He tried to stand up, tried to turn, thinking he needed to help, but somebody kicked him between the shoulder blades and sent him sprawling in the dirt. One of them landed on top of him, twisting his arm behind his back and pinning him to the ground. Somebody put their foot on the back of his head and pushed his face into the dirt. Somebody else kicked him in the ribs.
“Just stay down, Cody,” the person on his back said in his ear. He thought it was Lance, but it was hard to say. “Once Brian finishes teaching your boyfriend a lesson, it’ll all be over.”
Now he could hear Nate—not talking, of course, but the horrible, painful grunts as somebody punched him, or kicked him. Cody twisted, turning his head, straining to see. Nate was on the ground, surrounded by six boys, all of them taking turns hitting and kicking him.
“Stop it!” Cody screamed, trying to throw the weight off his back. “Goddamn it, you’ve won, for fuck’s sake. Leave him alone!”
Somebody laughed, and then one of the three boys still holding Cody down grabbed his hair and slammed his face into the ground, holding it there this time as Cody squirmed to get free.
“Stop it,” the voice in his ear said. Not threatening at all. He was almost pleading. “Just stop, Cody, or it’ll only get worse for both of you.”
“Hey,” somebody said, “you think I can get AIDS from punching him while he bleeds?”
It was said gleefully, obviously meant to be a joke, but a sudden hush fell over them. As stupid as it was, Cody found himself considering the question. Not that either he or Nate was infected, but if they had been, and the boy throwing the punches had split knuckles, would it have been enough to spread the virus?
“Let’s go,” a voice he recognized as Brian Anderson’s said. “I think they get the point.”
The weight on Cody’s back disappeared, and the only thing he heard was the thump-thump-thump of sneakers hitting packed dirt as nine boys ran away.
Cody waited until he heard car doors before dragging himself over to Nate. He was still curled in a ball, holding his stomach, his face covered in blood.
Jesus, he’s dying.
But quick on the tail of that thought came a bit of clarity. No, Nate was breathing, moaning in pain, but probably in no immediate danger. He’d taken a lot of blows to his kidneys, though, and Cody knew that could be dangerous.
“Nate, are you all right?” The full surge of adrenaline was hitting Cody now, his vision blurring, his breath coming in gulps. He wasn’t sure his words had even come out right. His hands shook as he touched Nate’s shoulder. “Nate?”
Nate groaned, turning onto his back, still holding his stomach. He was bleeding from cuts over his eye, from his temple, from his nose, from his mouth . . . So much blood, and Cody tried to think what to do. Nate clearly wouldn’t be able to walk, and even with Cody’s help, he probably wouldn’t make it more than a block. Even now, after all the noise they must have made, nobody had appeared to investigate.
Cody eyed the back of the gas station, weighing his options.
“Wait here,” he said, as if Nate had any intention of doing otherwise. “I’ll be back.”
Vera’s eyes went wide when he pushed through the glass door, but she let him use the phone without question. His hands shook so badly he had to recite the number while Vera dialed. He sank to the floor, listening to the rings, hoping against hope that she’d answer.
“Hello?”
Cody almost sobbed with relief. “Mom? I need help.”
His mom made it in record time, her tires squealing around the corner. She didn’t even stop at the curb, just let her beaten old Duster slam over it before braking to a stop next to them. She jumped out, leaving the ignition running.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but Nate—”
“Let’s get him in the car.”
It took both of them to get Nate on his feet. He moaned, his arms wrapped around his ribs, then promptly doubled over and vomited into the dirt.
“Where’s he live?”
“The Grove. But his dad’s at work. Jesus, Mom. His dad—”
“Talk in the car. We need to get him to the hospital.”
They managed to get Nate into the front seat, and Cody grabbed Nate’s dropped schoolbooks and wiggled behind the driver’s seat into the back. His mom’s eyes flashed to his in the rearview mirror as she turned onto the street.
“Who was it?”
“Some assholes from the Grove. Plus Larry Lucero, and a couple of the farm kids. Tom Watson, Billy Jones, Lance Donaldson.” It was the wrestling team, he realized. Part of it, at any rate. That was why there was such a strange mix of cliques. They probably all played football together in the fall too. They obviously hadn’t included any of the Mormons in their plan, and Jimmy Riordan had either balked or been left out, but wrestling and football were the only things that connected Brian and Brad with the cowboys and Larry Lucero.