Leverage

by Joshua C. Cohen

  “Ted.” Coach Stein holds up his hands and he’s chuckling.

  “You have got to be kidding,” says Scott Miller, the Knights’ quarterback. He steps forward and just stares at all of us like we’re insane. Except for Tom Jankowski and Mike Studblatz, the other football players seem more amused by our coach than anything. I don’t think it’s funny, though. We should not be here. We should be in the gym—our gym—working on sets.

  “Tell you what,” Coach Nelson addresses mostly Scott Miller and Coach Stein. “I’ll make a deal with you right now. One of our guys against one of your guys on one exercise in this room. If our guy demonstrates superior strength—like I know he will—we come in here whenever we want.”

  All the football players—except Kurt Brodsky, still doing his own Atlas-lifting-the-world thing—erupt with laughter. Meanwhile, Bruce and my teammates look like I feel—miserable and sensing impending humiliation.

  “Coach?” Bruce cautions, but Coach Nelson holds up his hand to quiet him. My teammates look beyond worried and Ronnie Gunderson just may crap his pants. Only Fisher, a natural-born con man, appears relaxed. He’s enjoying himself as much as the football players, like he senses where Coach Nelson is going with this whole thing. Wish he’d tell me.

  “So whaddya say?” Coach Nelson asks.

  “Coach Brigs isn’t here to make any deals,” Coach Stein says.

  “Forget that,” Scott interrupts. “This is easy.”

  “I thought you’d approve,” Coach Nelson says to Scott. “Okay, I’ll pick the exercise, something easily done in this weight room. After all, we don’t want to take advantage of you fellas.”

  Snickers break out among the football players.

  “You get to pick the competitors,” Coach Nelson continues. “One player from your team and one from our team.”

  A new round of laughter erupts as dozens of football players’ fingers start pointing at Ronnie and me. We’re the smallest on the team and, they assume, the weakest. I’m starting to get angrier and angrier, mostly at Coach Nelson. I feel my face grow hot with embarrassment. Ronnie steps closer like he wants my company, but all I want is to get farther away from him. I hate him at the moment, hate feeling like they think we’re the same. We’re not the same. Ronnie’s a punk freshman who just started gymnastics. I’m aiming for state champion in high bar. I’m going to be a full-ride scholarship athlete one day. We’re not the same at all.

  “Deal,” Scott Miller says.

  “You all heard him, fellas,” Coach Nelson announces like a carnival barker. “Deal. We’ve got plenty of witnesses, so neither side can go back on it.”

  “This sucks,” Bruce gripes. Guess he’s not in on the plan, either.

  “Okay,” Coach Nelson announces with a smile. “Pick your competitors.”

  “This is too easy,” Scott Miller says. “Jankowski, crush these little girls and try not to yawn while you’re doing it.”

  The weight room bursts out in full-throated laughter as ginormous Jankowski, layered with a thick slab of butterball fat, steps forward, his hands still clenching into fists. His arms, neck, legs, and butt are huge and can easily squat, bench, curl, throw, punch, kick, or slam any of us into oblivion. He’s also got a hefty gut that overhangs his sweatpants like he’s about seven months pregnant and due to deliver a baby keg.

  “Solid choice.” Coach Nelson smiles. “Now pick one of our guys—anyone you want.”

  Whistles, shouts, and woofs as more fingers aim at me and Ronnie like daggers.

  “Pick the midget pussies, pick the midget pussies,” one of the players shouts, meaning either me or Ronnie.

  “Twin needledicks. Give ’em one of the twin needledicks.” Someone guffaws. I feel abandoned, feel like no one in the world exists for me, feel like I did the day Dad told me Mom died. More than I hate all those football players, more than I hate Ronnie Gunderson, I hate Coach Nelson for putting me through this. I trusted him and he does this to me?

  “That one,” Scott sneers, his finger casually aiming somewhere between Ronnie and me as if either choice is a guaranteed victory for his side, so who cares?

  “Danny,” Coach barks. “You’re up. Let’s go.”

  I hope Coach feels my eyes burning into him, hope he feels my hatred boiling into his lungs, giving him tuberculosis as we speak. Teammates push me forward with that better-you-than-me sorry backslap until I’m almost pressing into Jankowski’s sweaty, fat belly. The angry breath coming out of his nostrils streams down on me like hot stank.

  “Okay, let’s see, here. We pick the exercise,” Coach Nelson says, steepling his hands together as if in great concentration. “Hmmm. . . .” He scans the large weight room before pausing for dramatic effect. The football players and my teammates quiet down with anticipation, waiting expectantly for the challenge.

  “I’ve got it!” Coach Nelson snaps his fingers. “That one over there. That’s it.” All eyes follow where he’s looking and we’re staring at a pull-up bar bolted into the wall ten feet off the ground. “Hanging leg lifts,” Coach says. “That’s the challenge.”

  The football players just stand there, blinking, not exactly sure what hanging leg lifts are. No one does them except gymnasts. That’s when I hear a lone laugh.

  “Beautiful, Coach,” Vance Fisher says, and keeps laughing. “Freakin’ beautiful.”

  Vance Fisher laughs because he knows I’m going to win this contest easy. Humiliation simmering into anger, I plan on stuffing all their faces with a crushing loss. But that still won’t make right what Coach has done to me.

  “What’s a leg lift?” Jankowski asks. Coach explains it’s an exercise for your abdominals. You hang from a bar and—keeping your arms and legs straight—lift your toes straight up until they meet your hands. You can do all the sit-ups and crunches in the world but unless you work this specific exercise, you won’t be able to do it. You also need good flexibility in your hamstrings or you end up fighting your own muscles. With Tom’s gut and, I’m guessing, zero flexibility he’ll be lucky to even do one. Tom jumps up to hang from the bar. He tries and tries and rests and tries again. Once his legs hit ninety degrees, he has to bend his knees to bring them any higher. The closest he comes is doing a single rep with totally bent legs. His teammates try. Coach gives all of them a chance, anyone who wants to can step right up to the bar. Only Terrence, their running back, and Sweeney, their wide receiver, can muscle out two reps and three reps each.

  “Okay, Danny,” Coach calls me over. “Get up here and put these wimps out of their misery.” He winks at me but I’m still not happy with him. For a second, I think about faking that I can’t do it, either. That would make the football players happy ... or at least less angry, and it would teach Coach never to take me for granted and think it’s okay to get everyone laughing at me. I step on the perch and grab the bar and hang from it. Bruce and Vance are nodding at me, smiling. So is Ronnie. I look away from him. All my teammates are counting on me. Then I look up and see Tom, Mike, and Scott watching me, their eyebrows pinching together in confusion, waiting. I slowly, smoothly lift my legs with perfect form until my toes tap the bar.

  “Come on!” Scott moans as I lower my legs.

  I lift my legs up and tap the bar again, and again and again ... and again, and again. I do eighteen toe touches with perfect form before dropping off the bar. The most I’ve ever done in one set. Bruce and Vance knock knuckles in celebration. Gradley and Steve are slapping my shoulders. Ronnie punches my arm lightly and I accept it.

  “Damn! These little dudes don’t play around,” Terrence, a star player for the Knights, says. Some of his teammates are nodding their heads in agreement. “I gotta start working my core like that.”

  “You TRICKED US!!!” The yell is so loud it pushes my hair up on my head. Everyone stops. We turn and find Mike Studblatz, face the color of a plum, steam practically rising out of his ears. His eyes are wild and ferocious and I’m sure he’s about to lunge into our group and kill me, Coach, Bru
ce, and Vance, though maybe not in that order. Studblatz heaves a hundred-pound dumbbell off the rack and lifts it above his head and then hurls it toward us. We see it coming and step out of the way and it crashes like a meteor into a metal calf-raise machine. The noise is deafening.

  “Mike!” Coach Stein shouts, trying to regain control.

  “You tricked all of us!” Mike fumes. He’s pacing back and forth and thumping his chest. He gets under a shoulder press machine and presses up two hundred and fifty pounds. His thick arms tremble and spit froths at the corners of his mouth. His eyes bounce around like he can’t focus. “You. TRICKED. US!!!” he repeats, and heaves the weight up again and again. “This is real strength. Not that!”

  “Frank,” Coach Nelson snaps at Coach Stein, “you better get hold of your players.”

  Coach Stein starts to move in between the pulsing Studblatz and everyone else. Mike Studblatz picks up two more dumbbells and begins military-pressing them over his head and staring at us, like he’s proving something other than that he’s an animal. I’m pretty sure whatever he’s imagining involves dismemberment. Coach Stein only gets so close and then stops, seeming wary himself. The other football players watch but don’t move. Finally Scott Miller walks up to Studblatz and puts a hand to his chest.

  “It’s okay, big man, the pukes cheated us, they won’t be coming in here.”

  “It’s not a secret why he’s acting that way,” Coach Nelson speaks clearly for everyone to hear. “Frank, I know what you and Coach Brigs are giving these boys. Someone’s gonna get hurt if you keep it up.”

  “Worry about your own team, Ted.”

  “All of us, Frank, are supposed to be on the same team,” Coach Nelson says, and then he faces the circled group of football players. “That crap some of you are taking to get big and strong is the same thing they feed hogs and cattle before they slaughter ’em.”

  “That’s enough,” Coach Stein says. Coach Nelson raises an eyebrow at him.

  “Let’s go,” Coach Nelson tells us. “We’ll come back when they’ve settled down.”

  As we follow him out, Tom Jankowski grabs my arm and yanks me away from my teammates. Coach Nelson, up ahead, is leaving without me, doesn’t see me. I glance over and see Todd Pullman holding Ronnie Gunderson, his arm twisted up behind his back. Tom’s big hand swallows my whole neck and starts squeezing the life out of me.

  “Bet you think it’s real funny what you just pulled,” he says. “I’m gonna remember this. You and your little pussy friends are dead. You hear me? Dead. We are gonna bury you.” The threat comes at me in a cloud of sour breath, and I feel my body freeze up, glance over, and only see Ronnie Gunderson in more pain as Todd Pullman jams his arm higher up his back. Just then, I see Coach Nelson turn back into the room, glance quickly around, and our eyes lock.

  “JANKOWSKI!” Coach Nelson barks so loud the whole weight room vibrates. The grip around my neck magically releases, and I bolt for my coach, grateful and hating him at the same time. I’m trailed out of the weight room not only by Ronnie but also by the laughter of the other football players.

  8

  KURT

  I’m veering toward a far corner table, away from as many people as possible, when Scott calls me out. “Brodsky! Hey, Brodsky!” he shouts across the lunchroom. “Get over here!”

  Sitting on either side of him, two beautiful girls giggle while picking at a plate of french fries, sending a spasm of panic through my belly. Across the table from Scott sit Jankowski and Studblatz. Both twist their thick, pimpled necks to watch me over their shoulders.

  “Brodsky! Whatsa matter? You got no love for your quarterback?” Scott yells, waving me over. “What’s wrong with you? Studblatz ain’t angry no more, are you, Stud?” The plan to eat and leave unnoticed dies as every single person in the lunchroom stops chewing, talking, listening to music, drumming on tables, joking, texting, or laughing to wait and see where I’ll sit. “Come on, man. My fullback’s got to eat with me. Team rule. Get your ass over here.”

  I’d hoped to go unnoticed by sitting at the empty end of a table mostly populated by goths dressed all in black with pierced faces and skin the color of vampire flesh. Thanks to Scott, they spot my approach and stare at me like I’m the freak. One of the goths, a girl with spiky black hair and shaved eyebrows, wrinkles her nose so harshly I automatically tuck my own nose into my shoulder for a quick armpit whiff.

  “What?” Scott asks real loud. “You gonna sit next to Count Dykeula, instead?”

  I stand there, deciding, feeling all eyes on me.

  “Brodsky, I ain’t asking again,” Scott shouts even louder, pretending to cry. The whole lunchroom—his personal audience—snickers. “You’re going to hurt my feelings.” He’ll go on, I can tell, unless I come to him. Surrendering, I change course toward my quarterback’s table. Scott jabs the redheaded girl, the one leaning against his arm, with a sharp elbow to her side that makes both her and me wince.

  “Cindy, make some room for our fullback,” Scott commands. Cindy slides over a space while Scott pats the empty bench next to him. “Sit down, man. Sit!”

  Cindy’s eyes do a little dance while taking in my scars. I squeeze my legs between the bench and table while she gets her fill. After I sit, Scott drapes an arm over my shoulders and leans close, talking with a mouth full of french fries.

  “Oh, yeah, man,” he says, “make some room. Let this boy eat. Stuff it down your throat. We want you nice and big. I hear Ashville’s got a defensive linebacker—Tommy, what’s his name?”

  “Chandre,” Tom Jankowski answers. “Chandre Jackson.”

  “Yeah, Chandre Jackson. What kinda ghetto-ass name is Chandre? Anyway, I hear Chandre chomps down on fullbacks for breakfast, puts a little skull on his helmet for every fullback or tailback or receiver he knocks out during a game. Ashville’s coach gives him a little bone as a reward. You believe that? I mean, sheeyit! That’s hard core, yeah?” Scott asks, now chewing up his burger. A fleck of meat or bun sprays my ear.

  “But you put a lick on ol’ Chandre Jackson like you did Studblatz here,” Scott continues, “and we got nothing to worry about. In fact, I’d be willing to bet money that maybe you could lay superbad Chandre out cold. Maybe punch a little hole in his chest, pile-drive him into the turf, and make everyone’s life a little easier. Whaddya think, Brodsky? You think you’re man enough to put a lick on Chandre? Send him bawling back to his baby mama?” Scott asks.

  Jankowski snorts at Scott’s cartoonish accent. A piece of potato shoots out of his nose. I glance over at Studblatz, still ignoring me because of that hit I put on him my first day of practice. He chews his food so hard, jaw muscles pop from either side of his face like two fists clenching.

  “Coach Brigs said you might need some tutoring,” Cindy speaks up, her soft voice teasing me with what I can’t have. My cheeks warm and the long scar itches.

  “Awwwww. . . . Look, he’s blushing!” Scott laughs out a chunk of burger. “How cute! Our widdow fowbak is shy awound gwirls.”

  “Shut up, Scott.” Cindy reaches behind me to slap him. My skin tingles where her arm brushes against my back.

  “Hey, man, I’m just kidding. It’s cool, you know?” Scott slaps my shoulder. “Cindy, help him with his home-work . . . and anything else he may need. She’s great at biology and anatomy.”

  “Shut up!” Cindy reaches around me again; this time it feels like she lets her arm stay there for a moment.

  “I’m fuh-fuh-fuh-fine,” I say, addressing the mystery meat on my plate. “I guh-guh-guh . . .” I try saying I get good grades but that’s never going to come out now. “I’m not su-su-su . . .”

  “What?” Jankowski asks. “What’s that?” A smile creeps across his mouth. Studblatz no longer has a problem looking at me. Or probing me for weaknesses. Sweat trickles behind my left ear. My fingers tighten and crack the plastic spork sitting in my fist.

  “. . . su-su-su-su-su . . .” The more I push, the more I insist, the more it sho
ves back. “. . . su-su-su-su-su . . .”

  I’M NOT STUPID! my brain screams. My mouth won’t obey.

  “Speak up!” Studblatz snickers.

  “That’s not funny,” Cindy says, coming to my defense, which makes it worse.

  “Easy, chief,” Scott says. “A touch sensitive, huh?”

  “I duh-duh-duh-duh . . .” I DON’T NEED ANY HELP!!! I DON’T NEED ANY TUTORING. I DON’T NEED ANYTHING.

  “Duh-duh-duh-duh-do you think you can sell seashells by the seashore?” Tom asks. He and Studblatz both crack up with laughter.

  “Shut up!” Cindy yips, then protectively lays a fragile hand over mine, her fingers perching like a hummingbird on top of my knuckles. I’m ready to swing, though it’s my own mouth I want to punch out. Reach into it and rip out my tongue for messing everything up like it always does.

  “Enough, guys,” Scott says. “Big deal, Kurt. So you stutter. Who cares? Bet you’re still smarter than these two meatheads combined.” Scott jabs a thumb at Tom and Mike. “That doesn’t take a lot, though. Relax, man. You’re my fullback. You’re family now.”

  As Scott claims me, Tom and Mike go back to stuffing their mouths. Cindy strokes my hand in a way that makes me want to curl up beside her if she’d let me.

  “Studblatz doesn’t even believe in reading, do you, Mike?” Scott asks.

  “What’s reading gonna do for me?” Studblatz asks back. “They don’t ask you how many books you bench-press in the NFL draft.”

  I take a hard look at Studblatz and think he’s kidding himself if he really expects to reach the NFL; that there’s a million guys around the country, just as big as him if not bigger, all saying the exact same thing. Maybe it’s all those recruiting letters messing with his head.

  “That’s the spirit,” Scott adds, encouraging Studblatz. I chance a look at Cindy, notice her eyes are the color of tropical lagoons advertised on the sides of city buses in the winter. Her eyes meet mine, then tip toward my bad cheek. She says nothing but lifts her hand off mine and looks out across the lunchroom. The moment is over. I turn and watch Jankowski with his chin almost resting in his potato mush, shoveling it into his mouth. A thick trail of zits dots his neck like oozing pellet-gun scars.