what I want to do with myself after graduation, and what my parents do for a living, and shit."
And so I'd warned my mom about my classmate's self-imposed reticence, and she'd reluctantly agreed to let him be. So all through dinner, my mom and I talked, and Fulton listened. This seemed to suit him just fine; he smiled and even laughed a few times, and while he only spoke when asked a direct question, towards the end of the meal, he was no longer answering exclusively in monosyllables. I thought about how long I'd known Fulton without ever knowing him at all. It made me feel guilty that I'd never had to guts to try to get acquainted with him until now, despite all he'd done for me over the years, though in my defence, he didn't exactly make it easy.
The three of us were crammed around the tiny fold-out card table that had served as our kitchen table since we'd had to sell that a few months ago to pay the heating bill. Since it's normally just my mom and me now, we hadn't seen the point in shelling out for a new one just yet. I could see that my mom was dying to ask Fulton everything about himself; it wasn't so much that she was nosy--though that was part of it--but that she was honestly interested in other people, and she was as intrigued by this kid as I was. She'd managed to exhibit restraint thus far, and had contented herself instead with seeing that he ate enough food to see him through to his next lifetime. Curiosity finally got the better of her, however, and just as he finished his sixth taco, she asked, with an air of forced lightness: "So, Fulton, what team do you play for?"
"I don't play hockey," he said, in a voice so soft that we both had to strain to hear him.
"But you have your stick, and Charlie says you come to all his games."
"I mean, I don't play for a team."
"But why not, if you like the game so much?"
The look on his face made it plain he'd rather gnaw his leg off at the knee than continue talking, but as that didn't appear to be an option, he turned to me. I could have stepped in and saved him, but this was a question that I had been asking myself for years, and the opportunity to find out proved too tempting. "Yeah, Fulton, why not?"
He shot me a look that made it clear he blamed me for this, but I was no longer very intimidated. I did, however, feel rather guilty, when he muttered, "Can't skate," almost inaudibly, looking more miserable than I'd ever seen him.
My mom must have felt the same way, because she too decided not to press the issue, rising up instead to fix him another couple tacos. "You should come and live with us, Fulton, maybe some of your habits would rub off on Charlie; he's as peckish as a little bird."
Fulton snorted in laughter, and I glared indignantly at my mom. "Just because I can't eat seven or eight tacos in one sitting doesn't make me peckish; it makes me human."
"Tweet, tweet, Spazway," Fulton said with a grin, taking an enormous bite of his taco.
***
After dinner, I was sitting on the counter in the bathroom while Fulton was buried under the sink, fiddling with the pipes. He'd already repaired our VCR, got the toilet flushing properly again, and was nearly done fixing the leaky plumbing as well, which had been causing serious water damage to our floor, as well as the ceiling of the place below.
"Come on, Fulton, why not?" I pleaded, kicking him lightly in the knee. He scooted out from under the sink and glared up at me, a wrench in one hand, a soggy blue bandanna in the other. The pipes had leaked water all down his front, and he used the bandanna to wipe the dripping hair out of his eyes.
"Oh, quit looking at me like that. I don't see why you're so scared..."
"I'm *not* scared."
"Then play with us, damnit! They're all nice kids, and you like them, I know you do, so what's the problem?" I had promised to meet Jesse and Guy and whoever else we could round up that evening for a little street hockey, and was trying to convince Fulton to join us, but the kid had some serious social problems, or something. He just shook his head, and disappeared back under the sink.
"You know, Fulton," I said slyly, and I could hear him stop tinkering to listen to me. "If you don't play with us tonight, I might have to tell my mom that your parents are always away on business, so you never eat properly. I'm sure she'd agree we should have you over more often; think of the chances you'll have to get to know each other better."
There were some clinking noises, and then Fulton re-appeared, shaking the water from his eyes and getting to his feet. He stared at me for a long moment, displeasure plain in his eyes.
"I'll take that as a yes," I said happily, hopping down off the counter and grabbing his arm. "Come on."
***
Hawks. Though we were still pretty far away, I could make out four of them, in their black and blue jerseys and shiny new Rollerblades, their sticks unmarred by dents and dog bites, wearing equipment that wasn't held together by bubble gum and masking tape. They were laughing and jeering as they circled four other kids, who looked to be Jesse, Guy, and a couple other kids we knew who weren't on the team, Mark Whalley and Lester Averman.
I looked over at Fulton; he was watching the Hawks with what can only be described as seething fury; his teeth bared slightly, his knuckles white from clutching his stick so hard. Suddenly, I remembered why Fulton made everyone nervous, even those he'd never so much as looked at the wrong way. I grinned to myself; this was one time that the Hawks weren't going to come out on top. We started walking a little faster.
"Don't you guys ever get tired of being losers?" a kid named Harper Mason asked mockingly.
"Whatever, cake-eater. We could take you guys any day." Jesse, of course, whose specialty had always been writing checks his body couldn't cash. Sure, he and Guy could hold their own against these guys, but Mark and Les? They'd be running for the hills before anyone threw a punch.
"Oh, yeah? The rest of your buddies feel the same way?"
As if to confirm this, Averman spoke up. "Uh, sir? I'd just like to go on record that no, I do not feel the same way. In fact--"
"Shut up, Averman," Jesse cut in angrily, glaring up at the Hawks. "You guys think you're all that, don't you? Well, fancy equipment don't mean shit if you haven't got the skills to back it up."
"You're saying *we* can't play?"
"I'm saying you're a bunch of loud-mouthed, cake-eating assholes in Eddie Bauer who probably piss CK One."
"Wanna see if they bleed it, too?"
Another thing that made Fulton so great at fighting; he always knew what to say in moments like these; I never could have come up with something like that on the spot. We had approached the Hawks from behind, and now they spun around to see Fulton, arms crossed, regarding them appraisingly. There was a slight smile on his lips that made it clear he was going to enjoy what he was about to do. For someone who didn't talk much, he sure made himself heard with perfect clarity.
"Oh, thank God," Averman muttered.
Fulton's sudden appearance had ruffled more than a few Hawk feathers, and they looked back and forth at each other, trying to decide what to do next.
Guy stepped forward, placing himself between Fulton and the Hawks, and I was reminded of the fact that he was, in technical terms, anyway, one of them. "Look, nobody wants a fight, so why don't we all just back off and go home?" he asked, his voice calm, his tone placating.
"Should have known you'd be a traitor, Germaine," the biggest one of them, Tracy McGillis said angrily, shoving him in the chest. "Dad never should have let you join. I told him you were nothing but white trash, just like the rest of these rejects."
WHAM. Tracy flew backwards a few feet, and landed hard on the asphalt. He didn't get up. Fulton stared docilely at the three remaining Hawks, massaging his knuckles absent-mindedly. "That was even more fun than I thought it would be. Can I do it again?"
I heard the sound of a motor approaching, and the next thing I knew, Dean Portman had materialised on my left. He climbed off the old red and white dirt bike he was riding, and strode over to where we were all gathered, tucking his helmet under his arm as he did so.
"What the hell's going on here?"
The Hawks brightened at his arrival; clearly, they thought he was going to save their collective asses. "That goon knocked Tracy out cold!" one of them cried, gesturing to the prostrate form of his fallen comrade.
"So he did," Portman observed, giving Tracy a poke in the ribs with his boot. Tracy groaned slightly, but didn't open his eyes. "And who is the goon responsible for this?"
Fulton took a step forward, so that he and Portman were less than a foot apart. The rest of us backed up automatically, forming a circle around the two boys, who stood there, sizing each other up in silence. I wondered if Fulton would be able to take this Portman kid. I wondered what would happen to the rest of us if he couldn't. But most of all, I wondered what the response time was for an ambulance in this neighbourhood. I bet it wasn't good.