by Adib Khorram
Otherwise you run the risk of becoming a Target.
* * *
I got Laleh cleaned up as best I could, gave her a kiss on her head, and helped her into Mom’s car.
Mom came out, her hair in a messy bun—she’d been wearing it in a bun a lot lately, instead of down and styled like she used to—and gave me a quick hug.
“Thank you for calming your sister down,” she said. “I think she’s tired. She’s always up too late, reading her books.”
“It’s not that,” I said. “Her classmates are being racist.”
Mom shook her head. “They’re third graders.”
“Still.”
Mom kissed me on the cheek. “I know you’re just looking out for her. Don’t worry, we’ll talk tonight. Love you.”
I watched Mom and Laleh drive away. Once the car disappeared around the corner, I pulled my bike off the rack and headed to school.
It was drizzling, the sort of fall drizzle that smells like the inside of a freezer, and I pulled my hood over my helmet. About a mile from Chapel Hill High School, I saw Chip pedaling ahead of me, and sped up to catch him. Beneath his helmet, his hair was pasted to his forehead, but he still tossed a grin my way.
I never knew anyone that grinned as much as Cyprian Cusumano.
“Hey, Darius.”
“Hey.”
“Good weekend?”
“Okay. You?”
Chip shrugged.
“Not bad.”
“Cool.”
Chip grinned at me again and then faced forward as we hit The Big Hill.
I downshifted and fell behind him so we could stay closer to the sidewalk, because there were few things in life more terrifying than being on a bike on the road to Chapel Hill High School when a senior was running late for first block.
Chip’s shirt rode up his back as he pedaled. He had these little dimples in his lower back.
I swallowed and kept my eyes on the road.
“See you at practice?” he asked as we locked our bikes up.
“Yeah. See you.”
* * *
Coach Winfield must’ve liked torturing Chapel Hill High School’s Student Athletes. That’s the only explanation I could come up with for why he had us doing an hour of wind sprints.
Only Trent Bolger got off light, because apparently he had a “bad case of shin splints.”
The Sportsball-Industrial Complex at work.
By the time Coach Winfield blew his whistle, I thought I was going to throw up. Even Gabe was bent over his knees, gulping for air and looking a little green, and like I said, he was the fastest guy I knew.
“All right, gentlemen,” Coach Winfield shouted. “Get cleaned up and get out of here.”
I limped to the locker room, trailing behind Jaden and Gabe. Both of them had their hands behind their heads in Surrender Cobra, which was unfair, because they both had really nice shoulder muscles.
I wished mine looked that nice.
“Perv alert,” Trent said behind me.
“Shut up, Trent.”
“Make me, Dairy Queen.” He jogged ahead of me, flashing me his middle finger.
Jaden turned around. “Did he—”
“Yeah,” Gabe said, glaring at Trent’s retreating back. “How can you let him get away with stuff like that?”
I shrugged. “It could be worse. Last year he kept calling me a terrorist.”
Jaden frowned. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
The thing about Gabe and Jaden was, they were nice guys, but they never had to deal with being Targets. They never knew what that was like until they met me and saw how Trent treated me.
I think they understood something about me just then.
Jaden slowed until I came alongside him and rested his arm across my shoulder.
“You’re a cool guy, Darius,” he said. “You don’t deserve that.”
And Gabe took my other side and said, “We’ve got your back.”
I wanted to cry.
Just a little bit.
But I couldn’t do that in front of them.
So instead I said, “Thanks. But it’s best not to dwell on such minutiae.”
CATASTROPHIC HULL BREACH
“How’d you do?” Chip asked. He was already dressed for practice, leaning up against a locker with his arms folded as I laced up my cleats.
“Hm?”
“On your algebra.”
“Got a C. Hanging in there.”
“You want to go over it later?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind.”
I studied Chip.
He wasn’t grinning at me—not really—but there was something going on in his brown eyes. The ghost of a grin, maybe. Or a temporal echo of a grin he hadn’t actually grinned yet.
“Okay,” I said. “Sure. Thanks.”
I adjusted my shin guards and followed Chip out to the field.
“Coach Winfield had us doing wind sprints today,” I said. “If I die during practice, tell my tea I love it.”
“If you die during practice, can I have your locker?”
Chip’s was at the other end of the locker room, with all the football players—one last legacy of his time on the Chapel Hill High School junior varsity football team. At least once a week he complained the smell was getting to him.
“All right, Chargers!” Coach Bentley called as we hit the field. “Give me a couple laps and then circle up at the whistle!”
Chip patted my back and then broke into a jog. I kept pace with him despite the burning in my legs. We passed Jaden, who looked like he was hurting as bad as me. Gabe ran like he always did, sure-footed and swift and tireless, like he hadn’t done an hour of wind sprints after lunch.
Halfway through our fifth lap, Coach blew her whistle twice, and we circled up by one of the goalposts.
The rainy morning had given way to an overcast afternoon, and the cool breeze cut right through my jersey and had me shivering where I stood. We linked hands, and I was grateful to be squeezed between Chip’s and James’s warm bodies.
Coach started us off. “You all won our first game, and I’m proud of you for that. But I’m more proud of all the hard work you’ve put in. Let’s keep it going.”
Jonny Without an H told us all how Jaden had spotted him lunch money; and Gabe told us how Ricky had proofread his assignment in their Creative Writing class.
Next to me, Chip said, “I was in a really bad mood this morning, but I ran into Darius and we biked to school together. It made me feel a lot better. Thanks, Darius.”
He gave my hand a little squeeze.
My ears burned.
I hadn’t done it on purpose.
I didn’t deserve Chip’s praise.
Then it was my turn, so I said, “Chip said he’d help me with Algebra II. I could really use the help. So, thanks, Chip.”
I tried to squeeze his hand back, but since our arms were crossed, I did the wrong one and accidentally squeezed James’s hand instead.
I don’t think he noticed, though, or he just thought I was telling him it was his turn, because he told us how Coach Bentley had taken time to work on his back heel kick with him.
By the time we made it all the way around the circle, my jaw was clenching up from the chill. Thankfully Coach Bentley said, “Count off and let’s go.”
We divided up into Ones and Twos—me and the other Twos wearing bright blue vests to help tell us all apart—and took the field. Christian, our captain and goalie, led us through some warm-up drills until Coach blew her whistle again.
“Okay,” Christian said. “Bring it in.” He was a Black guy, a senior, with light brown skin and the most amazing cheekbones I had ever encountered. He always had a friendly smile, but it
was the kind of smile that was more a shield than an invitation.
Not that I blamed him: People always think of Portland as this super liberal place, and it is, but it’s also super white.
As bad as it was being The Once and Future Target, I knew—I knew—that Christian had experienced worse.
Sometimes I wanted to talk to him about it. To let him know I had his back, the way Gabe and Jaden had mine.
But I didn’t know how to say that out loud.
“Gabe likes to play it aggressive,” Christian said, glancing across the field at the Ones. “Let’s be smart. We’ve got the better defenders. Keep it cool and look for your opening.”
We all nodded.
“Darius?”
“Yeah?”
“Cover me.”
“Okay.”
At least Christian knew I had his back on the field.
Maybe that was enough for now.
“One two three,” he said.
“Chargers!”
* * *
For Coach Bentley, scrimmages were a skill-building tool. They were supposed to be fun and educational.
But for Gabe and Christian, who’d been playing together since middle school, they were a contest of wills, a battle of celestial forces that could only end when one or the other was utterly annihilated.
As soon as the whistle blew, our teams clashed, galaxies colliding with Gabe’s and Christian’s egos as the supermassive black holes at their centers. I stayed back, Christian’s last line of defense, as Gabe broke past our midfielders, passing the ball back and forth with Chip, feinting to Zack and then surging forward.
Gabe tried to get between me and Bruno—one of our center backs—but Bruno stole the ball and passed it to Jaden.
The scrimmage went back and forth. Christian called out plays and encouragement and the occasional groan whenever we narrowly missed scoring on the Ones. He let in one goal from Gabe, but stopped way more than that.
We had better luck, though, with two goals on their goalie Diego. He was a sophomore who’d just moved up from JV, and everyone thought he was going to replace Christian as goalie next year.
Not as captain, though: Diego was the least inspiring speaker I’d ever met. Even when he said something nice, like during Circle, he always managed to sound like he was complaining.
I actually thought maybe Chip would make captain next year. Everyone liked him, and he was a great motivator.
Especially when he was trying to get past you to score: When Gabe passed him the ball, and I was the only one between him and Christian, I was extremely motivated to stop him.
He tried to get around me, but I stayed with him. Bruno had Gabe covered, so Chip couldn’t pass the ball back.
Chip grinned at me, faked left and then took off right, but I knew what he was going to do. I slipped in and hooked the ball away from him.
That was a mistake, though, because I hooked it right as he was going for a kick.
His eyes widened for a microsecond, like he knew what he was about to do to me.
And then his knee got me. Right between the legs.
I dropped to the grass, like every muscle in my body had reverted to a semi-gelatinous state.
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to breathe.
I was certain my testicles had just experienced a catastrophic hull breach.
“Oh my god I’m so sorry are you okay?” Chip knelt next to me, his hands fluttering from my back to my shoulder to my neck, like he thought he should be doing something but didn’t know what.
There was nothing he could do.
There was nothing anyone could do.
“Easy, Darius,” Coach said. I couldn’t remember her ever using my first name before. “Can you talk?”
I swallowed away the burning taste of bile.
“Yeah,” I groaned.
“Can you move?”
I nodded.
“Can we take you off the field, or do you need to stay here a while? Do we need to call a doctor?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “I can get up.”
“I’ll help him,” Chip said. “It was an accident, Coach. Really.”
“I know,” she said. “Why don’t you get cleaned up, Darius? Do you need me to call your parents?”
“No. I mean, yeah. I’ll get cleaned up. You don’t need to call my parents.”
“All right. Cusumano, get him to the locker room and see if you can find Coach Steiner.”
Chip helped me up.
“I can walk,” I said.
“Okay.” Chip pulled my arm over his shoulder, anyway. His back was drenched with sweat, and he didn’t smell particularly nice, but I probably didn’t either. “Come on.”
* * *
Chip led me to my locker in silence.
The pain was starting to wear off, but a wave of nausea was replacing it, radiating out from somewhere deep behind my belly button. I leaned my head against the cool metal of my locker and closed my eyes.
“Hey, don’t fall asleep,” Chip said. “That’s how you die.”
“I think that’s concussions.”
I kept my eyes closed, but I could just picture Chip’s eternal grin.
“Well, I concussed your balls pretty bad.”
“Yeah.”
“For real, though. I’ll be right back. Will you be okay for a second?”
“Yeah.” I pulled away from my locker and took out my towel and soap. “I’m gonna shower off.”
“Okay, but if you see blood going down the drain, make sure to scream really loud.”
“Gross.”
I showered off as gently as I could. There was, mercifully, no blood. My testicles felt tender, and suddenly very precious, but whole.
I toweled off and padded back to my locker. I was stepping into my boxer briefs when I heard Chip’s voice coming around the corner.
“I got you an ice pack, in case you . . . oh.”
Chip and I stared at each other for a second.
I mean, we’d been in locker rooms together before, but I don’t think he’d ever seen me naked.
In that moment I felt very naked indeed.
Chip’s eyes darted downward.
“Huh,” he said, under his breath.
That nauseated feeling came back as I pulled my underwear the rest of the way up and turned away so he was looking at my back instead.
The air felt thick and weird.
Why was it so weird being around Chip? We were teammates, and friends.
I mean, other guys had seen me naked before. That’s what happened when you were on a soccer team.
Even my best friend, Sohrab, had seen me naked, when we played soccer together back in Iran.
But nothing had ever made me feel quite as sticky as when Chip looked at me and said “Huh.”
I tugged my joggers on, then my shirt, and ran a hand through my hair.
Behind me, Chip finally spoke.
“At least they’re not turning blue.”
Just like that, the tension vanished.
I snorted. It hurt to laugh.
“Not yet.”
Chip set the ice pack down on the bench. “You need water or anything? I can grab you some.”
“Um.”
He looked at me again, real quick.
I was certain he glanced down at my pants.
Just for a second.
“I’m okay. Thanks, though.”
What was happening?
TEUTONIC PUNCTUALITY
While Chip went to find Coach Steiner, I sat outside Coach Bentley’s office and iced my testicles.
Coach Steiner was Chapel Hill High School’s athletic trainer. Ostensibly he was in charge of monitoring the health and safety of Chapel Hill High School’s Student Athl
etes.
Go Chargers.
My pain had more or less gone away, as long as I didn’t move. Or cough. Or think.
As the team shuffled in at the end of practice, they lined up to fist-bump me one by one and express their condolences.
They actually said that: “Sorry for your loss.” One after another, Christian and Robby and Jaden and Jonny Without an H and all the guys said it, and by the time Gabe brought up the end of the line I was smiling and it didn’t hurt so much when I laughed.
“You okay, Kellner?” Coach said.
Now that I wasn’t prone on the grass, she was back to calling me by my last name, like coaches always do.
“Yeah.”
“What did Coach Steiner say?”
“I don’t know. Chip hasn’t come back yet.”
Coach Bentley’s nostrils flared.
Coach Steiner was supposed to be available to all the teams equally, but he always seemed to be with the football team, monitoring for potential concussions.
“I swear . . .” Coach Bentley began, but the door opened and Chip trudged back inside.
“Sorry. Coach Winfield was there, and he got on me about ‘abandoning the sport’ again. You know how he is.”
Coach Bentley cocked her eyebrows. “Hmm. What about Coach Steiner?”
Chip glanced at me, his cheeks turning pink.
“He said if there was no, uh, blood, to ice the, uh, affected area.”
Coach shook her head. “Darius, what do you want? Should we call a doctor?”
I shifted in my seat.
“I think I’m okay. Really.”
I did not want to discuss my testicles with Coach Bentley any more than was absolutely necessary.
“You have a ride home?”
I had not considered my return home.
The thought of riding my bicycle caused a little twinge of pain.
“No . . .”
“Why don’t you walk back to my place?” Chip said. “Your parents can pick you up from there?”
“You sure?”
Chip nodded.
“Thanks.”
