Johnny's backpack is so full it won't zip up. That's never happened before. He's leaning over like some hunchback he was supposed to read about in English class, and his lower back is throbbing something awful. When he reaches the entrance to his high school library, he stands in the open doorway, as if forgetting how to walk. He's never been there except once, when his history class-the lowest level, the one meant for dumb kids-went there to talk about research and learn how to use the card catalogue.

The library is virtually empty except for an elderly lady at the help desk, two preppy girls bent over their books in a back corner, and some lone Soc sitting at a long desk with his back turned away from the entrance. He has wavy hair that doesn't quite fit the Beatles bowl cut, and he's wearing a madras shirt under a forest green sweater. His pricey floods are cut high enough to show off his pricey boat shoes. That must be his tutor, Johnny realizes, and his gut fills with dread. He doesn't know what he was thinking (or not thinking), because he hadn't considered this. But of course his tutor's got to be a Soc. The only studious greaser Johnny's ever met is Pony.

Johnny shuffles forward a few steps and the boy turns around. "Are you here for tutoring?" he calls over, and gestures for Johnny. Jesus Christ.

Johnny stops in his tracks. He thinks his heart stops, too. It's not just any Soc. It's one of the Socs who beat him up. It's that one.

Johnny can still hear that boy's voice in his head sometimes, when he's restless, lying awake in his bed. He can hear it in his nightmares once he's gone to sleep. He can hear it invading his daydreams, when he's trying to force himself to imagine nice things like Pony does. He can't escape the memory of a blue Mustang and nowhere to run. Of rich kids smelling heavy of expensive cologne and cheap liquor surrounding him, taunting him.

Halfway through, when he's tasting the dirt and spit and blood and he knows if he can't get away they'll kill him, he hears it. Come on, Bob. The voice is slurred. Drunken. Don't you think we're taking this a little too far? Let's leave him alone. He looks pretty bad off. It's the voice that's going to make them stop. It's the voice that's going to save him. Johnny remembers the relief more strongly than the pain.

But then that Bob kid answers, his reply a snort of contempt. Relax, Adderson. We're just having some fun! Don't be such a pussy. And that small assurance was enough. Enough to convince the Adderson boy it was okay to let the others continue to beat him, beat him almost to death. Enough to convince him to lay on a few extra kicks himself.

Johnny's stares at the boy. He's avoided him-all of them-ever since, but it's not like he's needed to. This Adderson kid's a senior; Johnny's only ever seen him in the hallways and he always makes sure to take a different route when that happens.

Maybe it's not fair, but more than the other guys, who hurt him worse, who cracked three of his ribs, who dislocated his right shoulder, who bloodied his lip, who gave him two black eyes, who kicked him in the balls so hard he blacked out, who cut off a chunk of his hair, who scarred his face permanently, who threatened to rape him and laughed and told him they were kidding when he cried...more than all them, Johnny hates this guy the most. Because he acknowledged that what they were doing was wrong, and he let it happen anyway. 'Cause he wasn't caught up in the drunken mania like the others; he almost helped him, and instead he half-heartedly participated.

The boy gives Johnny a frustrated look because he's still frozen at the entrance. The Soc pushes in his chair and makes his way over, a false smile spread across his face. He looks like the damn National Honors Society President. Shoot. He probably is.

"You must be John Cade. Principal McConaughey told me to look out for a short kid with dark hair. I'm Randy." He holds out his hand, as if Johnny is supposed to touch it. To actually shake it. Johnny stares and shoves his hands in his pockets. The boy doesn't even recognize him.

After an awkward few seconds, Randy drops his hand. "Look, I know you don't want to be here," he says, in the most amiable, reasonable voice possible. "So let me let you in on a secret." He lowers his voice theatrically. "I don't want to be here, either. My dad insists I cram in a few more community service projects before I send out my college applications, because apparently if I don't get into his alma mater the whole world ends, so here we are." He winks, trying to win Johnny over with his oh-so-perfect, the-world-is-my-oyster-everybody-loves-me charisma that all rich kids possess.

"Now, I figure we can both benefit from this. We'll sit over there at that desk. All you have to do is give me a sample of your handwriting and your latest assignments. I do your work, dumbing my own ideas down of course, and you hang out and pretend to study, and we both get what we want. You pass the ninth grade, you're a freshman, right? You look like a freshman. I get into Duke-"

"Go fuck yourself."

The Soc's mouth opens in surprise, affronted. He looks like a toddler, coming to grips with the word 'no' for the first time and not liking it at all. "Ex-cu-u-se me?"

"I said go fuck yourself," Johnny repeats. He crosses his arms and stares at him hard, hoping to God the boy can't tell that he's shaking under his jeans jacket. The jacket that still has blood on the collar from that night.

"I'm doing you a favor, grease," Randy practically shouts, outraged. "You better show some respect to your betters!"

The librarian assistant at the help desk makes a shushing sound in their direction. She shushes louder than either of them had been speaking.

"Sounds like you're doing yourself a favor," snaps Johnny. Trembling in the assurance he's gonna get beat up yet again, he turns on his heel and walks out, leaving Mr. Duke-bound standing speechless in bewilderment.