On Thursday, our class meets Mr. Vanderhoff in the media center. We have the whole period to work on our mythology projects. I’ve been revising my vampire poem, but I haven’t shown it to anyone yet.
Bryan and I sit behind a display of graphic novels, where he can stare at Marisa Zamora without her noticing.
I hold my fingers an inch apart. “You’re this close to being a creeper.”
Bryan smooths back his gelled hair. “I’m doing it today.”
“Doing what?”
“Asking Marisa. The social’s next Friday.” He taps me on the temple. “Hello? Lev? The social? We’ve been planning this forever.”
We have? I shuffle through my memory. I know Bryan’s on a mission to talk to Marisa every day, but I forgot about the social. “Sorry. Wrestling brain.”
He must be nervous. He’s tapping the table with his fingers as if he’s playing notes on his clarinet. And last period, he threw out half his lunch.
“Tell me when it’s over,” Bryan says. I must look confused. “When your season’s over, genius. Are you okay?”
I don’t tell Bryan I skipped practice last night. I don’t tell him about Evan, or Mickey, or my nightmares. It’s all stuck in my head. Every time I try to figure it out, the words rush away, like the river in my dream. I change the subject.
“When are you asking her?”
“Now.” Bryan stands up. He’s dressed up. Instead of track pants and a hoodie, he’s wearing dark jeans and an orange polo shirt.
“You look good, man.”
Bryan blinks at me and smiles. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“That’s what you love about me.”
As soon as I’m alone at the table, I open my notebook. I added some lines to my poem after Evan hurt that kid. Maybe I should take them out. I’m not sure I want anyone to read this.
Wrestlers are vampires.
Gyms are their caves.
They shut the doors,
stay locked inside,
and don’t come out
until day submits to night.
Wrestlers are vampires.
They never see the sun.
They push your face
into the mat until
your nose oozes blood.
They crush you flat,
break you down, bury you.
“How is your project progressing, Mr. Sofer?” Mr. Van sits down next to me. He looks out of place in the media center, like a giant in a chair made of Popsicle sticks.
“I have vampires on the brain.”
“A classic monster myth. Man versus his own animal nature.” I nod like I understand. He tilts his shaggy head toward my notebook. “May I read what you’re working on?”
“Yes. Not out loud, please.”
Mr. Van’s lips move as he reads. “Interesting,” he says. “Dark, but interesting.” He points a big finger at my poem. “If I remember correctly, earlier this year, you wrote, I am a wrestler.”
“Yeah.”
“Here you’ve switched to third person. They crush you flat, break you down. You see? Not we, but they. You’ve separated yourself.”
“It sounds better that way. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Mr. Van’s eyes stay on my face too long. When I don’t speak, he says, “There’s a famous wrestling match in Homer’s Iliad. Two Greek warriors, Odysseus and Ajax in a test of strength and will, but the match ends in a draw.”
“Let me guess. After that, they were best friends.”
“They earned each other’s respect.”
I’m glad when Bryan rushes back to the table.
“Hi, Mr. Van,” he says. He’s grinning.
“Hello, Mr. Hong.” Mr. Van stands up. “Good work, Lev. It’s a strong, thoughtful poem.” He moves on to the next table of kids.
“Marisa said yes,” Bryan says.
“All right!” I put my hand out for a fist bump.
“On one condition.” Instead of sitting, Bryan leans back against the table. “We go as a group. You, me, Marisa, and Emma.”
“But Emma and I are friends.” In elementary school, we were captains of our egg racer team. We were both obsessed with the Warriors books. We planted trees together on a fifth-grade field trip and came home covered in mud. Going on a date with her would be weird.
“As a group,” Bryan says again. “Marisa’s not allowed to date until high school. It’s some archaic family rule.” I swear, sometimes Bryan sounds like a page out of Mr. Van’s dictionary.
“So she’s telling her parents we’re going as a group?”
“Exactly.”
“When’s the social again?”
“Next week. Friday night.”
In the front of my wrestling notebook I wrote the dates of the state qualifiers. There are only three more chances. This Saturday, and next Saturday and Sunday. Bryan reads the dates and frowns.
“I can’t,” I say. “Unless I qualify this weekend, I can’t go. I’ll need to practice that night. It could be my last chance.”
“You’ve been practicing all season. It’s one night.” Bryan crosses his arms over his polo shirt. “It’s important, Lev. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.”
“I know. Sorry,” I say. I am sorry, but wrestling comes first. Bryan knows that.
“Forget it.” Bryan gathers his binder and notebook.
“Where are you going?”
He doesn’t answer. He weaves through the bookshelves, looking for a spot at someone else’s table.
I stare at the dates in my notebook.
Sunday, January 8
Saturday, January 14
Saturday, January 21
Saturday, January 28
Sunday, January 29
MARYLAND STATE CHAMPIONSHIPS, February 11-12.
I wish I could tell Bryan that ever since Dalia took me to Evan’s dual meet, stepping on the mat is the last thing I want to do. But Bryan will say, So, quit.
It’s not that simple. It would be safer to go to the social, play badminton, and goof around. But that’s not going to earn me a chance to be a state champion. Once you’re a state champ, no one can take that away from you. It’s part of who you are, for the rest of your life.
Bryan doesn’t meet me at my locker before lunch. All around me, kids are laughing, yelling, talking. Usually I can block it out, but today, the noise is like fingers grabbing the sides of my head. There’s a sharp jab in my shoulder. When I turn, I see Nick Spence.
“I’m going to crush you this weekend, Sofer.”
I try to blink away my headache, but it won’t go. “You’re moving back to 95?”
Nick flops his hair from one side to the other. “It’s a better weight for me.” I can guess what that means. He hasn’t been able to qualify for States at 90 pounds.
“Okay.” I move to walk around him, but Nick blocks me.
I see Bryan pass by on his way to lunch. “Bryan!” I yell, but he swerves into the crowd.
“I need to talk to you about your partner,” Nick says.
“Talk to her yourself. You’ll see her on the mat on Saturday.”
Nick grips my arm. My hand shoots out and catches him behind the neck. I didn’t mean to do that. I’ve wrestled Nick so many times. It’s a reflex.
Before either of us can move, a hand lands on my shoulder. Mr. Van eases the two of us apart. “On your way, Mr. Spence. You’ll be late for lunch.” He turns Nick around and sends him down the hallway.
“Still nursing a rivalry, I see,” Mr. Van says.
“Yeah.”
“ ‘An enemy who gets in, risks the danger of becoming a friend.’ ” Mr. Van’s voice is deep and comfortable. I know he’s trying to calm me down, but quoting poetry at me won’t help.
“That’s not going to happen, Mr. Van.”
“Give it time.” He strokes his beard, then walks away.
I slam my locker shut. Mr. Van doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Why didn’t Bryan come over to help me deal with Spence? He’s supposed to have my back. I know he’s mad about the social, but that doesn’t mean Bryan and I are done being friends, does it?