oliviamb

Elliot followed Oliver's finger, and saw a crowd surging toward the outdoor bathrooms near the football field. Instinctively he checked to see if any teachers had noticed the movement and were already coming over. He couldn't see a single one. That had been a joke at his old school: How are teachers buses? Because when you need one, they're never around, and then three come along at once.

"Come on!" Oliver insisted.

Elliot found himself running with a strange and horrible sense of urgency. He had no desire whatsoever to find out what was happening, but refusal or hesitation would signal him out in Oliver's eyes.

At least thirty boys had crammed into the small building. Oliver pushed through them, tugging Elliot along with him. Nobody protested.

He found himself on the edge of a rough semicircle in front of the toilet stalls. The crowd pushed against his back, eager and impatient. Its dess excitement spilled over in a continuous roar of noise, which in the confined space was deafening. His stomach churned. It was hard to breath, the air thick and glutinous, overheated by the mass of bodies. But it wasn't just that. The mingled smell of stale urine and harsh disinfectant conjurned up unwanted memories. He knew what was going to happen here. He had to get out.

He pushed back against the crowd, but it was a solid mass, immovable. He was trapped. He felt his memories, his past, break out, rear up, prepare to strike.

As if someone had flicked a switch, a hush fell.

"Coming through!" a voice called.

The crowd parted, admitting three people to the semicircle. Elliot recognized one of them from football, allthough he didn't know his name-one of the giant who got angry when he lost. The other looked slightly older, with short, spiky brown hair.

They held the arms of the third boy. Alongside them he seemed ridiculously small, like a cloth doll shrunk in the wash. His uniform was immaculate: the shirt crisply white, the tie perfectly knotted, each pant leg with a knife-edge crease. He looked straight ahead, occaionally blinking, his small face very pale.

He was trying  very hard, Elliot knew, not to look scared.

The crowd waited, silent.

The boy Elliot recognized gazed around the audience, smiling, stroking his jaw.

He's doing this deliberately, Elliot thought, his stomach bucking against his ribs. Playing to the crowd, cranking up the tension. He swallowed fear.

Without warning, the second boy turned and kicked open the door to the middle toilet stall. It banged against the partition wall. He turned back and pointed to someone on Elliot's right. "You do his blazer" he orded. He pointed to someone else. "You get his pants."

Elliot couldn't watch, but he had to. And as he watched, he couldn't hold down the past any longer. It reared again and struck, struck again, again, pounding him, ripping into him. Until he couldn't tell the difference between what was happening now and what was happening then...

A mob of fighting hands wrenched his pants down below his knees, ensuring he couldn't kick anyone, then pulled his blazer down to his elbows, keeping him from lashing out. He was helpless, incapable of resistance.

They dragged him to the tpilet. "Get him in there... Drown the little runt, make him scream..."

Hands on his neck, his head forced down into the stained white porcelain bowl. The stench of disinfectant and stale urine suddenly much stronger, biting into his nose and throat.

The coldness of the bowl, the side of his face rammed hard against it.

Then the choking and spluttering that signaledmthe flush. The water bubbling up, forcing itself into his nose, his eyes, his ears. Can't breathe. Swallowing, gagging, choking on the taste and force of it.