I spoke, keeping my voice as even as I could. I’d dealt with gangs before, and while I didn’t want to make him mad, I didn’t want to look weak, either. “All the gangs take care of their own.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do they?” He turned quickly to Isaiah and slapped his head, and then shoved him backward onto the floor. Isaiah didn’t fight back, but scooted against the wall, out of the way.
It was strange watching it. I’d seen one of the Society guys fighting at the doorway, but none of them moved to defend their leader.
The Havoc kid must have recognized my surprise. “They’re putting on a show,” he said with a laugh. “They want you to think that they’re the peaceful ones, that Isaiah is freaking Gandhi or something. But they fight. You’ll see.”
He stepped over to Isaiah again and moved like he was going to kick him, but stopped, smiling as Isaiah flinched.
“I’m Oakland,” he said, returning to me and puffing out his chest. “I don’t know what this little girl told you, but rules around here don’t mean a damn thing. There’s a camera right there—Isaiah, why don’t you go kiss it? Tell it I hit you.” He looked back at me. “I can beat the crap out of this moron right here and never get detention.”
I paused before responding, trying to choose my words carefully. “So I should join you because you can beat up somebody?” Oakland was taller than I was, but I doubted he was as strong as he was trying to make himself appear. Even with that bulk of his sweatshirt and chains he didn’t look very big.
“No,” he said, taking a step forward. “You should join Havoc because anyone can beat the crap out of anyone. You need someone watching your back.” His lips curled into a snarl that he probably thought was threatening. I wasn’t impressed.
There was a crowd at the doorway watching us. Most of them looked like Society kids, I guessed. Havoc was hugely outnumbered, and the Society could have easily stopped them. So Oakland was telling the truth. The Society was putting on a show. But I wondered how much of what Oakland was doing was real, too.
I sized up his three friends, who were now standing a few yards behind him. They were bigger than Oakland, but they looked stupider. Of course, anyone with intelligence wouldn’t wear huge gold chains around his neck when he went to a fight.
Oakland’s voice was low. “You have a choice, kid,” he said. “We point the gun. You choose if you want to be standing in front of it or behind.”
I took a breath. “I don’t know who you think you are,” I said quietly, watching Oakland’s eyes, “but I’ve been pushed around by tougher guys than you—and I’ve pushed back.”
Oakland took another step toward me.
“Back off,” I said.
“You’re going to join up with Isaiah here,” he said, a nasty smile creeping across his face. “You’ll be a perfect match—maybe you can share a bunk.”
“No. I’m not joining Isaiah. I don’t know what else there is, and I don’t care. I’m getting out of this place. You girls can stay here and play your—”
Before I could finish the sentence, Oakland shoved me, and I stumbled a few steps to the wall. But as he stepped toward me I launched my fist into his stomach. He staggered back and I leapt at him, grappling him around the waist and throwing him backward onto a desk.
A moment later his goons were on top of me, one trying to pry my arms off Oakland while another jumped on my back. I ignored them and threw another punch, this one glancing off Oakland’s cheek. I raised my hand to do it again, but someone got his arm around my neck.
I struggled to fight off the attacker but had to let go of Oakland to do it. I stood, the other guy’s arm tightening around my throat, and I tried to stumble back into the wall to crush him. As soon as I was off Oakland he jumped back at me, his first punches landing in my ribs. I tried to kick him away, but I could hardly breathe.
His fist connected with my face and a moment later I could feel my blood dribbling over my lips and chin. I swung my hand at his chains, caught one, and then yanked. He lurched forward, off balance, and I kicked him in the leg.
But I couldn’t keep it up. The arm around my neck was rigid and strong. My lungs were desperate for air but only a trickle was getting through.
I couldn’t move—I couldn’t get the arm off my neck, and I had run out of strength to stop Oakland. The other two goons were just watching and laughing. Oakland came at me again, but just before his fist connected he fell forward, collapsing into me and then falling to the floor.
Standing behind him was the guy who’d run after Ms. Vaughn’s car. Curtis.
“He said he doesn’t want to join Havoc or the Society,” Curtis said. “That means he’s in the V’s.” He looked at me. “Isn’t that right?”
I couldn’t speak. I tried to nod, but my neck was immobilized.
“Let him go, Skiver,” Curtis snapped. The room was silent for a moment, and then the arms around my neck released.
I sucked in air and stumbled forward, turning to keep my face to Oakland and Skiver.
“You’re with the V’s, right?” Curtis said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Sure,” I said, and held my hand against my face to stop the nosebleed.
“Then let’s get out of here.”
He backed out of the room, and I noticed that there were six or seven guys moving with him.
Oakland climbed to his feet. “You’re dead, Fisher.”
I didn’t like getting pushed around. “Bring it on.”
Curtis put his hand on my shoulder and led me into the hallway.
“I’m Curtis. And that probably wasn’t wise,” he said, a smile breaking across his face.
I nodded. I didn’t know anything about Curtis, other than that he had tried to run and he warned me about the other two gang leaders. That was good, I guess, but the V’s—whatever they were—could be just as bad as the others. Not that it mattered. I just needed to get back outside. I wasn’t going to stay long enough for any of this to matter.
Curtis led me through the crowd and down the long corridor. Some of the onlookers we passed looked angry, but others gave me pats on the back and shouts of welcome. We passed room 421 and kept going.
“I think I’m in there,” I called out.
He shook his head. “We’re moving you down to the V end.”
We passed two hallways that branched off the main one. I stopped at the junction. One side was neat and tidy, with nameplates on each of the doors. The other was vandalized and cluttered. The walls were scrawled with graffiti and the floor was littered with loose papers and dirty clothes. Strings of Christmas tree lights were hung haphazardly along the ceiling, and a dozen bras were draped over them. It looked like a cross between a homeless shelter and a frat house.
“That’s Havoc’s row,” Curtis said. “Stay out of there.”
“Right.”
He pointed the other direction. “And that’s the Society’s place. Don’t let it fool you, though. They’re worse. Anyway, come on.”
We passed two more off-shooting hallways—they looked empty—before Curtis led me into a room just two doors down from the end of the main corridor. He stopped at the small sink and tossed me a washcloth. I pressed it against my nose.