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“Mrs. Branson will be dealt with,” was her clipped reply.

chapter forty-two

On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays—just after lunch, because what better time to exercise than when you’ve just eaten one of the school’s super-healthy Sloppy Joes or one of their weight-watcher-friendly chicken pot pies—we had gym class, certainly one of the worst experiences of my young adult life.

I am not athletic.
 
Never had been, never will be.
 
And while I had taken some liberties with my body to give the appearance that I was now something of a jock, that couldn’t be farther from the truth.
 

I had zero coordination.
 
I sucked at the routines they put us through.
 
You want me to climb a rope?
 
Then, baby, you better have a set of stairs next to it.
 
Did you say pull-ups?
 
I’ll give you five—and then I’ll collapse.
 
The only thing I ever had been good at was consistently being picked last when we were divided into teams.
 
Oh, I always nailed that one.

I also always got nailed whenever we played dodge ball.
 
It could be ruinous, especially when Hastings was paired with some of his old buddies, like Whitehill and Tyler, who now were dodging other things, like prison sentences.
 

But Hastings was here today.
 
So were Rob Maxwell and Alan Stewart.
 
When I entered the gym, they were ahead of me, moving toward the locker room with their duffle bags slung over their shoulders and their eat-shit-or-die struts.
 
Watching them, it struck me that suddenly I was faced with possibilities.
 
With these three here, it came to me that gym class might just be my new best friend.

One of them was going to have a bad day.

I went into the very locker room where I convinced Jake Tyler to rob a bank after he smashed the hell out of my car.
 
It smelled of bleach, antiperspirant, sweat and humidity.
 
For people like me, it also smelled of humiliation.
 
If there was any one place in this school that harbored more bad memories for me, it was right here, where wet towels often were whipped against my face or against my back, and every joke about my then-skinny body and acne-covered skin was brought to the forefront in a barrage of jokes.

But now things were different.
 
Now I had twenty extra pounds of muscle on me.
 
I had the sort of arms, chest and abs these guys could only dream about.
 
When I entered the locker room, I made the amulets invisible, took off my shirt and walked slowly past the aisle where Hastings, Maxwell and Stewart were undressing.
 
They turned to look at me as I walked by and then I stopped in the next aisle and swung open my locker door.

It was a matter of second before one of them spoke:
 
“You know he’s on roids.”

It was Maxwell, who throughout the years at the safe environment my high school provided had never once not found a moment to belittle me.
 

He wasn’t as bad as Hastings—no one came close to what he had put me through over the years—but there were moments with him that I’d never forget.
 

It went back years ago.
 
I was seven, learning how to swim at the local Y, and he nearly drowned me when no one was looking.
 
He took the top of my head and shoved it under water, but he was stronger than I was and I couldn’t fight him.
 
I would have died if the instructor hadn’t seen it and stopped it.
 
To this day, I’m still sure that could have been it for me.
 
To this day, I’m also sure that Maxwell himself probably doesn’t even remember the event because he’s created so many others since.
 
He’d never be able to remember them all.

But I did.

I opened my duffel bag and was faced with the old clothes I used to wear.
 
Loose fitting, soiled, kind of ratty looking.
 

Couldn’t have that.
 
I changed them into something the really muscular guys wore—a white Lycra tank and a pair of hip shorts.
 
My sneakers now were the best Nike made.
 
When I was finished dressing, I turned to look at myself in the mirror at the end of the aisle and was sort of shocked by how good I looked.
 
I’d never had that feeling before.
 
I actually looked decent for once.
 
I thought my chest could be a little larger, so I made it larger.

I shut the door and walked by them again, but this time I turned and gave them a long, slow look as I strolled past.

“Fuckin’ freak.”

Maxwell again.
 
Just weeks ago I would have absorbed the comment and ignored it.
 
Not now.
 
Now things were different.
 
I backed up and looked at each of them.
 
“What was that?” I said.

Hasting was looking all busy in his locker.
 
He wouldn’t look at me.
 
But Maxwell and Stewart didn’t have a clue of what I was capable of and so they walked over to me.

Maxwell got in my face.
 
“I called you a fuckin’ freak.”

“Why’s that, Rob?”

“Because you’re on roids.
 
It’s obvious.
 
Everyone’s talking about it.”

I was aware of other guys coming out of their aisles and into the main corridor to watch us.

“Really?
 
That’s funny.
 
Who’s everyone?”

“Everyone.”

“How about you give me some names?”

“How about if you suck my cock, faggot.”

“Wow, Rob.
 
I wish I could tell you how much that hurts coming from such a pussy like you.
 
I wish I could get through to you that it makes you look like a homophobic Neanderthal saying shit like that, but that’s just you and your limited mind, and who the fuck can change that shit?
 
So, here’s what, Rob.
 
We’re about the same size.
 
And you think you’re such hot shit, I can’t imagine you’d turn down this opportunity, especially since everyone’s watching.
 
So, here’s the deal.
 
Why don’t you try to keep up with me today?
 
I’ll kick you’re fucking ass at everything.
 
That’s a promise.
 
You man enough to do it?”
 

I stepped back into the corridor and looked at all the bodies that had lined up—clothed and unclothed—to watch what was unfolding.
 
“I don’t hear him, guys, so I need your help.
 
I could fall flat on my ass, or I could kick his to the moon.
 
Who wants to see it?
 
I know some of you can’t stand this bastard yourself but are too afraid to admit it, so let’s really see what he’s made of.
 
I also know most of you can’t stand me, so let’s see what I’m made of.
 
Let’s see if Maxwell here can take on a little piss-on faggot like me.”

Immediately, everyone cheered, but they weren’t cheering for me.
 
They were siding with Maxwell and they made it known, which was fine.
 
I knew nobody here liked me.
 
They wanted to see him beat my ass.

“What’s the commotion?”

It was our gym teacher, Mr. Sewell, who once watched Maxwell, Hastings, Stewart and a host of others spit on me while he did nothing to stop it even though I begged him to.
 
I hated him for it, I planned to make him pay for it today, but I nevertheless looked at him calmly now.
 

“I’ve offered Maxwell here a challenge.
 
I’d like you to help.
 
Anything you ask us to do, I guarantee I’ll beat him at it.
 
We can climb the rope.
 
We can do pull-ups.
 
We can do the rings, the long jump, the bars, the pommel horse.
 
Anything you want.
 
I’ll kill him at it.”

“That’s because he’s on roids.”

“That’s a lie and I’ll happily take a blood test to prove it.
 
Over the summer, I just worked out—a lot.
 
I’m tired of putting up with everyone’s shit in this school, so I’ve packed on some muscle.
 
Mr. Sewell can get the nurse, take some blood and I’ll prove you all wrong.
 
I’m all natural, Maxwell.”
 
I started making my pecs bounce up and down in front of him in rapid succession.
 
“Now, either you want to do this or you don’t have the balls to do it.
 
Which is it, bitch?”

*
  
*
  
*

I don’t know whether he really had the balls to go forward with this, but his pride certainly wouldn’t let him back off, so Maxwell agreed.
 
So did Mr. Sewell, who looked eager to watch it unfold and likely watch me fail.
 
Rob Maxwell was one of the school’s best athletes.
 
This was going to be great fun for everyone, the one thing that got the whole school talking.

They’d talk, alright.
 
I’d make sure of it.

We walked into the gym.
 
Sewell glanced at his watch and said, “We’ve got time to do three things—rope, long jump and rings.
 
Rope first.
 
Maxwell, man up.
 
You know the drill.
 
I time you going to the top, you ring the bell and then I stop the timer when you hit bottom.
 
If you fall at any point, you’re disqualified.”
 
He pulled out his electronic stopwatch and nodded at Maxwell, who was jumping up and down and shaking out his arms in an effort to loosen up.
 
He looked like an idiot.
 
“You ready?”

We were surrounded by about thirty other students, who just got the day off from doing anything physical.
 
All they needed to do was bear witness and spread the word.

Maxwell put his hands on the rope.
 
“Ready.”

Mr. Sewell raised his hand then quickly lowered it.
 
“Go!”

And up Maxwell went, grunting and heaving but making nice progresses as he scrambled up the rope, rang the bell at the top of it and then started climbing down.
 
It took him a matter of minutes, which he obviously thought was unbeatable because he came forward, smacked me in the chest and said, “Beat that, motherfucker.”

“Actually,” I said, “I think I will.
 
But I want to challenge myself in ways that you wouldn’t or couldn’t.
 
I’m going to climb this rope with one hand.”
 
I was aware of Sewell looking up at me from his clipboard and so I turned to him.
 
“Think it can’t be done?”

“You’re kidding yourself, Moore.
 
You’re just setting yourself up to lose.
 
Let’s at least make this a fair competition.
 
Use both hands so he doesn’t completely humiliate you.”

“Humiliate me?
 
Let’s see who’s humiliated.
 
Watch and learn.
 
My left hand is going in my pocket.
 
If at any point I take it out and put it on the rope, then disqualify me.
 
I’m going up that rope with one hand and my two legs.
 
And I’ll smash his time.
 
Better call the nurse, Mr. Stewart.
 
She’s going to be wanting some of my blood.”