The Party by Christopher Pike Read Free Book Online

ducked the fat foot and crouched, coiling the power of his legs. The momentum of the misplaced kick left the white dude twisted at an awkward angle. Nick launched himself upward, grabbing the guy’s hair with both hands and snapping his right knee into his groin. The bastard couldn’t even scream out. Doubling up, making a strangled gasping sound, he fell to the floor, turning a sick pasty color.
    “Who’s next?” Nick barked, glaring at the remainder of the room. He doubted that he’d scare off the whole gang, and he was right. You couldn’t bluff people out of a twentytoone advantage. A few of the stockier fellows began to close in. Instinctively, Nick knelt and grabbed ahold of a large jagged slice of mirror. The players paused warily, glancing at one another. It was then that the head of the football team, Coach Campbell, barged in.
    Nick had seen the man before. Approximately forty years old, he had tan leathery skin and a wide blunt face Nick thought particularly ugly. Although below average in height, he was built like a tree trunk and had one of those thick raspy voices that was usually the result of years of shouting.
    “What’s going on here?” he demanded. He saw his player rolled up on the floor and then saw Nick bleeding, with the glass knife in his hand. A look of pure disgust filled his already disgusting face. “Put that down!”
    Nick set the piece of mirror on the floor. He had been gripping it so hard, it had cut into his fingers, and they were bleeding as well. Coach Campbell moved so close to Nick that Nick could feel his hot breath on his bare chest. “What did you do to Gordon?” he asked.
    “He attacked m-me,” Nick stuttered.
    “He attacked you ? Why would he attack someone carrying a knife?” The coach backed off a step, scowled down at Gordon. “Skater, Fields, help The Rock to the infirmary.”
    The Rock , Nick thought.
    The players did as told and soon the guy had been cleared away. From the outside, Nick knew he was standing perfectly still, but inside he was shaking. He half expected the coach to belt him in the face. Worse, he had no doubt at all that he was to be expelled, and that his father would kick him out of the house when he heard.
    “What’s your name, son?” Coach Campbell asked.
    “Nick Grutler.”
    “Where you from? What are you doing here?”
    “This is where I go to school.”
    “Who gave you permission to use the facilities in this room?”
    “The other coach.”
    “Who?”
    “I don’t remember his name.”
    Coach Campbell folded his arms across his chest, nodding to himself. “I know who you are. You’re that transfer from Pontiac High downtown. I was warned about you. I see I should have listened.”
    Nick swallowed. “He started it.”
    Coach Campbell looked around the room. “Is this true?” He waited for an answer. No one spoke up. The coach sighed, shook his head. “Grutler, either you’re a liar or else no one here gives a damn about your hide. I don’t know which is worse. But I can tell you one thing, you’re on your way out, out of this room and off this campus.” He began to walk away. “See someone at the infirmary about your cuts. Then come to my office.”
    A heavy weight descended on Nick, and for the first time an outsider might have noticed a crack in his reserve. He was stooped over slightly; he couldn’t quite catch his breath. He really had wanted to fit in.
    Then the unexpected happened for the second time in a few minutes. One of the guys in the corner began to laugh. The sound caused Coach Campbell to stop in the doorway and glance over his shoulder. The guy in the corner kept right on laughing, louder and louder. The coach turned toward him, glaring.
    “What are you giggling about, Desmond?” Coach Campbell demanded.
    The guy got up slowly, shaking his head. “It’s just that you remind me. Coach, of a sheriff in a movie I saw last night on TV. The sheriff tried to put a black fella behind bars just ’cause he