The walk to school was pretty straightforward—three turns and a cut across the baseball diamonds—so it wasn’t hard to spot him tailing me. I had just veered off our street when he popped up on the opposite sidewalk, stomping along with that weird hunch and his face aimed down at the ground. He was so focused on where he was putting his own feet that I wouldn’t have even guessed he was following me if I hadn’t taken my shortcut through the gardens.
Sometimes, when I was running late in the mornings, I would cut through a cluster of houses that surrounded a grid of flower gardens. The houses all had back doors that opened up to a courtyard with brick walking paths, which zigzagged through square brick pens, each containing a different type of flower. The flowers didn’t do much for me, but it was nice to know the gardens were there—that something that pristine still existed in our neighborhood. It was the kind of place I might take a girl who deserved flowers. Too bad most of the girls I knew were the kind who had already been deflowered.
I took the path that angled to the right and spotted him out of the corner of my eye taking the one to the left. He still wasn’t looking at me, but when I slowed down near a patch of yellow flowers, he slowed, too, over by some pink ones. And when I bent down and pretended to tie my shoe, he literally stopped to smell the roses.
I couldn’t imagine what kind of trouble this kid was looking for, but I was going to find out. I stayed in a crouch and pushed one foot back into a runner’s stance. Then I launched off the ground and sped out of the gardens as fast as my feet would go. The crooked paths slowed me down, so I hurtled into the air and cleared the last brick flower box with a single flying leap. I didn’t look back to see if he could keep up; there was no way the little stomper was coordinated enough to catch me.
Certain I’d left him in the dust, I leaped behind the first house I saw as soon as I was clear of the gardens and waited, chest heaving, back pressed up against the siding. I heard his heavy shuffling footsteps coming through the grass a few seconds later and pounced.
I burst out from behind the wall. “Why are you following me?”
But I might as well have shouted “Boo!” because I gave the kid such a scare he only stammered and started to wheeze. His bent posture went ramrod straight, and his hands balled into fists near his face. I supposed this was the desired effect, but instead of feeling gratified, I was freaked out. The last thing I needed was to get blamed for some retard’s hysterical fit.
“Hey,” I said, gripping his shoulder. “Relax.”
He obeyed, slowly unclenching his fists and controlling his breathing.
“Yeah, like that,” I said. I let go of his shoulder and crossed my arms. “Now, why are you following me?”
He gulped some air and said as quickly as he could, “Because of the guys who said they would get me and because you know the way to school and because of the boy you beat up—”
“Which boy?”
His eyes widened a little, and when he spoke, I heard awe. “You beat up a lot of boys?”
“Not your business.”
“The one in the car.”
“You know him?” I asked.
He shrugged. “No.”
“Then why do you care?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” he said.
“You better start answering them. I like being followed about as much as I like being stared at. Or having my clothes insulted.”
His eyes moved down my outfit, but if he found any fault, he was smart enough not to say so. Instead, he lifted his face back to mine. “I’m afraid of some boys at school. But they’re afraid of you. If I walk to school with you, I don’t feel scared.” He held up his hands in a “what are ya gonna do?” move, but his facial features never changed.
I wondered who those guys might be. I couldn’t think of anyone at school worth being afraid of, but then again, I wasn’t short like this kid. He was built like a little boulder, but if he had to reach up to fight back, he could be in trouble.
“You go to Twain?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Freshman?”
“Yeah.”
“Down syndrome?”
“Obviously,” he said, like he was talking to the dumbest person on earth. He rolled his eyes and shifted his backpack upward. I noticed his tongue poked out a tiny bit; it rested on his lower lip and pulled back only when he spoke.
“So you think following me around without my permission is going to keep you from getting your ass kicked?”
“Well, not now,” he said.
“Good.” I turned in the grass and moved toward the street.
“Now I’ll tell them how you’re scared of me.”
I tripped over my own feet trying to spin around and stumbled backward onto the sidewalk. “Excuse me?”
“You ran away from me.” He joined me on the concrete and stamped the dew out of his shoes.
“Dude, I didn’t run away from you.”
“Uh, yes, you did. You went over the flowers and everything like this.” He flattened his hand and made a sailing motion with his arm. He swung it high, right in front of my face, and added a shwooo sound effect. I resisted the urge to push his arm away.
“I was running to get ahead of you,” I said. “So I could … so you would …” Then I shut up. The running thing seemed pretty stupid now.
“So you could scare me,” he said.
“I guess.”
“That’s why I followed you. Because you scare people.”
“Well, congratulations. You’re scary, too. Following me is creepy.”
“It’s only creepy if we don’t walk together.”
I pressed my fingers to my temples. I did not have time to argue with someone who had an answer for everything. We were late to school as it was, and I couldn’t afford another detention. So I did the only thing I could think of and started moving down the sidewalk. It was a moment before I realized he wasn’t moving with me. I sighed, and without looking back, I flicked my wrist, motioning for him to join me.
“Walk,” I commanded.
He hurried up next to me. “Thanks, I—”
“No talking,” I interrupted, still staring straight ahead as we walked. “No crying, no staring, no comments on my clothes. But mostly no talking. And if we see anyone from school, you scram to the other side of the street.”
I glanced over to see if he was paying attention. He nodded eagerly.
“If you break any of these rules, you get knocked in the head, got it?”
“Got it,” he said, then immediately broke the rules by talking. “My name’s Billy Drum. But everybody calls me Billy D.”
“Don’t care.”
I smirked. “I’m your worst nightmare.”
“You’re not my worst nightmare. My worst nightmare is about a snake and a—”
“I don’t care.”
“My next-door neighbor Mark calls you ‘that dick,’ but that’s not your name. I know what a dick is, and it’s not a name. In my life skills class, they call it a penis. But I know it’s also called a dick, and it’s definitely not a na—”
“Dude! I don’t want to talk about dicks with you.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I want to—” I threw up my hands, then paced a few steps backward down the sidewalk and forward again. “I don’t want to talk about anything! Go away!”
Billy was unfazed by my outburst. I picked up my pace, and he adjusted his stride to match mine. “Okay, but if you tell me your name, I’ll tell Mark, and he won’t call you ‘that dick’ anymore.”
“That little punk knows my name, and I’m gonna kick his ass later for calling me a dick.”
“Okay, then will you tell me your name so I don’t call you a dick and get my ass kicked?”
I sighed and covered my face with my hands. “Dane, okay? My name is Dane Washington.”
“Washington like the president?”
“Yeah. Like the president.”
“That’s awesome.”
“If you say so.”
His steps became lighter, almost a skip. “Now I’ll call you Dane, and you won’t kick my ass.”
“I might kick your ass anyway if you don’t shut up.”
“You said you don’t beat up retards.”
“You said you weren’t a retard.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay, then.”
“Okay, then.”
He fell quiet for a few blissful seconds, then:
“Does that mean you can still kick my ass?”
I dropped my chin to my chest and closed my eyes. This was going to be the longest walk to school ever.