by Fred Aceves
For my first real set I put a small plate on each side.
I lie back on the bench and slide under the bar. Grip it a bit more than shoulder width apart, like Van Nelson did in his video. I’m going for one rep less than exhaustion.
I lower the weight to my chest and push it out, careful to keep the bar even with every lift. After some struggle with the ninth rep, I rack the weight.
There’s a tightness in my chest that I sort of love. It burns, as if the muscle growth has already begun. The clock ticks off the seconds. In sixty I go again.
“That ain’t heavy!” Alpha shouts.
For a moment I think he means my bar, but he’s shouting at the huge guy squatting in front of him. “One more rep, Tower, you pussy!”
The drill sergeant motivation is working. The squatter’s—Tower’s—face twists angrier as he stands up again, letting out a monster grunt. He’s definitely going extra heavy, maybe even maxing out.
“Hell yeah!” Alpha helps him rack the bar. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
Tower, wincing and breathing heavy, says nothing back. He picks up the small bucket by his water bottle and lifts it to his face.
Is this really happening? I tell myself no way, but a second later he quivers, so the answer is clearly yes. I hear the gag over the music, which can only mean vomit. He spits three times into the bucket before setting it back down.
When he glances over his shoulder in my direction, I turn my eyes to the clock. Not smoothly at all. I damn near gave myself whiplash.
I consider what just went down. A guy at this gym, my gym, lifts so hardcore it makes him sick. I like it. How cool to be among such dedication.
“Insanity,” a voice says behind me.
The middleweight boxer guy slides a large plate on one side of the bar.
“Yeah, these guys are freaks,” I say.
After we do our respective sets, he introduces himself and I do the same.
It turns out Rogelio is a real estate agent with two kids.
He asks, “Are you in high school?”
“Yeah, one more year left.”
“Nice.” He searches for another plate. I guess his previous set was a warm-up. “If they have a gym there, that’s probably where you should work out when school begins.”
“Throw some wheels on that bar!” Alpha shouts from across the room.
“On it!” Rogelio shouts back, and smiles.
I may hit the school weight room when classes begin. Who knows? It would save me time and money, though I also may be bulked up enough by then.
Rogelio slides a plate on the other side to even out the bar. Two large plates and two medium-sized ones against my two tiny ones. I wanna disappear.
“Why would the school weight room be better?” I ask him.
Across the gym, Tower starts another set while Alpha barks encouragement.
Rogelio smiles and says, “Let’s just say there’s a lot going on in this gym that has nothing to do with fitness or being healthy. I only come here because I live down the street.”
I nod. He’s nice and seems worried that I’m impressionable. As if I’d ever do drugs. I’ve never even taken a puff of tobacco or weed.
“Four hundred and five pounds ain’t shit!” Alpha shouts at Tower, who’s doing deadlifts. “More reps! Let’s go!”
Tower lifts the bar back up from the floor, straightening out one last time, and lets loose a wild sound in the gym, something between beast and machine. A chill runs through me.
Right away he reaches down for his bucket.
I turn to Rogelio, who’s already shaking his head in disgust.
An hour and a half later I’m totally wrecked. My weekly trail run with Karina has nothing on this. I feel the throb of the post-workout pump. That’s the warm blood swelling around my worked-out muscles. My chest and triceps burn with a sweet intensity. I’ve never been more aware of my body in general. How muscles cover all my bones, stretching from joint to joint. How you can actually make them bigger by lifting weights and setting them back down, again and again, and eating right.
Vomit-bucket Tower, chest-pounding Superman, and Rogelio have left. Fine for them, but I’m gonna start on the workout meant for tomorrow. Double the effort might double my results. I could gain even more than twenty-five pounds of muscle this summer.
Alpha, one of the greatest bodybuilders on the planet, wouldn’t give up after twenty-eight sets.
But when he notices me about to sit down at the lat pulldown machine, that’s what he tells me to do.
“You’re done, Little Man. Don’t add back to your chest and triceps day.”
Little? At least he called me a man.
“I have some energy left,” I say, hoping to impress him with my determination.
“You’re going to burn out. You can’t hit too much in one workout, because muscles need days to fully recover. If you work chest and back and legs today, what muscle group will you work tomorrow, or the day after?”
Good point. I thank him.
“I love your determination though.” Alpha puts out his fist for me to bump. “Now it’s time to go feed your muscles and get rested so you can do it again tomorrow.”
I take a superlong drink from the fountain, overwhelmed with pride and joy.
Then I put the hood over my cap and step into the midday heat outside, hoping nobody spots me while I bike back to the safety of home.
6
Eighty-one days until school begins
FIVE DAYS into my twelve-week transformation I’m a walking, talking bruise. Every muscle is in some stage of soreness. That’s how I like it, because that’s how muscles grow. After you destroy them with resistance training, they repair themselves and get bigger.
Destroy and build. Destroy and build. The aches I feel, even if I’m just getting outta bed or scratching the back of my neck, are a constant reminder that I’m putting in the work.
Today sucks, though. It’s a rest day, which means zero gym time—a day off so my entire body can fully recover. Tomorrow I go full force, starting with the chest and tris workout again. Tomorrow seems so far away.
I’m hoping Dad needs lots of help at the shop today so I can keep busy. He’s called midafternoon every day this week for my help, but the work was done within two hours.
Though I don’t wanna be out in public, I need money badly. Who knew trips to the supermarket, and whey protein for shakes and two important supplements would cost so much?
I’ll have to wait even longer for my used car. That sucks, but I remind myself what matters.
Karina calls. “Guess where I am,” she says. “Guess who with.”
I don’t have to guess. Miguel called earlier, trying to get me to go to the movie we talked about seeing last week. I keep telling him we’ll hang, but that hasn’t happened yet. Karina has only come over once since this whole mess started. She ate chicken and brown rice with me, because she likes to eat healthy anyway, while my dad and Gaby ate enchiladas. The whole time I felt shame, looking at Karina. Because she’d seen the video.
She’s keeping plenty busy these days. A sleepover at Janelle’s, a trip to Clearwater beach, another one to the Dalí museum in St. Pete. Plus working part-time at the retirement home with her mom, just like she did last summer.
“Is everybody there?” I ask.
“Janelle, Liliana, Miguel, and Enzo. I’m the only one without a date. Miguel says he hasn’t seen you at all, so I’m not taking it personal.”
“Come over tomorrow if you want. It’s not so bad hanging out here at home, is it?”
“I worry about you,” she says. “Stuck at home doing nothing.”
“Doing plenty, actually. There is something called the internet, with lots of articles to read and videos to watch. Don’t worry about me.”
The articles and videos are all about bodybuilding. Plus every 2.5 hours there’s a meal, which I have in front of the computer screen while a weightlifting YouTuber talks about an aspect
of my new lifestyle. This nineteen-year-old guy who goes by Natural Nathan is my favorite.
I’m so not bored, so busy with this new world, that I haven’t hung out much with Gaby either. When I leave my bedroom for more food, she comes to the kitchen to talk while I heat up a container of my prepped meals. This morning she asked to go with Dad to work because it’s “too boring at home now.”
“I got my mom’s car today,” Karina says. “I can come pick you up real quick and we won’t even miss the trailers. Come on, David. That video is old news.”
“Not true. I took your advice and didn’t search for it since the weekend, but yesterday . . .”
I was weak. I couldn’t help it. I explain that YouTube took the original slap video down but two other people, at least, uploaded it. Exactly what I knew would happen.
What surprised me was the video entitled Bitchslap David Remix.
“Have you seen that one?” I ask her.
“I’m not going to watch it, and you shouldn’t be watching that crap either.”
“In that video, Ricky slaps me across my face to a Kanye West beat, over and over again for almost three minutes. I used to love that song.”
“You can still love the song if you want.”
I swear, sometimes her optimism crosses into crazy.
“Karina, that’s not the point. Just come over tomorrow, okay?”
We hang up.
Two hours later my phone alarm beeps. Time to eat again. I press pause on Natural Nathan.
In the kitchen I heat a container of chicken breast, broccoli, and brown rice. I have three of those left in the fridge, about eight more meals in total. I cooked a few different things in bulk the other day.
Some meals it’s tuna instead of chicken, sweet potato instead of brown rice, spinach instead of broccoli. But lean steak, quinoa, and asparagus are too expensive.
It’s all about packing on muscle, which I assume is happening. I see no difference in the mirror—yet. They say a watched pot never boils. Well, apparently a watched physique never grows.
The microwave beeps. I take out my fourth meal of the day, at 2:31, and take my meal back to my room, happy to have the quiet house to myself.
I chew the food quickly, wishing the video could completely distract me from the blandness in my mouth. Eating has become a chore.
When I’m close to the final bite, my phone rings again. Dad’s calling.
I swallow and answer. “Hello?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Boring, please.” It’s Gaby, the comedian.
I laugh. The truth though? It sort of hurts. Before my life became all about gains my sister thought I was the coolest person in the world.
If only she could understand that it’s not normal for a high school senior to spend so much time with an eight-year-old. Besides, I’m becoming a better version of myself. I don’t really have time for silly games and other kid stuff.
“This is Mr. Boring,” I say, playing along. “How can I help you?”
“Dad needs you.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Espinoza Auto Repair is on Bautista Street, across from a furniture factory and next to a run-down sandwich shop. We’re small but impossible to miss. Used tires on a tall rack are displayed in front of the passing traffic, and a large banner advertises 25 percent off oil changes.
Dad and I even put up the long streamers from the shop to the tall street sign, the triangles in red, white, and blue. Dad says immigrants are the true patriots. “You want to know what makes this country great, ask an immigrant,” he likes to say. “Not those ignorant racists who wave the flag like it’s a symbol of hate.”
Rather than put up a flag, he thought the American colors streaming over the lot would be a nice touch. It definitely draws attention.
I roll up on my bike hoping Dad takes care of the tire repair and replacement work if it comes in. I normally prefer the easy tire work, love that customers often slip me a dollar or two as a tip. But now that I’m world-famous Bitchslap, I’d rather stay in the back.
Dad won’t let me wear my hoodie—says it’s tonterías—so I take it off before I roll my bike inside. Sweat streaks down underneath my moist T-shirt.
“Hi, Dad.”
He’s lying on a creeper under a Kia. One day we’ll have one of those professional hydraulic lifts that raises the car over your head. Un día, he always says. But with business so slow he sometimes waits with nothing to do. We’re barely scraping by. Months ago he still had a full-time employee helping him out.
“Your sister has been bored all day.” His voice comes out muffled from under all that metal.
I leave my bike along the back wall, about ten feet from where Gaby is playing with off-brand Barbies on the patch of grass.
“Hi, Gaby.”
She barely lifts a hand to wave a wild-haired doll at me.
“The Ford truck has a leaky radiator,” Dad calls out.
At work he speaks in orders. It’s never please, and rarely thank you.
“On it,” I say.
I’m uncapping the radiator when I hear a car pulling up outside. I turn. It’s a small, newish two-door Chevy, no troubling noises coming from the engine.
“Tire work, Dad,” I say. “Do you mind? I don’t want to be out there.”
“Tonterías,” he says. “Nobody is going to recognize you.”
Dammit. I head out into the bright afternoon again. Enzo hops outta the driver’s side, and Miguel outta the other side. Double dammit.
I feel a tingling of shame in my stomach. This is why I don’t wanna see people, even friends, until I become the new me. How can they look at me without remembering that video?
Though I see the Chevy has a small spare on in the front, I ask, “What are you guys doing here?”
“Flat tire. It’s in the back,” Enzo says, and goes to open it.
I talk to Miguel quickly, and in a low voice. “I told you I don’t wanna see anybody until my transformation is complete. There are other places to fix a flat.”
“I thought you’d appreciate the word-of-mouth advertising,” he whispers back, one eye on Enzo, who pulls out the wheel from the trunk.
Then Miguel’s voice goes sunny and loud. “You’re welcome! You know I’m always glad to bring you a new customer.”
I take the front wheel from Enzo, feeling an ache in my biceps and shoulders.
“We just saw The Ovato Mission,” Enzo says. “You totally missed out.”
Miguel agrees that it was awesome.
They say nothing else, eyes watching me. Am I supposed to be sorry I missed it? I made plans with them to see it before my life got destroyed.
“Cool,” I say.
In that silence, all I imagine them thinking is, Poor Bitchslap.
To locate the puncture, I start with a simple visual inspection. Ever so slowly, I turn the tire in the sun. A dot of dull metal is stuck in the black rubber. I pull it out with the nose pliers—it’s a broken, half-rusty nail.
“I leave for the DR this weekend,” Miguel reminds me. “If you’re busy the next few days, we’ll have to hang out in six weeks when I get back.”
“We should all go to Universal Studios then,” Enzo tells me, “or you and I can hang out before, if you’re around.”
“Maybe,” I lie.
I jam a rubber plug into the puncture with a twist of the tool. Once I fill the tire with air I carry it back to the car, wondering if it feels lighter than a thirteen-inch wheel normally does. Can’t tell. Tomorrow I’ll test my new strength at the gym and confirm, without a doubt, that all my hard work is paying off.
After I swap out the spare for the fixed wheel I bring down the car with a twist of the hydraulic carjack handle.
I take my cap off to wipe the sweat from my forehead and face.
“Oh my God!” Miguel says.
“You buzzed your hair off,” Enzo says.
I’d forgotten about my head. “Does it look weird?” I ask them.
“Thanks.”
He studies me close and then steps back to take me all in again. “How is it possible that your head looks bigger when you chop off your hair?”
“I’ll be growing into my head this summer.”
When Enzo pulls out his wallet, I tell him there’s no charge for friends.
Dad does the same. What’s a tiny piece of rubber thread and a few minutes of labor?
“Hey, Bitchslap!” a voice calls out.
I stiffen. This is exactly why I don’t wanna be outside. My two friends turn to the street.
A blue Honda Accord is slowing down. The open windows reveal three just-graduated seniors with nothing better to do. The car keeps cruising, emitting wild laughter.
Come back at the end of the summer, I think to myself, and I’ll kick all your asses.
That thought helps keeps my anger down inside. Also knowing that the shout was loud enough to reach Dad.
Now I shout to him in Spanish. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes!” he shouts back.
Good. Maybe he’ll stop thinking the tragedy is all in my head.
“Thanks a lot for the hookup,” Enzo says. “See you soon, I hope.”
“Sure thing,” I say.
I’ll see him in the lunchroom on the first day of school, when I’m no longer the stick he talked to at the party or the bitchslapped kid on the video.
“Six weeks without you.” Miguel opens his arms wide. “Bring it in.”
My best friend’s idea of fun is making things awkward. Most times it’s funny.
“We don’t gotta hug,” I tell him. “Don’t be weird.”
“We’ve been friends since fifth grade. It would be weird not to hug.”
Maybe he’s right. His whole family is huggy, the men too. My dad became more huggy when Mom died, but I’m not used to touching guys with my whole body that way.
Miguel keeps his arms splayed all ta-da, like he just pulled off a magic trick. “You’re leaving me hanging.”