Free Rumble Fish by S. E. Hinton

more surprised that he was glad about it than anything else. Like it had never occurred to him that he loved me.
    He had settled back, me against his shoulder, and I heard the sound of a match being struck. He was smoking a cigarette, and I wanted one myself, but I still couldn’t move. A harsh, breathing kind of sound kept rasping in my ears, until the Motorcycle Boy said, “Will you stop that crying?” and Steve said, “Will you go to hell?”
    Everything was quiet, except for street noises somewhere, the sound of rats scratching around and alley cats fighting a block over.
    â€œWhat a funny situation,” said the Motorcycle Boy after a long silence. “I wonder what I’m doing here, holding my half-dead brother, surrounded by bricks and cement and rats.”
    Steve didn’t say anything, maybe because the Motorcycle Boy wasn’t talking to him.
    â€œAlthough I suppose it’s as good a place to be as any. There weren’t so many walls in California, but if you’re used to walls all that air can give you the creeps.”
    The Motorcycle Boy kept talking on and on, but I couldn’t adjust my mind to what he was saying, couldn’t understand it at all. It was like stepping from solid ground onto a roller coaster, and while I was still puzzling over one thing, he had gone on to something else.
    â€œShut up, willya!” Steve finally cried. He sounded worse scared than when he thought we were going to be killed. “I don’t want to hear it.”
    Maybe Steve had understood the words, I don’t know. But I understood something behind the words. For some reason or other the Motorcycle Boy was alone, more alone than I would ever be, than I could even imagine being. He was living in a glass bubble and watching the world from it. It was almost like being alone, hearing him, and I tried to shake off the feeling. I moved my head and the pain knocked me out.
    He was still talking when I came to again. Nothing had changed, we were still in the alley, only I could feel morning coming on. I was so cold. I never get cold. I was cold, frozen stiff, unable to move, trying to hear the Motorcycle Boy’s empty voice.
    He was saying that nothing in his life had surprised him so much as the fact that there were people who rode motorcycles in packs.
    I tried to say something, but it came out in a grunt that sounded like a kicked dog.
    â€œRusty-James,” Steve said, “you still alive?”
    â€œYeah,” I said. Oh, man, did I hurt. I’d rather be knifed twenty times than hurt like that. I sat up straight, leaning back against the wall, watching things go in and out of focus.
    The Motorcycle Boy sat beside me. We had on almost the same outfit. I always got his clothes when he outgrew them, but they never looked the same on me. We each had on a white T-shirt and black leather jacket and blue jeans. I was wearing tennis shoes, he was wearing boots. Our hair was a color of red that I’ve never seen on anybody else, and our eyes were alike—the same color, at least.
    And people never even took us for brothers.
    â€œWhat happened to those guys that jumped us?” I asked.
    â€œHe clobbered them,” Steve said. He didn’t sound grateful.
    â€œBashed one of them really good. The other one took off.”
    â€œWay to go, man,” I said. My head was hurting me until I couldn’t see straight.
    â€œThank you,” the Motorcycle Boy said politely.
    â€œYou have to go to the hospital this time,” Steve said. “I mean it.”
    â€œShoot,” I said. “Back when the rumbles was going on—”
    â€œWill you shut up about that!” Steve screamed at me, not caring if noise almost knocked me out. “The rumbles! The gang! That garbage! It wasn’t anything. It wasn’t anything like you think it was. It was just a bunch of punks killing each other!”
    â€œYou don’t know nothin’ about