by Ash Parsons
“Actually you haven’t paid me anything yet,” I replied. Michael grinned and stepped off like he hadn’t said anything.
We were the first ones to get outside. Michael popped open his backpack and pulled out a big container with noodles in it.
I put the Burger King cup on the table and started wolfing my chiquitos.
“What’s Cyndra’s nickname?” I asked around a mouthful.
“Cyn. As in a body for. It’s not too original.”
“Still works.”
Dwight and some of the other jocks pushed through the swinging door and clomped down the ramp. When they reached the tables they slammed their trays down and straddled the benches like they were too manly to be able to throw both legs over.
Except for Dwight, who stood at my back like he was waiting for me to move.
I ignored him.
“That’s my spot,” he said.
“Not from where I’m sitting, asshole,” I said.
Michael and the other jocks laughed. Dwight stood for a moment longer, and I understood why he was the one who’d spit in my drink that morning. Because he didn’t want me there. Who knew if the others felt that way or not, but Dwight hated it. I was in his spot.
He walked around to sit across from us, making a cheer-girl move so he could at least get in front of Michael’s face, if not at his right hand.
He glared at me. I made sure he saw me look at the Burger King cup, and then I smiled and glanced at his nachos.
He took it as a dare and started eating, shoving food into his mouth. When he was five nachos in, I held up a hand.
“Relax, man. Relax. It’s empty.” I showed him the empty cup. Some of the other jocks started laughing.
“Yeah, fool. It’s empty.”
“Iceman already took care of it, see?”
They started making hawking noises.
Dwight shook his head. He studied his nachos. “Screw that. I watched them put the cheese on. I’ve watched it the whole time.”
“You know Big Mack?” I asked, pretending to be surprised. The lunchroom worker was part cafeteria worker, part security, all legend. “Did you know that he was in county lockup with my dad?”
A total lie. And if they thought for two seconds, they’d realize it, since Big Mack was a school employee.
But they didn’t think. And given what they assumed about me, of course they went for it.
A few of the jocks started repeating, “In county with his dad,” like it was the best part.
Dwight had to choose between looking pissed and playing along. You could see he was pissed. But he forced himself to laugh and ate six more nachos.
“Tasty,” he said.
His friends howled.
“No hard feelings, right?” I said. Throwing it back at him, just like he’d done in the parking lot.
Michael lifted his chin at Dwight. “Good play, man.” Like the team had just made a touchdown or something. Dwight relaxed.
That’s the kind of power Michael had. Three little words and the whole thing was over, because Michael said good boy.
Terrell slapped my hand and straddled the bench next to me. Everyone called him T-Man, partly because of his first name, but mostly because he was the go-to receiver on the football team and so scored more than anyone else.
“County, huh? What’d he go in for?”
LaShonda scooped her arms around his neck. They were looking at me like junior gangsters, even though I knew that T-Man’s dad was a dentist and LaShonda was president of Future Business Leaders of America.
“Drugs.” I decided it didn’t matter. Anyone with halfway decent computer skills could probably look it up anyway.
Which made me wonder if Michael had.
T-Man and LaShonda nodded like they knew firsthand what I was talking about.
I managed to keep a straight face.
By the end of lunch I’d learned a few more nicknames. Reagan (Ray-ray) was a cute girl who seemed smarter than her boyfriend, Mike-Lite, who was apparently so called because he used to want to be just like Michael. His real name was Ethan.
Beast, who everyone in school recognized on sight, was perhaps the biggest high schooler I’d ever seen. He didn’t look like he should be able to stand, much less play football, but he must manage somehow.
Cyndra’s cheerleader friends from first block were Samantha (Sammy) and Monique (Mona)—also the same two who had kept walking by during break.
Cyndra brushed her hair and didn’t eat anything, laughing with her friends and flirting with everyone.
Michael didn’t mind. It was like he got a charge out of it.
Cyndra and her girls made me feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. They kept laughing, talking between themselves, and looking at me—letting me see it.
I resisted the urge to check myself. Just looked away, waiting for the bell and wondering how long Michael would want to pay me for this nothing act. If I would ever get what the point was.
When the bell rang, T-Man slapped my hand, slid it into another clasp, and bumped shoulders. I tried to look like I knew the move. A couple other jocks held little one-potato fists over my arm and waited for me to make one—then they dropped a quick bounce on mine, one after the other.
Michael and I sat, watching everyone file indoors.
“That was fun, wasn’t it?” he said, when they all moved away. “Power. It’s the ultimate.”
I guessed he was talking about my little game with Dwight.
“You would know,” I said.
He smiled. “Yeah, I would.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Clay was gone when I walked back through the cafeteria with Michael. We dumped our trays and headed upstairs.
Mr. Stewart’s AP History class is the only one that I never want to sleep through. He goes into such great detail, it’s like you know the people he’s talking about. You almost hate that they lived centuries before you. He was the only teacher I had this year who really seemed to care about the subject he taught and wanted to make sure you understood it. Like he was imparting some important, life-changing secrets and not just information about people who died a long time ago.
We were doing a section on ancient Greece and Rome. And the more Mr. Stewart kept talking about those Romans, the more I thought it sounded like something I could learn from. It’s stupid, I guess, but the way I was thinking about it was Michael was a Roman general or something, and I was a Barbarian—a Germanic tribesman. And we were fighting, only the Romans all knew battle plans and formations and had better technology, while my side had nothing but pure strength. It, of course, was a pre-done deal. I was a goner and would never understand what had felled me. And once it was over, would I want to become Roman myself? Or would I die fighting?
When the bell rang I stuffed my notes in my coat. There was only one class left—and since it was a study hall, I could get some sleep and avoid Michael’s gang.
“Hey, Jason”—Michael walked with me out the door—“after school I have football practice. Meet me in the parking lot after. Cyndra wants to get you some clothes.”
“As long as I get paid.”
“Everyone has their price.”
I shrugged and walked away.
In study hall I put my head down and slept. After school sometimes I go to the building supply store and lug around product for contractors who come in. The library’s open for thirty minutes after school, so I sometimes go in there and get on a computer or look at magazines, sleep, or watch Ms. Knickerbocker shelve books. Everyone calls her Ms. Knickers, which helps explain why watching her shelving books is a spectator sport.
But most days I end up in the old gym. Like most schools, Mercer has busted out all over the place as more students come in. A while back they built a new gym. It’s been here as long as I have, but still everyon
e calls it the new gym. Like it’s the jewel in the crown of the campus.
So the old gym is pretty much neglected. The special ed students go there for PE mostly, and sometimes if the weather is bad or there’s testing in the new gym, PE will meet there. They set up random events in there like the science fair and health screenings, but usually it’s completely empty.
Just the way I like it.
Most days Clay will hang out, too, waiting while I work out. I used to try to get him to spar or to let me show him a few things about fighting. But he won’t. Says that violence is never the answer, that you can’t solve anything with fists.
Usually, if someone said that, I’d think they were a coward. But Clay, he won’t ever back down. To him, the just cause is the one that doesn’t need a fist behind it. He says that in a confrontation, a witness or voice is what’s needed. That it’s not the same thing as fighting. He says violence doesn’t change the world; resistance to violence does.
He’s into Gandhi. And the Civil Rights Movement. And hippies and stuff. Obviously he’s completely naïve. But he’s a true believer in that crap. And since we’re friends, we leave it alone. I think he’s learning a few pointers just hanging out with me, though.
I still felt like hitting something, so I headed straight for the corner farthest from the door.
There used to be a boxing team at Mercer. That just totally sucks—the one sport I would try out for, and it doesn’t exist anymore. But there’s a couple heavy punching bags left, a speed bag, one of those bags on a bungee cord that you’re supposed to set swinging and dodge around and hit, and jump ropes, and free weights.
When I got in the corner, I pulled a couple of ratty gymnastic mats off the floor and stacked them behind the heavy bag to help minimize the swaying. When I first found this place there was a decent pair of boxing gloves in one of the old lockers, and I got some tape off the PE teacher’s cart once when he wasn’t looking.
I took off my shirt and started taping my hands. I like to punch the bag with the gloves; it feels more disciplined, like a ritual, like warfare. But I tape my hands anyway because some days the gloves feel too cushioned. It feels like you’re not really hitting things, and I miss the ache in my hands and the scrape of the bag against my knuckles. So sometimes I take the gloves off and finish with my taped hands.
I already knew it was one of those days.
I pulled on the gloves, using my teeth to close the Velcro. Before I could start punching, the door banged and a familiar shuffle-lope crossed the floor.
“How’d it go?” Clay asked.
“Fine.” I dropped a shoulder and sunk a punch into the bag. Then I followed it with a combination jab and hook.
“Yeah,” Clay drawled out the word, sarcastic. “You seem fine.”
“It sucked, but nothing I can’t handle.”
Clay dumped his backpack on the floor and leaned against the flat wall of bleachers. “So tell me. What sucked the most? He’s got you pretty short-chained.”
I fired another combination into the bag, not surprised that Clay saw it, the thing I hated most. That I was Michael’s dog. “I have another job after their practice.” I tipped my head at the whistles and yelling coming from behind the gym.
“What is it?”
“Going to the mall. To get clothes.” My fist slammed the canvas bag.
“Wait”—Clay stepped behind the bag, moving the mats—“they’re buying you clothes? And paying you?”
“Yeah. Cyndra’s idea. She says my look isn’t right.”
Clay shook his head. “Then this is more than fighting someone. It’s bigger than that.”
“Maybe.”
“Cyndra. Damn.”
“She’s Michael’s girlfriend.” I had to state the obvious, since he had a stupid-ass grin plastered across his mouth.
“Playing dress up with you,” Clay retorted. “You realize to play dress up, you’ve got to get naked, right?” He whistled low and shook his head again. “Cyndra Taylor. Fine as fine print.”
He said it like poetry. Like it wasn’t supposed to make sense except on a gut level. Or lower.
“Tool,” I said.
“Douche.”
He held the bag for me for a few minutes while I punched.
“Will you come by after she’s done with you?” he asked when I stopped. That stupid smile tugged at his lips.
I felt a matching smile pull at the corner of my mouth. “Boy, if she even starts, you won’t see us for a week.”
Clay smiled and slapped my glove. He somehow hoisted his overstuffed backpack without tipping over.
“See you in the morning.”
The smile was still on my face when I faced the bag again. Without the rumbling volcano in my chest, I was able to focus on pure technique, slow and measured.
The feeling of a clean punch sailing straight and driving into the bag with my shoulder behind it. I switched legs and arms, aiming punches higher and lower on the bag, now punching through my shoulders and my hips, now rocking forward on the balls of my feet. Techniques I’d picked up from the library computers, watching those cage-fight clips and reading tip-a-day blogs.
I took a break and started working the speed bag. I’m not very good at it, but every now and then I can get it to make that repetitive ba-da-pa ba-da-pa patter that sounds like a ball dribbling superfast.
I got some water and went back to the heavy bag. I shored up the mats and started punching again. This time I focused on sequences, on combinations and rhythm. Rocking around the bag, I started hearing a beat. I accelerated, pushing out triple punches and jabs. Moved in closer, hugging my elbows tight to my sides and shooting punches and jabs and drop-shoulder uppercuts into the bag.
And then it happened. It always does. I started to feel great. I started to feel like I could do anything, fight anyone, punch until the heavy bag’s chain broke. I lowered my head and started to imagine the bag was something else. Someone else.
I took off the gloves and kicked them aside. With each punch, a hiss eked out from between my teeth. The hisses became grunts, and I hit harder and faster. I lost track of time and stopped when the joy passed, stopped when I couldn’t hit anymore and could barely lift my arms.
I leaned against the mats and panted, tilting my head back against the canvas.
“Damn.” It was drawn out in two syllables—day-um—like a southern hillbilly.
A couple of girls stood in the doorway. They were backlit, the light gleaming through the insides of their thighs, shining along the curves of their waists. I couldn’t see who they were and hoped that they could see me as indistinctly. I dragged an arm across my face and stood up.
“Woo, baby,” one of them said. It didn’t sound like Cyndra, but they were here because of her or because of Michael.
I picked up my shirt and threw it on. Grabbed the gloves and retreated into the locker room. Hopefully it didn’t look like a retreat.
My bag was already stashed back there, so I flipped on the shower, locked the door, stripped off my clothes, and stood under the pelting water. I let the water run into my eyes.
I was so tired I didn’t want to think about the girls waiting outside. I had felt good at last, punching until I couldn’t lift my arms anymore. I didn’t want to think about how long they had been standing there. Or if they planned to make a habit out of showing up.
I draped my towel over the window and got dressed again. My bag banged against my back as I walked across the gym floor and climbed the steps. I thought they were gone until I stepped outside.
The football jocks and their girls lounged against their cars.
“Hello, Slick,” Cyndra said.
Monique, her small cheer bag dangling on her back, glided forward and squeezed my arm. “Woo, y’all. Ice is ripped.”
I twitched my arm out of her grip. Of course. Th
e southern girl.
Michael walked over and slapped my hand. “So this is what you do after school? Boxing?”
“Sometimes,” I said. Michael grabbed my bag and tossed it into his car.
“Let me tell you, he was going after that punching bag like it had a name,” the other cheerleader, Samantha, said.
Monique fanned herself and leaned close to Cyndra. “All I can tell you is he looked good doing it.”
She didn’t mean it. It was just some flirt game designed to make me feel self-conscious or make some of the other guys start posing.
“Mmm-hmm,” the other girl agreed. “Like a statue or an underwear ad.”
I raked hair off my face and glared at them.
“Zap-zap.” Cyndra squinted at me.
I glared at her, too.
Dwight moved forward. He lifted his shirt over his head, still keeping the sleeves on his arms.
“What, like this? Right?” He flexed his pecs. Some of the other guys joined in, popping their shirts over their heads and striking muscle-man poses.
Michael leaned against his car, laughing. He kept his shirt on. It was one of those tight, athlete shirts, so you could tell that he could join in the posing if he wanted to.
He didn’t feel the need.
I walked over and leaned against the car next to him.
“Nice try. Yes, very nice. That’s a very admirable muscle you have there.” Monique was poking various arms, butts, and abs. “But sorry, fellas, it just doesn’t cut it. Right, Sammy?”
The other cheerleader popped her gum, nodding.
“Sorry, boys. Maybe you should take up boxing.”
“Or drink less beer,” Cyndra added. She smiled at me. “Come on, Slick. Let’s see the gold standard. Take off your shirt.”
I snorted.
Cyndra frowned. Monique sidled in. “Yeah,” she drawled. “Show the boys we’re not being too harsh.”
“Not happening.” I turned to Michael. “We’re going somewhere, right?”
“Sure, but hold on a sec.” Michael had a strange look in his eyes.
There was silence as everyone watched. I was suddenly not so tired anymore.