Chapter 5

blint’s basically given us the class to do whatever the hell we want, under the guise of working on our projects. We’re all at our own computer stations doing bullshit. I pull up one of the blogs I like and catch up.

“Hey, Dun?”

I ignore the voice.

“Greg, hey?”

Same.

“Greg. I like that site, too.”

Now I’m at attention. I turn, and behind me Ella’s swiveled in her seat. “You read this one?”

“Yeah. That dude’s great. He tears apart all the movies that are so popular.”

“I know, he’s awesome.”

Ella smiles and I realize what’s happening, I’m talking to a girl. Shit, the sweat starts. She types an address on her computer. My next favorite blog pops onto the screen.

“His best was when he tore apart Super 8,” I say.

Ella’s jaw drops. She types another address.

“She’s good, too, but gets a bit redundant.”

“Totally. Huh? What about this one?”

I can already tell where she’s headed so I finish the address.

Ella stops typing and turns fully around toward me. “Greg, how the hell do you know all this? I thought I was the only one.”

“We might be the only two, then.”

She laughs and I laugh and I am sweating worse than I did in PE.

“Are you on Twitter?”

I look over, check to see if anyone is listening to us. Blint’s on his own computer, doing whatever. Everyone else is talking or checking Facebook.

“I am, but just to follow this stuff. No one here.”

“Why would you follow anyone here?”

I wait for the joke but she’s serious. “I don’t know. People do, though.”

“Who do you follow? Let me just look. What’s your username?”

I hesitate. If she finds me, she can read my tweets. She’ll see that I’m trying to lose weight. She could share that with the assholes at this school in a second.

“I’m Ellafaint,” she says.

I laugh. It’s a good username. She smiles and I feel in a way like I did with Oliver. There’s something honest here. “Gregalicious.”

Her mouth curls up and my heart slams even harder than before. I wait for the laughter, but she just nods, “You’re rocking some confidence over there, Greg. Nice.” She finds me on Twitter and begins perusing my “following” list. I breathe again.

“Seriously, we follow like all the same people. This is cool. You’ve got some here I’ve never heard of.” She scans my tweets and I feel the blush rising. But she just reads and laughs over an article title I sent out, mumbling it, “‘Why your films suck.’”

I do the same as Ella and check her lists. She wasn’t lying, not a single person on here from school. I return to her profile and click follow. Then my heart seizes. What did I just do? I go to click unfollow as fast as my sweaty hands will allow.

“Hey, did you just follow me?”

“Uh, yeah.” My voice sounds like I’m in sixth grade.

“Cool. I’m doing the same.”

And just like that, we’re connected.

• • •

Out in the hall, Ella takes off without a good-bye, but I don’t blame her. Taleana and her crew are chatting away and Alva rolls up. I grab my phone and start recording while pretending to look at the outline for my portfolio.

Taleana and Alva nuzzle each other and smile and look like the happiest people in the world. Then Alva sees me.

“Dun the Ton, what’s up, fucker? Your weight, I bet.” I just give a little wave like he’s so damn funny.

“You ever want to seriously drop that flab, let me know. Working out with Quinn is useless. But I’ll burn it off you.”

I have an image of him and the rest of his minions actually lighting me on fire. It’s not that insane of an idea. “All right. Thanks.” I pack up my shit and am about to take off when Taleana pipes up.

“Hold up. Hold the fuck up. Is Dun really working out?” She asks as if I’m not standing five feet away. “Please tell that stupid little Ella to record you for her project. Hilarious. Plus, you might pass out and fall on her. Probably kill her on impact. That would so make my day.”

I try to stop myself, I really do, but the words are out before I can hit pause. “If you want someone killed, I’m sure Alva will do it for you. That’s pretty much all the bros are good for.” Her face is flushing red, but that doesn’t deter me. “Or just show up without makeup one day. We all remember how you really look under all that, but the shock of actually seeing it . . .”

The slap knocks the words out of my mouth and turns my head sideways. At least I don’t drop my phone or stop recording.

“You say another word to me and I’ll rip off your fat, fucking face. You hear me, Dun? You listening?”

The hall is quiet, everyone’s watching, and I’m the entertainment. But I can keep my composure. For now. “Loud and clear,” I say and move on.

• • •

Since it’s Friday I don’t have to wait around in the computer lab. No, after getting smacked twice today, I get to head straight down to the weight room and get abused by Quinn. We really do have a screwed-up relationship.

The lax bros are already hooting and hollering when I arrive. Quinn’s bent over, holding his stomach and staring at his log.

“You all right?” I ask.

“Yeah, of course. Just trashed my abs yesterday.”

I wonder just what it would take to “trash” Quinn’s abs. Mine, like two sit-ups. He’s got the washboard look going on, so he must have done something insane. I start changing.

“You hear that shit?” Q asks. “Sounds like they’re ramping up for something big.”

“I heard Gilbey in PE today talking with one of the bros. Bet you’re right.”

“You find those freshmen? The ones from the hall.”

Q shakes his head. “Hey, is there any way you could rig your phone so that we could, you know, film on the sly? That way we don’t miss anything and I can still whoop your ass. Kind of protects us, too.”

I think about it for a moment. “Yeah, we could. It’d be as tricky as hell to get the right angle, and it’d kill my battery, but I get your point.”

Quinn looks at the gym door. “Yeah, muthafuckas!” blasts through.

“Shit, even if it’s just audio, I think we’d be all right.”

I grab my phone. “You tell me what we’re doing and we’ll sneak it in there.”

Quinn smiles. “If I tell you, you might just go to Alva and beg to be tortured.”

I open the door off the closet and we make our way beneath the bleachers. The bros are running laps, already sweating. Alva and Gilbey stand in the center as the team gallops past. I watch for a second, looking for the kid with the broken rib. All the young guys seem the same, though. The air is saturated with exertion and something else. It’s not quite excitement but it’s not downright fear. It’s something in between.

I settle my phone in the foot well of the bleacher closest to me, angle it out, and turn it on. Here’s hoping.

We return to the locker room and Quinn asks. “We good?”

“I hope so. There’s good lighting.”

“All right, let’s get to it.”

I put up a hand. “You’re supposed to tell me first.”

“Shit, right. Okay, but no freaking out on me now. Got it?”

I nod.

“All body-weight exercises, but for twenty minutes straight, no rest.”

I swallow and remain stone-faced but can feel my heart already banging against my chest.

“It’s a circuit, three stations, repeated as many times.”

“What are they?” I manage to rasp.

“Five push-ups, ten bent-over rows, fifteen step-ups onto the plyo box.”

He can’t be serious. I can barely string together five push-ups as is. Same with rows. Step-ups make me feel like I’m about to fall off a wall. This blows.

“Don’t worry,” Q continues, “I’ve got a puke bucket.” He, indeed, points to a construction bucket in the corner.

Who the hell knows where that came from, but at this point it’s the least of my concerns. I look down and can’t see my feet. I think of Oliver and how he’s just given up. I refuse to walk that line anymore. “All right, let’s go.”

“Now we’re talking,” Quinn growls, and for the briefest moment I feel like one of the bros. That bucket may come in handy.

• • •

I’m lying on the floor in a pool of my own sweat. I can glide around on it. Which I am, as I try to catch my breath and will away the pain. I can’t tell which part of me hurts more. By the end, the push-ups were singles from my knees, the rows, spotted by two benches, and the step-ups completed inside the squat rack for hand support. But I finished, with something like nine rounds.

“Damn that was good shit, Greg. Awesome work. You sure you don’t need this?” He offers the bucket and I wave it away.

I roll over and sit up, squeezing my knees to my chest with my arms. But I can’t hold that for long because I can barely breathe and my arms are noodles. “Where do you come up with this shit?”

“The workouts?”

“Yeah.” I let go of one arm and now look like one of those Renaissance paintings with the fat ladies waiting to be fed.

“My dad. I just use his plans for one of his really overweight clients.”

This comment negates the good feelings I had about myself. It’s true, I feel really good about myself after these workouts, like I’m achieving. Then Q hits me with shit like that.

“That’s right, it’s time to play the pain game! Line up!”

Alva’s voice comes through the doors. I don’t know how he isn’t hoarse all of the time.

Quinn offers a hand. “Come on.”

I don’t know how he gets me on my feet or how I manage to stay standing, but we make our way to the closet door and sneak in. The bros are all paired up. The younger kids stand with their hands behind them like they’re handcuffed and the others wait with sticks loaded with balls.

I search for my phone, but I’ve dimmed the screen so much it blends in. I fumble around with my useless arms and make noise. All heads turn in our direction. Quinn grabs me and pulls me under the bleachers. We hold our breath as they all listen.

“Ha!” Alva laughs. “Even the rats are coming out to see if you’re man enough to play for this team.”

I wait for more, to see if he calls out to either of us, but he must be so confident because of the locked door.

“You will repeat our mantra while you and your partner play for points. Five for the chest, stomach, or legs. Ten for the nuts.”

I find my phone and zoom in. Alva smiles like the Cheshire Cat and just as quickly the grin leaves his face.

“If you can keep speaking throughout the hits, you get the points. If not, they go to your partner. Gilbey and I will keep score. Losers get one last shot, close range.”

Alva and Gilbey pick up whiteboards and markers and move to separate ends of the line. “Flanagan, you get double duty since what’s-his-fuck isn’t here. Hey, where is that bitch, Mayston?”

No one answers and I close a low battery warning. There’s plenty left.

Alva paces the middle of the rows. “If no one tells me, this game is off, and the one we play will be far worse. Fuckwads,” he says to the underclassmen, “you’ll have no chance of winning.”

“He’s at the doctor’s,” a timid voice speaks up.

“Who said that?”

The upperclassman paired with the kid points at him. Alva moves.

“What do you mean he’s at the doctor’s? What for?”

The kid’s voice is inaudible, but Alva repeats his answer. “A broken rib?”

Shit, that’s the kid from the water fountain. I nudge Quinn.

Alva turns away and the kid he was speaking to looks relieved. “I’m only going to say this once. There is a difference between being hurt and being injured. If you are injured, you’ve broken or torn something. You need surgery. Everything else is just hurt! You play with pain! In fact, that is the entire point of this game. Balls up.” Alva points at the upperclassman in front of the kid who spoke. His stick is held high. “Recite.” Alva points to the kid, who stares for a second, but must see what I do, the vein growing across Alva’s temple.

“Our allegiance is to the Warriors, our bodies are weapons, ready for sacrifice. We will . . .”

The ball flies and catches the kid in the stomach. He stops speaking and sucks air.

“Five points for Tim.” Alva makes a mark on his whiteboard and the kid attempts to stand tall. The upperclassman retrieves his ball and the next pair gets ready.

I’ve been verbally tormented forever, but I’ve never experienced this. Quinn’s torture doesn’t count, because it’s good for me. This, this is just bullshit. Pain for the sake of pain. Maybe I don’t know because I never played sports, but I understand right from wrong and exactly on which side this lies.

The game continues with only one underclassman able to continue speaking. The pairs repeat two more times with kids taking shots to the nuts and crumpling to the ground, Alva and Gilbey laughing and high-fiving the upperclassmen. But still, this one underclassman, in spite of a nut shot, keeps going. He wins and Alva decides to leave his winning shot for last. The upperclassman just laughs it off and the rest take their swings into the already messed-up underclassmen.

The room is silent except for the moaning and coughing of the underclassmen still trying to recover. And soon even that ends, I think because these kids want to see one of their own exact revenge.

The kid, Kyle, gets his stick while his partner is relieved of his. Gilbey takes it and his smile is disturbing, like he’s about to watch porn.

“Got to hand it to you, Kyle,” Alva says. “You seem to be one tough motherfucker.”

There’s hatred in Kyle’s eyes but a smile on his lips. I don’t understand the contradiction.

“Patrick here is one of our stars,” Alva continues and the team stares at the upperclassman. “Well, used to be, at least.” Patrick’s face darkens but Alva ignores him. “However, I need to check something first.” In a flash, Alva’s fist rockets into Kyle’s crotch. Kyle doesn’t flinch, but Alva comes away shaking his hand.

“That’s what I thought! That’s what I fucking thought, you little piece of shit freshman. Even though I said no cups, you kept yours on. You little douche. You thought you could get away with this shit. Fuck you! That’s not how this game is played. Take it off.”

Kyle’s eyes are enormous and I feel an overwhelming urge to go save him. Out of the corner of my eye I see Quinn as twitchy as some kid tweaking. I grab his arm and he pulls away. He can’t mess with this shit. Not yet. I need just a little more, just enough on film. The low battery warning pops up again. Get on with it, Alva.

Shit, that’s an awful thought.

Kyle stands still, breathes deep, and doesn’t touch his waistband or in any way make a move to remove his cup. Alva nods to Gilbey, who moves behind Kyle. “I’m going to count to three and then we’re taking it off, whether you like it or not.”

As the countdown begins, Kyle tightens his jaw and he shakes his head. The underclassmen are all standing now, bodies taut, thoroughly afraid. The upperclassmen are tense, a few pace. Some murmur to Kyle, “Just take it off,” but the kid just stands there, either stupid or brave.

“Three.” And like that Gilbey has Kyle in a full nelson. Kyle resists but it’s useless. Gilbey’s arms look like the harness on a roller coaster around Kyle’s shoulders. Alva snaps his fingers and two upperclassmen move to Kyle’s side. They grab his shorts and pull down, his white jock and cup now on full display. Q growls.

“Now be a good boy and don’t kick or this will just get worse.”

The two upperclassmen grab the waistband of Kyle’s jock and begin to pull. Kyle hunches down and bucks against Gilbey, striking out wildly with his feet. He catches one of the goons in the face.

“Fuck, my eye.” The kid grabs his face and moves away.

Alva watches him and then his back flares. He charges and the punch is fast and blood sprays. Kyle screams and Alva steps away. “Why didn’t you listen to me? I don’t fucking make idle threats. I told you this would get worse and now you’ve got a busted nose.”

Kyle gasps for breath against Gilbey, whose face is now spattered in blood.

“Make another move—kick, headbutt, anything—and you won’t be able to walk out of here. Understand?”

Kyle just keeps gasping.

“Understand?”

The slightest nod. Gilbey looks up and it’s like seeing a demon. I watch through the safety of the lens and feel my legs go soft.

Alva points to another upperclassman, who steps in to help finish the job. They tear off Kyle’s jock and leave him exposed in his compression shorts.

Alva steps to Kyle and cups one hand under the kid’s junk. The battery warning flashes again. I can’t have much time left. Come on. Shit, I’m sorry, Kyle.

“This is for not listening.” Alva cocks back his arm. Gilbey smiles. The bros all stand silent. Q bites his hand, and I hold down a scream.

“Alva, what’s going on here?” Callaghan walks in.

My phone dies.

“Mr. Callaghan?” Alva puts his arm down, but Gilbey keeps Kyle locked up. “We were just finishing up.” Alva sounds like he’s a parent talking to a child, trying to stay calm and not lose his shit in front of everyone.

Callaghan steps in front of Kyle and looks at Gilbey. He waves his hand and Gilbey releases Kyle. Kyle staggers forward, his nose still dripping.

“What happened?” Callaghan asks, but it’s impossible to tell who he’s speaking to.

Alva answers. “Kyle, here, fell on his face during a drill. Seems like he broke his nose. Gilbey was trying to keep him upright.”

Callaghan looks down at Kyle’s feet.

“Why are his shorts around his ankles? Pull those up, son,” he says to Kyle, who obliges.

“We were, uh, going to use them to stop the bleeding. You know, as a rag. He’d already bled on them, so . . .” Alva doesn’t finish. The younger bros now move back and forth, shifting weight from foot to foot. The upperclassmen stay still.

Callaghan surveys the room, and when his eyes sweep past us, Quinn and I drop back into the shadows. Q notices the phone pointing at the floor.

“What’s up?”

“Battery.”

Q looks like he’d like to punch me in the face.

“Alva, please make sure this boy gets that stopped before he leaves. And find him some clean clothes. Now, a word.”

The pair moves out of earshot, but even in the dim light it’s clear that Callaghan is not pleased. Alva nods sharply at our principal’s words. Meanwhile, someone has gotten towels and Kyle is getting cleaned up.

A door creaks open, and just as soon as he arrived, Callaghan’s gone. Alva walks back to the cluster of bros. “Practice is over. Ice that shit, Kyle.” He walks away and soon the bros start to follow, including Kyle.