This Might Hurt a Bit

by Doogie Horner

  This is torture. You live in Shuckburgh, numbnut! Ich wohne in Shuckburgh!

  “Ja, sorry, uh, Ich wohne in . . . uh . . . How do you say ‘Shuckburgh’ in German?”

  “Shuckburgh,” Herr Bronner says with a German accent.

  “Ich wohne aus Shuckburgh.”

  “Ich wohne in Shuckburgh,” Bronner corrects, with the patience of a saint.

  “Right.”

  “Nein,” Bronner says, overenunciating. “In Shuckburgh.”

  “Ja,” Spags says, smiling. “Shuckburgh.”

  Herr Bronner gives up and summons a pained smile. “Sehr gut, Johann . . . sehr gut.”

  One thing I do like about German class are the weirdly specific sample dialogues our textbook provides. I can’t imagine ever being in a situation where I’d say things like, “Hello. My dog would like a haircut, one that emphasizes his tail,” or “This sauna is too dry. Can someone throw scented water on the embers?” But the textbook is full of conversations like this:

  Man: Good afternoon. I would like to buy some eggs.

  Grocer: Wh at kind of eggs would you like to purchase?

  Man: Do you have brown hen eggs?

  Grocer: We have brown eggs, but they are from geese, not hens.

  Man: Goose eggs are not flavorful enough. I am baking a quiche.

  Grocer: Then I cannot help you, but I wish you good luck in your baking.

  Man: Before I leave, can you direct me to the nearest tailor?

  Although maybe Germans are constantly seeking very specific eggs and getting their pants hemmed. Maybe it’s a very different place from here. A whole different country even.

  I must have drifted off, because Herr Bronner is staring at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I ask. “What was the question?”

  Giggles from the class. Everyone loves it when they’re not the one getting in trouble.

  “Ich habe gesagt,” Herr Bronner says, “wo wohnst du, Adolf?”

  I decide to give Elsa a run for her money and show off some German I learned while watching Die Hard with the German subtitles on. “Ich lebe am Rand.”

  Herr Bronner laughs. “You live on the edge?”

  “Ja.”

  “Nein, Adolf,” he replies with a hint of pity. “Sie leben in Shuckburgh.”

  — — —

  The last fifteen minutes of German are dedicated to working alone in class, and I spend them drawing pictures of Nakatomi Plaza exploding and rereading Lord of the Flies. It’s pure rugged.

  My desk is near the door, and Herr Bronner’s desk is on the other side of the room. He’s asleep in his chair, snoring like a tuba, so I check my phone under my desk to see if Jake has written back yet. He has not, which is a little odd, but I’ll see him next period.

  I glance at the clock above the door to see when the bell is going to ring, and I am dismayed, but not surprised, to see Tommy Richter waiting for me in the hallway, his linebacker shoulders so wide he blocks my view of the hallway through the door. Although he’s a big guy, he’s strangely unhealthy-looking, like if Frankenstein had been made of ham.

  For a second I hope, Maybe he’s here to pick up Myka? But then he leans into the doorway, his face as big and as flat as a tombstone, and draws a finger across his thick neck. It’s supposed to be scary, but he sticks his tongue out and crosses his eyes like he’s pretending to be dead, and it just looks goofy. When Tommy stands there he’s fucking terrifying, but as soon as he moves or talks, he wrecks it.

  Jono is with Tommy, and so is some goon I always see sneaking cigarettes behind the gym when we walk out to the buses at the end of the day. The two of them lean into view and make rude faces and mouth curse words at me. How are they getting to my classes so quickly!? I guess they’re leaving their classes early, or maybe getting a hall pass from the football coach.

  My next class is all the way across the Thunderdome in another circle. I don’t think there’s any way I can avoid these guys.

  The bell rings, and everyone gathers their books and walks out. I linger at my desk so I’ll be the last one to leave the classroom, so at least everyone in German class won’t see me getting my bütt ger-beaten.

  On her way out Myka sees Tommy waiting in the hall and squeals with delight.

  “What are you doing here, you big brute?” She smacks him on the chest playfully. “Couldn’t wait to see me?”

  “Nah.” Tommy points at me, still lingering in the classroom. “I gotta pound this jerk.”

  “Oh.” Myka turns and looks at me, confused, and I give her a little wave. “Okay, well . . . have fun.” Myka wanders down the hall.

  I’m still at my desk, gathering my books as slowly as possible, moving them from the chair to the desk and back again. Herr Bronner washes the blackboard, his large circular butt swaying hypnotically. Tommy gives me an impatient look and spins his finger in a hurry it up motion. “C’mon, dude!” he says in a stage whisper.

  I never thought I’d want to stay in German class forever. I was unrichtig.

  I trudge out of the classroom, and Tommy, Jono, and Cigarettes surround me, like border collies herding sheep. They can’t do anything physical right now because we’re passing too many classrooms with teachers in them, but they start softening me up verbally while we head toward the stairwell.

  “What’s up, chickenshit?” Tommy asks, giving me a lazy shove.

  “Chicken, chicken,” Jono sings in a high voice, before launching into an enthusiastic chicken impersonation, complete with arm flapping. “Buck, buck, buck, buck!” It’s startlingly realistic, one of the benefits of living in the country, I guess. Jono bugs his eyes out and bobs his head at me. “Buck, buck, buck, buck-KAW!”

  I deserve better bullies.

  The other kids give us a wide berth and hurry around us, their pack-animal radar alerting them to danger. We’re approaching the stairwell that leads downstairs, and I try to keep going around the circle, because it’s safer up here—there are no teachers or classrooms in the stairwell—but Tommy’s big hand grabs the back of my collar and flings me toward the double doors. Cigarettes slams the push bar way too hard, banging both doors open, and as soon as we’re in the stairwell, Tommy smacks the books out of my hands from behind and they spin across the linoleum. I turn around wearily, and Tommy pushes me against the wall.

  “You got a problem, fuckstick?” Tommy says. He gives my face a playful smack. “Huh? You think you’re tough?”

  Cigarettes stands behind Tommy, providing unnecessary backup. He’s nervous, bopping from foot to foot and looking over his shoulder a lot. Jono is still back in the hall, craning his neck around the corner to see if Mr. Hartman or any teachers are coming. He cups his hands around his mouth and continues to do his chicken impression at random intervals. “Buck, buck, buck . . .”

  There are fewer kids in the stairwell than in the hall, but those who pass us slow down to watch with the fascination of motorists passing a car accident. Someone yells, “Fight!” and a few kids go with the classic “OOOOOOhhhh . . .”

  Cigarettes hurries them along nervously. “C’mon, c’mon, get out of here.”

  Most kids walk around my scattered books, but a few go out of their way to kick them farther down the stairs. This hurts more than Tommy slamming me against the wall did.

  Tommy grabs my hand, the one with the scraped knuckles, and holds it up. “Oooh!” he says with surprise. “So, you were the one who punched Mark last night, huh?” He shakes his head, genuinely delighted. “You like punching people, huh? You wanna fight? Sweet, let’s go.”

  Tommy spreads his legs in a boxing stance, fists up, dancing on the balls of his feet, and starts shadowboxing, throwing vicious jabs that stop only a few inches in front of my face. I can feel the wind from his punches on the tip of my nose, and I shrink back against the wall, too afraid to do anything else.

  Now kids aren’t just slowing down; they’re stopping to watch.

  “C’mon!” Tommy barks, throwing punches. “C’mon, let�
��s go!”

  “No!” I say, my voice shaking like crazy. “If you wanna hit me, go ahead, but I’m not going to fight you.”

  Tommy drops his hands and sticks his chin out. “C’mon, I’ll give you the first shot.”

  “I don’t want the first shot, asshole. I just want you to leave me alone!”

  “Who you calling an asshole?” Tommy asks, spreading his arms in a come at me, bro stance.

  “Buck, buck, buck . . . buck-KAW!” Jono clucks with disturbing skill.

  Cigarettes reaches around Tommy’s massive shoulder to push me. “Yo, this dude’s a fuckin ’ weak-ass coward.”

  “Yeah,” I agree angrily. “I guess I am.”

  My sad response makes Cigarettes uncomfortable enough that he stops, but it doesn’t slow down Tommy. Tommy is on a roll. He grabs the front of my shirt with his big hands.

  In movies I’ve seen bullies pick kids up off the ground by their shirt collars, but in real life all that does is jack your shirt up so everyone can see your belly button, which is just as awkward for the bully as it is for you.

  But Tommy doesn’t make that mistake. Although he has a weak verbal bullying game, his physical technique is strong. He twists my collar so it tightens around my neck, pulls me toward him, and then pushes hard with his legs, slamming me into the stairwell’s cinder-block wall again, knocking the wind out of me. The back of my head hits the bricks, and my glasses almost fall off, teetering on the tip of my nose. The world splits in two, the top half blurry, the bottom half sharp, dominated by the big orange S on the front of Tommy’s jersey.

  The Richter Scale looks as big as the bull from last night as he gets right in my face. He has bad acne, and his face is so red and angry that I’m afraid one of his white zits will pop on me.

  Tommy glances at my mouth and suddenly recoils. “Ugh,” he says with disgust. “Your teeth are fucking brown. What, do you brush your teeth with shit?” Cigarettes laughs and Tommy beams, surprised by his rare wittiness.

  No, I don’t brush my teeth with shit. I donated bone marrow to try to save my sister’s life, you big dumb asshole. It makes me so mad, I forget that Tommy is twice my size and about to kick my ass, and I guess that’s why I say, “No. I was eating your Mom’s asshole last night.”

  Tommy jerks back like I just slapped him. Cigarettes covers his mouth and tries not to laugh.

  Tommy blinks at me, frozen while his tiny brain computes this unexpected data, and his face slowly settles into a hard mask that is not meant to scare me, not meant to look tough—although it does. It’s his game face, the look that unconsciously falls over him right before the ball snaps and he knows he’s about to cream the defensive line.

  All business now, he pins me to the wall with one hand and cocks his other fist back over his shoulder, about to pound me in the face, when Jono rushes into the stairwell, hissing, “Hartman! Hartman!”

  Tommy is going to punch me anyhow—he’s in the zone—but Cigarettes grabs him by the shoulders and physically pulls him away, down the stairs.

  Jono looks up at me from the curve of the stairwell below and sings, “Chickenshiiiiiiiiit,” one last time as he slides down the banister, a dancer leaving the stage of the meanest musical ever.

  The crowd of onlookers disperses guiltily as Mr. Hartman lumbers into the stairwell. I’m not sure if I look traumatized or if he can just smell the testosterone in the air, but Mr. Hartman stops and swivels around to appraise the situation.

  Nobody is left in the stairwell except us, so he asks me, “What’s going on here?”

  “Uhhh . . . someone knocked the books out of my hands.” I point to my books all over the stairs, although it’s hard; my arm feels as wobbly as a noodle. I’m having a hard time behaving normally, adrenaline pounding through me.

  “Who?” Hartman demands.

  “Uh . . . I don’t know,” I say. “They were behind me.” I’m not sure why I lie. I guess it’s just my natural teenage stay out of trouble instincts kicking in.

  Mr. Hartman sees through me like a screen door and harrumphs loudly. He shakes his head, hoists his belt buckle up, and does a bunch of other things whose only purpose seems to be to burn off excess frustration.

  “C’mon,” he finally grumbles, pointing at my books scattered down the stairs. “I’ll help you pick ’em up.”

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  I’M GRATEFUL THE HALLWAYS ARE empty as I walk to art class. My neck hurts, and so does the back of my head where Tommy smacked it against the wall. I try to feel if there’s a bump, but I can’t tell.

  Each classroom I pass, teachers are taking roll call, and the kids near the door notice me walking past and stare. Their expressions look hostile, like, Oh shit, there’s that nerd that Tommy Richter beat up! But of course it’s just my imagination. There’s no way everyone could’ve heard already. Still, I wish there were a way I could get to class without having to walk past all these classrooms. My limbs are still buzzing with unused adrenaline, and I have to resist the urge to run the rest of the way to class.

  I can’t wait to tell Jake what happened. Usually, his over-the-top anger bothers me, but right now it’s exactly what I want to hear. He’s gonna murder Tommy. Tommy thinks he’s tough, but he’s just fake tough. Jake would never ask, “Do you wanna fight?” He’d just straight-up clock you.

  I hope Jake doesn’t get expelled. He wouldn’t give a shit, but I would. He’s my friend—he is literally 50 percent of my friends right now—and I like seeing him in school.

  Jake has already gotten in trouble a couple of times this year, and he says that Mr. Hartman and Mr. Braun, our principal, are “out to get him.” I don’t know if that’s true; the type of stuff Jake does, there’s no way he couldn’t get in trouble. For instance, a couple of weeks ago he got suspended for chugging NyQuil in school. He drank so much cough syrup that he fell asleep in class and the teacher couldn’t wake him up. I asked him why he didn’t get high off DayQuil instead, and he said I was stupid (although it still seems like a valid question to me).

  Maybe I’m off the hook now. Maybe, if I’m lucky, Tommy will tell Mark that he sort of beat me up, and that’ll be it.

  Yeah! And maybe when PJ asks Vern to the dance, she’ll say, “Sorry, I’d rather go with your handsome friend Kirby,” and we will be crowned queen and king of the Fall Fling. The whole school will stand in a silent throng around our dais, dressed in tuxedos and gowns, as Mark, Tommy, and Rob crawl toward my feet on their hands and knees, begging for forgiveness.

  “I’m sorry I was such a jerk,” Mark blubbers, choking back tears. “Those cows you painted . . . They were works of art. My family sold them to a gallery for a hundred million dollars, but we don’t deserve the money. You should have it.”

  “I already have the greatest treasure in the world,” I reply, squeezing Vern’s hand as she beams at me. “Donate the money to the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia instead.”

  The crowd at the dance bursts into applause. Mark, moved by my Christlike forgiveness, weeps openly. Somewhere in the crowd, I hear Jono’s familiar “buck, buck, buck,” but it’s quiet, chastened, a cluck of repentance.

  — — —

  I open the art room door to the soothing sounds of a string quartet playing from speakers on Ms. Torres’s desk. Nobody looks up when I walk in; they’re all engrossed in their charcoal drawings, perched on low stools around a still life of exotic fruits.

  Ms. Torres sees me, however, and looks at her watch dramatically, like a stage actor emoting so people can see her expression from the balcony. Her clothes look like she’s in a play too, dressed for the part of Elderly New Age Artist: short hair dyed reddish purple, dangly earrings with bells on them, and lots of chunky jade jewelry. I don’t mean to make fun of her; she’s nice, but she’s so absurd, I sometimes wonder if her persona is an elaborate performance-art piece.

  I don’t have to worry about Ms. Torres writing me up for being late. She has this teaching philosophy where
she only gives positive feedback. For instance, if you’re talking in class, she won’t say, “Don’t talk in class.” Instead she’ll say, “It would be great if you didn’t talk in class.” Or she’ll ask an absurdly open-ended question like, “Do you think everyone would be able to focus more clearly on their work if you weren’t talking?”

  Would everyone be able to focus better on their work if I weren’t talking? Y’know, who can say? I guess we’ll never find out, but it’s certainly an interesting question to consider.

  Ms. Torres glides over. Her feet hidden beneath a long flowing dress, she sails toward me like a ship blown by an unseen breeze, the HMS Tranquility. She folds her hands and arches a thin red eyebrow at me. “Mr. Burns. When do you think the ideal time to arrive at art class is?”

  Wow. Tough question. “I mean, I guess . . .”

  She looks at me expectantly, mouth slightly open.

  “. . . the beginning?” I venture.

  She beckons me into the classroom, everything forgiven. “Grab a board, paper, and charcoal from my desk, then find a seat,” she says beatifically.

  We’re allowed to sit wherever we want in art class because rules are for squares, man. I grab my paper and a smudgy stick of black charcoal and scan the room for Jake. I spot him alone in the back left corner, and he’s easy to spot because he’s the only person not busily drawing. He’s dead asleep, slumped against the wall.

  Of course, asleep or not, Jake’s always easy to spot, since he’s the only kid in Upshuck High who dresses like he’s actually in Paris for Fashion Week. Today he’s wearing tight black jeans and a white oxford shirt, untucked but buttoned all the way up to the neck. His sneakers are black leather with gold trim, oddly large, some brand I’ve never seen before.

  I asked Jake one time where he gets all these cool clothes, and he said his sister mails them to him from California. Jake is always talking about his sister—how cool she is, how she’s studying to be an actress—and it kind of bugs me.

  I feel like every time Jake mentions his sister, he’s doing it because he knows I’m lying to him, that I used to have a sister I’m not telling him about. I know I’m being paranoid, but I still can’t shake the guilty feeling.