Pressure - By Jeff Strand Page 0,30
or may not have tried to meet me outside. Jeremy, ever vigilant, admitted that he’d fallen asleep and didn’t keep watch. But it was a long shot anyway, so I kept the humorously phrased disparaging remarks down to fewer than eight.
I didn’t see Darren in the cafeteria at breakfast, which concerned me. I also didn’t see him in Mr. Wolfe’s class when it started. And I didn’t see Jeremy, which concerned me more.
What if Darren had gotten him?
What if he’d killed him?
It was a ridiculous thought, I knew, but still…
He’d had practice cutting things up. What if he had Jeremy hidden away in some bushes, opening him with his pocketknife, struggling to saw away his head and knowing that with time and patience it would eventually pop free?
Ridiculous.
Absurd.
Maggots in Jeremy’s eyes.
Laughable. Ha-ha. Ho-ho. Hee-hee.
His mouth filled with insects instead of a tongue.
Not even worth the brain energy to think about.
Perhaps still alive, unable to scream beneath the duct tape, watching as Darren makes precise incisions, staring curiously at his own blood pooling around the blade…
Jeremy hurried into the classroom, out of breath.
“You’re late,” said Mr. Wolfe, without looking away from the chalkboard.
“I know, I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t find my book.”
“Share with somebody else, please.”
He scooted his desk next to mine, and we silently read the math lesson while Mr. Wolfe wrote formulas on the board.
Five minutes later, Darren entered the room, bleeding.
His face was bruised, swollen, and bloody, as if he’d been punched several times, hard. There was also blood on his torn shirt, along with grass stains and dirt. He walked with a limp.
Everybody in the class stared at him as he went toward his desk and sniffled pitifully.
“What in the world happened to you?” asked Mr. Wolfe, glancing over his shoulder. He moved over to Darren in two quick steps and crouched down to check out his injuries.
“Nothing,” said Darren, sniffling again.
“This is not nothing. What happened? Did somebody do this to you?”
Darren shrugged.
“Who?”
Darren pointed at Jeremy.
My first reaction, I’m ashamed to admit, was glee that Jeremy had beaten the shit out of that little monster. That glee was mixed with a sense of disappointment that I hadn’t been there to hold Darren down.
But this reaction instantly vanished as I saw Jeremy’s face. He hadn’t done a thing to Darren. Our common enemy had threatened me, but gone after him instead.
“Is this true?” Mr. Wolfe asked Jeremy.
“No.”
“He did it in the bathroom,” said Darren, his words somewhat slurred. “That’s why I was late.”
“I did not!” said Jeremy, almost at a shout. “I didn’t do a goddamn thing to you and you know it!”
“Jeremy! Language! Get up!”
“I didn’t touch him,” Jeremy insisted.
“I said, get up. We’re going to visit Mr. Sevin.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t touch him.”
Mr. Wolfe stared at him with an expression of carefully controlled rage. “I beg your pardon, young man?”
“I—” Jeremy shouted this first word, but then quickly lowered his voice to an appropriate classroom tone. “I didn’t touch him, sir.”
“He was waiting for me when I came out of the stall,” said Darren, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
“You did it to yourself,” Jeremy said.
“Oh, yeah, I did it to myself. Real funny. Why are you always lying about me?” Darren’s voice cracked, and if I weren’t so convinced of the truth behind the matter I would have absolutely believed him.
“I’m not lying,” said Jeremy, speaking calmly while shaking in fury.
“Darren, Jeremy, let’s go.”
“No.”
“That was not a request.”
“I don’t care. He’s not going to get me the way he did Peter.”
“Get up out of that chair this instant!”
Jeremy shook his head defiantly.
“Jeremy, get up,” I whispered in a panic.
“I didn’t touch him!” Jeremy shouted. In any other circumstances, the way Mr. Wolfe flinched would have been absolutely hilarious and fueled several dozen fond mealtime conversations, but now it just made me want to scream for Jeremy to please, please do what he was told.
“Stand up.”
“No!”
“I said stand up!”
“No! I’m not going with you just so you can take his side.”
The entire class watched with rapt fascination, collectively unable to believe what they were witnessing.
“Young man, you’re making this very bad for yourself.”
“You can call the cops. I don’t care.”
“You will care.”
“Jeremy, just go!” I said.
Jeremy looked at me, then back at Mr. Wolfe. Then, with a frustrated, furious sigh, he pushed back his chair and stood up.
“I didn’t touch him,” Jeremy said. “I didn’t do a thing to him.”
“That’s for me to decide,” said Mr. Wolfe.
“Mr. Wolfe?” asked Larry Peakin, raising his