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Schmitty was slinging cow brains again. He didn't care about the mess he made, the pink goop slapping against the walls like clumps of old rotten macaroni and cheese. Some of it stuck, while the rest slid down the vinyl siding and plopped into tall grass Jerome had been whacking at with a weed eater until just a second ago.
Now Jerome cringed and ducked, dodging nasty projectiles from the butcher's son.
"Hold still!" Schmitty cackled, weaving up and down the street on his BMX, a big bag of his father's castoffs propped up in the basket mounted above his front tire. He had a paper route, and his aim was true.
"Knock it off! Can't you see I'm armed?" Jerome raised the weed whacker and squeezed the trigger. The whirling length of nylon cord splattered through another chunk of brains that hurtled his way.
"Nice one!" Schmitty whooped at the airborne dispersion of bovine mental matter.
Jerome grimaced at the spatter pattern across his goggles. He tugged them off and wiped the plastic lenses on his T-shirt. "Go mess with somebody else, why don't you?"
"But you're so much fun!" Schmitty reached into the bag, soaked with brain juice.
"I gotta finish." Jerome gestured at the grass. "My dad's gonna be home soon."
From the large bag, Schmitty withdrew a lunch-sized brown bag that didn't appear quite as wet. He pulled a lighter from his pocket.
"You in?" He grinned like a toothy jack-o'-lantern.
Jerome never could figure how Schmitty trusted a bag that small to hold his dog's crap without a big mess.
"Who?" Jerome glanced up the street. It was quiet. Most kids were doing their homework, and most parents weren't home yet.
"That new girl. You know." He stuck out his rear, and the bike shifted back.
Jerome knew: the latest addition to his biology class—a girl with a well-pronounced posterior. Schmitty said she was fat, but Jerome liked her curves. He'd never admit it, though. Schmitty had a name for such boys, squishing up his nose and snorting, "Hog Catchers!"
"Time to welcome her to the neighborhood." Schmitty giggled with a real porcine squeal to it. "C'mon." He wheeled his bike around to head down the street.
"I gotta—"
"Your chores can wait, Jerry boy. This can't." He jerked his head in that way boys do when they know their friends are going to follow along—because they always do.
Jerome blew out a sigh and set the weed eater down, dropping his dad's goggles into the grass. He wouldn't be gone long.
"Climb on!" Schmitty jumped the curb and braked, leaving a smear of black rubber on the sidewalk. Jerome's dad wouldn't like that.
"Five minutes, that's it." Jerome climbed onto the trick pegs mounted on either side of the rear tire.
"In and out." Schmitty pumped the pedals, straining forward to gather momentum. "Hold this."
"No way!" Jerome refused the smelly bag.
Schmitty dropped it into the basket with another giggle. "You can be a real wuss sometimes, you know that?"
––––––––
Three and a half blocks later, they arrived at the new girl's house and hid behind unkempt hedges along the sidewalk.
"You sure this is it?" Jerome found himself whispering.
"I've done my research." Schmitty had the bag in one hand and struck the lighter with his thumb like a real pro. He touched the flame to the top of the bag. "Here you go."
Jerome almost squealed as the flames leapt up into his face, and he caught the bag quickly. He winced at the heavy squish in his hands, keeping it at arms' length.
"Go!" Schmitty hissed.
Jerome took off running, grass-stained sneakers slapping the sidewalk and up the driveway to the front porch where he dropped the fiery poo-bag beside the door and turned on his heel to charge—
"Doorbell!" Schmitty pointed, half-hidden behind the hedge at the foot of the driveway.
Jerome clenched his fists and almost cursed, reeling to race back and jam his thumb against the button—twice for good measure, hearing the dull chimes murmur somewhere inside.
"Quick!" Schmitty beckoned, eyes wild with glee.
Jerome had already sprinted full-tilt for the driveway.
When the front door creaked open.
The screen door screeched.
Heavy footsteps clomped onto the porch.
Jerome felt his knees melt.
Maybe twenty feet away, Schmitty crept backwards out of view on his bike. Jerome could feel eyes behind him burning into the back of his neck.
Gooseflesh prickled. Sweat tickled.
He froze. Maybe if he remained perfectly still, nobody would really notice him.
A short cry from the porch.
Stomping.
Then silence.
No cussing or shouting, no cries of alarm or disgust that the boys were used to. They'd been pulling this prank since elementary school.
Jerome licked his lips. Blinked. Dared to look over his shoulder.
She looked back at him with sad eyes, the most beautiful pair he'd ever seen, shining blue in the fading light. The girl from biology class.
She blinked, and a tear trickled down her cheek. Then she shucked off her befouled shoe and left it on the porch next to the charred remains.
The screen door slapped shut behind her.
I'm sorry.
Jerome didn't have the guts to say it out loud.
Maybe Schmitty was right. Maybe he was a wuss.
––––––––
"That was awesome!" Schmitty snickered as Jerome joined him. "Did you see her face?" He squished up his nose and snorted.
Jerome nodded.
There would be no going back. Not from this.
He reached into Schmitty's basket and took what remained of his butcher-father's cow brains and shoved them into Schmitty's gawking mouth, throwing him off his BMX to the pavement and pinning down his chest with one knee.
Schmitty gagged, flailing both arms and legs, but Jerome was bigger and stronger now, like never before.
"No more," Jerome said.
Wide-eyed, Schmitty nodded.
Jerome let him up to puke explosively into the hedge. Then Jerome went back to the porch to clean up the mess. Prostrate on the sidewalk, Schmitty gagged until Jerome's work was done.