Ken's War by B. K. Fowler Read Free Book Online Page A

with the doofuss twins as a tactic to
delay confrontation. He did not want a fight. Nor did he want the
word to get out that he was chicken, a sissy who runs from
battle.
    “Did you see that?” Tommy cried. “Five skips!
Five skips that time!”
    “David’s coming! He’s coming to get you!”
Morbid excitement pitched Timmy's voice high. David sped down the
hill on his bike propelled by gravity and maliciousness.
    Ken gathered his textbooks. His father’s
command resounded: Knock the bastard’s block off and he’ll think
twice about bothering you again. If he went home with battle
scars, his dad would grill him until he found out if and how Ken
had defended himself. If he lost this fight, he’d have to bear his
father's heavy disappointment and bow to David's supremacy. If he
won, the retribution would be doubled, because David’s daddy
outranked Ken’s dad. He could run for it. Yeah, across the creek,
through the thrift store, around the old guard house and then
home.
    “Ah! High karate kick!” David’s black sneaker
knocked Ken's books out of his hands and into an oil-slicked
puddle. The books splayed in the puddle like injured birds. In a
freak moment of silence they watched the pages soak up scummy
water. “What are you going to do about it?” David asked, his lips a
mean slit.
    Ken said that David didn't even want to think about what he was going to do. Adrenaline, not
confidence, was his ally.
    Out on Route 11 or possibly as far away as
the turnpike, the grumble of a tractor trailer shifting through its
gears sounded like a beast chomping at the bit. In response, a
rumble, felt more than heard, reverberated through the heavy air.
Thunder.
    David lunged at Ken. The twins jabbed their
fists in the air and cheered. Ken broke out of the tussle and stood
facing David. He held his arms loosely at his sides, ready for
David to tackle him.
    David grabbed a weathered gray board; rusty
nails protruded from the end. He swung mightily. Ken twirled,
trying to spin out of range of David’s weapon. The board hit his
forearm solidly. A nail hooked his forearm, ripping shirt and skin.
A chain of blood blossomed on Ken’s yellow shirtsleeve. He slipped
his hand into his pants pocket and, for good luck, touched the
quartz stone he'd found in Grandpap's garden.
    David dropped the cudgel and wiggling his
fingers, urged in a girlish voice, “Come on, come on. Come on,
Red.”
    The twins screamed, “Get ‘em, Ken! Get ‘em.”
The rumbling noise crept closer, but it wasn't originating from the
highway. The rumbling surrounded them.
    Using a similar arm action he used to strike
out the townies' baseball team, Ken swung at his enemy. The
exquisite sensation of his arm whirling in an arc, the smack of his
fist on David’s cheekbone intoxicated him, churned his stomach.
David’s head jerked back violently. His hand flew to his cheek.
Seeing blood on his fingers, David wailed, dropped to his knees and
rolled his eyes up at Ken. His expression was of questioning
intimacy seen in a mutt's eyes after its owner has delivered a boot
in the rump. Blood, surprisingly cherry-intense against ashen skin,
trickled into David’s ear. Ken wasn't sure if he was the victor, or
in some bass ackwards way, the victim.
    The twins turned tail and ran.
    “You’ll pay for this, Red.” David sobbed. He
made no moves to carry out his threat. He dragged himself upright
with a queer, cautious articulation of arms and legs, like an old
man.
    Disgusted at this pathetic display and drunk
with residual adrenaline, Ken shouted, “Crybaby!”
    He plucked a stone from the mud and hurled it
near David, as a final warning.
    He'd collected a lot of facts that teachers
don't teach you in school—bats weren’t blind, dogs wouldn't attack
you if you acted like the pack leader, and he’d have hell to pay
because David Marshall’s father was Ken’s dad’s CO—but teachers
never quizzed them on that stuff.
    He had trotted home. Exhilarated.