His smile doesn't reach his. My heart pounds against my ribs. My palms sweat on the wheels of my chair. I need to catch my bus, I say. My voice is steady.
I'm proud of that. Bus is gone, Cory says. We saw it leave. Guess you'll have to roll home. Other kids walk past us.
They look away. They always look away. Please move, I say. Dylan grabs the handles of my chair. Let's go for a ride.
He pushes me hard toward the empty football field, away from the parking lot, away from teachers, away from help. I grip my wheels to stop, but Dylan is stronger. My fingers burn from the friction. Stop, I say. My voice cracks.
Make us. Cory laughs. He walks backward in front of me. Oh, wait. You can't.
We reach the edge of the pavement where the field begins. The ground is uneven here, muddy from yesterday's rain. Let's see how fast your chair can go, Dylan says. I grab the armrest. I try to brace myself.
It doesn't help. The chair tilts forward. I'm airborne for a second, then I hit the ground. Pain shoots through my shoulder. Mud soaks through my jeans.
Look, he's trying to get up. Cory laughs. I reach for my chair. Dylan kicks it away. Metal scrapes against concrete.
Not so tough now, are you? Dylan leans down. His breath smells of cigarettes. I curl into myself. Arms overhead.
Protection position. The school counselor taught me this after the first time. It doesn't help much. The first kick hits my side. I gasp.
The second connects with my back. I bite my lip to keep from crying out. Cry,. Cory says, "Nobody's coming to help you. " I taste blood in my mouth. I keep my eyes shut tight.
Sometimes it ends faster that way. A roar fills the air. At first, I think it's in my head. The rushing sound of pain, but it grows louder. Engines, motorcycles, the kicking stops.
I risk opening one eye. Black boots plant themselves in front of my face. Heavy worn leather, silver chain. What the do you think you're doing? A voice growls above me.
Deep, dangerous. None of your business, old man. Cory's voice waivers slightly. I look up. A wall of men stands between me and my tormentor.
Black leather vests, patches, the infamous hell angel. Tallest gray beard scarred eyes cold as you just his voice. It's some scary. Cory and Dylan back up a step. Other motorcycles rumble in the distance getting closer.
We were just messing around, Dylan says. Tell him, Eli. The man, the one with the gray beard, kneels beside me. His eyes find mine. They're blue, almost gray, not cold anymore.
Concerned. That true kid just messing around. He asks. I should lie. I should say yes.
These are the hell angel. Everyone in town fears them. Everyone warns their kids. No, I whisper. They do this all the time.