Invisible (2 page)

Coach has us count off into four groups. Shit! I end up in Brad’s group.

Of course Coach selects Brad as the group leader. This totally sucks. Each group is sent to a different corner of the gym. We have to work on the particular physical fitness requirement, and the group leader then writes down our result. Running is the easiest, and that’s what we do first. We start at our corner and run laps around the perimeter of the gym. We
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have to complete a mile, and we run together as a group. Not hard to blend in. I go unnoticed. We don’t have any fat kids in our group, and everyone pretty much keeps up. You just have to complete a mile, that’s all. Doesn’t matter how long it takes.

I’m out of breath after the run, and I slink off to the corner. I sit on the bleachers, waiting for the whistle which will indicate that time is up and we must move on to the next category. Brad’s writing on his clipboard, checking off the names. “Faggot!” I know he’s talking to me, and I look up. “Get your lazy ass over here and quit slacking! I should make you run again.”

I look at him, bewildered. I try to speak, but there’s a lump in my throat. “Why you think you get to sit your lazy, faggot ass down, while the rest of us are out here participating? Did I say you could take a break?” I look around me. Several of the boys in our group are sitting on the gym floor. We’re exhausted from the run.

“Um…no, I’m sorry,” I say. I know what I sound like. I know he’s gonna mock me. He rolls his eyes and turns away. Invisible again.

The whistle blows and we move to the next event. It’s chaos for a few moments as the entire class changes places in the gym. Sit-ups. Another easy event. I can do a million sit-ups, I swear. We only have to do fifty, though. I get paired with a partner named Steve. He’s all right. He’s never picked on me, but I can tell he’s disappointed that he got stuck with me. Steve’s skinny like me, and we get done with our sit-ups early. Brad comes over and is holding his clipboard. He addresses Steve, ignoring me.

“You guys done?”

“Yeah.” Steve nods.

“You did your fifty?” Again we both nod.

“What about you, fag?” he finally speaks to me. “Did you do em all?” He’s starting to piss me off. Why’s he always got to call me names? I feel my face redden. “I did em,” I reply.

“What?” he says, really loudly. “Speak up, queerboy!”

“Yes! I did them.” My voice is squeaky.

“Do twenty-five more. Now!” I stare up at him, disbelievingly. “You heard me! Do twenty-five more or I’m marking you ‘incomplete’.” I look at Steve. He shrugs, and I know I have no choice. I again assume the position and do my extra sit-ups. It’s so humiliating, I think I might cry. My face is hot, but I don’t say anything. I remember what Daryn said. I gotta man-up. The hour’s half over, then it’ll be done.

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I’m worried about the pull-ups and push-ups. I have no strength in my arms. They’re like twigs, really. I’m pretty sure I can do the push-ups though, but I’m already tired. The extra sit-ups didn’t help. The anxiety over the speech doesn’t help either.

Brad doesn’t even do any push-ups himself. He doesn’t need to. He’s already ready for the physical fitness tests, which is why he was chosen to be a group leader. He walks back and forth, first in front of us, then circling around behind. I’m doing my set, twenty-five total, and I’m on number eight. My arms are starting to shake. I doubt I can do seventeen more, but I press on.

I know he’s behind me. He’s stopped walking. “Count em aloud!” he orders. I think he’s addressing the group, but his remark is directed solely at me. “I said, ‘count em, faggot!’” I stop, my chest pressed against the floor. I feel that same embarrass-ment, and I’m pissed. I push myself with all my strength. “Nine!” I yell.

“Ten…Eleven.”

I feel his foot pressing into my back as he steps on me, forcing me down, “Five!” he yells, resetting my count.

This can’t be happening! My arms are again shaking. As he removes his foot from my back, I continue. “Six…Seven…Eight.” His foot slams into my lower back a second time, again forcing me flat against the floor. “Five!”

I feel the tears, and now I’m visibly trembling. “Please…” I beg.

“What?” he yells. “Speak up, Faggot!” All the others have finished their set. They’re watching me, and I feel the tears streaming down my cheeks. I hear snickering and laughter. I’m mortified, but I can’t stop crying. The whistle blows. “Incomplete!” Brad calls out, checking the box on his clipboard and smirking at me. “You’re such a wuss.” He walks away from me and the group heads over to the final event.

I wipe my face on my tee shirt and head over to the corner which con-tains the pull-up bar. I’m last in line, of course. We have to do five pull-ups, and I’m terrified. I’ve never been able to do even one pull-up, and today is worse than normal. I’m already worn out, and the push-ups made my arms feel like jelly. As I watch the other group members, it seems so easy. A couple of them struggle on the last one or two, but they all complete their sets. Now it’s my turn.

I step into place below the bar. I wait for Brad to grab me by the waist and hoist me up like he’s done with the other guys. Instead he shoves a
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step stool in front of me. Leaning in, as if to whisper in my ear, he speaks real loudly. “I ain’t touchin you, faggot.” Thank God for small favors. I don’t want him to touch me.

I step up on the stool and stretch to reach the bar above my head. As I do so, I notice how quiet the gym is. I glance around me. Everyone’s done with their events, and I’m the last one. I take a deep breath, hoping the whistle will blow and save me. “Hurry up!” Brad orders.

I look to my left and see Trent. He was in another group, but of course they’re done. As I grip the bar, I feel the step stool being removed, and suddenly I’m just dangling there. I look into Trent’s eyes. I gotta do this!

I can’t let him see me fail. How mortifying!

I strain myself and pull against the bar, willing myself to rise. I can do it…just gotta get my chin up over this bar. Oh my God, it’s so hard! I’m trembling, my arms shaking. Please God, Help me! I get halfway up, but it’s no good. I fall back down, desperately clinging to the bar.

Brad bursts into laughter. “Come on, faggot! You can at least do one!” Now Brad’s not the only one laughing.

Trent is right there, standing behind Brad. He’s watching the whole thing, and I wonder what he thinks. He knows Brad is right. He can see what a wimp I am. He can see how much of a fag I am compared to everyone else.

I’m so emotional. The sting of my tears burns my cheeks. “He’s crying!” Brad announces. “He’s a faggot and a crybaby!” My arms give out, and I release the bar, tumbling to the floor.

“Incomplete!” Brad says, and once more I hear the laughter. I look up from my humble position on my knees and see Trent staring down at me. He’s not laughing, but he doesn’t say anything either. He just turns and walks away.

The whistle blows.

I wait for the others to finish their showers before I take one myself.

I’m the last one out, and as I head for the cafeteria, I know I can’t eat. Instead I turn and go down to the bathroom, quickly scurrying into the back stall. I’m going to vomit again. I can feel it, but there is nothing left in my stomach. Dry heaves are the worst. They hurt worse than the sit-ups.

I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself, and sit on the toilet seat.

Why am I crying again? Why do I always have to cry? I look up at the wall, and see the graffiti, and it really is the last straw. There it is—my name—written in bold black permanent marker: CHASE D SUCKS

COCK.

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When did it all start? When did I become this victim? It must be something about me, some characteristic or defect that has made so in-ferior. Bad luck? Poor genes? Daryn isn’t like me though. It’s just weak-ness. The worst thing about it, though, is that most of what Brad says about me is true. I really am a fag. I really am gay, and even though I’ve never come out to anyone but Shelly, they all know.

They all know what I am, and they know I deserve everything I get. Of course they do, or they wouldn’t just stand there watching as Brad humiliates me. They wouldn’t laugh at my expense. Trent wouldn’t just stare at me, standing there like a statue. Certainly he’d say something in my defense…unless he felt the same as Brad. Unless I deserved it.

I know I can’t give my speech now. Brad is right. I’m a weakling. I’m a failure. I’m incomplete. I decide what I’m going to do. I’ll tell Mr. Frye that I’m not ready with my speech. I’ll take an F. It doesn’t really matter.

My grades are good enough that I’ll still pass the class.

I sit there on the toilet seat for the next forty minutes, waiting for the bell. Finally it rings, and I go wash my face and head for speech class.

*********************

Class starts immediately.

“We have a lot of speeches to get through and less than an hour to do it. Let’s get started.” He pulls a lectern over to the center of the room, directly in front of the chalk board. “Who’ll be first?” Brad stands up, without even raising his hand. “I’ll go first, Mr. Frye,” he volunteers, and steps forward, stepping behind the podium.

“Very well, go ahead Mr. Davenport.”

Brad’s speech is on steroid use. Yawn. His delivery, though, is anim-ated. He speaks confidently and with conviction, and Mr. Frye seems im-pressed. So do the students, and they give him a big round of applause.

The next volunteer steps forward, this time a girl named Mindy.

Shelly gives her speech about halfway through class, and she does well. She’s so convincing that I debate committing to Veganism myself.

There are only about four students left, none of them volunteering. Mr.

Frye has to choose someone, and he picks Randall. I heave a sigh of re-lief, praying we run out of time before it’s my turn.

There is fifteen minutes left in class, and only two remaining speeches which haven’t been presented. Trent and I are all that remain.

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“I’ll go next,” Trent offers. I cross my fingers and hope he’s long-winded.

As Trent steps behind the lectern, he looks down at his notes and then out at his audience. He seems nervous, and I think his knees are actually wobbling a bit. I feel for him, empathizing with his anxiety. I’d have never expected him to be the type to fear public speaking though—not Trent!

He takes a deep breath and then slowly lets it out. His sigh is audible, and it feels almost like time has stood still for a few moments. Then he speaks, his voice at first wavering.

“Teen bullying is an epidemic in the United States,” he says. I stare at him wide eyed as he looks up. His gaze locks upon my own. “And it’s got to stop!”

The room is deathly quiet, and I think I hear my own heart beating in my ears. Trent pauses, as if collecting his thoughts, and then he looks down at his notes. Quickly he picks them up and tears them in half, rather dramatically. He tosses them behind himself, and they cascade to floor.

“I have a lot of statistics. I can tell you how many kids have killed themselves in the past two years as a result of bullying. I can tell you how many of them were gay or lesbian. I can tell you which states they are from, and what hate crime laws we have in place in each of these states.

“I can tell you a lot of things about bullying and what it does to a person.” Tears are forming in his eyes as he continues.”But sadly, I can’t tell you that I’ve done my part to make it stop.”

“I’m so sorry,” Trent says, as once again he stares at me. “I’m so sorry that I stood there all those times and said nothing. I’m so terribly sorry…” He reaches up to wipe the tears from his cheeks as I feel the sting of my own tears running down my face. I wonder if he’ll be able to go on; he seems overcome, and the entire room is stunned by the weight of his emotion.

“I witnessed something today…a few minutes ago, actually. Something happened right here in our school, and let me tell you, there are horror movies I’ve seen that were less scary.” He shakes his head and then looks out into the audience, making eye contact with several of his classmates. “You see, there’s this person I’ve admired for a really long time. I have no problem telling you who he is, but I’m afraid that at this point to mention his name may only further add to his humiliation.

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Certainly he’d have every right to be ashamed of me now, because…well, I’m ashamed of myself.

“This person I’m talking about is so smart. He’s the kind of kid who seems to know all the answers… like a genius or something. I don’t get it really. I don’t know how somebody can store all that information in their head, but he does.

“He’s also a really nice guy. I’ve never heard him say a mean word about anyone. When all the rest of us stand around talking smack about one another, he minds his own business. He doesn’t tell cruel jokes. He doesn’t make fun of anyone, and he’s always very helpful.

“I remember one time this person helped me in one of my classes. I guess I was too dumb to understand the material, but he never treated me that way. He saved my butt, really. And I bet he’d do the same for just about anyone in this classroom.” Trent pauses and looks directly at Brad. “Well, almost anyone.

“I’ve been noticing for quite some time that he isn’t treated right here.

I’ve heard a lot of people say mean and nasty things about him, call him names, mimic him mercilessly. They write things about him on the walls in the bathroom. They hurt him so badly that it makes him cry, and then… then they laugh at him for crying.

“I heard a group of guys bragging about how they’d taught him a les-son. They said they flushed his head in the toilet.” Trent continues to stare directly at Brad, who squirms a bit in his seat, in spite of the cocky smirk that remains plastered across his face. “I guess they thought it was funny. I guess they thought he deserved it.

“But I have to ask myself, ‘What’d he ever do? Why does he deserve to be treated like this?’ I think all of us know the answer to this. He’s different. He’s quiet; he’s sensitive. He doesn’t act like a macho jerk. He just doesn’t fit in…and you know what that means. We all know what that means. You have to fit in around here in order to be accepted. God forbid someone could be their own individual. God forbid someone could be unique in any way!”