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“Freak,” snarled Bob, his bulging arms, made hard from football, just inches from Nick’s face.
“Beaner,” said Bill, punching Nick so hard he slammed into a locker. “We build walls to keep you Spics out.”
“I am not Latino,” Nick groaned, rubbing his now-bruised shoulder. “I told you before—I’m Greek.”
“Then move to the Valley,” said Josh, spitting out that word. “Plenty of your kind there.”
“I’ll live where I want,” said Nick, defiant despite his pain. “And so will Latinos. Free country, right?”
“Not for you,” said Bob, and the beatdown began for real. A quick left to Nick’s throbbing shoulder, a right jab to his gut, and down he went . . . for the third time this year.
Nick tried to cover his face but his arms were pulled down.
What could he do? he wondered. Three against one was no fair: and these guys were all massive jocks. Just sit there and take it, he guessed, as a trickle of blood bounced down to his chin. He could feel his eye swell, which meant questions from mom about why he was so “clumsy.”
But what, Nick thought, if he just told her the truth?
That he, Nikólaos Chironopolous, was being bullied by white boys in their beach town of Palos Rojas. That he wasn’t rich or cool enough to hang with a guy named Josh and should move to the Valley where his skin color wouldn’t matter.
Whatevs, Nick said to himself as Bob prepared to strike. Just let it be over soon . . .
It was then that he could have sworn he saw something with his good eye. Through a visible blast of air midway down the hall, a young woman emerged. Of course, she couldn’t be real; since she was naked, a hottie, with wings instead of arms. She walked, rather than flew, the short distance to Nick, and, once at close range, gave him a little wink.
“You don’t have to plug your ears,” she said.
“Huh?”
She opened her mouth and began to sing. To Nick, it was like the L.A. Phil mixed with a chorus of angels, a melody so sweet that, despite his pain, he exhaled in bliss.
But his classmates must have heard the song differently. They held their hands to their ears, screaming like teens in a horror flick. Then, they ran, tripping over one another’s Vans to get away. The woman, as beautiful as a goddess, gave Nick a smile as her hair blew into his face.
“I must go back,” she said. Spreading her wings wide, she flew back down the hall—and through that curtain of air.
“What?” Nick asked, getting up like his uncle Theo, who was ninety-eight. He even groaned like an old man.
Had what he’d seen been real? Or had he passed out, only to come to when the jocks had had their “fun”? It must be that, he thought, limping to get some water from a fountain that actually worked. Thrusting in a hand, he washed the blood from his face.
Man, he thought, I wish I could graduate now, but he was still a junior. That meant two more years of torture: of watching his back all the time and studying for three AP’s. Also, training for track, with a big meet every weekend. Like all the kids he knew, Nick felt super-stressed. In a world of seven billion, you had to stand out, and that meant going to Harvard—or, at the least, Yale. Then you’d get to pay off debt for like the rest of your life. Why? Nick wondered. For a three-story house in the suburbs, two-point-four kids and a dog?
“I don’t know,” he sighed to the now-empty hall. He scraped up his backpack and headed out to a place he liked: The Lil’ Pardner Stables.
It wasn’t far, so Nick biked. Since he didn’t own a car and no buses came up this hill, that was how he rolled. He pedaled past some wild peacocks, hoping they wouldn’t see him, since, if they did, they’d scream like ambulance sirens.
Nick leaned his bike against a three-rail corral. There was Doug, a regular at Lil’ Pardner, proudly sitting his pony.
“What’s up?” Nick asked, giving him a big smile though it hurt his bruised mouth.
“Nicky!” Doug yelled, giving him a salute.
Nick waved back. Doug was a Downs kid who came to the barn for therapy. It really seemed to be helping, since Doug loved to tell everyone of his latest feat, like haltering the pony himself!
Nick headed toward the red barn, his trainers crunching on rocks. When he opened the door, all the horses nickered.
“Okay, okay,” he said, digging into his pockets for some Mrs. Pasture’s Cookies.
He fended off eager muzzles as he passed them around.
“Hey, Blackie,” Nick said, patting the Thoroughbred’s nose. “How’s it goin’, Sophie?” he asked a white-maned mare. “You being good, Johnny?” The black gelding, now thirty, vacuumed up two cookies. “You guys like these, huh?”
Nick stared at his palm which held a last treat. Well, he’d always been curious. Glancing around to make sure he was still alone, he took a tentative nibble. Not bad, he thought, just a little crunchy. He gave the remainder to Johnny.
“Guys,” he announced to heads hanging out of stalls. “I think I’m losing my mind.”
Sophie shook her thick mane as if to disagree. Blackie and Johnny just stood there.
“Right,” said Nick, picking up a small shovel. “I saw a Bird Babe today—no biggie.” Blackie gave a horse laugh. “She saved me from the ER. And-and then she spoke.” He shook his head with regret. “I shoulda taken a selfie.”
Johnny showed his large teeth in what could have been a horse smile. As Nick cleaned out his stall, he felt a pain in his gut. It wasn’t about the work: Nick loved being here as much as Doug. What attracted him was the musty smell of horses; their sweet, hay-scented breath; the way they put their head on his shoulder like a comforting friend. Though each weighed more than a ton, Nick wasn’t scared, even when squeezed, as he was, into a stall with two of them. To him, they seemed more humane than people, without the power of speech to insult and hurt him.
Of course, Nick thought, he’d even been bullied over his love of horses: since this was “for girls,” he’d been called “fag” and “gay” more times than he could remember. Whatev, Nick shrugged. He couldn’t help his fondness for equines any more than he could being Greek, and though he sometimes cursed his dark skin, hair, and eyes; his Mom was so proud of their heritage that she made him proud too. Why let a tribe of white guys diss one of the world’s coolest cultures?
“Screw ‘em,” said Nick as Johnny nuzzled his face. Maybe after college, he’d have horses of his own, if he could rake in the Benjamins.
Nick picked up his phone: texted Mom that he wouldn’t be home for dinner. He knew she didn’t like that, but, after today, he needed some alone time. Besides, he wanted to postpone the dreaded talk about his eye.
Nick lay down on a hay bale, ignoring its knotted twines. His whole body ached, and he should probably see a doctor. Not now, he thought, closing his eyes and dozing. When he woke up, it was five—time to feed the horses. He distributed flakes of alfalfa and handfuls of oats. As the horses neighed their thanks, Nick realized that he was hungry. He tried a stalk from the bale, then another. Not bad, he thought. Does this make me some type of vegan?
The sun set around eight, and, though P.R. was part of L.A., it was the coastal part and could get cold at night. Nick pulled on his hoodie and started to wipe down some tack. Even his right hand hurt.
Nothing is forever, he thought, not knowing just where that had come from. Then he felt, rather than saw, a whisper of wind which announced something new in the barn.
“Bird Babe?” Nick asked hopefully.
It wasn’t.
Nick wheeled from his task. Standing outside the stalls was a new, majestic horse—but only in the back. His front half was just as human as . . . as Nick himself. Frozen with cloth in hand, Nick shook his head to clear it. Nope: that thing was still there.
“Greetings, Nikólaos,” said the creature. “I don’t want to go all D. Vader on you, but I am your father.”
