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Ben's pleasant fantasy of Beverly was suddenly broken by one far more grim: what if a dead hand flopped out of that culvert right now, right this second, while he was looking? And suppose that when he turned to find a phone and call the police, a clown was standing there? A funny clown wearing a baggy suit with big orange puffs for buttons? Suppose —

A hand fell on Ben's shoulder, and he screamed.

There was laughter. He whirled around, shrinking against the white fence separating the safe, sane sidewalk of Kansas Street from the wildly undisciplined Barrens (the railing creaked audibly), and saw Henry Bowers, Belch Huggins, and Victor Criss standing there.

'Hi, Tits,' Henry said.

'What do you want?' Ben asked, trying to sound brave.

'I want to beat you up,' Henry said. He seemed to contemplate this prospect soberly, even gravely. But oh, his black eyes sparkled. 'I got to teach you something, Tits. You won't mind. You like to learn new things, don'tcha?'

He reached for Ben. Ben ducked away.

'Hold him, you guys.'

Belch and Victor seized his arms. Ben squealed. It was a cowardly sound, rabbity and weak, but he couldn't help it. Please God don't let them make me cry and don't let them break my watch, Ben thought wildly. He didn't know if they would get around to breaking his watch or not, but he was pretty sure he would cry. He was pretty sure he would cry plenty before they were through with him.

'Jeezum, he sounds jus t like a pig,' Victor said. He twisted Ben's wrist. 'Don't he sound like a pig?'

'He sure do,' Belch giggled.

Ben lunged first one way and then the other. Belch and Victor went with him easily, letting him lunge, then yanking him back.

Henry grabbed the front of Ben's sweatshirt and yanked it upward, exposing his belly. It hung over his belt in a swollen droop.

'Lookit that gut!' Henry cried in amazed disgust. 'Jesus-please-us!'

Victor and Belch laughed some more. Ben looked around wildly for help. He could see no one. Behind him, down in the Barrens, crickets drowsed and seagulls screamed.

'You just better quit!' he said. He wasn't blubbering yet but was close to it. 'You just better!'

'Or what?' Henry asked as if he was honestly interested. 'Or what, Tits? Or what, huh?'

Ben suddenly found himself thinking of Broderick Crawford, who played Dan Matthews on Highway Patrol — that bastard was tough, that bastard was mean, that bastard took zero shit from anybody — and then he bur st into tears. Dan Matthews would have belted these guys right through the fence, down the embankment, and into the puckerbrush. He would have done it with his belly.

'Oh boy, lookit the baby!' Victor chortled. Belch joined in. Henry smiled a little, bu t his face still held that grave, reflective cast — that look that was somehow almost sad. It frightened Ben. It suggested he might be in for more than just a beating.

As if to confirm this idea, Henry reached into his jeans pocket and brought out a Buck knife.

Ben's terror exploded. He had been whipsawing his body futilely to either side; now he suddenly lunged straight forward. There was an instant when he believed he was going to get away. He was sweating heavily, and the boys holding his arms ha d greasy grips at best. Belch

managed to hold on to his right wrist, but just barely. He pulled entirely free of Victor. Another lunge —

Before he could make it, Henry stepped forward and gave him a shove. Ben flew backward. The railing creaked more loudly this tune, and he felt it give a little under his weight. Belch and Victor grabbed him again.

'Now you hold him,' Henry said. 'You hear me?'

'Sure, Henry,' Belch said. He sounded a trifle uneasy. 'He ain't gonna get away. Don't worry.'

Henry stepped forward until his flat stomach almost touched Ben's belly. Ben stared at him, tears spilling helplessly out of his wide eyes. Caught! I'm caught! a part of his mind yammered. He tried to stop it — he couldn't think at all with that yammering going on — but it wouldn't stop. Caught! Caught! Caught!

Henry pulled out the blade, which was long and wide and engraved with his name. The tip glittered in the afternoon sunshine.

'I'll gonna test you now,' Henry said in that same reflective voice. 'It's exam time, Tits, and you better be ready.'

Ben wept. His heart thundered madly in his chest. Snot ran out of his nose and collected on his upper lip. His library books lay in a scatter at his feet. Henry stepped on Bulldozer, glanced down, and dealt it into the gutter with a sideswipe of one black engineer boot.

'Here's the first question on your exam, Tits. When somebody says "Let me copy" during finals, what are you going to say?'

'Yes!' Ben exclaimed immediately. 'I'm going to say yes! Sure! Okay! Copy all you want!'

The Buck's tip slid through two inches of air and pressed against Ben's stomach. It was as cold as an ice-cube tray just out of the Frigidaire. Ben gasped his belly away from it. For a moment the world went gray. Henry's mouth was moving but Ben couldn't tell what he was saying. Henry was like a TV with the sound turned off and the world was swimming . . . swimming . . .

Don't you dare faint! the panicky voice shrieked. If you faint he may get mad enough to kill y ou!

The world came back into some kind of focus. He saw that both Belch and Victor had stopped laughing. They looked nervous . . . almost scared. Seeing that had the effect of a head-clearing slap on Ben. All of a sudden they don't know what he's going to do, or how far he might go. However bad you thought things were, that's how bad they really are . . . maybe even a little worse. You got to think. If you never did before or never do again, you better think now. Because his eyes say they're right to look nervous. His eyes say he's crazy as a bedbug.

'That's the wrong answer, Tits,' Henry said. 'If just anyone says "Let me copy," I don't give a red fuck what you do. Got it?'

'Yes,' Ben said, his belly hitching with sobs. 'Yes, I got it.'

'Well, okay. That's one wrong, but the biggies are still coming up. You ready for the biggies?'

'I . . . I guess so.'

A car came slowly toward them. It was a dusty '51 Ford with an old man and woman propped up in the front seat like a pair of neglected department store mannequins. Ben saw the old man's head turn slowly toward him. Henry stepped closer to Ben, hiding the knife. Ben could feel its point dimpling his flesh just above his bellybutton. It was still cold. He didn't see how that could be, but it was.

'Go ahead, yell,' Henry said. 'You'll be pickin your fuckin guts off your sneakers.' They were close enough to kiss. Ben could smell the sweet smell of Juicy Fruit gum on Henry's breath.

The car passed and continued on down Kansas Street, as slow and serene as the pace car in the Tournament of Roses Parade.

'All right, Tits, here's the second question. If I say "Let me copy" during finals, what are you going to say?'

'Yes. I'll say yes. Right away.'

Henry smiled. 'That's good. You got that one right, Tits. Now here's the third question: how am I going to be sure you never forget that?'

'I . . . I don't know,' Ben whispered.

Henry smiled. His face lit up and was for a moment almost handsome. 'I know!' he said, as if he had discovered a great truth. 'I know, Tits! I'll carve my name on your big fat gut!'

Victor and Belch abruptly began laughing again. For a moment Ben felt a species of bewildered relief, thinking it had all been nothing but make-believe — a little shuck-and-jive the three of them had whomped up to scare the living hell out of him. But Henry Bowers wasn't laughing, and Ben suddenly understood that Victor and Belch were laughing because they were relieved. It was obvious to both of them that Henry couldn't be serious. Except Henry was .