Downers Grove Read Online Free Page B

could. He buckled under, screamed “Bitch!” like it was my fault or something, and crumpled onto the floor. He grabbed my left leg and tried to tackle me, so I stomped on his head with the other one. I didn’t care what happened to his face. I just kept on kicking him over and over again until shiny drops of red blood dotted the linoleum floor. When his hand finally loosened its grip, I unlocked the door and excused myself. I hurried through the kitchen, found Tracy on the couch squeezed between the quarterback and some other steakhead. A pyramid of empty beer cans were stacked in front of her.
    â€œTracy,” I said. She pretended not to hear me.
    â€œTracy!” I screamed. “We have to leave!”
    â€œWhatayatalkinabout?” the quarterback slurred, as if I was spoiling all his fun. Tracy looked up at me, and I gave her the death stare.
    â€œGuys,” she said, slapping their knees, “it’s been fun, but I have to go meet my boyfriend.”

    â€œShe’s your boyfriend.” The quarterback pointed at me. “The carpet muncher. The queen of shag.”
    Tracy stood up and walked toward the door.
    â€œFrom one homosexual to another,” I said, nodding to him, then kicked the coffee table, and the pyramid of cans came crashing down into his lap.
    â€œHey you stupid bitch”—he brushed the cans off his legs—“who the fuck do you think you are?”
    I gave him the bird with one hand while Tracy grabbed the other and pulled me toward the door. When we were outside Tracy started laying into me about how I always had to ruin everything. When we got into the car she gave me the silent treatment royale: Her Hole tape cranked and the Berlin Wall between us.
    As we drove away I saw the fathead I made love to in the john come running out into the parking lot with a paper towel caressing his nose, obviously looking for
moi.
I had a good laugh. Several yahoo companions were right behind him. One of them pointed at our car while the rest loaded into an Olds-mobile that quickly backed out behind us. As we drove up Woodward Avenue past Wal-Mart, I looked back and saw
Revenge of the Steakheads
tearing up pavement behind us. Tracy was puttering along and I wondered if I should warn her or just let the circumstances fly.
    It was only seconds before they pulled up beside us. Chuckie started throwing half-empty beer cans at Tracy’s car. She rolled down her window.
    â€œWhat the fuck’s your problem?” she yelled.
    â€œI’m gonna kill that bitch!” Fatso leaned out of the car andpointed at me, his other hand still nursing his nose. I prayed for a telephone pole to chop off his head.
    â€œWho is that pig?” Tracy asked. I squirmed in my seat.
    â€œI think his name is Chuck or something.”
    â€œWhat did you do?” Tracy rolled up her window.
    â€œHe busted into the John looking to play Mr. President, and when I said
N-O
he got pushy, so I was forced to suppress his advances.”
    â€œDid you mace him?” Tracy sped up the car.
    â€œNo, I kicked him in the balls!”
    â€œThat’s it?” She looked into her rearview mirror, shook her head back and forth slightly, a tiny grin lifting from the corner of her lips. I could tell she was starting to side with me. “You should have flushed his head in the toilet and gave him a swirlee.” She took her foot off the acclerator, rolled her window down again. The carload of monsters roared up beside us, their fearless leader still leaning out the window.
    â€œHey you!” Tracy yelled. “The guy in the backseat!” She pointed at him. An onion-headed dweeb peered out the rear window. Tracy slowed down even more, but not enough for them to do anything stupid, just enough so she didn’t have to scream.
    â€œYou know what your boyfriend’s problem is? He got beat up by a girl!” She laughed.
    â€œHe’s not my boyfriend,” he said,