Leverage (2 page)

No one says anything. No one dares. We all turn back around in our seats. Mr. Klech ignores the outburst and returns to the chalkboard. I forget all about Glory Svenson's hair. I pretend to understand the final problem Mr. Klech puts up on the board. I slouch down in my desk and hope that when Kurt Brodsky gets expelled for slaughtering a couple of underclassmen, it isn't my corpse they'll find hanging in his locker.

S
ometimes, sir, there's just a meanness in this world
. That song lyric says more about most people than anything else I've ever come across. It keeps playing in my head as I stand in the doorway of my new algebra class with no choice but to let every student look at me, look at my dumb-ass shirt. Look at my face. My cheeks grow hot and the scars start to itch, uglifying me even more. Without the cover of a football helmet, the stares fire on me nonstop. And just wait until they hear me speak. A bead of sweat caterpillars along my brow as I hand the note and hall pass over to the teacher, Mr. Klech, putting my back between him and a whole class taking aim from behind their desks.

If Lamar were here he would turn it around: act like being the new guy was all a big joke, point at one of the students in front, or pick the best-looking one, and flip'em the bird. He's as small as they come but I bet he'd step right up to the biggest cat in the room—besides me—and try to pick a fight, establish himself right away. Of course, Lamar'd get himself suspended within the hour, but he'd be dancing all the way out the school door. Without Lamar, I got no voice, no one who understands my eye-rolls. I got no one to show my sketches for that bike shop we'd own together. Without Lamar, I got no one to help me track down Crud Bucket after they release him so we can kidnap him and tie him to a chair in some dark basement and make him explain every single mark he left on us. As always, thinking of Lamar helps at first. Then it hurts.

I tried explaining to Oregrove's school secretary I've already taken algebra, but with each attempt my idiot tongue thickened even more. Her pasted-on smile told me she wasn't really hearing anything the big retard said anyway. She's leafed through my records, read my transcript, heard me speak, and now she's got me all figured out. The wadded-up disco shirt Patti pulled out of a plastic bag and forced me to wear ain't exactly helping my case, either. Being a coach's recruit is supposed to make me special. But someone coming from my situation, sounding like my tongue's juggling ice cubes, makes me a kind of “special” that caused the secretary to address me too slowly and too loudly. Those grades I got at Lincoln High don't mean nothing to her because Lincoln's more a holding cell than a school in her mind. Funny how Lincoln and Oregrove both share the idea of keeping me back a year, two even. All the better to keep me humping that football up and down the field to win them a title.

“That coach of yours said he'd arrange us extra funding to help beef you up,” Patti explains that first day she welcomes me into her home as my latest foster guardian. “You'll get a real good education at Oregrove. Your coach said they'll be able to highlight your skills, most likely get you signed for a full scholarship at a university. I don't have to tell you just how big a gift that is.” Patti's no worse than the last four foster guardians since Crud Bucket, but her face keeps lighting up whenever she mentions—three times that first day—the
extra funds
Oregrove High School's coach promised her.

Walking into the sticky-hot classroom, I got nothing against my new algebra teacher, Mr. Klech, but no way am I sitting up front at his desk while all those eyes zero in on me. So I ignore him. I put my head down, remind myself none of it really matters, that it's all just a game created by adults: filling out forms, standing in line, finding your place, doing as you're told, and—most important—making sure if someone's cracking fists, it's you doing the swinging. Me and Lamar discovered that last one together. All those eyes watching me walk to the back of Mr. Klech's classroom can't touch me. Not like Crud Bucket. Not even close.

N
ot sure what's worse, yet: freshmen assuming I'm one of them or upperclassmen mistaking me for an accelerated supergenius fifth grader—minus the supergenius part. Dad's attempts to reassure me I'll eventually hit puberty always start with a deep sigh or yawn as he's leafing through a medical journal, then end with a distracted promise that I'll soon be a “pimply, awkward, screechyvoiced troll” just like my classmates.

Thanks, Dad.

I guess he's impatient on the subject because he's a doctor. No such thing as someone never hitting puberty, he says. But I'm not so sure. I've seen all his medical books and
American Medical Association
journals documenting super-rare disorders and diseases (like the diagram of this dude with a scrotum that must weigh about fifty pounds and the baby born with a brain outside its skull). I'm willing to bet that somewhere out there is a super-rare disorder where a kid never hits puberty. And someone has to be the victim of that disorder, so why not me?

Someone my size has to be rabbity to survive the school hallways; darting around even the smallest spaces, avoiding hip checks, shoulder jams, and clumsy attempts at wall smearing. The most dangerous time comes immediately after the last bell when dismissal feels a little like a prison riot.

Nikes laced tight for the Dodge & Sprint, I drop off some books at my locker, avoid a not-so-accidental kick as I pass the Hacky Sack circle, and then hurry downstairs to the team locker rooms to get ready for gymnastics practice.

Entering the boys' locker room is sort of like entering a dog kennel with extra butt-crack thrown in for good measure. A toxic fog of sweat-mildew-pee-fart-bleach turns all of us into mouth breathers. Prehistoric sweat accumulates on the floor and walls like old coats of varnish accompanied by the more recent animal stink of too many guys trapped in a windowless gas chamber. Add to this the guys who peel wet gym clothes off still-dripping bodies and stuff them directly into a dark, barely ventilated locker to ferment for a few days before unleashing them on the rest of us. Once weaponized, these T-shirts, jockstraps, socks, and shorts may cause bleeding from the ears, nose, and eyes. They get batted around like dead plague rats until they're either tossed in the garbage, rammed into a clogged toilet, or tied around the face of a small underclassman.

Vital facts: Of the three boys' sports programs in the fall season, football controlls most of the real estate. The varsity football team has its very own smelly locker room but the players enjoy slumming in the general locker room so they can terrorize the rest of us. The general team locker room is reserved for the junior varsity and JJV football teams. There are also two small, one-bench locker rooms off to the sides. The first is reserved for gymnastics. The second is reserved for cross-country runners. Those poor cross-country runners. Being a gymnast in a lair full of football players is rough, but not nearly as bad as what the cross-country runners suffer. Nervous as deer, they change hurriedly before scampering off in hopes of avoiding the alligator eye of a lurking JV football player angry he didn't make the varsity squad. The cross-country runners don't stick together in a pack like the gymnasts do—this is their biggest mistake.

I enter the main locker room just in time to spot a freshman cross-country runner, tiny as me, getting pinballed pretty good between three varsity football players. Distracted by their prey, the three miss me sneaking into the gymnastics team room to change. It's the same three varsity members who have stalked our lockers all week: Scott Miller, the Knights' starting quarterback; Tom Jankowski, his offensive tackle; and Mike Studblatz, a defensive linebacker.

In the gymnasts' locker room, Bruce Nguyen, our captain, sits on the bench, winding tape around his wrist while frowning. Already changed, he wears gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He's a specialist on rings, which takes muscle. Bruce's biceps and shoulders look like someone's stuffed oranges and grapefruits under his skin. He could pose on the cover of one of those bodybuilding magazines, except he's only five foot two. As captain, Bruce normally offers a friendly greeting to all of us, but today he keeps to himself. I nod to the other guys and change fast, embarrassed by my nakedness. None of us can help overhearing what's going on just outside the team room.

“Hey, runt, if you're such a fast runner, how come Studblatz caught you so easy?” It's Scott Miller's voice. “You think a little runt like you should be able to represent our school?”

“Please . . . I'm going to be late for practice,” comes the faltering voice.

“Think I give a crap? Think we care about whether you're late for your little jack-off session with all your pansy-ass teammates?”

“Please . . .”

The clank of metal tells me they just smashed him into the lockers. I know the sound well from personal experience.

“Please . . . let me go . . .” I hear sniffling now and know that sound equally well, know how crappy the bullying feels. But all I can do is be thankful it's him and not me.

“Lookit his skinny little butt in those shorts. Looks like a little girl. Lookit him shake. Tom, yank down his shorts. Yeah. Lookit. The runt thought he had a pubic hair until he pissed out of it. What kinda sport takes a boy without any hair on him?”

“Pl-please . . .” Little cries replace everything else. I make sure the drawstring on my own sweatpants is double-knotted. No one's going to do
that
to me. Bruce is still winding a roll of white athletic tape around his wrists—way more than he needs—to prevent bone splints. We have boxes and boxes of the white tape and a few of the guys use it up like toilet paper.

“Dipshits,” Bruce mutters under his breath. Vance Fisher, Paul Kim, Bill Gradley, Larry Menderson, and I stand around, pretending to get dressed even though we're ready to go. All of us small in our own way.

“What does Coach Brigs feed his goons?” Gradley asks under his breath.

“Something you need a prescription for,” Fisher answers.

“Come on, guys,” Bruce says, and we follow him. We might be small, but we are a pack, and packs are a safe bet. We turn out of the room in time to find Tom Jankowski pushing the cross-country runner belly-down on the pine bench and Mike Studblatz yanking his shorts and jock-strap down past his knees. Scott Miller's snickering. The kid's face, turned sideways on the bench, is bright red. He sees us and he's not hoping for help. He's expecting us to join in the laughter and humiliation. That's how it works.

Bruce slows. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks the three varsity football players. That he says anything startles me and makes me proud of my captain all at once.

“Why do you care, pussy?” Tom Jankowski asks, daring Bruce to admit he actually cares. Caring is for the weak. Bruce shrugs his shoulders.

“I don't. But it's weird you like to pull down boys' pants,” Bruce answers. “Maybe Chrissy would find that interesting, Scott. It would be a shame if the homecoming couple broke up because the quarterback likes feeling up freshman boys.”

Scott's eyes narrow and so do Jankowski's. But they let the kid go. The boy tugs up his pants without saying anything and bolts out of the locker room.

“You faggots try spreading lies about this to anyone and you're all dead. You understand, Chink Kong?”

Bruce is Vietnamese-American, so Scott thinks his joke is really,
really
hysterical. Paul Kim is Korean-American, so I'm guessing both he and Bruce are laughing hard on the inside.

“Yeah, chink-faggot!” Jankowski echos like a toilet bowl fart. “Mind your own business.”

“
I'm
the faggot?” Bruce asks, ignoring the chink part. His voice isn't so calm anymore and his face starts turning red. “Last I checked, it was you three playing grab-ass in the locker room.” This gets Vance Fisher, our team's clown, laughing. Bruce is getting into dangerous territory. Jankowski and Studblatz are huge, but worse than that, they are just plain mean. And Scott, their leader, is cruel. You hear it in his laugh and what he finds funny—basically things involving torture. Jankowski and Studblatz step over to Bruce. We monkeys circle around the three gorillas, keeping our distance but not retreating. Larry Menderson sidles down the hallway toward the gymnasium, ready to run and call the rest of our team for help.

“Don't talk again,” Jankowski growls. “You understand?” He pokes a heavy finger into Bruce's chest. As strong as our captain is, he looks puny compared to the overstuffed lineman, but as Bruce stretches his flushed neck to try to meet Jankowski's face eye-to-eye I can tell he is way past logic. If Tom pokes Bruce's chest again, it'll be like pressing a detonate button. I cringe as Tom pulls back his finger just enough to poke Bruce one more time in T minus three ... two ... one ...

Click-click-click
...

The sound of approaching football cleats on cement pauses doomsday. The man-giant, Kurt Brodsky, in a varsity Knights' football uniform—shoulder pads spanning across him like vulture wings—turns the corner and fills all remaining space and light. This time his eyes do not search the floor, but land like concrete blocks on every single one of us. His scars look wicked cool. He seems capable of anything.

“Suh-suh-Scott,” he says, addressing Miller, somehow knowing he's the leader. “Cuh-cuh-cuh-Coach sent me to fuh-fuh-fuh-find you. Ta-ta-ta-told me to introduce muh-muh-muh-myself after delivering his muh-muh-muh-message.”

Kurt Brodsky, either because of, or in spite of, his stuttering, has everyone's full attention. Miller, Jankowski, and Studblatz, faces full of confusion, blink dully and nod in unison for him to continue. Actually, we might all be doing that.