Free Rage by Richard Bachman

it? Hi-ho."
        "Shut up! " he screamed at me.
        "There it was, right under your nose, but it just got out of control, am I right? Kind of disgusting, wasn't it? Did she really go to pot, Ted? Tell us. Get rid of it. Kind of just slopping around the house, was she?"
        "Shut up! Shut up! "
        "Drunk in front of Dialing for Dollars? Seeing bugs in the corners? Or was she quiet about it? Did she see bugs? Did she? Did she go bugs?"
        "Yeah, it was disgusting!" He brayed at me suddenly, through a mouthful of spit. "Almost as disgusting as you! Killer! Killer!"
        "Did you write her?" I asked softly.
        "Why would I write her?" he asked wildly. "Why should I write her? She copped out."
        "And you couldn't play football."
        Ted Jones said clearly, "Drunk bitch. "
        Carol Granger gasped, and the spell was broken. Ted's eyes seemed to clear a little. The red light went out of them, and he realized what he had said.
        "I'll get you for this, Charlie," he said quietly.
        "You might. You might get your chance. " I smiled. "A drunken old bitch of a mother. That surely is disgusting, Ted."
        Ted sat silently, stating at me.
        It was over, then. We could turn our attention to other things-at least, for the moment. I had a feeling we might be getting back to Ted. Or that he would get back to me.
        People moved around restlessly outside.
        The clock buzzed.
        No one said anything for a long time, or what seemed like a long time. There was a lot to think about now.

Chapter 18
        
        Sylvia Ragan finally broke the silence. She threw back her head and laughed long, hard, and loud. Several people, including me, jumped. Ted Jones didn't. He was still on his own trip. "You know what I'd like to do after this is over?" she asked.
        "What?" Pig Pen asked. He looked surprised that he had spoken up again. Sandra Cross was looking at me gravely. She had her ankles crossed the way pretty girls do when they want to foil boys who want to look up their dresses.
        "I'd like to get this in a detective magazine. 'Sixty Minutes of Terror with the Placerville Maniac.' I'd get somebody who writes good to do it. Joe McKennedy or Phil Franks… or maybe you, Charlie. How's that bite your banana?" She guffawed, and Pig Pen joined in tentatively. I think he was fascinated by Sylvia's fearlessness. Or maybe it was only her blatant sexuality. She sure didn't have her ankles crossed.
        Out on the lawn, two more trooper cars had arrived. The firemen were leaving; the fire alarm had cut out a few minutes ago. Abruptly Mr. Grace disengaged himself from the crowd and started toward the main doors. A light breeze flapped the bottom of his sport coat.
        "More company," Corky Herald said.
        I got up, went over to the intercom, and switched it back onto TALK-LISTEN. Then I sat down again, sweating a little. Mr. Don-God-Give-Us-Grace was on his way. And he was no lightweight.
        A few seconds later there was that hollow chink! that means the line is open. Mr. Grace said, "Charlie?" His voice was very calm, very rich, very certain.
        "How are you, skinner?" I asked.
        "Fine, thanks, Charlie. How are you?"
        "Keeping my thumb on it," I said agreeably.
        Snickers from some of the boys.
        "Charlie, we've talked about getting help for you before this. Now, you've committed a pretty antisocial act, wouldn't you agree?"
        "By whose standards?"
        "Society's standards, Charlie. First Mr. Carlson, now this. Will you let us help you?"
        I almost asked him if my co-students weren't a part of society, because no one down here seemed too worked up about Mrs. Underwood. But I couldn't do that. It would have transgressed a set of rules that I was just beginning to grasp.
        "How does Ah do it?" I bawled. "Ah already tole dat dere Mr. Denber how sorry Ah is for hittin'