The Serpent King(9)
Travis walked up as Dill dodged another slap and told Alex to stop. Alex turned his attention to Travis. Winning a fight against someone much bigger than you? That would really cement his status. Travis didn’t do much to defend himself until Alex landed a hard slap across Travis’s eye.
Then Travis boiled over. He picked up Alex by his soccer jersey and half-pushed, half-threw him a solid seven or eight feet. When Alex landed, he turned his ankle, causing him to fall and crack his head against the edge of one of the cafeteria tables. Blood gushed. He went into seizures.
That was Travis’s make-or-break moment. Had he said something like “What now, bitch?” and spit on Alex, he would have advanced in the school hierarchy. Instead, he tried to go to Alex to help him, but the crowd kept him away. He paced and ran his fingers through his hair, sobbing and telling anyone who would listen that he was sorry. EMTs showed up. His clear remorse proved his salvation from a full twenty-day suspension. The school administrators knew that if someone could win a fight and still come out the loser, it was by revealing such gentleness. The contempt that earned him would be punishment enough. And when the video hit YouTube, captioned “BIG DUDE TAKES DOWN BULLY AND CRYS LIEK A LITTLE BITCH LOL,” it confirmed the administration’s suspicions.
But Travis’s father never saw the video (which school administrators got removed in a day by threatening to expel the poster). He didn’t see Travis begging Alex to forgive him as Alex convulsed, his eyes rolled back, blood pooling all over the white linoleum. He didn’t see when Travis, fresh off his suspension, took a container of his mom’s banana pudding—his favorite treat—and found Alex sitting alone in the cafeteria with his ankle cast resting on a chair. Travis offered him the banana pudding. Alex didn’t say anything; he wouldn’t even look at Travis. Slapped away the container as Travis tried to give it to him.
Travis’s father knew only that his son had kicked some Mexican ass and that the parents, who didn’t speak English, seemed to be afraid to go to the cops or even to ask him to pay their son’s medical bills. And so went one of the few times Travis had ever made him proud.
“Speaking of using your size for something worthwhile, I ran into Coach the other day at the Walmart,” his father said. “Said you don’t even have to have played the other years to go out for football.”
“Good to know.”
“I said you don’t run so fast or catch so good, but you’re a big piece of meat he could put in the defensive line.” His father took a gulp of beer and belched.
“That’s true. I am a big piece of meat.”
“You going to try out for the team? Make me proud? Maybe we’ll see you with a girl other than Denny Blankenship’s dyke daughter?”
“I guess I’ll see.”
His father gave a disdainful snort. “You guess you’ll see.” He leaned forward and spun the plate of wing bones onto the coffee table. “And then what? After you graduate? Join the Marines like Matt?”
Another pang, sharper still. Because that turned out well for Matt. “I haven’t thought about it. Keep working at the lumberyard I guess.”
“You might ought to think about enlisting. Make a man of you. We could hire to fill your position easy.”
“I’ll think about it.” There was silence as his father returned his attention to the game. Travis stood for a second, watching him, the TV reflected in his father’s eyes. He hoped that if he waited for a second or two more, his father would offer some words of encouragement or wisdom for the start of school; that he would say something that let Travis know he believed in him. Like Matt used to do.
Just a stifled burp. Travis started once more toward his room.
“Tell you a story,” his father said, not taking his eyes off the TV. Travis’s heart leapt with hope.
His father sipped his beer. “Was dropping off this load of two-by-fours where they was adding on to a church. Anyway, this church had a little pond out front and there was these little ducks and a big-ass turkey, all hanging out together, happy as you please.”
Travis forced a laugh. Best to humor him when he was in storytelling mode. “Yeah, that’s pretty funny.” Not the words of encouragement he hoped for, but better than nothing. Maybe.
His father fixed his glassy eyes on him. Then back on the TV. “Anyhow, that’s what you remind me of, hanging out with that son of the Pervert Preacher and your dyke friend. That big-ass turkey, thinking he’s a duck.”
Travis stood there and let the barb sink in, feeling deflated. He waited for his father to say just kidding or explain why he thought turkeys were great. Maybe at least wish him luck at school tomorrow. Nothing. Just the reflection of the TV in his eyes. So much for words of encouragement. There went a damn fine day.
He went into his room and shut the door, resting his staff behind it. He sat down at his cheap, Walmart pressed-board desk and turned on his nine-year-old laptop—a hand-me-down from his brother Matt. The fan whined as he navigated his way to the Bloodfall forums. He typed in his username, Southern_Northbrook, and settled into a spirited debate about the forthcoming Deathstorm, the sixth and final book in the Bloodfall series, due out in March of the following year.
He tilted back in his chair and surveyed his legion of digital friends—invented names, profile pictures of cartoon characters or frowning cats. He was glad to have them. As he scrolled through the forums, clicking on threads, a little pop-up window appeared at the top of his screen. A direct message. His heart galloped. He opened it. It was from exactly whom he hoped: autumnlands. He didn’t know much about autumnlands, just that she was around his age and that she lived near Birmingham, Alabama. They had just started direct messaging a week ago, after Travis had come to her defense in a heated argument over whether The Accursed were undead humans or something else entirely.