Page 91 - What They Did to the Kid

What They Did to the Kid 79

“What’s it say?” Ski asked. “Let’s see.”
“We want food,” Hank read, “real food—no more of this crap
Kraut Schweinscheit, German pigshit.” He held the lettered plate up
to view. “Sign it, Ski.”
Ski looked at us. This was about choosing sides.
“Go ahead, chicken-dick, sign it.” Hank the Tank shoved the
plate at him. “I signed it.”
Ski took the pencil and signed it. He handed it with the pencil
to Porky. They looked at each other, then laughed. The plate passed
hand to hand around the whole table, gathering signatures, even
Dempsey’s. Lock set the plate down, decisively, unsigned. His good
example was enough for me.
“Hell, “ Hank said, knowing better than to push more than his
match. He picked up the plate from where Lock had placed it. “Go
on, Ryanus. You chicken-dick to sign?”
“I won’t,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because if you all jumped off a bridge, I wouldn’t jump.”
“Why not?”
“Because someone has to applaud.”
“Come on, Ryanus,” Ski entered in, “You chicken to do some-
thing for a change?”
“Say ‘chicky-dick,’” I said. “That’s the way Hank the Tank says
it. ‘Chicky-dick.’”
“Why won’t Baby Ryanus sign it, why not?” Hank patted my
arm.
I arched my elbow sharply at him, clipping his shoulder.
“Watch it, Ryanus.” Hank held out the plate. “You sign this or
I’ll pound the living shit out of you.”
Deep inside my chest, my vagus nerve twitched, the way my dad
said his twitched, full with adrenalin. I half rose. “Try it,” I said,
“and die!”
Everybody laughed.
“Try it,” I repeated.
“Sign it.”
“No.”
“Why not?” Hank the Tank knew full well I would sign nothing

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