do that. I guess Mr. Williams is trying to improve this situation, and I wish him luck, but—really.
Take that kid who always sits halfway down the room beside the wall like he’s trying to avoid being noticed. If you sit at the front, you look too eager; at the back, you’re hiding and really begging the teacher to pick on you. So Robert Hubble sits halfway down. But he can’t bring himself to sit in the middle of the room. He has to hug the wall, like if he were put to it he’d know what was behind him.
Actually, he looks like the kind of guy who’d know what to do if he were up against it. He’s tall, heavy in a powerful way, with a face so homely it’s almost attractive. Not your typical A student. And he can’t write, that’s certain. I’ve heard some of his attempts. But he seems like an okay guy, just not someone I have much in common with.
I glance at Robert as Williams is giving us today’s in-class essay assignment: write a character sketch of Jesus. Robert’s jaw falls, and he fixes a kind of empty stare at Williams. I can imagine him saying to himself, “What? You want me to do what?”
I dig in. I love this stuff. I might be a writer when I finish college. Who knows?
I stop at my locker on the way to the trials to pick up books I’ll need for homework tonight. As I slam it shut, I’m greeted with the unpleasant grin of Jimmy Walsh.
Once upon a time, in a far-off land, I was pretty good friends with Jimmy Walsh. Most of the kids in class liked him. He had this really confident air about him, he was good in sports, and some of the girls thought he was cute.
He used to read over my shoulder to get my math answers in fifth grade; that’s how I first got to know him. At first I didn’t like that, but then one day he stood up for me when this other kid (whose name I’ve forgotten, which is fine with me) deliberately threw a softball right at me. It was between innings, and I’d just made it to home base and put our team ahead. The guy pitching for the other team was pissed because he’d thrown too late to put me out. The catcher threw the ball back to second base, where the batter was headed, and put him out, but I’d made it. There was this signal that went between the pitcher and the second baseman just as the teams were starting to exchange positions. I didn’t think anything of it until the ball came smacking into my ribs.
“Hey!” I heard through a fog of pain. “What d’you think you’re doin’?” It was Jimmy’s voice. I turned a little, saw him throw his hat on the ground, and then he launched himself bodily into the pitcher. The coach broke it up pretty quickly and wasn’t any too pleased with either of them, but he’d seen me get hit so he knew what it was about.
I had no objection to letting Jimmy cheat off my math assignments after that. And we were friends, sort of—considering that we’re pretty different people—for a couple of years before it started to cool off. He used to come over to my house for dinner and stuff, and I was at his sometimes. His parents and my aunt and uncle never made friends in any particular way, probably because they didn’t have even as much in common as Jimmy and I did.
The beginning of the end was when Dane Caldwell moved into our school district. Dane had to make a splash right away, I guess, because it didn’t take him long to start looking for people to pick on. You know the type? It’s like he’s got to prove he’s a man by pushing real hard at anyone or anything that doesn’t measure up to some masculine standard in his head. I guess I didn’t measure up, because it wasn’t long before he started pushing at me.
I’ll never forget the day he turned Jimmy against me for real. I was fourteen and starting to look good as a runner. Starting to be competition for Jimmy, actually, and I’d just proven it by beating him in a race during phys ed. And Dane was smart. He didn’t taunt me. He taunted Jimmy.
“Walsh, you gonna let that sissy boy beat you like that?”
There was a little more exchange between them that I don’t remember now, and nothing happened right away. But on my way home from school that day, they followed me. Both of them. If memory serves, I put up a pretty good fight; I’d been in a few scuffles in years gone by, and maybe I’d never be a fighter, but I was no chicken, either. But finally Dane got my arms behind me and held me.
“Give it to him, Jimmy!” he shouted.
I looked right at Jimmy’s eyes, panting through gritted teeth, and said, “Don’t let him do this to you. Don’t let him turn you into a bully.”
He plunged his fist into my stomach. And again. And I’m not sure what happened after that, except that some lady came out of nowhere and yelled at them. They ran, and she half carried me down the street and into her house.
“Who were those boys?” she demanded. “What are their names?”
I was in a hell of a lot of pain at this point, but I managed to say, “Never saw them before.” Even today I’m not sure why I lied. Some misplaced loyalty to Jimmy, maybe. Anyway, she made me give her my home phone number, and Aunt Audrey came to get me.
And the demands for information started all over. “Jason, I insist you tell me! Those boys have to be punished.”
By now there was no doubt in my mind that I had to keep quiet. I mean, think of the terror campaign they’d have gone on if I’d ratted! Thank God Uncle Steve reacted differently; I think he understood.
“Audrey, if the boy doesn’t know them, he doesn’t know them.” Then to me, “You okay, son? How bad are you hurt?”
“I’ll be all right. Really. It hurt a lot before, but it’s better.” And it was better, sort of; but what hurt the most was knowing that Jimmy had let Dane make his dark side too powerful to be my friend anymore, probably forever.
The next day at school it was like Jimmy had never stood up for me for anything. From then on, every time I saw him or Dane, and especially if they were together—which was the case more and more—they’d make these smirky faces. Pretty soon they started calling me sissy and wuss, and they’d do things like push my tray off the table in the cafeteria. The school year was almost up, and I knew I wouldn’t have either of them in many of my classes next year, but I was starting to get a little worried. It was bad enough when I was little, getting picked on and slugged occasionally. But a ten-year-old can hurt you only so bad. When the bully is fifteen, it raises the stakes. It wasn’t out of the question for me to get really hurt. And I was beginning to feel afraid, which of course is like waving raw steak under the nose of a hungry dog.
That’s when I decided to arm myself. I searched eBay until I found someone willing to let me pay for a switchblade with a bank check. Now it goes with me almost everywhere. Not many people know about it, but I do. And that’s what counts.
The look on Jimmy’s face right now as we stand here by my locker, like he thinks I’m the scum of the earth, makes me glad that knife is with me. It gives me the courage to look blankly at him, like I don’t give a shit what he thinks of me, as I give my locker combo a few turns. I’m about to walk away when he decides he’ll have to speak first.
“Running today, are ya?”
I don’t answer, so he has to try again.
“Think you’ll beat me? Think again.”
I turn my back on him and walk—saunter—away. He’s in the competition for short dashes. Not relays. But I’m trying out for short dash as well, and I’ll beat him if I can. He’s fast, but his performance is inconsistent.
On my warm-up jog around the track, I pass by the high jump. There’s only one guy there, practicing, someone I don’t recognize. At first I think he’s black, but as I get closer I see he’s more likely from India or something. His hair has a beautiful gloss to it, and his face—intense with concentration—transfixes me. It’s a big school, over three hundred in my year alone, and there are lots of guys in my class year I don’t know. But I’m surprised I’ve never noticed this fellow before.
I slow to a walk and watch as he starts his run. He’s so graceful, it’s almost like slo-mo. There’s no doubt he knows just