Tap Out

by Sean Rodman

  He goes through the roster and then walks up and down the aisles, collecting our essays. He pauses briefly when I add mine to the pile in his arms, scanning the first page. I keep stony calm, trying not to care what he thinks. I worked hard enough on it, that’s for sure.

  The class goes by pretty quickly. Like I said, History is one of the few classes I can pay attention in. I mean, I especially like the stuff about wars and battles—everybody does. But I like thinking about the way things could have gone too. The way one little moment could have changed everybody’s lives—one speech, one bullet. All it would have taken was one thing and we wouldn’t be living the way we are now. Something about that really gets me.

  At the end of class, Mr. Hassel calls me out of the stream of students heading for the door. He’s young for a teacher, and his suits never fit quite right, like he still has to grow into them. He tries too hard, like a lot of new teachers. Tries to be the “cool guy” and drop lots of references to music and TV shows into his lessons. Tries to be our friend.

  “Darwin,” he says. “We need to talk about a few things, bro.” He grabs a stack of papers, gets out from behind his desk and sits down in a front-row student desk. Motions for me to sit down at a desk next to him.

  He clears his throat, then says, “Darwin, you’re a big guy. A tough guy. And that’s great in, like, football or basketball. But in the classroom, you are just one mind among many.”

  I don’t let my expression change, but I’m wondering where the hell this is going.

  “I think you’re used to getting your way with things. Because you can, right? Like when you kicked Mark out of his seat at the beginning of class today.”

  “It wasn’t a big thing. I didn’t even think you saw that,” I say and regret it right away.

  “I see a lot of things, Darwin,” says Mr. Hassel. “And I’ll tell you, bro, I don’t like what I see. I mean, throwing your weight around like that? You know that we have zero tolerance for that kind of behavior here at Norfolk.”

  I nod, starting to steam. Why’s he making such a big deal about this?

  Mr. Hassel continues. “I don’t know what it was like at your last school. I heard you were inner city, and I get that there was probably a different…culture there.”

  “Culture?” I mumble. “It was a public school. Wasn’t a different planet.” Mr. Hassel has probably never even left the suburbs. Just stayed here teaching rich kids his whole life. Might as well be a different planet.

  Mr. Hassel looks unimpressed. “In any case, you need to learn new ways of doing things, okay? I see you pushing around kids like that again, there will be repercussions.”

  “Whatever. I get it.” I shrug. “Can I go now?”

  “Not yet,” Mr. Hassel says. “There’s something else. This paper you just turned in.” He lifts my essay off the pile he grabbed from his desk.

  “Yeah?”

  “I had a quick read of the first few pages. It’s quite different from the other work you’ve turned in since you started here.”

  Damn straight it’s different. I worked harder on this than on anything else I’ve ever written. But all I say is, “I guess. Thanks.”

  “Well,” he says carefully, “don’t thank me yet. What I’m saying is that it’s not like your other work. This makes me wonder if it is, in fact, your work.”

  I pull my head back like he smacked me.

  “What?” I say. “You think I copied it from somewhere?”

  Mr. Hassel shakes his head. “I’m not accusing you of that right now.”

  “Right now? But maybe later?”

  “But”—Mr. Hassel has to raise his voice to interrupt me—“what I am telling you—warning you—is that I’m going to look at your paper very carefully. And if there has been any plagiarism, I’ll find out about it.” He taps the paper with his pen a few times. “So if there’s anything you’d like to tell me, now is the time.”

  “Anything I want to tell you?” I repeat. “This is bs. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Like you didn’t do anything wrong when you pushed Mark around? You’ve got to start coming clean, bro.”

  “I am not your bro, understand?” I stand up quickly, the chair clattering to the floor. “And I wrote that essay and worked hard on it.”

  “Don’t get angry with me,” he says in a low voice. “Remember the school code, okay?”

  “Screw you and screw the school code!” I yell right in his face.

  Mr. Hassel goes super pale. I can feel the hum of blood in my ears, and I think about how easy it would be to really scare the crap out of him. Teach him a lesson, for a change. Clear his desk, just swipe everything onto the floor. Throw a chair. Throw a punch.

  Chapter Nine

  The anger feels like a tide rushing forward, like it’s carrying me along and I can’t stop it. I step close to Mr. Hassel. Close enough that I see his fear.

  Then, the tide pulling away just as fast as it came in, I realize something. I’m sick of people being afraid of me. I wanted to impress Mr. Hassel, show him that I actually gave a crap about his course. And I’ve ended up in the same place I always do.

  I take a breath, it hissing through my nose. Then I lift up my hands and step back, surrendering.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hassel. I lost my temper. I’m really sorry.” I pick up my chair and put it back in place.

  Mr. Hassel blinks a few times but doesn’t move. “Thanks. But we need—” His voice is gravelly and choked. He clears his throat. “We need to see the principal.”

  The next couple of hours are brutal, my stomach churning the whole time. The worst part is sweating it out waiting in front of the principal’s office. But in the end, I get off easy. The principal doesn’t call my mom. She puts me on warning, tells me that I’m getting a break because I’m new. And, I guess, because she too thinks I’m from a different culture. Doesn’t want to make an example of Norfolk Academy’s only inner-city kid. Not yet anyway.

  As I walk away from the office back to my next class, I see Jonathan at his locker. He slams it shut and falls into step with me.

  “Heard a rumor you took out Mr. Hassel.” He mimes a punch.

  “Took him out?” I shake my head. “That’s all wrong. It was nothing like that.”

  “Well, you’re getting quite the reputation. Which means we’re going to have a huge crowd on Friday.”

  I stop and turn to Jonathan. “I can’t afford to get in any more trouble right now.”

  Jonathan leans over and straightens my tie. “My friend, you cannot afford to miss this fight. I’m thinking you’ll make over a hundred and fifty, easy.” I push him back.

  “Yeah, right,” I say. The bell rings, and there’s a rush of students toward classroom doors.

  “Tell you what,” says Jonathan. “I’m so sure of this, I will promise you one-fifty if you fight. Guaranteed. Doesn’t matter if you win.” He shows me his best salesman smile. “But you will win, won’t you?” I think of Mom and the rent. With these two fights alone, I’d have two hundred. Almost a quarter of what we owe for the month. It’s something.

  “Deal. If it’s guaranteed,” I say. “But we’ve got to keep this thing quiet.”

  “It’s the first rule of the club. We don’t talk about it.” We bump fists and head to different classes. I’m thinking Jonathan won’t talk. And I won’t. But what about the rest of them?

  The sun’s coming down in the sky when I get off the bus. Orange light reflects in the windows of Franklin Estates. Big name for four run-down high-rise towers huddling around a bunch of brick townhouses. I cross the muddy quad to get to Dempsey Tower. I pass by TB, sitting outside his house in his beat-up lawn chair.

  “Yo, Dar. How you been?” He’s wearing his hood up over a Yankees cap.

  All black, even his baggy jeans. “Long time, man.”

  I slow down but don’t stop.

  “Hold up, hold up.” He stands from his chair. “You still going to that rich-kid school?” he ask
s, and takes a pull from his cigarette. It glows, a red dot in the shadows.

  “For now.”

  “That’s good, man. That’s good. You come up hard, but now you’re making something of yourself, right?” A streetlight flickers on. I can see flecks of snow starting to fall through the air.

  “Like that, yeah. Look, TB, I got to get—”

  “Yeah, yeah. You got things to do, right? Let me just talk a little business with you.” He steps close. TB’s face is still shadowed by his cap. “Dar, you’re still one of the biggest dudes in the estates. You ever want a job with my crew, I’ll give it to you in a minute. ” He jabs at the air with his cigarette to make the point.

  “A job, huh?”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, blowing a stream of smoke out the side of his mouth. “You could be my enforcer. Get things done for me. Keep customers in line.”

  “Let me think about it,” I say.

  TB takes a final drag, then drops the cigarette to the ground and crushes it with his shoe.

  “You do that, Dar. ’Cause I know that you got a bright future right here. In Franklin Estates, baby!” He swings his arms wide, like he’s embracing the run-down tower above him. I nod without meeting his eyes and get moving.

  The elevator’s broken. Again. I walk up the five floors to our apartment. When I get there, Mom and Runt are out. There’s an envelope on the kitchen table for me. Marked Newhaven Penitentiary.

  Without hesitating, I pick it up and slide a finger under the flap, about to rip it open. Then I stop. Maybe I’ll put it away until later. I don’t know if I want his voice in my head right now. Just out of frustration with trying to make the decision, I tear the envelope open.

  Dear Son, it begins. I hope you got my last letter as I did not get one back from you. Sometimes the guards take letters and dump them calling it an accident. But really they just want to hurt you—but I fight back when I can. If you get this one let me know as I do look forward to hearing from you. It might be strange but even with six hundred prisoners here I feel alone most of the time…

  Chapter Ten

  All morning, my eyes are on the clock. Last class finishes at 11:50. Ten minutes to get to the garage before Jonathan gets things rolling. Eventually, the bell rings, and there’s a screech of chairs as everyone gets up. I slam my books and binders into my backpack. I’m out the door and heading down the hallway when someone steps in front of me.

  “Yo, Dar!” he says. It’s the blond kid from History class. Mark. I shoulder past him.

  “No, wait, man! I just wanted to say,” he says, hustling to keep up with me, “I just wanted to say that I heard you got in trouble with Hassel over me. No hard feelings?”

  I shoot him a look as we walk. No hard feelings? I was the one pushing him around. Why is he apologizing to me? The fire doors slam open at the end of the hallway, and we’re outside in the cool autumn air. Mark drops back as I pick up speed, jogging down the sidewalk. From behind, I hear him yell.

  “You on the way to the fight, right?”

  I spin around. Mark stops, panting. Stupid dog smile on his face. Happy to get my attention at last. He says, “I’m going there too.”

  I stalk back toward him, looking around to see who might have heard. Luckily, this side of the street is empty, and traffic is pretty loud.

  “You don’t talk about that stuff, you hear me?” I say, getting right in his face. “Ever.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he says, smile fading a little.

  “I ever hear that you snitched on me about the fights, I’ll hunt you down.” I keep my voice low. There’s a mom pushing a stroller coming toward us.

  “I understand, okay?” he says. He takes a step back. “You don’t need to be so intense about it.”

  I stare at him a moment longer, then turn around and start heading down the street. A moment later I hear his footsteps and realize he’s still following me. Then he’s right beside me. It’s like having a puppy.

  “I could be like you, you know,” he says. “I just need to learn some moves.”

  I look over my shoulder at his skinny face sticking out of the big puffy jacket.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “For real! I’ve been in some fights.”

  I snort. “You win any of them?” He doesn’t say anything. “That’s what I thought.”

  “That’s why I watch you,” he says. “I want to learn how to win.”

  “You can’t learn this stuff by watching,” I say. We round the corner and turn into the alley that leads to the garage.

  My shoes crackle on broken glass.

  “I know—that’s just it,” he says happily. Like I just proved his point. “That’s what I wanted to ask you about.” I stop at the door to the garage, hand on the knob.

  “Ask what?” I say. “I got to get inside—”

  “I want you to teach me,” he says quickly. “I want to be your student. Learn everything you know.”

  I laugh. “You’re serious?” Then I see his face. He is.

  “Get out,” I say. I feel the heat prickling on the back of my neck, the rush of adrenaline. I’m suddenly furious. “Get the hell out of here!”

  “Why don’t you like me?” he yells. “What did I do to piss you off?”

  “It’s not what you did. It’s who you are.” I let go of the door and turn to face him. “You’re afraid. That’s why people pick on you. It’s like sharks smelling blood in the water, only people smell fear. And you stink of it all the time.”

  Mark’s cheeks go from pale white to pink. He turns and half runs down the alley, dodging a spilled-over shopping cart. I screw my eyes shut. What I told him is only partly true.

  In a weird way, Mark reminds me of what I used to be. Being afraid like that. Never feeling safe. Growing up scared of the bigger kids in my building. Scared of my dad when he was in one of his moods. It was my dad who taught me that if you want to survive, you turn the fear into fight.

  But I’m realizing that the fear never really goes away. And the fighting only makes me feel better for a moment—the electric shock of my fist connecting with flesh. The drunk power of totally dominating someone. But a second later it’s gone, and the fear is back.

  I look down the empty alley, littered with garbage from an open Dumpster. Mark doesn’t get it. I’m not pissed off at him. I just don’t want to watch him make the same decision I did.

  I shoulder through the door and into the dark garage.

  “Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls. For your entertainment and education, I’ve found two of the finest fighters Norfolk Academy has to offer.” Jonathan spins around slowly under the bare bulb. Enjoying, as always, his moment in the spotlight. Fifty or so students, all in school uniform, shout their approval.

  “In this corner, our reigning champion, Downtown Dar Stone!” I don’t stare at the crowd, just down at my taped-up hands. The crowd chants, “Downtown Dar! Downtown Dar!”

  “And our challenger, Alex the Axe Man Kennedy.” I look up and see that Alex is staring right at me. He’s got focus. And he’s big—about the same size as I am, with broad shoulders. I see Sam just behind him. Looks like Alex is part of the same football crew as Sam. Sam smiles like he knows what I’m in for. I flex my fingers against the tape.

  He doesn’t know anything.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Round one, gentlemen,” says Jonathan. Alex and I tap fists and then back up. Seconds go by as we just eye each other. Hands up near our cheeks, rocking back and forth. Waiting for someone to make the first move.

  “Get into it! Hit him!” someone yells from the crowd.

  Like he’s following orders, Alex goes for it. A fast right hook. I step back out of the way. He follows with another right. Again I slide out of the way. Edging around the circle, screaming people. Alex has a longer reach than I do. Keeps me at a distance.

  Then he changes it up and kicks low. It connects with my left leg, but without any real force behind it. It’s enough to throw Alex off-
balance though. I lunge forward with a left and then a right to the face. He raises his arm in a block, but I wrap my arms around him in a clinch, locking my fist to my wrist behind his back. An unbreakable bear hug. I shove him back hard.

  We break through the crowd. While he’s off balance I give another shove, and he smashes back against a concrete wall. His head smacks against the wall with a muffled crack. I keep the pressure on. I’ve got him pinned.

  “Crush him, Alex! Come on!”

  Alex pounds against my back with his fists, landing one, then two heavy hits on my kidneys. It hurts, but he’s not going anywhere. Or so I think. Somehow, Alex wedges both of his legs against the wall and gets enough leverage to throw me backward. I hit the ground with a yell, more out of surprise than pain.

  Lying there, I see him raise one foot over my head. I try to get out of the way as he stomps down. But I’m not fast enough. The boot lands on my shoulder, and I feel a flash of pain through my chest as he grinds it in. I try to sit up, and he gives a straight shot to the side of my head. I see a shower of sparks, and it takes me a second to scramble to my feet. Breathing ragged. Half blind. For the first time since the fight club started, I start to feel a small worm of fear crawling in my gut. This guy has the bloodlust that none of the others had.

  This guy wants to see me hurt.

  The crowd is chanting. “Axe Man! Axe Man!” We circle each other again, the crowd following us as we move around the garage. Alex sends a flurry of left-right jabs at me, each punctuated by hissing breaths. I weave out of the way. But each time I dance back, I can feel my energy reserves draining away. Much more of this and I’ll get tired. Get sloppy. And make a mistake.

  I wipe the back of a hand across my bloody eyebrow. I look over at Jonathan, wondering how far he’ll let this go. But he’s smiling. This is just what he wanted. A big show. Brutal is better.