Drive-By Beatdown

Continued from “Unruly Duz It”

Whomever it was that said “He who angers you controls you” had to have been a schizophrenic control freak under a delusional high because that statement makes not one lick of damn sense to me. What kind of control could anyone possibly have over me if I’ve just smashed them in the back of the head with a brick or dropkicked them into a wall? I didn’t know, but I guess if someone pissed me off to the extent that I put my foot up that ass and it still left them feeling in control of me, then I couldn’t really take issue with that. I mean, if Sondra was of that mind, she definitely had my permission to give the ass-whuppin’ I was about to dole out whatever lip service she saw fit.

Sondra’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped in a shocked “O” as she caught sight of the chair leg in my hand too late to escape the wrath. She didn’t get to utter so much as one single word nor did she manage to swing at me before, during, or after she caught that chair leg beatdown in her front yard. I tagged her mouth and jaw methodically, intent on singlehandedly reversing any progress her orthodontist and over a year of adjustments might have made.

By the time her brain registered this was not a fight she could sway to her advantage and the flight instinct kicked in, I was wondering when she’d find the sense to retreat. As she struggled to get her legs to cooperate I stuck close, beating her upside her head, arms, and upper back all the way from the small strip of lawn between the street and sidewalk at the right corner of her lawn where she began to turn tail—up her yard, her front steps, and back into her house.

When she disappeared inside, I leaped off the porch and was walking to the car when I heard the screen door slam open behind me. I whipped around and dipped back and to the side just in time to dodge her sister who commenced swinging—windmill style—toward my face. I rained at least a dozen wallops across her face with that wood—a rapid-fire left-right-left-right technique that rendered her attempts to fight back equally as futile as her sister’s. She shielded her face and head with her arms and finally broke out running the same way her sister had, reaching the porch just as their mother ran out screaming and waving a shotgun in my direction.

Nika and Janice jumped in the car, Janice behind the wheel. I dove into the backseat and Janice burnt off. Nika managed to let two seconds pass before she cracked up laughing.

I wish I could say that was the last altercation I had with Sondra, but of course since neither she nor her sister got any licks in, they had to try to redeem themselves—or come back for seconds.

Plus I had not yet been kicked out of school.

The next day they were gunning for me. I saw them lurking near the lockers at the front entrance of school looking hella bruised and disgruntled. Their hair looked like imploded birds’ nests—like they didn’t dare attempt to comb those nappy messes. With all the knots they must have had dotting their heads, it probably hurt to lie on a pillow. I chuckled and shot ‘em the deuce, then flipped my hand palm up, opened my hand, and invited them over with a four-finger wave. Sondra started to accept the invitation, but another girl grabbed and held her back. I rolled my eyes and went on about my day.

By lunchtime they’d recruited another six or seven girls who were all shooting me simultaneous evil eyes and egging Sondra and her sister on, encouraging them to attack me. Both juniors, her sister was supposed to be a year ahead, but her dumb ass flunked kindergarten. How the fuck do you fail tracing your name and coloring triangles and squares?

Nika and Janice had been mysteriously scarce all day, so I assumed that if anything went down neither of them would have my back—which would mean the end of our friendship as far as I was concerned. I had no need for punk ass friends. I wasn’t all that worried about being jumped by Sondra’s crew though. Fully anticipating an attack, I’d brought my trusty chair leg with me to school and had smuggled in my front jeans pocket my stepfather’s spear point nine-inch butterfly pocket knife from his dresser. I might get beat up, but I had every intention of making some bitches bleed in the process.

I took one last unenthusiastic bite of the flavorless macaroni and cheese on my tray, got up and tossed the whole thing on the tray return conveyor belt. As I passed Sondra’s table, the jeering grew louder.

“That li’l skinny bitch don’t want none of ME,” taunted Stella, a pug-nosed, squinty-eyed sophomore with a double chin and cheeks as fat as a Cabbage Patch Kid’s.

“I bet she won’t fuck with me either,” someone else said. “I’ll slap her, her momma, AND her grandmomma to sleep.”

I twisted my lips to the left to signify “whatever” and shook my head, keeping my eyes straight ahead but watching every move they made. I tightened my grip around the knife in my pocket. The slightest movement toward me from any of them and the janitors would be real mad at me. There would be beaucoup blood shed in the lunchroom that day.

“Sondra, Stella, Chante, Jennifer,” a deep voice said loudly from behind the group, interrupting the chorus of threats. “I need to see all of you ladies in my office right now.” The assistant principal eyed me curiously, as if wondering what I’d done to provoke so many ires. I smiled sweetly and continued on my way to the library, my favorite spot on campus. He’d no doubt find out shortly.

Fourth and fifth periods passed uneventfully. Finally, it was time for sixth period drama class and I knew it was about to be on. I walked in, expecting to see the assistant principal lurking somewhere inside, but he was nowhere to be seen nor was Sondra.

I glanced at Nika seated in the back and tipped my head toward the front. Tossing my backpack into a seat in the front row, I flopped down beside it, figuring if Sondra attacked I’d have more space to defend myself there. If she wasn’t scared, she’d step to me the minute she walked in. If the tables were turned, that’s precisely what I’d do. All I knew was that whenever she felt froggy enough to jump, I’d give her a case of deja vu so intense she’d have recurring nightmares about me for months.

Nika got up and walked down to where I was, tapping me on my shoulder in greeting as she sank into a seat three down from mine in the row behind me. I lifted a hand in response without lifting my eyes from the book I pretended to read. Sondra entered loudly, yet not loud enough for me to make out anything she said. All I heard was her raspy lisp.

For 40 minutes, Nika snickered and Sondra hissed at us from a half dozen rows behind Nika. As was his habit on Thursdays, our teacher dismissed class 10 minutes before the bell rang so that he could meet with the president of the drama club before the group’s meeting immediately after school. As I reached for my backpack, something whacked me in the back of my head. A paperback book fell over my left shoulder to the ground. I picked it up, stood, turned around, and leveled an even gaze at Sondra who glared back at me from the aisle at the end of her row.

“Oh, is that the best you can do?” I asked calmly and dusted off my shoulder. “You could have kept that. Matter of fact, here, bitch. Have it back.” I jerked my arm back and hurled the book at her face with as much speed and strength as I had in me. She didn’t have time to react before it slammed smack between her eyes. “Now come again,” I suggested with a smirk.

Nika burst into laughter.

Sondra flew at me in a rage. I snatched my chair leg out of my backpack and brandished it over my head, eager to deliver the smackdown once again.

“Miss Brown!” The assistant principal strode through the crowd of students gathered at the door. “My office! NOW! Sondra, you too!”

I waited until she completed her u-turn before I lowered my arm, stuck the chair leg back into my backpack, and hoisted the strap over my shoulder. By the time it was all said and done, I was expelled for bringing a weapon onto school property. Luckily for me he caught me before I delivered another beating with it—and I hadn’t yet pulled out the knife—or I’d have been arrested as well for assault and possession of an illegal and deadly weapon on the strength of it being more than three inches long. To my dismay, he confiscated my chair leg, but since I had three more I decided against trying to steal it back.

One would think the threat of being locked up for any length of time would be enough to deter what would become a long career of collecting and concealing weapons and assaulting people with them, but it wasn’t. It was only the beginning.

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