The street is strangely quiet. One or two blocks over, sirens volley off buildings and I hear the crowds, but where I am, right now, is like a concrete pod of aloneness. I’m suddenly aware of how tired I am. My jeans stick on my scraped knees. I pick a bit of gravel from the heel of my hand. For a small second, I think about going home, pouring a huge glass of water, taking it with me and collapsing in bed. I think about sleeping in tomorrow, all day, maybe. I’ll call my boss and tell him I’m sick. I’ll tell Dad I’ve got the flu. Maybe he’ll bring me 7-Up. I don’t love 7-Up, but he fills a glass with ice when he brings it to me, and it’s good that way. I am so thirsty.
But first, I’ve got to go get Nick.
The pavement is covered with spilled trash, newspapers and plastic bags. An empty garbage bin rocks on its side. I don’t know which direction the police line went.
At the street to Abbi’s shop, groups of people knot around damaged cars. More guys fight. A girl dances with a store mannequin wearing tuxedo pants. The mannequin is missing its arms—and its jacket. People pour out of smashed storefronts. I don’t know what’s left to steal. In one store smoke detectors scream, and smoke snakes from the tops of the empty windows. Someone has set up chairs and a table from a restaurant in the middle of the street, complete with a bouquet of flowers in a vase.
As I walk toward the pizza shop, I see it is still crawling with people. Someone stands on the counter and yanks the TV from the wall mount. They can’t be stealing it—they must just want to wreck it. In front, I push my way through a crowd watching two guys in muscle shirts fighting. Sitting on the curb, his elbows on his knees and chin in his hand, I find Nick.
I sit down beside him. “You okay?”
His eyes have that sunken look he gets when the booze wears off. “Where did you go?”
Nick’s shirt is smeared with tomato sauce. The side of his face is swollen, like he ran into something or took a punch. But the way he asks it, there’s no anger in it, just curiosity.
I think of the picture of Nick on Abbi’s phone. I don’t want to tell him about it. It’s just a picture. What can the cops do with just a picture? I say, “There was a girl. I had to help her.”
He gives me a long look and then says, “It doesn’t matter.”
I get up and reach out my hand. He takes it, and I haul him to his feet. He says, “Mia has been texting like a crazy woman. She’s worn out the all-caps key on her phone.”
“Did you tell her we got separated?”
“I told her we were waiting to get on the train platform.”
I nod, relieved. “If we walk uptown, we might have a better chance of catching a bus.”
A guy rushes past, pushing Nick so he almost falls into me. Then another. People spill out of the shop.
“What…?”
A smoke detector goes off. From the back of the pizza shop, smoke billows. People start cheering.
My stomach drops. “Oh no.”
A guy vaults over the window ledge and into the street, wild-eyed and laughing. Another strolls through the front of the shop, dumping a can of cooking oil over the counter and floor.
I step toward the store. “They’re torching it.”
Nick grabs my sleeve. “What are you doing?”
“They can’t do that.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Dan. Let’s go.”
I pull my arm free. “No.” I push a guy out of my way. “Not this place.” I throw myself over the window ledge. Inside, smoke makes me cough. The guy with the cooking oil shakes it onto the walls. My feet slither in the grease. I grab for the can and knock the guy to the floor. I toss it out the window, and a stream of oil hits a couple. The girl screams and the guy swears. The guy on the floor scrambles to his feet and lunges for me. I sidestep him, and he crashes against the counter.
In the kitchen area, flames creep up the walls, throwing heat so that I have to hold my arm in front of my face. I pull the fire extinguisher from under the counter and fumble with the lever. Foam spurts from the nozzle, and I spray the flames, back and forth, knocking them down. Then someone has his hands on me. The back of my head hits the floor. Another guy jumps on my chest and starts punching me in the face. Someone’s boot thuds into my ribs, and again. My breath catches. I swing blindly, hoping it connects. Pain rockets through my jaw, and I taste blood. My arms feel like lead, and I’m not sure if someone is holding me down or if I’ve just lost all my strength. Someone pulls me by the hair and slams my head into the floor. Around me, faces start to blur, laughing faces, jeering.
“Hit him!”
Another boot to the ribs, and this time I hear something crack.
I want to puke, but I don’t because I’m afraid I’ll choke. I try to breathe, but the pain in my chest is white-hot. I take tiny breaths, panting, drowning for air.
“Get off of him!”
I’m vaguely aware of a large red shape. The guy on my chest goes flying. Sirens now. The sound of boots. People running away. I spit a mouthful of blood. One eye doesn’t want to open. For a second, everything looks red. I roll over onto my hands and knees. My ribs feel like knives. I get up on one foot, then the other.
Nick must have his mouth right up against my ear, because his voice ricochets in my head. “Hang on.” He takes my arm over his shoulder. Pain blazes, but I can’t cry out because that hurts too. Then cops, lots of cops, and I don’t know what happens to Nick. Flashing red and white lights hurt my eyes, and then I’m in the back of an ambulance.
A shirtless guy on the street pounds on the door of the ambulance, hollering for a paramedic. His eyes are running, and he’s coughing. Tear gas, maybe. A firefighter steps in front of him and the guy goes nuts. He gets in the firefighter’s face and calls him a freaking queer. Beside me, a guy holds an ice pack against the side of his face. I wonder if he was one of the guys on top of me. Blood trickles from his nose. I doubt I did that to him. Maybe Nick did, or maybe he was in a different fight. How would anybody know?