Josh Baxter Levels Up

by Gavin Brown

  The Enchantress smiles. “Make sure you focus clearly on one, like a hawk spotting its prey and diving for the kill. Josh, were you able to draw on personal experience?”

  I nod. “Yeah, I have to rip apart robots with my bare hands pretty much every day.”

  We all laugh. For a second I feel like part of some sort of secret society. It’s weird to laugh like that with a teacher, as if we all got the same joke. Weird, but kind of cool.

  As I’m walking to gym the next Monday, I keep thinking about the types of conflict I have in my life. Person vs. person, with the Mitten Monster haunting my every move. Person vs. environment, trying to survive in a hostile world with no video games. Person vs. society, with a football-obsessed school that doesn’t want to accept me. And I guess I have person vs. myself, trying to stay motivated to fill up the Wall of Heroes with successes.

  Things would be much easier if all I had to do was beat up a bunch of robots.

  When I get to the locker rooms, I double-check which one I’m going into and change as quickly as I can.

  We’re playing badminton this week, and when we count off, I end up on the team opposite Schmittendorf.

  The first time his team serves, Mittens starts in on me.

  “Hit it to Creep!” he says.

  “No, no, anyone but Creep!” one of his friends, who’s on my team, shoots back. I glance at Mr. Barrington. The gym teacher stands there watching as the girl serving hits the shuttle over the net. Luckily, she serves it way out of bounds.

  The second time they serve, Mittens makes the same “joke,” if you can call it that. And this time the shuttle comes straight for me.

  I step up, ready to make him look stupid. Just hit it back, that’s all I need to do. Just hit it back and I’ll be free.

  My racket makes a clanking sound, and the shuttle flies sideways, hitting a girl on my team in the head and falling to the ground.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, while Mittens and his friends clap sarcastically.

  “Good job, Creep. Let’s hope beating Lancaster is that easy,” one of the other kids says.

  I pretend to ignore it, but I’m boiling on the inside. No matter how loud they say it, it’s obvious that Mr. Barrington isn’t going to do a thing about it. The kids say it like it’s just a nickname.

  I planned to spend the bus ride home catching up on my math homework, but instead I sit staring out the window while wearing my best Warrior Fury Face. I refuse to let them get to me.

  Despite some wins at school, when I make it to the weekend I feel drained, like an empty and crushed soda can. I’ve been without video games for two weeks and it’s driving me crazy. Other than schoolwork, I don’t have anything to do. I spend the entire weekend sitting on the couch, sketching in my notebook. Mom is taking extra shifts at her second job, so we only see her when she brings home precooked dinner from the supermarket every night.

  Finally, on Sunday night, Lindsay stops at my station on the couch, which at this point has molded itself to my butt like a suit of magical elven armor.

  “Josh, you didn’t do anything this weekend,” she says. “What’s wrong?”

  I grunt at her. A well-timed grunt is really a magical thing. People interpret it as “Yeah, I agree with you,” but you haven’t actually said that. You could really mean anything. Usually it gets my mom or my sister to leave me alone, but this time it doesn’t take.

  “You sat here drawing for, like, three days straight,” she says, giving me that you-are-the-most-ridiculous-person-ever-born look.

  I shrug. “I can’t play video games, it’s getting cold outside—what else do I have to do?”

  “You need to make some friends. Put yourself out there.”

  I look up at Princess Perfect. Part of me wants to yell at her. To call her names and make her leave. How is this her business? But she was right about my ninja strategy not working. So I let her keep talking.

  “You should do that video game competition thing,” she tells me. “Some of the girls in my history class won it when they were in middle school.”

  “But how, Linds? Everyone already has their teams.”

  She makes an exaggerated sigh, which only makes me want to throw my notepad at her even more. “And have you actually asked anyone?”

  I shrug. Of course I haven’t. I sit there, staring at the wall. It’s all so easy for her to say, with her instant friends from volleyball and her flawless grades. Princess Perfect doesn’t have demonic football players taunting her or impossible math problems stalking her sleep.

  “Josh,” she says, her brows doing that thing where they get close together when she’s about to cry. “Sitting around, doing nothing like this. You’re reminding me of two years ago. After—”

  “Don’t you get it?” I interrupt her. “We never should have left our old town. I’m sure we would have been fine. It’s not like Mom has a great job here or anything. And the kids at school call me names.”

  “So don’t let them!” she answers. “Stand up to them!”

  “Look,” I say. “You don’t need to take care of—”

  Lindsay cuts me off with an exasperated look, turns, and walks out of the room.

  Despite being intensely annoyed at her, I still don’t feel like getting up off the couch. Everything seems so hopeless.

  But slowly the cloud of rage disappears, like a spell effect wearing off. As the fury evaporates, I realize that Lindsay is right in one way. I need to do something. It doesn’t matter that I can’t take back the tests I’ve failed or the mistakes I’ve made with the kids at school.

  I have to work on what I can control. I don’t know how to get friends or make my sister feel better, but I can do what Lindsay said. I can stand up for myself. I might even need to add a new experience point category on the Wall of Heroes.

  It doesn’t take me long to get my chance. Three days later, I’m standing at my locker holding my sketchbook when I hear a voice behind me that drips with the horror of a thousand dark rituals.

  “ ’Sup, Creep,” Mittens says.

  “Shut it,” I answer. It’s the first time I’ve actually told him to stop.

  Not that it works at all, of course!

  He stops and spins around to face me, like a shark smelling blood in the water. I can practically see the warning flashing over his head. He’s too high level. I don’t have a chance against him.

  I’m not planning to fight him. I’d get clobbered, obviously. But I can’t take it anymore. I have to push back somehow.

  He grins at me, a Mitten Monster in full display, puffing himself up to try to look larger. “What ya got in there, Creep?” he asks, pointing at the sketchbook in my hand.

  I glare at him. “You, but with a face that’s not quite so ugly. No pencil can capture that.”

  “What?” He stares at me.

  A small crowd of kids has stopped in the hallway, watching the face-off.

  “Yeah,” I continue. My pulse is pounding like I’ve picked up a speed boost, and in the back of my mind I wonder if I’m writing my death warrant with every word. “And it’s too bad that a drawing can’t capture your stench.”

  Mittens laughs sarcastically and turns to walk away. For a moment, I think maybe I’ve gotten away with it. Then he spins back and swipes the notebook out of my hand. I can hear the page that was open rip as he pulls it away from me, leaving me holding nothing but Snowboard Samurai’s head and torso.

  “Hey, give that back!” I demand.

  “These are awful,” he says, leafing through it without really looking. “And sick. Ew, gross. You really are a creep,” he taunts. Of course, he’s holding the notebook in a way that the other kids can’t see any of it.

  I’ve got an active volcano in my chest, ready to erupt.

  I can hear the soundtrack of my life ramping up from “dangerous encounter” to “this boss is about to hand your butt to you on a platter” as I step forward. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. I want him to stop. I can hear
that stupid nickname over and over for the rest of my life. Creep. Creep. Creep.

  I reach for the notebook, but he pulls it away and pushes me back, slamming me into the lockers, where someone’s padlock makes an indentation in my lower back.

  Mittens makes a move to push me again and I panic, jumping at him. He must not have expected me to fight back, because we both lose our balance and go down in a tangle, with me somehow ending up on top of him.

  He shoves me off like I weigh nothing. In that push I can feel how much stronger than me he is. It’s like Young Link wrestling Donkey Kong. I jump back to my feet, but he’s faster as well as bigger, and by the time I’ve stood back up he’s swinging his fist at my face.

  “Fight!” a boy yells.

  I try to duck, but his knuckles connect with my cheek and there’s an explosion of galaxies in my vision, mixed with numbers floating in the air showing the massive damage he’s done. I stagger, then take a swing back that misses wildly.

  “Crush him!” the meaty voice of a jock shouts.

  “Yeah, Josh, you go!” a kid yells in mocking singsong.

  I step back as Schmittendorf advances, an evil grin on his face. I’m starting to think about running for it when I take another step back and bump up against Stan, one of the linebackers on the football team and one of Mittens’s pals. His very large, very muscular pals. I feel like I’m pressed against a wall of meat that smells like sweat and French fries.

  “Hey! Hey!” I hear the unmistakable roar of the dragon, Mr. Barrington, far down the hall.

  Stan grabs me by the arms, and I’m trapped, with the Mitten Monster winding up to hit me again.

  But before he can strike, a voice yells, “Hey, stop it,” and a figure comes flying out of the crowd. He isn’t big, but he jabs at Stan, who lets go of me to defend himself. I catch a glimpse of the kid when he spins around to face us. It’s Peter Andreyev, from my math class. Peter is maybe an inch taller than me and nearly as skinny, and is totally dwarfed by Stan. Peter yells some kind of insult in Russian, and backs off as the linebacker roars.

  “Come on!” Peter says, pulling at my shoulder, as the two football players advance on us. We turn to run, and smack right into Mr. Barrington.

  “STOP IT!” Mr. Barrington shouts, venting the fury of a dragon who resents having to leave his lair. The kids instantly shut up, but he keeps on yelling at the same volume anyway. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

  As soon as Mr. Barrington has taken charge, Mr. Alpert appears, grabbing Stan and the Mitten Monster.

  “What happened here?” Mr. Alpert demands, his voice getting even higher than normal in his fury. “Have you boys reverted to being jungle primates? Do I need to put you in a zoo?”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t Mittens’s fault,” Mr. Barrington rumbles.

  The Frost Giant looks around at the four of us. “You’re all facing in-school suspension,” he squeaks.

  I look around the room, and it’s like the scene freezes. I can see exactly where this is going. Mr. Barrington is holding Peter and me, while Mr. Alpert has a much less secure grip on Schmittendorf and Stan. Everything else fades into the blur of the background. I can see the probabilities fluctuating. The four of us have been fighting, none of the teachers saw it start, and so we’re all going to end up in detention together. Peter came in to help me, and he’s going to take as much blame for it. On the first day of school they’d made a huge deal about their zero-tolerance policy for fighting.

  My nose is bleeding all over my favorite shirt (the one where The Doctor is telling Mr. Spock to “Live long and don’t blink!”) but I stand up straight and look Mr. Alpert in the eye.

  “It’s my fault,” I say. “I started it. Peter and Stan were trying to stop us.” It’s a lie, but I know that if I try to help only Peter, they won’t believe me, and Mittens will contradict me.

  Schmittendorf looks at me in shock for half a second, but covers it up. Everyone else, Mr. Alpert included, stares at me in confusion. Finally, Mr. Alpert shrugs. “We’ll sort this out. All of you please come to my office. We’ll talk this out for as long as it takes.”

  It’s not until I’m in one of the chairs in the cave of the Frost Giant, holding a wad of tissues to my nose, that the adrenaline starts to die down and I stop seeing the world as targets, hit points, and things to dodge. Sitting there while Mr. Alpert arranges papers and pulls out an extra chair, I feel like the condemned hero, waiting for the guards to come and take me to the gallows. And I’m pretty certain that no one will show up at the last minute, shoot through the noose, and lead a blazing getaway. I need a better plan than that. As usual, I wonder what my heroes would do in my situation.

  CHELL FROM PORTAL would shoot a portal through the window into the parking lot, another one under her feet, and jump through to freedom.

  Strategic Assessment: The Portal gun I got for my eleventh birthday makes lights and noise, but it doesn’t seem to actually open apertures between distant points in space-time. I think it’s probably defective, but for some reason Mom won’t let me send it back.

  SPIDER-MAN would use webbing to stick to the ceiling, wait for the principal to come out, and sneak into the office and steal any evidence that linked him to the crime.

  Strategic Assessment: Unfortunately, there are multiple eyewitnesses. Also, the one time I got bitten by a spider … no spider powers. I blame Dad for insisting I go to the doctor. How could I mutate once my body was full of antibiotics?

  SUPERMAN would stay and face his accusers, bound by honor to obey the law even when he broke it for good reasons.

  Strategic Assessment: Crap. As little as I like it, that’s probably the right thing to do. Not to mention that—since I don’t have a portal gun or spider powers—I don’t have a choice in the matter.

  Eventually, Mr. Alpert comes up with enough chairs and we all sit down. His huge frost giant body seems cramped in the overcrowded cave.

  “Boys,” he begins, “I know this is a tough time for you. But that isn’t an excuse for fighting in the halls!”

  He looks directly at me. “Josh, I know that adjusting here has been difficult. But if you have a problem with another student, you should come to me.”

  Across the room, I can see Schmittendorf grinning at me like he’s won the lottery. I’ve taken the blame for Peter, but in the end, Mittens and Stan have gotten just as much benefit. And if I try to get them in trouble, they’ll turn it around on me. I have to sit there and endure their sneering looks every time Mr. Alpert turns his head toward me.

  “Why did you start this, Josh? Are there feelings that you need to share with us?”

  “I, uh …” I’m struggling to come up with a good reason. If I blame Mittens, he’ll start fighting back, and then Peter will get in trouble, too. I need a solution that the Frost Giant will accept.

  I swallow. “It’s been really hard, you know, adjusting to life here. I have a lot of anger.” I can see Mr. Alpert nodding. It’s totally working. “Henry bumped into me, and I kind of lost it. I’m sorry. Peter and Stan were just trying to pull us apart.”

  I hate that there’s no way to nail Mittens with equal blame, but if there is, I can’t think fast enough to come up with it.

  The Frost Giant sighs. “I understand that you may have a lot of emotions swirling inside you. But you need to find healthy outlets for them. Violence is never the solution to your problems.”

  “What about World War Two?” Peter asks, putting on an innocent face.

  Mr. Alpert glares at him. “This situation is … rather different, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Peter doesn’t seem convinced, but he drops it.

  Mr. Alpert goes on for a while, talking about how school needs to be a safe space for everyone, and that the solution to conflict is to get a teacher, not to start fighting.

  I nod along, trying to look like I regret fighting with Mittens. The truth is that the throbbing in my nose is a better reminder of the wisdom of avoiding a fight than the lectu
re. But the real disaster is the question that has started running through my mind now that the fog of anger has lifted. Where is my notebook?

  I check out Mittens and Stan, but unless they’ve stuffed it up their shirts or something, they don’t have it. But his friends were everywhere. Anyone could have picked it up.

  And that book has every ridiculous sketch I’ve done in the past month. Not just the silly ones, but the ones of teachers and students as video game characters. I don’t regret the Mitten Monster, but who knows how Ms. Pritchard might feel about her enchantress portrait. And … I gulp. And Maya as a punk princess throwing commas like they’re ninja stars—which is basically what she did to my story for English class. I’m not so good with the whole “correct punctuation” thing.

  Finally, Mr. Alpert gets to the part we’ve been waiting for, like we’ve been sitting through a boring love scene in a movie in order to get to the exploding stuff afterward.

  “Peter, Stan, and Henry,” he says, “I saw that you were all quite clearly fighting. Even if you didn’t start it, that can’t be tolerated in this school. You’ll each have detention after school this week.” My stomach sinks. I’d tried to help Peter, but he’s still getting it bad. He’s going to hate me. “Josh, for starting a fight, you get the same, plus two days in-school suspension.”

  “Does this mean …” Mittens starts, panic wiping the smirk off of his face.

  Mr. Alpert nods. “Yes, it means you can’t go to practice or the game on Friday. That’s school policy.”

  “But I need to play. Everyone’s counting on me!”

  Mr. Alpert shrugs. “The policy is meant to be a punishment, Henry. I’m sorry. The rules say that you can’t participate in extracurriculars while you’re serving detention.”

  The crushed look on Mittens’s face as we stand up to leave makes me feel like I just pulled out a Smash Bros. sudden death tiebreaker. Mr. Alpert takes us to get our things from our lockers before going out to meet our parents. While we were in his office everyone had gone home, and the school is silent. Every little sound echoes down the halls.