Free Stick by Michael Harmon Page B

backup, Stick.”
    “No. Just you two and me. He stays out of it.”
    Preston picked up my helmet.
    Killinger held his hand out. “Give it here, kid.”
    Preston stood, pale and silent, unmoving, his big eyes on Killinger.
    “You want more than eggs this time, you fucking fag?” he said, stepping closer to Preston. They stared each other down for a few seconds, and Killinger grabbed Preston’s arm.
    Then it happened.
    Preston swung the helmet with all his might, nailing Killinger square on the cheek. Blood sprayed. But it didn’t stop there. He was like a tornado, arms flailing, the helmet a blur as he went after the falling Killinger.
    As Killinger fell, Tilly rushed in and wrapped his arms around Preston, lifting him like a child. Preston was screaming. No, not just screaming, but from the bottom of his soul yelling bloody murder.
    Skinny arms swinging, legs kicking, body thrashing in Tilly’s huge arms, Preston fought uncontrollably, beating both Tilly and himself with the helmet. The helmet caught Tilly square in the face, and blood gushed from his nose. Preston, with spittle and slobber flying from his mouth like he was possessed by a spastic demon, lowered his chin and sank his teeth into Tilly’s forearm, his yells turning to growls as he gnashed his teeth.
    Tilly tried to control him, squeezing him tighter, but Preston was an animal, gnawing on his arm, hitting and kicking even harder. Tilly let out a painful grunt, lifted him higher, and body-slammed him to the ground.
    It all happened so fast, I couldn’t do anything, and I blinked when Preston’s body hit the concrete. I heard the hollow thud when his skull hit. This didn’t happen. People didn’t do this. I’d never seen a situation so out of control.
    The screaming stopped with the impact, and Preston lay still. Tilly, in a rage, leaned down, drawing back a giant fist to punch his head. I leaped at him, winding back and landing a massive haymaker against the side of his face.
    I thought for sure I’d knock him out, but Tilly only roared in pain, backing off and holding his cheek. “Kid’s fucking mental, man! Look at my arm!” He gaped, holding it up and watching the blood stream down.
    I stood over Preston, staring at both Killinger and Tilly. Killinger looked like he was in shock, which he should have been. A hundred-and-seventeen-pound fifteen-year-old kid had just beat the shit out of both of them. “Leave, Lance. Get out of here.”
    And they did, with Tilly pointing at me and telling me I was finished, and that he’d finish me himself. Then it was over. I glanced through the gym doors just in time to see Coach disappear from sight. No other teacher had seen a thing.
    Preston regained consciousness. He lay on his side in a fetal position, his face buried in his arms, his body heaving. He was talking to himself quietly through his sobs and moans, and the only thing I could understand was him mumbling “Sorry” over and over again.
    I knelt down next to him, hoping to God he was all right. Tilly had slammed him hard. Too hard. “Hey, you okay?”
    He didn’t answer me. He was still heaving, still talking to himself, almost as if he was dreaming, still curled up like a wounded animal. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he flinched. “Don’t touch me. Never touch me,” he rasped.
    I moved back, holding my hands up, palms toward him. “Preston, it’s okay. It’s fine. It’s me. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”
    His whole body trembled. His face was smeared with blood and snot. He looked at me, those impenetrable eyes so deep and full of mystery and misery and sadness. He sat up, wrapping his arms around his chest. “Don’t touch me.”
    “I promise I won’t. Are you okay?”
    His eyes were closed. His chin quivered, and he clenched his teeth, trying to calm the sobs coursing through him. “Leave me alone. I’m supposed to be alone, so leave me alone.”
    I didn’t budge. For all I knew he’d cracked his skull. “Are