Page 25 of The Beginning and End of Everything
"Or what? You'll sit on me with your fat arse?" He laughed, his friends joining in. "Or maybe you'll chase me? Can you run as far as the swing set with all that blubber?" Now they were cackling, but I pretended like I didn't care, even though I did.
Brandon squared his shoulders and clenched his fist. "Darryl O'Sheehan, you shut your feckin’ mouth. Or I'm gonna punch it."
"Shut up, pikey. I was talking to fatso."
"Ah, that's it. No one calls my best friend, fat." Brandon threw a jab that landed squarely on Darryl’s mouth and busted his lip wide open.
“You little…” Darryl stumbled back, cupping his face while Matt and Jimmy stepped in and grabbed Brandon by the shirt, everyone exchanging punches while I stood there in shock.
This wasn’t just a fight; this was a brawl. A feral part of me wanted to snatch one of those guys by the collar and throw them to the ground, my feet remained cemented to the spot. Brandon elbowed Matt in the face with such force that he dropped to his knees.
Poppy screamed for everyone to stop while Hope kneed Darryl in the crotch, and Brandon staggered over to Matt to help him to his feet while the boys took off.
"Better run,” Brandon started after them. “Or I'm gonna come burn your house down!"
Brandon wiped his bloodied mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, and I hung my head. I’d stood there and let my best friend take a beating to defend me.
Poppy threw her arms around Brandon's neck. "Oh, Brandon…are you okay?" And the adrenaline pumping through me slowed, quickly replaced by dejection. Like always, Brandon was the hero.
I followed Bran back to the pikey camp, hardly saying a word.
We’d barely set foot inside the caravan before his ma swatted him with her dishcloth. "Brandon Patrick O'Kieffe, you been fighting again?"
He sighed when she grabbed his face and inspected his battered jaw. "He hit me first, Ma."
"Doesn't matter.” She let go of his cheeks with a slight shove. Then planted her fists onto her hips, looking down at him with the kind of stern look that made even me want to shrink away. “That boy’s mother called me. You told him you’d burn his house to the ground?” She shook her head. “What do ya think it makes me look like? Like you were raised by dogs. Stealing. Fighting—suspended from school.” She exhaled, disappointment obvious with her frown. “You're grounded for a week."
"That's so fecking unfair!"
"Boy!"
The flimsy door to the bedroom at the back of the caravan flung open. Brandon and I both flinched.
"Talk to your mother like that again…” His dad’s shoulder bumped the doorway as he stumbled out in nothing but a pair of boxers. “And you'll feel my belt on your arse."
"You talk to her worse," Brandon mumbled, and I cringed.
I was too afraid to even make eye contact with the man, much less mumble under my breath.
Mr. O’Kieffe stormed toward us, face red and jaw twitching. Instead of cowering away, Brandon pushed back his shoulders, making himself as tall as he could. Then Mr. O’Kieffe smacked Brandon’s jaw with such force that it knocked him to the floor. My breath stilled. And fear seized my muscles when his dad reared back to strike him again.
Mrs. O’Kieffe grabbed his arm. “Des! Connor's here," she said quietly.
His dad’s bloodshot eyes cut over to me, and I scrambled back against the wall, reaching for the door. I thought maybe if I could run to his Uncle Darren’s or grab Old Man McGinty, I could help him, but before I could turn the knob, Mr. O’Kieffe shoved his foot against Brandon’s side. "Get on out of here, boy.”
I threw open the door while Brandon stumbled to his feet, and then we both fell out of the caravan. When the door slammed shut behind us, a weak, sinking sensation flooded my body. Brandon started across the field, and I followed, uncertain of what to say or do.
Guilt festered in my gut. The only reason Brandon got into that fight was to stick up for me. Which made me feel as though it were my fault he’d just been hit.
He stopped in front of Old Man’s caravan and kicked a rock before he sat on an upturned wheelbarrow with the wheel missing. He put his head in his hands. "I hate my dad."
"He's horrible." I nodded, scraping my trainer over the edge of the wheelbarrow. "Look, I'm sorry you got in trouble for fighting. But thanks for sticking up for me."
He shrugged. "I'm not gonna let them say shit to you."
"Yeah, I wish I could punch them."
"You can."
