by David Lubar
The match continued. The score was tied when I came up for the final bout. The moment the match started, I shot out a cut to the head, just to see how my opponent reacted. Much to my surprise, my saber whacked his mask with a satisfying smack. I had an easy point.
I tried it again. Bad move. He lunged under my strike and scored. I faked another head strike. As he lifted his blade to block, I brought my sword around and scored against his right side.
Two to one.
He scored again. Then I scored twice. Four to two. I was almost there.
I stood, ready. I had the advantage. I had the momentum.
But we'd cheated. That must have been what Mike and Ed were talking about. I though about who'd been winning. Ed at first foil, Walter at second foil, and Billy. Oh man — Billy Esterbridge. Ed had said Bridge is a genius. Billy was a hardware geek. If anyone could rig the swords, it was him.
My opponent attacked, jerking me out of my thoughts as his blade smacked my left shoulder.
Four to three.
He came in hard and fast this time. I parried, but I didn't return the attack. I knew I could score, winning the match and the meet. Just like that, I could be the hero. He attacked twice more with the point, and then with a cut. Another attack with the point. I noticed that he always twisted his wrist slightly just before lunging.
No matter how good you are, you can't block forever. On his next attack, his blade nicked my arm just beneath my guard.
Four all.
We faced each other for the final point. I realized I had to make a quick decision. Which was worse — winning a match when my teammates had cheated or letting myself lose a match I was sure I could win?
He turned his wrist slightly. I knew what was coming. He lunged.
I parried the thrust and flicked my blade across the side of his mask.
The team went crazy.
Feeling nothing at all like a hero, I walked through a sea of congratulations and gathered up my stuff. Most of my stuff, that is. Someone had stolen my spare blade from my bag.
As we headed to the locker room, Danny said, "You almost looked like you didn't want to win."
I told him what happened.
"So why'd you score that last point?"
"If I let myself lose, that would be like cheating. Right? Besides, for all I knew, the other team was cheating, too. Maybe every team we ever faced cheated."
"Get over it," Danny said. "There's no honor in the world. This is just a high school sport. It's only cheating if they catch you."
There was no point arguing. I showered and got dressed. Billy came over while I waited for Danny. "That was great match," he said. "Really great. I'm glad we finally won one."
"Yeah," I said. "Really great."
"Hey, it's the girls."
Oh crap. Not now. Trent strutted up on his way out of the shower, a towel around his waist and a mocking leer on his face. "I'll bet you guys play with each others swords in the dark." He reached out, grabbing Billy's foil from the bench.
"That's mine," Billy said. "Give it back."
"I'll give it," Trent said. He poked Billy. "You like that? I'll bet you do."
Other wrestlers crowded around, laughing. "Stick him, Trent," someone shouted.
"Shish kabob time."
"Bend over, Billy."
"Cut a Z on him, man."
"No, make it a T for Trent."
I backed away.
Goaded by the laughs, Trent poked Billy again. Harder this time.
"Cut it out," Billy said.
Bad choice of words.
"Cut? Sure, if you want me to." Trent slashed the sword, leaving a long red mark across Billy's chest. He slashed a second time, downward, making a crude T. One small drop of blood oozed from the welt.
"Stop it, shithead!"
Trent snapped around to face me. I don't know which of us was more surprised by my shout.
"What was that?" he asked. "You defending your lover boy?"
Why did it always come to that? I didn't even like Billy. But I had to try to keep him from getting hurt any worse. "Hey — it's not even fair. You have a sword. He doesn't,"
"Yeah, he doesn't. But you do," Trent said. He poked me with the foil. I barely felt it through my winter jacket.
"Just stop it, okay?"
"No. I want to sword fight with you," Trent said. "Come on." He poked me again. I looked at him, standing there in nothing but a towel. I had a heavy jacket. And gloves. It was about as unfair as it could get. I glanced back over at Billy as he sniffled.
"Let's go," Trent said, giving me a third poke.
I reached down to the bench next to me and grabbed my fencing mask. "Okay," I said as I slipped the mask over my head, "let's fence." I pulled my saber from my bag.
Trent laughed as I got into position. To the untrained eye, the fencing stance probably looks whimpy. Actually, it looks pretty whimpy to the trained eye, too. But it works.
Trent let out a yell and slashed at me like some sort of malfunctioning audioanimatronic from a Disney ride.
I parried his attack effortlessly. After a match where I'd faced three experienced fencers, this was a joke. He slashed again. This time, I followed my parry with a move of my own, flicking the blade across Trent's shoulder.
"Ouch," he yelped, taking a step backwards.
I pressed forward, easily blocking each of his clumsy slashes, and easily picking away at him. Even with the blunted tip and dulled blade, a saber can hurt — especially against bare flesh.
It wasn't fair. Not at all. I was heavily protected, and heavily skilled compared to my opponent. Trent had a sword he didn't know how to use and a towel. He had no more chance of beating me at fencing than I did of beating him at wrestling. It wasn't fair at all. It violated everything I'd ever believed about fair play and honor.
But it sure felt right.
With each thrust, I forced him further back. The crowd of wrestlers moved with us, keeping clear of our blades, but following right behind as we passed the last row of lockers and reached the end of the corridor.
I halfway expected one of Trent's friends to clobber me from behind. But nobody interfered.
As Trent put his back against the locker room door, I charged, giving him a stinging assault on both arms. Then I thrust my point toward his face. I was only faking, but Trent didn't know that.
He howled and stumbled backwards — right into the hall. I followed, leaping through the doorway. I had him moving now. Halfway down the hall, I did something I never could have done to a real fencer.
I disarmed him.
It was so slick. I caught the middle of his blade with my tip, spun my wrist, and sent his sword into the air. If only Angelica Carter had been there to see that move. Without a doubt, it was the coolest thing I'd ever done.
I even caught the falling sword in my left hand. As I stood holding both swords, a dozen movies flashed through my mind. All my heroes would do the same thing now. They'd bow and return the weapon, re-arming their opponent. Then they'd smile and say, "Shall we continue?" That was the honorable thing. That was fair play.
"The hell with that," I said.
This wasn't a movie. This was high school. I lunged with both swords and buried the tips in the towel. With a yank, I pulled the towel from Trent and flicked it over my shoulder.
Weaponless, and naked, Trent turned and ran, vanishing around the corner. I didn't follow.
I pivoted and found myself facing the rest of the wrestling team. Even with two swords, I felt badly unequipped.
Bruno Haskins smacked me on the shoulder. "Pretty cool," he said. "You're good with that sword, man."
"Did you see that jerk go running?" another wrestler said.
Bruno laughed and shook his head. "Trent is such an idiot." He walked off with his friends, who trailed their thoughts behind them.
"Freakin' moron..."
"...what a loser..."
"You see him run?"
"Total jerk..."
&nb
sp; The distant sound of female screams told me Trent had been spotted. I found Billy and returned his sword, then grabbed my bag. "Wow. One for all and all for one," Billy said.
"Right." I didn't shatter his illusion that he'd participated. He needed his dreams, too.
"Those guys could have killed you," Danny said as we headed out.
"Yeah. I know."
He shrugged. "I guess they didn't really like Trent, either."
"Maybe there's some hope for them, after all." I took off my mask and looked at my sword. In the dented hand guard, my reflection was oddly contorted. But there was no hiding the smile. I wasn't Zorro. And I wasn't John Steed or Captain Blood. But I was a fencer. That was good enough for me.
We lost our last match. Badly. Mr. Sinclair insisted on inspecting all the swords himself. Whatever way Billy had rigged the electronics, Mr. Sinclair was a good enough physics teacher to figure it out. It didn't matter. Win or lose, I loved fencing. Even if it marked me as a dork.
After all that, I wasn't even be able to go out for tennis. Someone ratted on me, and I got handed thirty days detention. I guess that was fair enough. I'd happily have given sixty days in exchange for that one moment. In a perfect world, my victory over Trent would have earned the guys on the fencing team at least a bit of respect. But the glamour didn't last. We went back to being the butt of jokes pretty quickly. On the other hand, nobody ever touched our swords again.
Here’s to Good Friends
"Spit out that gum!"
I hate it when teachers shout. What's his problem? I looked up at Mr. Forester, who was huffing down the aisle toward my desk. First period on Monday, you'd think he'd have the decency to let us ease back into the grind. School's enough of a drag without having to plunge right into quadratic equations, the Great Depression, or the use and misuse of the gerund.
"Ratner, spit out that gum right now. I asked you three times. Are you deaf?"
"Me?"
Mr. Forester pressed right up against my desk. "Is there another Brad Ratner in the room?"
"If there is, I hope he did my homework."
I heard some choked-back laughs from around the room. I glanced over at Jordie and grinned. Forester bent forward and got right in my face. "Now."
I pushed my chair away from the desk and walked over to the garbage can. Patoooee. Thunk. I love the sound gum makes when you spit it into a can. I wonder if there's some kind of career where I could do that? Wouldn't that be awesome? I could see myself like one of those street musician guys with the wild hair and shaggy beard. Playing the gum can. Yeah. I could set up different cans, with different sounds. Pass the hat. Make enough money to buy more gum. Maybe get famous and be in Rolling Stone. Brad Ratner, world's best rhythm spitter. Of course, a beard might be a bad idea, with all that gum.
Crap. Forester was shouting again. I headed back to my seat. Almost tripped, but I caught myself. Maybe I should tie my laces. Not cool, but definitely less trippy.
Forester glared at me and shook his head. "Every day, Ratner. It's getting old."
Yeah, so are you.
At least he left me alone for the rest of the period.
I met up with Jordie in the hall when the bell rang. "You better watch it," he said. "Forester is going to give you detention."
"Nah. He can't. I've got detention deficit disorder." Damn. That was pretty funny. I let out a laugh as I realized what I'd said. "Yeah, that's it. I've got DDD. Got a note from my doctor. I even have a prescription for attituderol. They gotta treat me special. It's the law."
"Dickhead." Jordie gave me a push. And then he forgot all about everything in the world except his glands because his main squeeze, Carla, was coming down the hall.
Carla. Yum. She was fine. Hot. Smart. Fun. She had this body that, if she was made out of cake, you'd eat the whole thing because it would be impossible to stop after a couple bites. She reached us, and gave Jordie the sort of hug that's illegal in seventeen states. Lucky man. I think they're going to be together for life. That's cool. I was happy for them. After they untangled, she looked over at me and said, "Oh. Hi, Brad."
No smile. That's the thing. She was hot. But sometimes, for no reason at all, she was cold. Maybe I should call her "faucet." Wasn't there a Sarah Faucet or something like that? I could call her "Shallow Faucet." But that would piss Jordie off. And I wouldn't do that to my best pal. I mean, even though we've been hanging since 10th grade, he could have dumped me when they started going out. But we still did lots of stuff together.
"Brad."
"Huh?"
"Did you hear what Carla said?"
"No. Sorry. I was thinking about something."
"She said they added seats for the sold-out show. The extra tickets go on sale tomorrow night."
"For Razor Heart Nine?" That was awesome. They'd just released a new CD. I could play the first part of a couple of their songs on my guitar.
Jordie frowned at me. "What are you talking about? We saw them last month. Are you spacing out on me?"
"Just kidding." I turned to Carla. "Sounds great."
"We gotta go," she said. She grabbed Jordie's hand and dragged him down the hall toward their second period class.
"DeepAndDark!" I shouted after them as I remembered which band was coming to the arena.
I headed off to English class. Tripped again. Gave up and tied my laces. Must have lost my homework when I dropped my notebook. Ms. Tilden wasn't happy about that. I could see a lecture bubbling away in her chest and rising up toward her mouth. But I gave her my charming smile and she gave me some slack. People like you if you smile. I survived English and headed for algebra II.
It would be easier if I could get to my locker after third period. That would be perfect. But my third and fourth period classes are in the north wing on the third floor, and my locker is way across the building on the first floor. By the end of fourth period, each minute seems to take an hour to tick off. I can taste the bell.
Ring. Sprung. I pushed through the crowd, surviving the steps because the mob is so packed there's no place to fall. If they played music, it would be a mosh pit.
Thirty six, eighteen, four. The lock didn't open. Damn. I needed to get in there. I yanked harder and hurt my hand. Damn lock's broke or something. No. Wait. Thirty six...? That was my middle school number. Four years ago. Why would I even remember it? Stupid mistake. I've had the same lock since way back in freshmen year. Twelve, twenty one, fourteen.
Victory. I got the locker open, grabbed the half-empty Coke bottle from behind my stack of books, checked to make sure nobody was watching, and chugged most of it down. Jesus, that's better. Back in balance. Life was good. As I put the bottle away and shut my locker, I thought about another swig, but that wouldn't leave enough for later. I'm nothing if not disciplined. I popped a stick of gum in my mouth and cruised down the hall.
There were posters up for class president. It would be cool to be president. I read them as I walked down the hall. Some of them were pretty good. I wondered what mine would say? The election's a month away, in November. I got to class late. But that's okay. Mr. Breznik is retiring at the end of the year, and he probably wouldn't care if I didn't show up at all.
He barely glanced at me as I walked to my desk. The sound of his voice floated around my head, like background music. It was kind of soothing. I settled into my seat, content. It's amazing how well everything worked out. Except that last bit of fourth period. It's all part of my system. I keep my mind perfectly tuned, like a Lamborgini. Perfectly lubricated, everything in balance, with the formula I perfected last year.
One beer before I leave the house, because breakfast is the most important meal of the morning. But just one, because drunk driving is a bad idea. And one beer doesn't make me drunk. But it doesn't make me flow in perfect harmony with the universe, either.
So I grab the Coke bottle from the trunk — it's a bad idea to have anything up front where it can get you busted — and adjust my blood chemistry before first period. Wh
ich makes Forester's droning lectures a lot easier to take. I get my booster shot after fourth period. Another swig or two after eighth kills the bottle and keeps me balanced enough to make it home.
As I strolled out of the building and notched off another day, I was perfectly able to drive. Detention deficit disorder. That really was funny.
###
Jordie and Carla were in the parking lot, waiting by my trusty, slightly rusty Civic. He lives way out in the boonies, next to a stunning couple acres of crumpled steel. I'd been giving him and Carla a ride ever since he got a speeding ticket two weeks ago. Before that, Jordie drove most of the time. He was kind of obsessive about that. I guess it's some kind of control thing. I didn't care. I'm just as happy riding in the passenger seat. He's not driving now. He didn't lose his license, but he got his wheels clipped for two months. And he was only going like ten above. His dad, Mr. Talmadge, is real super crazy about safety. He owns a collision and salvage shop. I guess seeing all those wrecks makes him overprotective. Mr. Talmadge doesn't have to worry about Jordie when I'm driving. I never speed. Speed kills.
I hopped behind the wheel, waited for my passengers to board, and took off. It would be fun to drive a cab, I bet. We don't have taxis in Brockford. Too small. But in a city, that would be fun. Zooming around New York or Chicago. Meeting people. Maybe get a rock star in the cab. Get to know him. Hang out with the band at clubs and stuff.
"Brad! Look out!"
I jerked the wheel hard to the right, saving us, then swung left to avoid running off the road. "Did you see that bastard?" I said as the truck vanished in my rear-view mirror. "He was way over the line."
I glanced at Jordie, then behind me at Carla, to make sure they were okay. But just a glance. It's dangerous to take your eyes off the road.
We got to Jordie's house without any more trouble. "How about I drive you home," Jordie said as I rolled to a stop in his driveway.
"What are you talking about?"
"I haven't driven in a while," he said. "Come on. It would be fun."
"Not if your dad found out. And how would you get home?" I asked.
"I could get Todd to pick me up," he said.
