The chair, Rick suddenly remembered. There’s a chair. I’ll take the chair and swing. Under the chin. No. Across the chest. Fast though. It’ll have to be fast, one movement. Wait. Not yet, wait. All right, West. All right. All right.
“Ever get cut, Mr. Daddy-oh? Ever get sliced with a sharp knife? This one is sharp, Mr. Daddy-oh, or are you too stinkin’ dumb to know that? You ever stop to figure who bitched you up with Mr. Small, Daddy-oh? You ever stop to figure that, you dumb prick? You didn’t, huh, Daddy-oh? You didn’t figure it, huh?” Hypnotically, advancing, closer and closer, his voice a whisper, his eyes gleaming hotly.
West, Rick realized. West. Not Miller. West. West, Westwestwest. West was the one. West told Small. West complained. Oh God, it was West.
“I shouldn’ta played games, Daddy-oh,” West said. “Your kind only understands a knife in the ribs. Well, you gonna get it now, you bastard. And then you’re never gonna bother us no more. No more.” He smiled and advanced, and Rick backed away down the aisle. “Your wife get them notes, you bastard? Richard Dadier, 1935 East 174th Street. Straight from the phone book, you dumb bastard. Stop me from taking a piss when I have to, huh? I shoulda come there in person. I shouldn’ta played games with notes and complaints. I shoulda come to your house and give you the knife right then, right in your friggin’ ribs.”
Anne, Rick thought. Oh the sonofabitch. Oh, you sonofabitch. West, you dirty maggoty bastard. So it was you. So you were the rotten little bastard who did it. You, West. He backed away down the aisle, and his thoughts were jumbled. He thought of the notes, and of West typing them up someplace, simple notes, oh the sonofabitch, and he thought I’ll make him think I’m retreating. I’ll give him confidence. The empty seat in the third row. Next to Maglin. I’ll lead him there. I hope it’s empty. Empty when I checked the roll. Thank God for Delaney books. I can’t look, I’ll tip my hand. Keep a poker face. Come on, West, follow me. Follow me so I can crack your ugly skull in two. One of us goes, West. And it’s not going to be me.
“Nossir, Mr. Daddy-oh, no more games. I’m through with games now. And I’m through with your tests, and all your goddamn noise. Just your face, Mr. Daddy-oh. Just gonna fix your face so nobody’ll wanna look at you no more.”
One more row, Rick calculated. Back up one more row. Reach. Swing. One. More. Row.
The class followed the two figures with fascination. West stalked Rick down the long aisle, stepping forward on the balls of his feet, pace by pace, waiting for Rick to back into the blackboard. Belazi rolled over on the floor and groaned again.
And Rick counted the steps. A few more. A... few... more.
“You shouldn’ta hit me, Mr. Daddy-oh,” West mocked. “Ain’t nice for teachers to hit students like that, Mr. Daddy-oh. Nossir, it ain’t nice at all. Not at...”
The chair crashed into West’s chest, knocking the breath out of him. It came quickly and forcefully, with the impact of a striking snake. Rick had turned, as if to run, and then the chair was gripped in his hands tightly. It sliced the air in a clean, powerful arc, and West covered his face instinctively. The chair crashed into his chest, knocking him backward. He screamed in surprise and pain as Rick leaped over the chair to land heavily on his chest. The knife clattered to the floor, and Rick pinned West’s shoulders with his knees and slapped him ruthlessly across the face.
“Here, West, here, here, here,” he squeezed through clenched teeth. West twisted his head from side to side, trying to escape the cascade of blows that fell in rapid onslaught on his cheeks.
“Here, you dirty bastard!” and West turned his head and shouted, “Greg! The knife! Get the knife!”
The knife. Rick suddenly remembered! Where’s the knife? What the hell happened to...
Sunlight caught the cold glint of metal, and Rick glanced up instantly, expecting to find Miller there, expecting West’s friend. Belazi stood over him, the knife clenched tightly in his fist. He grinned idiotically, his lips parting over rotten teeth. He spat vehemently at Rick, and then there was a blur of color: blue steel, and the yellow of West’s hair, and the blood on West’s lip, and the brown wooden floor, and the gray tweed of Rick’s suit. A shout came up from the class, and a hiss seemed to escape West’s lips.
Rick kicked at Belazi, feeling the heavy leather of his shoes crack against the boy’s shins. West was up and fumbling for Rick’s arms. A sudden slice of pain started at Rick’s shoulder, careened down the length of his arm. Cloth gave way with a rasping scratch, and blood flashed bright against the gray tweed.
From the floor. Rick saw the knife flash back again, poised in Belazi’s hand ready to strike. He saw West’s fists, doubled and hard, saw the animal look that had come on Belazi’s face, and again the knife, threatening and sharp, drenched now with blood, dripping on the brown, cold, wooden floor.
The noise grew louder and Rick grasped in his mind for a picture of the Roman arena, tried to rise, felt pain sear through his right arm as he put pressure on it.
He’s cut me, he thought with panic. Belazi has cut me.
And the screaming reached a wild crescendo, hands moved with terrible swiftness, eyes gleamed with molten fury, bodies squirmed, and hate smothered everything in a sweaty, confused, embarrassed embrace.
This is it, Rick thought. This is really it.
“Lee him alone, you goddamn fool!” Miller was shouting.
Leave who alone. Rick wondered. Who? I wasn’t...
“Lousy sneak,” Levy shouted. “Lousy, sneaky bastard.”
Who, Rick thought. What...?
Miller seized West and pushed him backward against a desk. Rick watched him dazedly, his right arm burning with pain. He saw Morales through a maze of moving, struggling bodies. Morales who’d delivered the profane wire-recorder speech, saw Morales smash a book against Belazi’s knife hand. The knife clattered to the floor with a curious sound. Belazi’s hand reached out for it and Santini, the smiler, stepped on it with the heel of his foot. The knife disappeared in a shuffle of hands, but Belazi no longer had it. Rick stared at the bare, brown spot on the floor where the knife had been.
Whose chance is it now, he wondered? Whose turn to slice the teacher?
West tried to struggle off the desk where Miller had him pinned. Erin brought his fist down heavily on West’s nose. He wrenched the larger boy’s head back with one hand, and again brought his fist down fiercely.
A slow recognition trickled into Rick’s confused thoughts. Through dazzled eyes, he watched.
Belazi scrambled to his feet and lunged at him. A solid wall seemed to rise before him as Carter and Antoro flung themselves against the onrushing form and threw it back. They tumbled onto Belazi, Carter’s red hair flashing wildly, holding Belazi’s arms, pummeling him with excited fists.
They’re fighting for me! No, Rick reasoned, no. But yes, they’re fighting for me! Against West. Against Belazi. For me. For me, oh my God, for me.
His eyes blinked nervously as he struggled to his feet. Belazi and West were subdued now, and Rick looked at them briefly and then said, “Let’s... let’s take them down to Mr. Small.” His voice was very low.
Antoro moved closer to him, his eyes widening as they took in the livid slash that ran the length of Rick’s arm.
“Man, that’s some cut,” he said.
Rick touched his arm lightly with his left hand. It was soggy and wet, the shirt and jacket stained a dull brownish-red.
“My brother got cut like that once,” Maglin offered.