The sound of gym lockers slamming is punctuated by a groan followed by laughter. A cloud of guys’ voices and the rustle of movement comes from the next aisle over.
Richie Corner (of the nice ass) and a few of his pals stand in a half circle around Matt. He’s pressed face-first up against the lockers with his arms twisted up behind him.
At least, that’s what I thought I saw. I blink in surprise, rounding the corner, and suddenly the guys are all looking at me, and Matt is shaking out his arms and saying “Oh, hi.”
“Catch you later, rimmer.” Richie shoves Matt’s shoulder and surges past him. His cronies follow suit.
“What are you doing in here?” Matt says when they’re gone. “You’re supposed to meet me out front.”
“Gym clothes. Need to wash them.” I eke out the few words I can manage, holding up my little bag. “What’s going on? Why is your lip cut?” I ask him.
He touches the sore spot with his thumb. “I’m okay,” he says. “Now that you’re here.” He comes closer. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Wait.” I reach for his arm, but he pulls away.
“Not here. Just forget it, okay?” He’s angry.
“Did they hurt you?”
Matt shrugs. “They like goofing around.”
“It looked—”
“Those frigging jackholes,” he says. “What do you want me to say?”
“Have you reported them?” The school has posters about the anti-bullying policy everywhere.
“This isn’t an after-school special,” he snaps. “Lay off me, all right?”
His tone is firm enough that I do. Whatever’s happening between us, I don’t want to blow it by being too much of a nerd. He sweeps out of the locker room, marching toward the exit doors at a fast clip. I have to kick into high gear to keep up.
“Yeah, sure. Sorry.”
Matt might want to pretend like it didn’t happen, but it’s not that easy to forget what I saw. Or, what I think I saw. The cut on his lip is real even if my perception of the situation is flawed.
We burst out the front doors into the parking lot. Matt throws his arms out to the sides like Tim Robbins at the end of Shawshank. Finally free. He grins at me, carefree demeanor restored, as if the last five minutes were nothing but a brief glitch in the software.
“Turn that frown upside down, Sanders,” he says. “The afternoon is ours.”
He’s beaming like a small child and spinning like a top, his backpack dangling from an elbow. I can’t help but laugh at the picture he makes. “Where to, maestro?”
“Right now, what I want is to introduce you to the greatest sport known to teenage kind.”