The next lesson, there's no chance of holding hands. Johnny arrives five minutes late (he'd taken a smoking break after school let out) and a crowd of fifteen students has taken over the library. That Bob kid is one of them. Randy's in the middle of a conversation with him when he catches Johnny frozen at the doorway. He waves Johnny over, smiling like an idiot.
Johnny doesn't know which is worse, being a coward or a fool. He decides coward, so he jogs up to Randy, pretending everything is normal. He feels sick to his stomach. He's riding into sure death, but he sure as hell doesn't feel gallant. Not one bit.
"Hey, Johnny, this is my friend, Bob."
Bob nods at him, his mouth twisted in a sneer, messing up his perfectly symmetrical, Eagle Scout face, and holds out his hand. Johnny doesn't reach for it.
"Johnny, quit being so rude," Randy says.
Johnny gulps. He hopes they don't see it. Bob grabs Johnny's hand without Johnny offering it and gives it a harsh shake. Johnny's practically crushed in his grip, and he feels the cold, punishing weight of Bob's rings press into his bones. Bob doesn't let go. He looks over Johnny's head to Randy, as if Johnny doesn't even exist. "I forgot. Your charity case."
Bob pulls Johnny in tight and pats him on the back three times, hard and threatening. He puts his mouth against Johnny's ear. Johnny recoils. "Nice scar," he whispers. It's quiet enough that Randy can't hear it.
Bob lets go, and Johnny steps back.
"What the hell, Bob!" Randy exclaims. "That was really unnecessary. And he's not my charity case. Johnny could use the tutoring and I could use the teaching experience."
"Oh, so you're using him?" Bob asks. "Glad that's cleared up."
Randy has stepped between the two of them, and Johnny finally feels safe enough to speak. Or at safe enough to mumble. "What is he doing here?"
Randy turns to Johnny and gives him a sympathetic look. "The debate team has use of the library for the next three weeks before the state championships. Bob's the captain."
Of course he is, Johnny thinks. He needs to stop trembling. He thinks he might be genuinely sick. He thinks he might vomit right there.
"But don't worry," Randy reassures him. "Even if they have the tables, we can take the comfy chairs in the stacks and study there."
"No."
"No what?"
"No."
"What's the matter?"
"I ain't studying here with him. Them."
"I guess it will be kind of loud with a debate going on," Randy reasons, unaware of Johnny's real concerns. "But where else would we work? The classrooms are locked after hours."
Bob's twisting a ring on his finger. His school ring, the one with a sharp-cut sapphire in the center.
"I gotta go." Johnny turns around. He doesn't even bother to walk. He runs out of the library, dignity be damned.
#
It takes no time for Randy to catch up with him. Johnny is sitting at the bottom of the steps that lead up to the school, catching his breath and coughing. Randy takes a seat next to him. Too close.
"I'm sorry about what happened in there."
Johnny shrugs.
"Bob can be a bit of a jerk."
"I hadn't noticed," Johnny snaps.
Randy frowns. "Okay, so he shouldn't have said that thing about the charity case, but it's not you. That's just how he is. He's the type of guy who needs to be alpha dog in everything, you know? He likes to intimidate people he's unfamiliar with. But once you get to know him, he's a good guy."
"Sure."
"He is," Randy insists, like he's trying to convince himself as well as Johnny. "I would know. We went to camp together for four straight summers. We've been best friends since elementary school."
"Too bad for you."
"Oh please!" Randy's through with his patient explanations. "Don't act like your friends are saints. That Two-Bit clown you sit with at lunch shows off his stupid switchblade to random strangers in the hallways. And don't get me started on Dallas Winston. The worst kid in our neighborhood and he's supposedly your 'friend.'"
"He is my friend."
"Well Bob's mine."
There stare at each other as the seconds tick by, neither one giving in. Eventually, Randy blinks.
Johnny stands up, pulls out a cancer stick, and lights up. He's smoking as he walks away. He feels like he just escaped prison, but then Randy's footsteps resound behind him, and the dread comes back.
"What do you want from me?" Johnny asks.
"You shouldn't do that."
"Do what?"
"Smoke. That stuff kills you."
Johnny turns around and blows four steady smoke rings right into Randy's face. "Guess my early death will save taxpayers like your folks some money."
Randy waves away the smoke. "That's not funny."
Johnny smokes faster, even though his throat is a wreck. He wants to make his point, although he's not sure what his point is.
"Do you know what that does to your lungs? There's strong evidence that links cigarettes to several different types of cancer, and-"
"Why do you care what I do?" Johnny walks faster. Randy walks faster.
"You should quit," Randy repeats, ignoring his question.
"Lay off, okay? I can't quit. I've been smoking too long. Since I was nine."
"Your parents let you smoke when you were that young?" Randy actually sounds scandalized. In the way old ladies are supposed to sound scandalized.
Johnny shrugs. The more Randy doesn't know about his parents, the better.
"Do you know what smoking would have done to my athletic career? My dad would kill me if he ever heard I touched the stuff."
"Well, I ain't got an athletic career. I'm probably gonna end up in jail. I hear they use weeds as a barter system or something, so I'm practicing."
"Don't say that," Randy says.
It's difficult for Johnny to keep walking this fast. Considering that fact that Randy's on the track team and a whole head taller, Johnny realizes he's not going to get rid of him this way. He slows down his pace. Randy slows down his pace. Johnny doesn't like how they're next to each other on the sidewalk, their steps in synch.
"It's what you and your friends think about me anyway. Future inmate." Johnny blows more smoke into Randy's face. He doesn't know why he's testing him. Randy could easily beat him if it came to that.
But Randy only waves the smoke away again, and gives him a long, serious look that makes him uncomfortable.
"Maybe I did think that way, a couple weeks ago," Randy admits. "But you're not what I expected from a greaser. All the greasers I've ever met before are busy mouthing off and bragging and talking big. I can barely get a word out of you."
"Go figure. We're not all the same person," Johnny snaps in sarcasm. "I thought you were supposed to be smart or something."
"There we go," says Randy, "that's what I've been missing. So where are we walking to?"
"I don't know where you're walking to, but I'm walking home. It ain't my fault if we don't got a place to do the lessons."
"I'll come with you. We can study at your place."
"What? No!" Johnny stops in his tracks. He thinks about Randy, stepping around the broken bottles that lead to his front porch. Turning the knob of the front door to discover it doesn't work. Tripping on the piles of dirty laundry left on the floor. Noticing the hole in the wall that hasn't been spackled after his dad bashed his head in the other week. Searching for a snack in the empty refrigerator. Meeting his mom, who is definitely at home because she never leaves the house, and possibly still dressed in the same see-through nightgown she's been wearing for the past three days.
"Why not?"
"Because you don't belong on our side of town."
"I don't belong on your side of town? Geez. And greasers are always complaining about us social club kids being the mean, exclusive type. You make me sound like I'm from the wrong side of the tracks or something."
"I'm from the wrong side of the tracks," Johnny clarifies. "So you'd better just stay on your own damn side if you don't want to get jumped."
But Randy only smiles. "You're so cute when you act all scowly and tuff."
Johnny drops his cigarette and stops walking. He checks his surroundings to make sure nobody heard. But nobody's around. Most of the homes in the area were foreclosed years before, and left abandoned ever since.
"You know what else would be real cute?" Johnny asks. He shoves Randy. "If I gave you a black eye."
Randy grabs Johnny and pushes him against a crooked stop sign; the sign is faded orange from years of sun exposure, and the sharp edge of the corroded metal octagon cuts at the back of Johnny's head.
This is it. They're finally going to fight it out. Johnny can feel the hatred rising in his gut. He's prepared, even if he's not strong enough to escape Randy's grasp. He's going to give it everything in him to prove himself.
But instead of hitting him, Randy tightens his grip on Johnny's t-shirt, twisting it in his palm; he leans forward so close that his lips practically touch Johnny's, and he says, "I wasn't making fun of you."
"You said I was cute." Johnny accuses through gritted teeth. "How is that not making fun of me? I'm not gonna put up with this, I'll fight you-"
"How do you think I meant it, if I wasn't making fun of you?" He sounds nervous. Like he's just said something that could get him in trouble. Randy is still holding him down, hovering over him. But Johnny realizes that it doesn't feel threatening.
Calling a boy cute is emasculating. He must have meant to offend him. There is no other explanation. Except, Johnny's gut knows there is. He just doesn't want to think about it. The handholding under the desk, the smiles aimed in his direction, the compliments, the worried glances–all of it–now Johnny knows for sure that it was more than some "save the poor" kumbaya crap on Randy's part.
Randy's pushing him down, pressing against him, invading his space. Johnny wants him to. But he has promises to keep. He can't let on that he knows. If he doesn't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist.
"Stop touching me," Johnny orders.
Randy lets him go.
"I can wait," Randy says. "I can wait a long time. As long as you need." Johnny decides to ignore that comment.
They keep walking in silence. No matter what pace Johnny walks, Randy's by his side.