Free Rumble Fish by S. E. Hinton Page A

it,” I whispered. I didn’t have the strength to do anything else.
    Steve turned to the Motorcycle Boy. “You tell him! Tell him it wasn’t anything.”
    â€œIt wasn’t anything,” the Motorcycle Boy said.
    â€œSee?” Steve said triumphantly. “See?”
    â€œYou were president,” I said. “You must have thought it was something.”
    â€œIt was fun, at first. Then it got to be a big bore. I managed to get the credit for ending the rumbles simply because everybody knew I thought they were a big bore. They were going to end, anyway. Too many people doing dope.”
    â€œDon’t say it was fun,” Steve said. “It wasn’t fun. You can’t say it was fun.”
    â€œOh, I was speaking from personal experience,” the Motorcycle Boy said. “I must admit that most of them didn’t think it was fun. Most of them were terrified when we had a fight. Blind terror in a fight can easily pass for courage.”
    â€œIt
was
something,” I whispered. I felt so tired and sick and sore that I almost wished I was dead. “There was something about it, I remember.”
    â€œA lot of them felt that way apparently.”
    â€œYeah,” Steve said to me. “You are just stupid enough to have enjoyed it.”
    â€œWell, remember,” said the Motorcycle Boy, “loyalty is his only vice.”
    After about five minutes of silence, the Motorcycle Boy spoke up again. “Apparently it is essential to some people to belong—anywhere.”
    That was what scared me, what was scaring Steve, and what would scare anybody who came into direct contact with the Motorcycle Boy. He didn’t belong—anywhere—and what was worse, he didn’t want to.
    â€œI wonder,” Steve said wildly, “why somebody hasn’t taken a rifle and blown your head off.”
    â€œEven the most primitive societies have an innate respect for the insane,” the Motorcycle Boy answered.
    â€œI want to go home,” I said dully. The Motorcycle Boy helped me stand up. I swayed back and forth for a second.
    â€œCheer up, kid,” my brother said. “Gangs will come back, once they get the dope off the streets. People will persist in joining things. You’ll see the gangs come back. If you live that long.”

9
    â€‹My head hurt so bad the next day, I figured I might as well go to the clinic and see a doctor. The Motorcycle Boy had left right after he dropped me off, and the old man left about noon, so I had to go somewhere.
    It was a free clinic—you didn’t have to pay anything or even give your right name. It was crowded with old people and lots of whining kids and their mothers. I’d been there before, when the old man had a fit of D.T.’s. He didn’t have them often, not as much as you’d think.
    I got to see a doctor after an hour or so. He was just a kid. I can’t believe he was a real doctor. I thought they had to go to school forever.
    â€œI bumped my head,” I told him.
    â€œI guess you did,” he said. He washed off the side of my head with this junk that smelled awful and burned like hell. Then he stuck a thermometer in my mouth and listened to my heart awhile. I couldn’t see what good that was going to do me, but I just sat there and didn’t give him any trouble. The doctors here were really nice. The ones that took care of my father had been really nice. I wished I’d known about this place the time I broke my ankle. I would have gone here instead of the hospital. I hate hospitals. I’d rather be in jail. I didn’t have anything against doctors, though. It just seemed like a waste of time to go see them. I thought maybe I could get some pain pills, this time.
    â€œYou’re running a slight fever,” he told me. “I want you to go over to the hospital and get some X rays. You ‘bumped your head’ pretty hard.” He grinned at me