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Show Why we Cry Butch and Fenn Stories 164 like asking Cling to stop picking on Bobby. m fact, I don't feel like being here swinging on the last night of summer with the girls. Cling advances. "Playing in the sand?" "Yeah, Cling." "Playing with the girlies?" I don't answer this but try to laugh a little, but the chuckle stops, chokes me. Cling is not exactly looking at me. He's looking at Carol and Linda, but not even doing that very well. His eyes are glassy and swollen. His arms dangle and his posture reminds me of one of the bad guys in Vampire Men of the Lost Planet. "You know how to play with the girlies?" "Oh sure, Cling. We were just playing some tennis and now we're resting." I nod at him and look at the girls. The best thing they look is puzzled; the worst is real scared. "Naa-oow!" he groans and flips his cigarette at me. It bounces off my chest in a tiny splash of ashes, and falls into "the sand. 1 put my-foot on it, and then check again that I'm not on fire. When the cigarette hits me, Linda gasps. Carol stands out of her swing and steps behind it. "It's okay," I tell the girls. "Cling's just having fun." And I think he is until he reaches in his levi pocket and pulls out a piece of pink cloth. "No, no!" Cling says, waving the cloth. "Girls want you to play with their pants!" He |
