The first thing I heard, that anyone heard, upon boarding the bus was a sophomore named Kenny Keenhound. He wore an army surplus field jacket that smelled like an ashtray full of piss and his acne competed with his unkempt stubble from a low talent summer haircut. He spewed brazen obscenities toward us and the other new kids. He immediately took to flipping Lamech’s ears after he slapped Joe’s books out of his arms.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Danny rise from the back seat. I glanced at him and saw that his face was white and his eyes were glassy, almost teary, as was typical when he was bombarded with a fit of rage. His chin jutted out, the corners of his lips drawn downward with laser focused hatred. He was roiled and stalking like a panther. I cast my eyes toward Kenny whose crooked, mouth was in such high gear he was clueless about the menace drifting up the aisle, filling the space behind him.
Danny swayed to his left, drawing back a rock shaped fist full of new pencils, and drove a haymaker straight into the side of Keenhound’s head.
The impact slammed Kenny against the foggy window. Kenny’s skull bobbled around on its pivot until his eyes focused on Danny, who was shaking with rage, standing above him.
Danny spit and growled through clenched teeth, “Don’t fuck with my brothers!”
Blood flowed from Keenhound’s temple; the wound was held open by a fractured pencil point. He quickly dabbed his palm against his head, looked at his crimson covered hand, and incredulously cried, “You stabbed me with a pencil!”
Danny’s lips were still pale as he replied, “Don’t fuck with my brothers!”
Danny crept backward and returned to his seat. His eyes locked in position as if burning holes through Keenhound’s skewered, scrunched up face. Kenny looked for support among his cronies but couldn’t find it. The kids on the bus remained anxiously quiet. Kenny vocalised his disbelief, patting his bleeding wound, “He stabbed me with a pencil?”
