Little Gods Read online

  The bicycle's owner emerged from the antique store. Her hair and her dress were the same red as the bike frame, like faded silk roses, her black leather beret matched the seat, and chrome rings flashed on her fingers. Her eyes, before she put on her sunglasses, were as bright and reflective as her bicycle's headlamp. She carried a plastic bag with a real drawstring, and something inside the bag rattled and clattered. Something old and obscure, surely, as it had come from Antiquities and Tangibles, the Sargasso Sea of the antiques trade, the place where only the most marginalized and unappreciated remnants of the past fetched up.

  She unlocked the chain and wrapped it around her waist like a belt, then fastened it, spinning the combination lock into nonsense numbers. She dropped her bag in the chrome basket behind the seat and mounted the bicycle. Her boots were leather, with chrome buckles. She cooed to her bicycle, and it seemed almost to steady itself, as if some gyroscopic mechanism kept it upright. As she pedaled away down the sidewalk, she sang, and the hum of the smoothly oiled bicycle chain and the rasp of the fat tires on the pavement seemed to sing with her.

  She sang “What Is This Thing Called Love?"

  Behind her, in the basket, the bag's contents shifted and clattered, not at all in time with the song.

  Cory sat out behind the high school, throwing rocks at a sewer grate, waiting for the bus to come back. Because his school was overcrowded, there were two separate bus schedules. First load left right after school, and went fully-loaded. The second load made it back about forty minutes later, each bus picking up a dozen or so leftover students. For some reason Cory's subdivision had drawn second-load status, and now he had to suffer through this empty after-school time. He had to get a car next year, or at least make friends with someone who drove. The other people who rode his bus were out behind the gym smoking pot, probably. Even they didn't want to have anything to do with him. At least they weren't violent—just stupid. Unlike some—

  “Look who's here,” a smooth voice said from his left. Cory hunched his shoulders. School had only been in session for three weeks, and he'd already grown to hate that voice. He didn't even know the kid's name, the leader of the vicious little trio. He didn't have any classes with him, and in a high school of 2000 students it wasn't surprising that he never saw him during the day. But this kid—Cory thought of him as “Rocko” because he looked like a young and pugnacious version of Edward G. Robinson, though his voice was surprisingly pleasant—this kid rode second load on one of the other buses, and apparently had nothing better to do in these forty dead minutes after school than look for people to torment. His little trio—the other two Cory had dubbed “Angel” and “Curly,” after Rocko's henchman from the movie Key Largo—usually hung around by the vending machines, harassing the freshmen who emerged from after-school band practice to get sodas or chips. Cory had run afoul of them once and gotten away with no worse than a shoving, and since then he'd spent his time reading outside or in odd corners of the school, occasionally slipping away when he heard them approaching. It could be worse, he supposed—in lots of schools there were stabbings and shootings, but as his mom reminded him, this was a good school in a good area. Which meant only the risk of being beaten up by three guys—he wasn't likely to die.

  Apparently the band kids had grown wary, and the trio had gotten bored and gone searching for new meat, because here they were. Cory had been so engrossed in stone-tossing that he hadn't heard them coming.

  Rocko sat down beside him and slung an arm over his shoulder. Cory shrugged him off, and Rocko laughed, that pleasant, easy laugh. “You like throwing rocks, huh? You want to have a little rock-throwing contest?"

  Cory started to stand up. Rocko grabbed the arm of his jacket and pulled him back down. Cory tried to jerk his arm away, but Rocko held him tight, not even moving from his place on the curb. “Just a friendly game,” he said.

  Cory glanced at Rocko's buddies. Angel and Curly lounged against a science classroom, watching him, sneering. Angel was black and Curly was Hispanic. Say what you would about Rocko, he wasn't a racist. As long as you were mean-spirited and servile, there was a place for you in his gang.

  “No, thanks,” Cory said. “I don't feel like playing a game."

  Rocko ignored him. “The way I figure it, there's nothing too hard about throwing rocks into a grate. That's not any kind of a challenge, you know? Now, if you were aiming rocks at a person, and that person was trying to get away—that'd be challenging. Don't you think?"

  Cory couldn't believe he was hearing this.

  “We'd need bigger rocks, though,” Rocko said thoughtfully.

  Cory jerked his arm away again, and this time broke free.

  “Ready to start running?” Rocko asked.

  “What makes you be like this?” Cory asked, frowning at Rocko's froglike, smiling face. “Why do you do this?"

  “I look at it like dogshit,” Rocko said. “There's dogshit on your shoe, you scrape it off, right? I look at you, and I see dogshit, but I can't get rid of you, you just keep ... hanging around. If I can't get rid of you, I can at least let you know you're dogshit, right? Make sure you don't forget it."

  Cory just stared at him. He'd dealt with bullies in the past, and small-scale violence, but those had always been brutally stupid people, strutting for their friends. Rocko sounded so ... reasonable.

  “There's just this look about you,” Rocko went on. “The way you walk around, all hunched up, the way you always look like you smell something bad. I see you in the halls and it disgusts me.” He shrugged. “So I guess that's why I do this. Plus, my psychiatrist says I'm in a really explorative stage, that I'm testing my boundaries and trying to define myself."

  Cory took a step backwards. Where could he possibly go? The school wasn't that big, and he had to come back here to catch the bus anyway. He couldn't outrun them if they decided to chase him.

  “Anyway,” Rocko said. “The place where I used to live, before I moved here, they had security guards everywhere, they had metal detectors, they had to lock down the classrooms a couple of times because of riots in the halls. Then I come to this place and there's no cops or anything, I can't believe it, I mean, I know it's the sticks, but really. So yeah, I guess I'm just ... testing the boundaries.” He stood up. Angel and Curly stood a little straighter when Rocko rose, like well-trained dogs. “I'm not going to kill you or anything,” Rocko said. “But ... you know ... it's a long year. No telling what could happen.” He glanced at Angel. “How long ‘til the bus comes?"

  “Fifteen minutes,” Angel said. He did not have Rocko's orator's voice. His voice sounded like someone falling down a flight of stairs.

  “I gotta get a fucking car,” Rocko said, shaking his head. “This is just ridiculous. Another year until I turn sixteen, can you believe that?"

  “You could always get a bicycle,” Cory said. He wasn't sure why—it just popped out.

  “What am I, ten years old?” Rocko said.

  “Let's beat his ass,” Curly said. “This talking's bullshit."

  “Talking's not bullshit,” Rocko said. “But there does come a time for talk to end. You've got ten minutes, guys. Have fun."

  “We're not like him,” Curly said, approaching. “We're not testing boundaries or anything."

  “Nah,” Angel agreed.

  Rocko sat on the curb, seemingly oblivious to the impending violence, picking up rocks and examining them.

  Cory couldn't do much but run. Probably a couple of teachers were still hanging around the office, and if he got really desperate he could burst into the band classroom and take refuge there until the bus came. Everyone would think he was a pussy, but he'd rather be mocked than beaten. He backed up, trying to gauge the right time to dash. He could head for the dark covered area between the gym and the science buildings, the place everybody called “the Tunnel,” and then break across the courtyard and get into the main building. Maybe they wouldn't catch him.

  “What's up, guys?” a girl's voice said from the di
rection of the Tunnel. Angel, Curly, and Cory all looked.

  The girl was tall and brunette, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She wore a striped field-hockey uniform, and there were bits of grass stuck to her knees. She held a hockey stick, resting it across her shoulder, and for a moment Cory thought she looked like a particularly athletic incarnation of Death, armed with some kind of wooden practice scythe. “You guys waiting for bus?” she asked, all innocence.

  “We were just waiting for you, baby,” Curly said, smiling widely and stepping toward her.

  Cory, relieved to no longer be the focus of attention, relaxed, then immediately felt ashamed. Now they were going to give this girl shit, and he couldn't do anything about it—why should he feel better at her expense?

  “I heard all you field hockey chicks are lesbians,” Curly said, still smiling. “Wanna prove me wrong?"

  She flipped her ponytail. “Oh,” she said, in a bored voice. “I didn't realize you were assholes, or I wouldn't have bothered you."

  Angel laughed.

  She looked at him. “That was an inclusive comment."

  “Bitch,” Curly said. “I know—"

  “Now, now,” Rocko said, rising from his place on the sidewalk. “That's no way to talk to a lady."

  “She shouldn't talk to me like she did,” Curly said. “Nobody talks to me that way."

  “Sticks and stones may break your bones,” Rocko said. “And, as you might have noticed, she does have a stick, and you do have bones."

  Curly snorted. “Shit. What's she going to do with that?"

  The girl smiled at him. She had braces, but Cory still thought it was a beautiful smile, if a little nasty and malicious. She didn't move the stick, didn't thump it into her palm, nothing—just stood there, smiling.

  “Shit,” Curly said again. “Ugly bitch ain't worth the trouble.” He turned his back and slouched away. Angel glanced at Rocko, then went with Curly, back toward the band practice rooms.

  The girl glanced at Cory. “You're not saying much. Are you the ringmaster of this circus?"

  “No,” Rocko said. “That would be me. But I wish you wouldn't judge me by the company I keep. Good help's hard to find."

  “So what are you doing here, then?” she asked Cory, ignoring Rocko.

  “Just ... waiting for the bus,” he said.

  She nodded. “Me, too. First time I've had to ride it. I used to ride home with a friend, but now practice has started.... “She shrugged.

  Cory was never good at talking to people, especially not to girls, especially not in front of Rocko.

  “He's really not worth talking to,” Rocko said. “He just asks a lot of stupid—"

  “I think your friends are waiting for you,” she said, glancing at Rocko. “Maybe you should go check on them, make sure they don't get lost or something."

  Rocko frowned, then smoothed back his dark hair. “Which bus do you ride?"

  “None of your fucking business,” she said.

  Rocko narrowed his eyes. “Just wondered if you were on mine."

  She simply looked at him.

  “Fine,” Rocko said. “See you around.” He glanced at Cory. “And you—I'll definitely see you around.” He sauntered off.

  “He's a little shit, isn't he?” the girl said, watching him go. She glanced at Cory. “I'm Heather."

  “Cory."

  “Those guys bother you a lot?"

  He shrugged, uncomfortable. “Not really. Sometimes."

  “Girls mostly just talk about each other. And that can get nasty, believe me. But they don't tend to ... hit each other so much. I feel for you."

  “It's no big deal. I can handle it."

  “No doubt,” she said, and though he was acutely attuned to sounds of sarcasm and contempt, he didn't detect either in her voice. “Which bus do you ride?"

  “228."

  “Hey, me, too. Where do you live?"

  “In a subdivision called Foxglove."

  “Cool,” she said, nodding. “My family just moved there. We're the last house on the street, down by the circle, right up against the woods. I haven't met anybody else in the neighborhood."

  He shrugged, looking off toward the road, unsure whether to be nervous or pleased to hear she was his neighbor. “There isn't really anybody else our age. Some little kids is all."

  “Maybe we could play basketball or something. My dad put a hoop up over the garage."

  “I'm not very good at basketball."

  She shrugged. “So play with me and you'll get better, right?"

  “Yeah. I guess so.” She was a jock. She'd stomp him at basketball. Wouldn't that be fun? She hadn't laughed at him yet, but she would. Everyone did eventually.

  The stoners came wandering from behind the gym, and a minute later the bus appeared.

  Survived another day, Cory thought. He glanced at Heather. Got rescued by a girl.

  He got onto the bus and took his usual seat halfway back, on the passenger side. He looked out the window at the parking lot.

  Heather plopped down next to him. “This seat taken?"

  She wanted to sit next to him? What did that mean? “No."

  “You mind if I sit with you? I mean, I know there's lots of room and all, but it gets boring sitting by yourself."

  “No, it's fine."

  “So what do you do for fun?” She had her hockey stick in her hand, and she thumped it against the back of the seat in front of them while she talked.

  He shrugged. “I watch a lot of movies. My dad has a big library of videos."

  “Cool!” She said. “I saw The Burning Witch last week—have you seen it?"

  He shook his head. Burning Witch was a horror movie—from the previews it looked to be mostly about a woman who cackled and set things on fire with her mind, and then some teenagers defeated her. It looked pretty dumb. “No, I haven't. I like mostly old movies. Black and white stuff."

  She frowned. “Like It's A Wonderful Life?"

  “No ... like The Big Sleep and Lady in the Lake and The Thin Man...” She was looking at him blankly. “Um ... Casablanca? The Maltese Falcon?"

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, nodding. “Wow. You like that stuff, huh?"

  She didn't seem contemptuous, exactly, just ... surprised. “Yeah, well, my Dad really likes them, so we watch them together sometimes. He likes Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall a lot. We watched a movie called Key Largo a couple of weeks ago. There's a guy in that movie named Rocko who looks a lot like...” He trailed off.

  “Like who?"

  He sighed. “Like that guy back at school."

  “So he looks like a smiling frog?"

  Cory laughed. “Yeah.” He glanced at her. She was nice. Not like most of the other girls, who always found something in him to laugh at—his shoes, his hair, the way he walked, the way he talked. It didn't much matter—they always found something. Even the ones who didn't tease him just ignored him.

  “I haven't seen many old movies. Maybe we could watch one sometime?"

  His dad would tease him so much if he brought a girl home! He'd mean it in a good-natured way, but Cory was already wincing at the thought. Still ... if Heather thought the movies were cool, it could be worth a little teasing.

  “Sure. I'd like that.” He reached out and tapped the handle of her hockey stick. “Don't they usually keep these at school?"

  She rolled her eyes. “I'm supposed to practice at home, try to get ‘better control’ the coach says. I've got a stick of my own, but it hasn't come from California yet. My parents have so much stuff, it's two big truckloads. My dad's driving back with the last of it this week."

  “You're from California?"

  “Monterey,” she said. “Lived there my whole life."

  Cory grimaced. “From California to North Carolina. Seems like a step in the wrong direction."

  She shrugged. “All depends on the people, right? If I can make good friends here, it'll be just as good as home was."

  She flashed him th
at braces-and-all smile, and just then Cory would have done anything for her.

  Rocko watched bus 228 pull away, his face expressionless. His two associates had drifted off, probably to smoke in the bathroom. Rocko went back outside and sat on the curb. He picked up a rock and held it up to the light, watching the bright flecks flash. He thought about dissections.

  Suddenly a bicycle was before him, its rider a woman with dusky red hair and a black leather beret. She was somewhere past young, but not all the way gone into middle-age. She looked like a hippie in her long dress and tights, but her boots were a biker's, and she wore chrome rings. She looked down at him from the bike's high seat. The bicycle seemed to complement her, and he realized its color matched that of her hair.

  “Rocko,” she said, her voice somewhere between a purr and a rasp.

  He frowned. “That's not my name, lady.” He didn't like sitting here, with her peering down at him—he felt vulnerable, like a frog in a dissecting pan. He started to get up.

  “Frog in a pan,” she said. “Nice image, Rocko. But now you're pithed."

  He froze, his ass just inches from the concrete, stopped in the act of rising. His legs began to quiver immediately from the strain of holding him up. He felt his heart beating, but he couldn't blink, couldn't move. Like a live frog pithed for dissection, his spine pierced with a metal rod, everything but the most basic physical functions suspended. His fear even had a detached quality; it was wholly intellectual, with no emotional component. He wondered clinically—and he could be very clinical—whether his glands were working, whether adrenaline was pumping into his veins. He thought not.