The Traveling Vampire Show(119)

 

“You kidding me?” he said.

 

“How’ll we get in?”

 

“We got our tickets, man. Why not walk in like anybody else?”

 

“We’re under age.”

 

“BFD,” he said. I don’t think anyone says BFD anymore. In those days, it stood for “big fucking deal.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Forty-nine

 

 

Rusty leaned over the tailgate of the pickup truck and stared at the ground. I knew why. He was thinking about the poodle, wondering what had gotten it and wondering if the same thing might make a try for him.

 

So was I.

 

“Whatever it is,” I said, “I guess it’s full.”

 

“I don’t know, man. That was an awful small dog.”

 

“Wanta stay here and listen to the Vampire Show?”

 

He groaned, then leaped down. I jumped to the ground after him. Staying low, we rushed through the gap between a couple of cars. At the end of it, there were no more cars to conceal us. We stood up straight and walked toward the grandstands.

 

Over to the right, people were still in line to buy tickets. More were on the way. Stryker seemed busy behind the counter. I wanted to watch him the whole time to make sure he never looked at us, but I had to keep glancing at the ground.

 

In the glow of the stadium lights, the dirt looked pale gray. Broken glass glittered. Bumps and rocks cast dark shadows. Holes were blotches of blackness. I was looking for creatures. What I saw instead were cigarette butts, a mashed pack of Lucky Strikes, a flattened beer can, a dirty white sneaker ...

 

Slim’s sneaker?

 

It might’ve been one of those Rusty had thrown at the one-eyed dog. I was tempted to pick it up. But it looked as if it had been run over. No telling what else had happened to it—maybe a spider had crawled in. Maybe if I reached down for it something would spring at my hand. Besides, what good would one sneaker do Slim?

 

If Rusty saw the sneaker, he either didn’t recognize it or didn’t care. He kept on walking.

 

I caught up to him.

 

Just in front of us, a man and woman were about to encounter the ticket-takers. The man turned slightly and extended two tickets to a black-shirted member of Stryker’s crew.

 

Rusty nudged me with his elbow, leaned toward me and whispered, “It’s Hearn.”

 

Sure enough, the man in front of us was Mr. Hearn, a history teacher from our high school. I didn’t recognize the woman beside him, but figured she was probably his wife. Though we hadn’t taken any classes from Mr. Hearn, we’d seen him around school and knew who he was. He probably knew who we were, too.

 

Everybody knew everybody.

 

He hadn’t seen us yet, but ...

 

Recognizing someone from our town came as no surprise to me. I’d expected it. It was inevitable. Before, however, it had been inevitable in some sort of distant, abstract way. Now, it was real.

 

Too real.

 

Even if plenty of spectators had come to the show from places like Clarksburg and Bixton—from all over the county—we were bound to be surrounded by people from Grandville who would recognize us and spread the news.

 

We’re gonna get in so much trouble!

 

I stopped dead. Even as I reached for Rusty, he handed his ticket to one of Stryker’s gang.

 

She was a slender, pale woman with straight black hair down to her shoulders. She wore a shiny black shirt and black leather pants. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she took Rusty’s ticket. Her lips were bright red. She smirked and said to Rusty, “You’re a big fella.”

 

He nodded.

 

She slid a fingertip down his bare chest. He squirmed and grinned. “Not eighteen, though, I bet.”

 

“Sure I am.”

 

She turned to me. “And you.” Still smirking, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, boys, but this event is for adults only.”

 

Thank God, I thought.

 

Nodding, I was about to turn away.

 

“We have special permission from Mr. Stryker,” Rusty said.

 

Away went her smirk. To the other ticket-taker, she said, “I’ll be right back.” Then she stepped past us. “Come with me, boys.”

 

Rusty started to follow her. I put my hand on his shoulder. His bare skin was hot and moist. He scowled back at me and kept walking.

 

I tried to speak, but felt choked at first. Then I forced it out. “We don’t have to see the show, ma’am. If it’s a problem ...”

 

Rusty gave me a murderous glance.

 

“If you’ve got Mr. Stryker’s okay,” the woman said, “it’s fine with me. They’re his rules.”