Leverage

by Joshua C. Cohen

  Then Kurt Brodsky squeezes himself down into the empty desk next to mine.

  Uh-oh.

  The last of the students files out of the doorway. I close my launching pad and pile Algebra for Life on top of my blank work sheet and notebook. Mr. Klech is busy erasing the chalkboard, his back turned to us.

  “Yuh-yuh-you and your friends were pretty fuh-fuh-funny today,” Kurt Brodsky stutters at me without any introduction. By “fuh-fuh-funny,” I take him to mean Fisher and Bruce’s water-ballooning, and maybe even Ronnie accidentally landing on Studblatz. Since Kurt is neither smiling nor laughing, I also take “fuh-fuh-funny” to mean this giant’s been paid in raw beef liver to mutilate all gymnasts and I’m first.

  “It wasn’t planned,” I snivel, glancing toward the front of the classroom. Mr. Klech is still erasing, whistling now as he rubs away the day, totally oblivious to the murder about to occur in his classroom. Kurt Brodsky will punch me once with that huge fist of his and obliterate me, then walk out of class without Mr. Klech ever noticing. I grab the Algebra for Life book and slowly move it against my rib cage like body armor.

  “Are fuh-fuh-flips hard to luh-luh-learn?” Kurt asks, leaning toward me as he stutters, like he wants to disguise what we’re discussing from Mr. Klech—if Mr. Klech ever bothers turning around.

  “The back handsprings? Hmmm. Not really,” I say while my inner voice urges me to keep talking and hold off the attack until Mr. Klech finally notices us. “I mean, you need to know some basics first but then, once you know how, they’re pretty simple.”

  “You think ... I could luh-luh-luh-learn how? Or do you have to be suh-suh-suh-small? Luh-luh-like you?”

  “Being small doesn’t matter,” I snap, feeling my lip curl at the lame question. “You have to be strong,” I say. “And limber.” I frown at the big body hunched over the too-tiny desk. “You might be able to learn it. I don’t know. Maybe.” I grip my pencil in case I needed to use it as a wooden stake. “Why do you want to learn it?” I ask.

  “I wuh-wuh-want to do one in the end zone. After I suh-suh-score a tuh-tuh-tuh-touchdown.” Kurt thumps a fist against his desktop like an exclamation point. “Muh-muh-maybe you could tuh-tuh-teach me.”

  Me?! Teach you?!?! Wait! You’re not going to kill me?

  Once I get over my relief, I have to admit that seeing someone as big as Kurt Brodsky scoring a touchdown and spiking the ball, then doing a back handspring—especially wearing all his football gear—would look pretty cool. And if I could teach him that and if others knew I taught him . . .

  “Yeah, maybe I could.” I nod. “It would be pretty sweet seeing someone big as you toss a handspring in the game.” Kurt dips his chin along with me like we just figured out Mr. Klech’s extra-credit question together. “You’ll have to come into the gym,” I say. “ ’ Cause we’ll need the mats, especially with you. And I’ll need one of the other guys to help me spot you.”

  “I got puh-puh-practice same time you duh-duh-do,” Kurt says, pinching his brows together. While he thinks, he props his chin on a granite fist. He barely fits behind the desk but he’s all muscle, not fat. His jeans stretch tight over massive thighs, telling me he has plenty of horsepower to motor his body through a handspring. Not counting Terrence Mathers, the Knights’ compact running back, or Deon Sweeney, their speedy wide receiver, Kurt has the best chance of learning a backflip out of all the football goons.

  “How about tomorrow?” I ask. “We practice on Saturdays. It’s an optional workout. Coach usually leaves early, so it’ll just be me, Bruce, and a few of the guys. Me and Bruce can probably get you around safely if we team up.”

  “Ruh-really?” he asks, and the serious expression policing his face loosens a little. He turns his head farther toward me as we talk and I see the long scar peeking out from behind his hair.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s worth a shot. We usually practice from ten to one. Come in around twelve thirty. Coach’ll be gone by then. He’s not supposed to, but he lets us lock up. I’ll tell Bruce you’re coming. The other guys’ll be gone.”

  “Okay.”

  I glance toward the front of the room to see if Mr. Klech is paying any attention to us yet. Nope. He finishes wiping down the board and starts filling it up with more math crap for Monday’s lessons. The nub of his chalk goes tick, tick, tick against the slate like a warning transmission. Warning ...

  Wait! My brains wakes up. What if this is all a trap?!

  “If you’re trying to set me or my friends up,” I say through clenched teeth, remembering who Kurt’s teammates are, “then . . . well ... that’s bullshit.”

  Mr. Klech’s chalk stops tick, tick, ticking.

  “Mr. Meehan, I don’t know where you think you are right now but that language is not tolerated in this classroom. And don’t the both of you have practice to attend? I’d appreciate it if you and Mr. Brodsky would leave now and allow me a few moments to myself.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Klech,” I say, and mean it. My irritation with Kurt lingers, though, for no other reason than I know his team captains are a bunch of ass-licks. Kurt unwinds himself from the cramped desk and exits class without a word to Mr. Klech. I follow behind him.

  “Danny,” Kurt says as we walk down the hall, my head only coming up to his shoulder, “I ain’t suh-suh-setting you up.”

  The school is clearing out fast. In the hallway, eyes from every grade, guy and girl, ping Kurt as they pass. Most dash away quickly but, as he and I talk, a few land lower, noticing me for the first time.

  “All right,” I say. “If you’re serious about learning, I’ll teach you.”

  20

  KURT

  That night, at our homecoming game, we kill the Millfield Bucks. Even better, we get to watch the highlights of ourselves up on the Jumbotron screen. Thing is unbelievable. My new helmet feels the same as my old helmet except there’s a little silver eye at the front—same as on a camera phone—and the low bar on my face mask is a little wider for an implanted mic. Studblatz and Jankowski seem to grow bigger and angrier every game. Studblatz blitzs through Millfield’s front line and wallops their quarterback so many times that the poor guy starts flinching and false-starting every time Studblatz even fakes a rush. The Bucks end up pulling their QB before halftime and replacing him with their bench guy. Studblatz is jawing on the field all game, calling the Bucks “the Fucks,” raging about how he’s going to choke ’em with his cock, make’em squeal like pigs if they get him angry, their mothers and sisters are all whores, their brothers and fathers all suck dick. The usual. Whenever the wind changes direction, our sideline catches long strings of Studblatz’s word charms like he’s only a few feet away. Coach Brigs doesn’t even blink at what’s coming out of Stud’s mouth. In fact, I think I see him even chuckle. He turns to me and raps his knuckles on my helmet, like he’s knocking on a door.

  “You see why I didn’t choose Studblatz for the miked helmet now?” he asks me, and winks.

  On offense, Jankowski and I pound through the line of scrimmage, opening holes so big that Terrence, our running back, practically dances through them, cackling as he scoots past us with the ball. Terrence is our biggest fan, since we help inflate his running yardage and scoring stats. With Jankowski leading the charge, I barely have anyone left over to block for Terrence. On the fullback sweeps, I bust straight through an almost open line of scrimmage practically unchallenged with only a puny Millfield cornerback between me and the goal. Through his face mask, I see his eyes grow real big at what’s coming. Our collision’s gonna hurt him a lot more than it hurts me. Tucking the ball securely between my forearms, I lower my head and right shoulder while he braces for impact. I give it to him. Impact. Our shelled pads clack and crunch as I power over him and continue down the field for a score, barely breaking stride. My teammates pile on me. The score is 37-7 at that point. The cornerback has to be helped off the field. On the Jumbotron screen is a replay of the view from my helmet cam. The whole stadium sees the cornerback’s eye
s grow wide on a face now the size of a highway billboard. Then it goes dark as I smash into him. Our collision and my grunt sound like thunder over the new speaker system ringing the stadium. Words flash across the Jumbotron: ALL ABOARD! THE BRODSKY EXPRESS BROUGHT TO YOU BY FRAYS POTATOES!

  The final score is 52-13.

  “Did you see Studblatz level eighty-one?” Scott stands on the benches in our locker room after the game. “That boy’s still wondering what year it is. Man, we are rolling now. You hear me? We are rolling!”

  Players start pounding their lockers like drums. I join in. Then Coach Brigs holds up his arms for quiet.

  “That’s right, boys,” Coach echoes. “Your quarterback is exactly right.” He’s rubbing his hands together like he’s getting ready to tuck into a flame-broiled steak. “Excellent team effort tonight. We keep up the hard work, nothing can stop our momentum.” Coach slaps Scott on the butt for emphasis.

  “Hoo-wah!” we chant in our best Marine Corps imitation. “Hoo-wah! Hoo-wah!”

  Scott jumps down off the bench and drops a fist on my shoulder pad. “Nice blocking, Brodsky. And nice running. You keep that up, those recruiting letters will fly into Coach’s office.”

  “Thanks,” I say, liking his words. Scott pushes Tyson, a second-stringer, out of the way and straddles the bench to sit next to me.

  “Me, Stud, and Jankowski are going up to Tom’s grandpa’s place tomorrow, going hunting in the morning. You should come, man.”

  “I kuh-kuh-can’t.”

  “It’s fun. Nothing better’n rocking with shotguns.”

  “Muh-maybe next tuh-tuh-time.”

  “What’s so important tomorrow that you’re blowing off your captains?” Scott asks.

  “Tuh-tuh-training.”

  “Training? You train enough already, big guy. What kind of training?”

  “Juh-juh-gymnastics. With their suh-suh-squad.” I leave out the part about me wanting to impress him and everyone else by throwing a back handspring in the end zone sometime this season.

  Scott’s head pulls back like I just poked him in the eye. “Seriously?”

  I nod yes.

  “Studblatz,” Scott calls out while locking me in his sights. His voice sounds light but his eyes flash like a cat with a mouse. “You believe this traitor? He ain’t gonna go hunting ’cause he’s hanging out with the midget-brigade gymnasts.”

  “You see those guys flip on the mini-tramp?” Tyson asks. “Man, that shit is cool.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Scott cuffs Tyson across the back of his head hard enough that Tyson yelps.

  I stand up and continue changing out of my uniform. Scott stands up, too, and I know he’s waiting for me to buckle and say I’ll come hunting with him instead. Problem is, the longer he waits, the more stubborn I feel. When I’m down to only a towel, he finally speaks.

  “You need to get your priorities figured out.” He talks softly, but his words are hard. “You got one team, one family, and it ain’t those puny pukes, you understand? It ain’t those disrespectful fucks! You figure that out or we’ll figure it out for you.”

  21

  DANNY

  Only a handful of gymnasts ever show up for Saturday practice since it’s optional. Bruce, being team captain, is always there and on time. Larry Menderson, Paul Kim, and Bill Gradley come mainly because they don’t want to get razzed for being lazy even though they mostly lounge around on the crash mats, pretending to stretch. Fisher arrives an hour late sipping breakfast out of a Mountain Dew bottle. The surprise is that he shows up at all. Our two freshmen, Pete Delray and Ronnie Gunderson, come because Bruce hints—well, actually he outright states—they’ll have extra strength sets the entire season if they don’t attend Saturday practices. Coach ignores Bruce’s intimidation tactics and compliments the two freshmen on their commitment to the team. Pete mostly fakes his way through the practice, taping and retaping his hand while yawning every thirty seconds. Ronnie works hard, though. He wiggles his thin torso up on the parallel bars and practices swinging between them like a pendulum, prepping for the day he’ll be strong enough to swing up to a handstand. From the looks of things, that day is a few years off. His arms vibrate with the effort after a couple of swings and his face turns so red that he catches Bruce’s attention.

  “Ronnie, the judges deduct points if you squeeze out a turd during the event,” Bruce says. “Relax a little.” That Bruce pays Ronnie any attention means he thinks Ronnie shows potential. For instance, Bruce hardly ever bothers giving Pete any tips. Or, for that matter, Fisher.

  “Ronnie,” Fisher adds, “weakness makes baby Jesus cry.”

  “Don’t joke about him,” Ronnie mumbles, dropping off the P-bars, insulted.

  Fisher mimics a Russian accent. “Baby Jesus want you strong like bull. You do sit-up, now, for sins.”

  “You got three more sets up there, frosh,” Bruce tells Ronnie, ignoring Fisher. Bruce motions for Ronnie to jump back up on the parallel bars. “Scoop your legs on the bottom of the swing and keep your stomach tight. It’ll help.”

  Only Bruce knows I invited Kurt to Saturday practice. He likes the idea, since befriending the biggest wall of muscle in school is usually a good strategy. I go to retrieve a decent crash mat in case Kurt actually shows up. Our gymnasium has a giant storage room with fifteen-foot-high doors big enough to swing open and swallow all the girls’ and boys’ teams apparatus at the end of the season. We also stow extra equipment and mats needed for our home meets as well as the judges’ scoring stands, folding tables, chalk trays, plus dust mops and brooms for wiping down the tumbling floor before and after each meet. Thick mats of various shapes and sizes flop around the tightly packed cavern like bed-factory rejects. Coach Nelson nags us to stack them neatly but guys get lazy and start pushing them into any nook or corner that fits. Hopping over a foam cube before stepping under a double-parked balance beam, I grab a blue, vinyl-webbed, foam rectangle about the size and shape of a squishy, king-size mattress. I slowly heave and drag the thing out of the storage room. It’s a workout just clearing the mat from the other junk, and once I get it out into the gym, I let the blue mat flop over on its side, sending up a wall of chalk dust that envelopes Fisher. He turns to me, coated in white and coughing. “Thanks, Danny.” He waves his hand in front of his face.

  “No problem.”

  A piercing whistle gets everyone’s attention. Coach’s got both pinky fingers in his mouth, blowing till our ear-drums rupture. “Okay, no funny stuff,” Coach tells us. “I have to leave early. Just finish your strength sets. No fancy tricks while I’m gone.” Coach says the same thing every Saturday practice, like it’s a surprise he suddenly has to leave early. He tosses the gym keys in a high arc toward Bruce, letting everyone know exactly who is in charge in his absence. Bruce snatches the keys out of the air with a one-handed, behind-the-back, showboat catch. I imagine making that catch next year when Bruce is gone.

  About three minutes after Coach leaves, Gradley gathers up his gym bag, tosses off a “peace out,” and heads into the locker room. Over the next fifteen minutes, the other guys, relieved of the label first to leave, trickle out of the gym. Fisher, still belching up Mountain Dew between turns on parallel bars, plops down on a crash mat, lets off a loud fart, and pulls on his street shoes.

  “You want a ride?” he asks Paul Kim.

  “Yeah,” Paul answers, gathering up his bag.

  Vance Fisher and Paul Kim are walking toward the lockers when Vance stops and calls to me over his shoulder. “Hey, Danny,” he says. “I left a present for you in your gym bag.”

  “Dude, farting in someone’s bag doesn’t actually work.” Paul shoves Fisher’s arm. “It dissipates.”

  “It ain’t a fart,” Fisher says loud enough for me to hear. “Think of it more as a piece of the legend.”

  Since whatever Fisher left me can’t be good, I’m in no hurry to investigate. Besides, I’m in the middle of my second set of pull-ups and I never quit strength sets until I’m
finished. It’s cheating otherwise. Cheating doesn’t win high-bar titles. As soon as I drop off the bar, arms trembling, I forget my bag for another reason.

  Kurt Brodsky’s standing in the doorway. He steps cautiously into the gym, hands stuffed into his front pockets, moving along the wall as if trying to blend into the brick. When he sees me see him, he pulls out one hand and offers a halting half wave, then stops, as if awaiting permission to cross our turf. I can’t believe he actually showed.

  “Hey, Kurt,” Bruce calls, hopscotching over mats, making his way toward the big fullback. “Heard you want to improve your end zone dance.”

  “Um . . . naw . . . er . . . muh-maybe . . .” Kurt’s waving hand returns to its home deep in his front pocket. His eyes bounce from one piece of equipment to another, sweeping across our little jungle, taking it all in. Saying the plan out loud makes it sound kind of silly. I think maybe Bruce does it on purpose.

  “Hey,” I say, walking over to join them, “you stretch at all today?”

  “Nuh-nuh-not yet.”

  “Well, come over to the floor mats and I’ll show you a few stretches,” I say, leading Kurt over to the thin, two-inch mats. “You ever stretch?” I ask.

  “We suh-suh-stretch before fuh-fuh-football,” Kurt says, kicking off his shoes and lowering his big body to the mat. Bruce rolls his eyes.

  “You guys can barely touch your toes,” Bruce says, shaking his head. “No offense.”

  Kurt stays quiet.

  “You know, that’s one reason Danny kicked Jankowski’s ass so badly in the weight room that day. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Danny’s way stronger in his abs than Jankowski but he’s also not fighting against his own tight hamstrings when he does those leg lifts.”

  Kurt just nods and sticks his legs out in front of him and reaches for his feet, imitating me, but he’s straining and bending his knees. Finally he manages to grab a toe.

  “Wow,” Bruce says sarcastically. “What a champ!”

  “Thanks.” Kurt grunts.