“Like Batman,” Shane says, holding a bag of frozen peas to his nose.

“—and all the assholes would be cowed? People are monsters for a reason. They don’t stop being monsters just because you thumb ’em in the eye. Shit. Shit!”

Next to the porch sits a dead potted plant in a red clay container. She kicks it with her boot. It shatters. Shards and dirt clods everywhere.

Nobody says anything. Eyes wide, they watch her fume.

“Bad enough we got Jonesy and Musclehead. But now we’ve got a meaner set of fuckstains coming at us from a whole other side.”

Chris holds up a finger. “Pardon. Can I get a clarification?”

“What?” She frowns.

“You’ll say fuck. But not damn. Correct?”

She thinks about it. “So?”

“It’s just weird, isn’t it?”

“Well . . . damn’s a bad word!” she barks. “Especially when you put God up next to it. I don’t know! That doesn’t matter. What matters is, we got ’em coming at us from both sides, and it’s because I couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

Shane speaks up. “You saved my ass that day. I’m still thankful you were there.”

“And when I die,” Chris says, “I will die satisfied by the look on John Elvis’s face as you shot the . . . well, whatever that part of his guitar is called, off. The dick? The guitar dick? Let’s go with that.”

“If only we could get ’em all to bully each other,” Shane says, “then they’d leave us alone.”

Atlanta stops. She’s tired. Bedraggled. All parts of her feel like a paper cut with lemon juice squeezed over it. Maybe she’s crazy, but something there sounds pretty good.

“Bully each other,” she says. Chewing on it. Noodling it.

The two of them watch her, obviously concerned. Finally, she says:

“I got an idea. C’mon.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

She thinks they’re going to have to coerce him—stick a shotgun under his chin or wave a hundred bucks in his face—but turns out, Chomp-Chomp is totally down with this. She meets him at the elementary-school playground Saturday morning, when the only eyes watching them are the crows lining up on the monkey bars.

“Those guys are kind of buttholes,” he says, looking sad. She guesses it’s because they’re his only friends. “What are you going to do to them?”

Atlanta doesn’t tell him everything. He might not like every little detail of the plan. All she says is, “We’re going to teach them a lesson.”

“Okay.”

“So you’ll tell them where we’ll be?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And when?”

“Yes. Yup.” He gives her a thumbs-up.

She pats him gingerly on the back, way you might a child or an old person. “Thanks, Chhhh—” She’s about to say Chomp-Chomp, but manages to pull out of the nosedive and end with, “—uuuuhssssSteven.”