Dance with Me

I will not blow chunks. I will not blow chunks
, he
thought. He looked around to distract himself, but all he saw were pictures
of butchered animals. When he craned his head in another direction, he was
surrounded by rows of lethal-looking knives and cleavers hanging above his
head. A new wave of dizziness washed over him. He set his hand out for
balance on the butcher table, felt the watery liquid on his fingertips, and
broke out in a cold sweat.
Wham
.
A huge meat cleaver slammed down into the wood, barely missing his
wrist. Pete shot backward, protecting his hand against his chest, knocking
into the display case with his pack. He gazed at the meat cleaver embedded
in the wood. The handle vibrated in the air as if the force had been
incredibly strong. His gaze whipped up toward the hanging tools.
One empty hook was swaying slowly. The meat cleaver had fallen from
the hook. 
Fallen?
He didn’t think something could fall so forcefully on its
own, but what else could have happened?
“Hey, what are you doing back here?” A stocky, older man wearing a
bloody apron waddled into the area, wiping his hands with a towel.

---

“Employees only. Can’t you read the signs?”
Pete pointed to the cleaver stuck in the butcher table. “I-I—”
“Ah, nah. You can’t be playing with my knives. You trying to get me in
trouble, kid? Health department will have my license.”
“I-I …”
“Spit it out. What’s the matter?”
“I didn’t touch anything. It-it just fell.”
The old man narrowed his eyes. “No way these knives fall from those
hooks, kid. If that were the case, I’d be missing a lot more fingers than the
ones I already cut off.” The old man raised his left hand to show a missing
pinky and a ring finger with its top lopped off. The skin looked smooth on
the two oddly shaped finger stumps.
When Pete started to shake, the man laughed. “Scared? Never seen
someone with missing fingers before? Well, keep your fingers and hands
away from sharp objects, kid, and you should be just fine. 
Maybe
.” He
cracked up again.
Pete swallowed hard. “Just here … to pick up an order for …
Dinglewood.”
The butcher waved a hand toward the back room. “Yeah, got that in the
fridge. Chops, right? I’ll be right with you.”
Pete whipped open the front door to his house and slammed it as soon as
he’d stormed through. He tossed his pack on the floor and strode to the
kitchen, where he opened the fridge, threw the chops in, and grabbed a
soda. He shut the door with his hip and chugged the whole can. The cola
soothed his throat and the sweetness calmed him a little.
What a freaky day.
He took off his cap and ran his hand over his head. He just needed to eat,
rest, and forget about everything else. No more crazy dreams, or weird kids
with scalpels, and definitely no more butcher shops. His mom was going to
have to pick up the meat herself from now on. He glanced out the kitchen
window when he heard the backyard gate creak open. Chuck pushed his
bike in and leaned it on the side of the house before coming through the
side door.

---

Pete felt his irritation bubble up. “Are you crazy?” he asked Chuck. “If
Mom finds out you biked to school—”
“
Someone
hogged the bathroom this morning and I was late for the bus.”
“—And I didn’t pick you up, I’m busted.”
“I won’t tell.”
“Yeah right! You always snitch.”
Chuck rolled his eyes. “I didn’t tell her about you forcing me into the
maintenance room, did I?”
“Not yet. But I saw how you wanted to tell her last night at dinner. You
thought you were real funny.”
Chuck held up his hands in exasperation. “Well, I didn’t! That has to
count for something.”
Pete shrugged. “Still, you can’t be trusted.”
“Fine, I should just tell her to get you busted!! How ’bout that?”
“See? You 
are
a snitch!”
“Shut up, you are!”
“You shut up, you little twerp!”
Chuck gave in. “Whatever, jerkwad,” he muttered. He grabbed a loaf of
bread from the bread box, then the peanut butter from the pantry, then the
jelly from the fridge. He pulled a butter knife from the drawer and started to
make himself a sandwich.
When he saw Pete eyeing his sandwich, he lifted his eyebrows. “What?
You want one?”
Pete hesitated. “Don’t know.”
“Well, make your own.”
Pete held a hand to his stomach, debating if he could handle it.
“You still sick or something?” Chuck wanted to know.
He shrugged. “Just an off day.”
“Why, what happened?”
Pete snapped, “Don’t worry about it. None of your business.” No
freaking way would he tell anyone else about the embarrassing incident in
bio class and the flying cleavers. Especially not his twerp brother who
would run and tell Mom and freak her out.
“Fine.” Chuck finished making the sandwich and slid it across the
counter toward Pete. A peace offering?
Pete lifted his eyebrows in surprise as Chuck began making another.

---

“You know Mom filled out that organ donor paperwork for us,” Chuck
said, like it was casual conversation.
Pete’s jaw dropped. “What? Why?”
Chuck nodded, flashing his braces, looking almost pleased. “She said
you’d come around to the idea eventually.”
“But I told her not to!”
“Since when does Mom ever listen to what we want?” Chuck took a bite
of his sandwich and kept talking with his mouth full. “It’s not a big deal,
anyway. You’re dead when they take your organs. Your life or soul or
whatever is gone. What do I care? Why do 
you
even care so much?”
Pete didn’t even know where to start. Here he was, trying to save his
body parts all day long, and his mom was trying to give them away! “It’s—
it’s just a stupid idea!”
Chuck gave him a curious look. “Wait. You’re scared, aren’t you?”
“No, shut up!”
“I looked it up. You want to know how they cut into you and take your
organs? It’s so cool! They split you open, like in a ‘Y’ incision, then your
guts are all hanging out. Then they remove everything piece by piece.” He
made a face, with his eyes rolled back and his tongue hanging out. “Your
intestines are super long, right? So they just pull them out like a long rope
of link sausage.” Chuck made a motion with his hands like he was pulling
out a long piece of rope from his stomach.
“I said to shut up!” Pete grabbed the sandwich and fled to his room.
The next morning, Pete sipped from his triple caffeine energy drink as he
walked to school. The sun was out, which improved the walk a lot. Today
had to be better than yesterday, he figured. Last night he had weird dreams
again, but luckily the details drifted away as soon as he woke up. And there
hadn’t been any spewing his guts into the toilet, so that was a score.
He’d barely spoken to his mom last night or this morning. Why had she
signed him up as a donor when he’d told her not to? He didn’t even want to
eat the pork chops he’d picked up last night; all they did was remind him
that he’d nearly lost his hand.
When he passed a construction site, he paused a moment. He looked
across the street and decided against crossing with all the busy traffic—

---

instead, he’d go right under the scaffolding. Pete scanned the boards above
him, making sure there weren’t any weird tools that could fall on his head.
He heard motorized saws and drills sounding from inside the site but
nothing coming from the scaffolding. When he figured he was safe, he
relaxed a little.
Just in case, he walked cautiously under the boards, with quick glances
above him. One thing he’d learned recently was that he couldn’t be too
careful. As he neared the end of the scaffolding, he took a breath of relief.