Bloodthirsty - By Flynn Meaney Page 0,42
How he didn’t run. How he didn’t raise his hands to shield his face. How he didn’t push Perez away from his pockets. How he didn’t protect himself. How he didn’t even try some second-grade karate or order pepper spray off the Internet. How he didn’t defend himself.
How much he was like me.
I watched the robbery go down at least once a week throughout September. But I kept a safe distance at first. Sure, Cho was acting like I had at St. Luke’s—but he wasn’t me, and I wasn’t at St. Luke’s anymore. I told myself I was not only far from Chris Cho, but far from the passive, bullied guy I myself had been, that guy who couldn’t come up with an answer for Johnny Frackas. Now I was powerful. I had friends. I not only spoke up, I said “cock-tease” in English class. I told myself I should stop obsessing. But I kept obsessing. So, in October, when Perez took Cho’s cell phone, I did something.
Cho had almost made it to his math class when Perez slammed open the door of the bathroom. He crossed the hall in three strong strides. Having left class, supposedly to retrieve my lab report, I was watching from my locker, three classroom doors down the hall.
“Chris Cho,” Perez called loudly. “Buddy. BFF. What do you have for me today?”
Briefly, Cho raised his shoulders, then let them fall.
“You don’t know?” Perez said. He bent down and got right in Cho’s face, breathing on Cho’s nose and mouth. “You want me to find out? You get off on this, Cho?”
Cho turned his head away from Perez’s breath and said something I didn’t hear.
“What was that?”
Perez hadn’t heard either.
“I don’t have anything today,” Cho said.
“Cho, don’t sell yourself short,” Perez cajoled. He took an odd sort of encouraging tone with his victim. He was giving Cho a pump-up speech.
“You’re loaded,” Perez encouraged Cho. “You’re a very lucky kid, ya know that?”
“I don’t have anything today,” Cho mumbled again.
But Perez knew Cho was lying. Perez had this built-in radar for valuables. He was like one of those scanners old people use to find coins at the beach. Sensing there was nothing worth robbing in Cho’s backpack, Perez ripped it out of Cho’s hand and sent it spinning across the hallway. It landed two feet in front of my locker, but neither of them looked back or noticed me. Then Perez pulled up Cho’s jacket. Nothing worthwhile in there, either. Perez wrapped his hands around Cho’s hips and basically grabbed his ass. With one hand, he slowly pulled away his prize of the day.
Cho’s cell phone was flat and sleek, silver with a touch screen and a full keyboard. It was a really nice phone. $350, easy. What did Perez do with these things? Sell them? Or use them himself, flaunting Cho’s stuff in his face? And what did Cho do once they were taken? What would he do without his cell phone? What would he tell his parents had happened to it?
“Hey,” I called down the hallway.
Cho looked more scared than Perez did. Neither of them had known I was there.
Perez looked back only briefly. The only effect I had on him was speeding up the process. He dangled Cho’s phone in front of his eyes, let it slip from between his thumb and forefinger, and then dropped it in his own shirt pocket.
“Taxed!” Perez said merrily, and spun off to jog down the hallway.
Slowly and deliberately, I picked up Cho’s backpack from the floor, walked over, and handed it to him. The whole time I was breathing heavily, preparing. Then with a manic change of speed, I took off after Perez.
When I sped up, he sped up. And even in enormous jeans with chains dragging them down and unlaced shoes, Chris Perez was fast. His pants slipped down his thighs as he ran. I got such a nice shot of his ass that I could’ve picked it out of a lineup. His sneaker soles squeaked in the empty hallway. But none of this slowed Perez down.
The incredible thing, though, was this: I was faster. This hallway, West Corridor, was long and clear and I pushed off the waxed tile floor, blood flooding my pumping arms and my long legs. Taking powerful strides, I cut across five floor tiles at a time. Everything was sharp and focused and working together: my hands and elbows in line, my heels kicking back behind me, my body propelling me