Page 17 of Puck You Very Much
“You’re trying to challenge me. You want to poke the bear now because you think you can, especially since I’m the one extending the olive branch.”
“Or maybe I’m doing it because you’re a complete dope.”
“There you go poking the bear again.”
I can’t deny I was having a ton of fun getting the best of Zane Hirst. Look, I couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t drive his fist through my face, hence the reason for not even considering his stupid truce offer. You know he didn’t actually want to make peace; he was just looking for a good place to stick a knife. At least I could deeply enjoy jabbing at him while he exercised the greatest amount of restraint possible for a shaved ape.
“So, when did you see the light?” I asked.
“See the light?”
“Yeah, you were raring to fight me a few days ago.”
“I wasn’t raring to fight you, Jakob.”
“Bullshit, bro, you were practically frothing at the mouth.”
“All I really wanted was for us to step outside and settle our differences like gentlemen.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him to say that I saw through his nonsense like an old lady’s underpants.
“Anyway,” I said, “you couldn’t have seen the light then. You would’ve wound up seeing stars again, just like at the Colter Bay Grill.”
He bit his lip like he wanted to fire off a cutting comeback but wouldn’t—or couldn’t. Zane was as funny as a heart attack, after all.
“Hey, I meant to ask you,” I said, “how was the cop’s finger?”
“Huh?”
“Come on, Zane, you know what I’m talking about. That gigantic cop whose chest you were talking to. He looked to be in proportion. That means he must’ve had an extra wide finger, which would’ve been problematic for you when he…you know.”
“Oh, it was nothing like that.”
I crossed the street with no problem, but Zane kept following me and nearly got smoked by a Chevy (serves him right). The driver honked and cussed at him and Zane flipped the middle finger. Then he hurried to catch up with me because, well, he was Zane Hirst.
And he started laughing like he’d really found my comment funny. I tell you it was the laugh of every disingenuous asshole in America, providing all the more reason to hurry to my car.
“If you ask me,” he said, “I’m being the mature one here.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh. And don’t tell me it was because I was the one starting shit at Parkside Candy. That little chat with Officer Humongous really opened my eyes.”
“To what, exactly?”
“The fact that I was wrong. I acted immaturely and was totally out of line. Coach has drilled the principle of accountability and personal responsibility into us so hard that we should never forget it. I for one won’t let him down. Hence, the truce.”
“Dude, what hockey player sayshence?”
“This one, bro.”
I tried not to roll my eyes on any of the occasions in which he’d called me bro. I struggled not to throw up when he stuck out his hand, flashing his very best shit-eating smile. When I peered down at his hand, I really considered accepting it, if only so I could get through this ordeal and then move on with my life.
Then I realized I couldn’t. The stunt he’d tried to pull at Parkside Candy was bullshit, even though it blew up in his face. An idiot could’ve told you he didn’t want to settle anything like gentlemen. He meant to hurt me that afternoon. For all I knew, this whole thing was an act meant to lure me into a false sense of security, allowing him to do his worst. I just wouldn’t fall for it. Simple enough.
Never trust a Remington Riptide.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
