He had never been in a fight before in his life. He'd been threatened by bullies a couple of times in grammar school and junior high, but he'd always managed to avoid getting beat up: running away or not showing up at the prearranged meeting place or somehow using his brains to escape the brawn.
But this time he was the one who started the fight.
Afterward, he wasn't even sure exactly what had happened or how it had escalated so fast. One minute he was sitting on top of a lunch table with Kevin and Paul and Rick, and the next minute he and Paul were rolling on the cement ground, clutch punching. Paul had made some joke about Penelope being a lesbian, and he had defended I her, responding in kind. Insults had flown back and forth.' And then they were fighting.
He could not remember having made a conscious decision to try to physically hurt Paul, but all of a sudden he was lunging at the other boy, fists flying, and by the time Kevin and Rick pulled them apart, he had already drawn blood.
A crowd had gathered, and though he heard the cheers I only peripherally, was aware of the crowd only as back' ground to the fight itself, he knew that the crowd was on his side, rooting for him, and with each punch he landed, he heard the exclamations of approval, sensed the satis- > faction of the watchers.
And then they were pulled apart.
The gathered students were staring at him silently, almost worshipfully, and he was trembling, pumped with adrenaline, as Mr. Barton, the counselor, led him to the ]
office. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he had inflicted much more damage on Paul than Paul had on him. He would not have thought that possible even a few days before, but it did not surprise him now, and he was pleased with himself as Mr. Barton closed the office door, sat him down in the chair opposite the desk, and told him that he was to be suspended from school for three days.
Dion nodded numbly.
The counselor smiled at him. "I'm only doing this because I have to, you know. If it were up to me, I would've let you kill him."
Dion blinked. "What?"
Mr. Barton opened his bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of wine, uncorking it. "You know how it is. We all have to play these little games."
Dion realized belatedly that the counselor was drunk. Mr. Barton took a swig of wine, and Dion recognized the sweet, heady fragrance from his dinner at Penelope's. It smelled good, and he wanted some, but when the counselor offered him a drink, he shook his head.
"Come on," Mr. Barton said.
He could practically taste it in his mouth, and he felt a familiar stirring between his legs, but he forced himself to say, "No."
The counselor took another long drink from the bottle. "I understand,"
he said. "Saving it for later." He waved a hand toward the door. "You're free," he said, winking. "You're suspended. Get out of here."
Dion stood, left. It was not until he was off school property and walking home that he began to think back on what had happened and to wonder what had come over him and made him behave so completely out of character.
Beating someone up? Hurting someone?
Liking it?
And that weird encounter with the counselor ... There were things going on here that he sensed were related, interconnected, but that he just could not seem to Piece together. He was frustrated. It was like working on a math problem that he almost understood but could not quite get a handle on.
It had something to do with his dreams, though. And Penelope's mothers. And his mom. And Wine. By the time he arrived home, he was again trembling.| This time it was not adrenaline, though. It was fear.
Penelope stopped by after school. He hadn't seen her.; that morning in class, hadn't seen her at lunch, and he'd assumed that she'd been sick and stayed home, but when he'd tried to call her earlier in the afternoon, after he'd first arrived home, he'd gotten an answering machine and had hung up without leaving a message.
Now she and Vella walked into the house, Vella nervously, Penelope looking around with curiosity. She had never been inside before, and Dion wished he'd had time to clean up a bit. Breakfast dishes were still piled in the sink, visible through the kitchen doorway, and the living room floor was littered with Coke cans and the newspapers he'd been trying to read all afternoon. Not a good first impression.
She smiled at him. "So this is what you call home."
He reddened. "It's usually cleaner," he said, apologizing. "If you'd called and told me you were coming, I could've at least straightened up a bit."
Penelope laughed. "I wanted to catch you in your natural habitat."
Vella looked uncomfortably toward the window. "We heard what happened,"
she said. "We heard you got suspended." His face felt hot, flushed. He wanted to explain but he didn't know how, wanted to apologize, but he didn't know what for. Instead he stood there stupidly, nodding, looking at Vella, not wanting to meet Penelope's eyes.
"No one likes Paul much anyway," Vella said. "You're a big hero." But he could tell from her tone of voice that she didn't think he was a hero.
"It just happened," he said. He looked over at Penelope. "He called you a lez."
She blushed.
"Hey," he said, changing the subject. "You guys want something to drink?
Coke? 7-Up? Dr. Pepper?"
Vella shook her head. "No, We've gotta go. I'm supposed to just drive straight to school and straight back. I'm going to be late already. My mom'11 go ballistic if I'm any later."
"I thought you might want to come over," Penelope said quickly. "Vella could drop us off and I could drive. you home."
"But we have to hurry," Vella said.
Dion nodded, grinned at Penelope. "Let me write my mom a note."
Ten minutes later, Vella was dropping them off in front of the winery gates. They said good-bye, Penelope thanked her friend, and then Vella drove off and Penelope opened the black security box with her key and punched in the access code. She frowned as she did so, and Dion lightly touched her shoulder, not making the gesture too intimate, aware of the security camera trained on them from the top of the fence. "Something wrong?" he asked.
Penelope started to shake her head, then nodded.
The gate swung open, and they stepped onto the driveway.
"What is it?" Dion asked.
She turned to face him. "My mothers."
He was not surprised by her words, found, in fact, that he'd been expecting them. His heart was pounding. "What about them?"
She shook her head. "That's just it. I don't know. Not exactly." They began walking slowly up the drive. She told him what had happened Saturday night after she'd gotten home, described the way in which Mother Mar geaux had sneaked into the house after midnight, her blouse torn and covered with blood. "I love my mothers," she said. "But I don't know them." She took a deep breath. "I'm--I'm afraid of them."
"Do you think--"
"I think they might've killed my father."
They stopped walking, stared at each other. From the vineyard, carried on the slight breeze, came the low, musical hum of a conversation in Spanish. Somewhere near the buildings ahead, a car engine started.
"I have no proof," she continued quickly. "Nothing to go on, really.
It's just a feeling, but ..." She trailed offjf Her voice when she spoke was lower, and she glanced to the left and right as if making sure that no one was listen-i ing in. "I pretended I was sick yesterday. I stayed in myl| room. The reason I wanted you to come over today was! not because ... you know. It's because I was scared to,| come home alone."
She took a deep breath, and there were tears in her eyes.
"I don't know what to do."
"You should've called me."
"I couldn't."
"Is that why you weren't at school today?"
"I came after lunch. I--I spent the morning in the library."
Dion licked his lips. "What can I do?"