The New David Espinoza

by Fred Aceves

  Enzo is cracking up. Most school guys would. Around here, you’re more likely to find teenage boys fighting than hugging.

  “I’m not even sure you wanna hug. It’s like you get a kick out of making me uncomfortable.”

  “We love each other, don’t we? So of course I wanna hug,” Miguel says. “Are you afraid it’s not manly or something?”

  Well, according to lots of people, it isn’t. I guess that’s why I’m so uncomfortable. It’s like ever since I was seven or eight, when girls became gross and supposedly too beneath us to mix with, I’ve been trying to hang onto my boy status.

  It’s so easy for guys to strip that status from you. Just be too scared or weak to do something, like hop a fence, and you’re not a guy anymore.

  But me and Miguel aren’t that way with each other. So here I go.

  I hug him real quick.

  “See?” Miguel says. “Was that so bad?”

  “No, not bad.” And it’s true. Miguel grabs me by the shoulders and looks intensely at me. “Now look deep into my eyes and tell me that you love me.”

  Enzo cracks up. It sort of makes me smile too.

  I do look Miguel deep into his eyes, but I say something else entirely. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m going to miss your weirdness.”

  7

  Eighty days until school begins

  STEPPING INTO the gym is a huge relief, and not just because today is the hottest day so far this summer. It’s because the weight I lift will finally prove I’ve gotten stronger.

  Mirrors and other reflective surfaces have been useless but numbers don’t lie.

  I give Alpha and Tower a quick nod as I walk past them. The gangsta hip-hop in my headphones insulates me. Helps me forget about who might be watching me, lifting more than me, looking down on me.

  Plus there’s no better gym music than a hard beat with braggy and angry lyrics. Rappers talking about doing what they want, getting what they want, and what could happen to you if you try to get in their way.

  I head to the same duct-taped bench as last Saturday. For the warm-up, I start with just the bar like last time. Damn, this thing is heavy. The fifteen reps I do feel pretty much the same.

  No biggie. The warm-up is just to get the blood flowing into the muscles, loosen them up to do real work. I add the same small plates, one on each side. If I did nine reps last time, I’m thinking fifteen today. Fifteen easy ones, because overdoing it is a bad idea. For my next set I’ll add even more weight. Van Nelson and Natural Nathan on YouTube both recommend this, pyramid sets.

  With Eminem screaming over a beat, I lie back on the bench, slide under the bar, and grip it. Raise it off the rack.

  Fuck. This feels as heavy as last time. I ignore that. Count off the reps to the beat of the song. By the time I get to four, I’m pretty sure I won’t see fifteen. The ninth rep is brutal, has me panicking. For the tenth I grit my teeth, channeling all my anger into my trembling arms to push this bar up.

  One more rep than last time? My brain tells me to rack this weight hovering over me, but fuck that. I’m doing fifteen. Even if I gotta grunt through the reps. Even if I gotta throw up from the exertion afterward. I’m hitting fifteen no matter what.

  I need more anger. Instead of beating myself up like the chest-pounding Superman before every set, I beat myself up mentally. Think back to Ricky’s slap and that high-pitched cackle on that video that went viral, the video everyone has seen and will remember unless I get stronger and bigger.

  My knuckles go white from squeezing the bar.

  I lower it, my chest tensing as it touches down above my nipples. Then I push it out, inching it up halfway. The bar wavers and trembles above me. Without Alpha shouting insults at me like he does for Tower, I think them to myself.

  Come on, Bitchslap David! You pussy! You loser!

  But my arms give out, and the bar comes slamming down on my chest.

  “Don’t do that!” I hear over my music.

  Alpha snatches the bar up with one hand and racks it.

  I sit up and slide the headphones down around my neck. Feel myself go red from both humiliation and rage.

  “Always get a spot when you do sets to exhaustion,” Alpha says in a stern voice. “Always. You don’t wanna get hurt and I don’t want a liability.”

  “I wasn’t going until exhaustion. I was gonna do fifteen easily.”

  I get up, more interested in the weight I’ve lifted than in Alpha. What the fuck is going on? Where is the bar I used last time? The lighter one. Because there’s no way that was the same bar as last time.

  I inspect the one on the incline bench. It’s the same length with the same thick cyclindrical ends. I lift it an inch off the rack. Yep, it weighs the same too. My eyes roam, searching for the right bar.

  “You have to follow the rules if you wanna work out here,” Alpha says. “Hey, where are you going?”

  I weave through the equipment to look at the barbell angled on the corner of the wall—which also looks the same. It must be hollow, which means it weighs less, which means it’s the one I used before. That’s the only explanation. But it feels the same in my hands. A deep ache settles in my stomach.

  Alpha asks, “Are you even listening, Little Man?”

  I whip around to face him and Tower, who have both followed me over here.

  “Sure, Alpha,” I say. “Sorry about that. I just didn’t realize the bar I used last time was lighter.” I can’t let go of hope.

  “They all weigh the same.”

  “They can’t,” I insist.

  I’ve been doing everything right at the gym. At home, I’ve been getting enough calories, hitting my macros, the right ratio of carbs, fat, and protein.

  “It’s true,” Tower says. The bandana wrapping his skull is so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t cut off his circulation. “Forty-five pounds, bro. I’ve used them all. Here or in any gym, Olympic barbells weigh forty-five pounds.”

  I go completely stiff.

  So I’ll be lifting one more rep each workout? At this rate, there’s no way I’ll get big enough this summer.

  What the hell has all my effort been for? All that money spent on a gym membership, at the supermarket, and the supplement store.

  I’ve been eating six times a fucking day, putting down double the calories, going hard at the gym and sleeping eight hours every night.

  I mean, what the actual fuck is going on?

  “Breathe,” Tower says. “Come on, bro. Take it easy.”

  I’m staring at the weight I should’ve lifted at least fifteen times.

  “What’s wrong?” Alpha asks.

  “I can’t gain muscle! What a bunch of bullshit!”

  I didn’t mean to say that out loud, but now that it’s out there I don’t regret it. Maybe they have an answer for why this is going so slow. A piece of the bodybuilding puzzle I’ve missed.

  Tower is fighting back a smile. Alpha is straight-up grinning at me.

  “You joined the gym last week, bro,” he informs me, like I’ve forgotten. “What did you expect?”

  “To do way more reps than last time,” I say. “If I’m going to gain twenty-five pounds of muscle by the end of summer, I need to get way stronger each workout.”

  Alpha full-on laughs now and Tower, unable to contain himself, joins in. Like I’m a stand-up comedian who’s just told one of my best jokes.

  They quiet down when they notice my unamused stare.

  “Sorry, bro,” Alpha says. “Talk to me though. What gave you the idea you could gain twenty-five pounds of muscle in three months? That would take years.”

  “There’s this Van Nelson video online where he talks about his transformation. Explains his workouts and diet regimen.”

  Tower drops the smile and his dark eyes flash. “Fuck Van Nelson!”

  He’s pointing a finger at me as if I’m supposed to pass on this message to the actor myself.

  He turns to Alpha. “See what I mean? When those Holly
wood fakes deny using gear they not only make it look like we’re cheating, they also put crazy ideas into people’s heads.”

  Gear? That’s steroids.

  “Here’s the thing about Van Nelson,” Alpha tells me, with the tone of a doctor with bad news. “He took a shit-ton of steroids to get that big that fast.”

  It’s all a lie? I’m frozen from the shock.

  The guy who played Nightchaser punked me.

  I ask Alpha about the YouTubers I’ve been watching, all those before and after pics, and Natural Nathan.

  “He’s natural and getting swole so quickly,” I say.

  Tower contemplates me as if I just spoke a language he doesn’t understand. “Everybody claims to be natural because steroids are illegal and taboo as fuck.”

  Alpha shrugs. “If people get results that fast, they’re not natural. It’s as simple as that.”

  “But don’t worry about them,” Tower says.

  “That’s right!” Alpha perks up. “Don’t compare yourself to anybody, Little Man. Just do you and focus on getting stronger day after day. Alright?”

  No, it’s not fucking alright. My goal has been totally crushed. I don’t know whether to scream, punch, kick, or just die. I can’t even be here right now.

  Fuck the rest of my workout.

  I clamp my headphones on, put my hood over my head, and get the hell outta the gym.

  8

  VAN NELSON is far from the only fake-ass celebrity who takes steroids. The proof is right there on my computer screen. In the before and after pics of actors in different movie roles.

  I move on to the scientific studies that explain how people gain muscle mass naturally, with normal levels of testosterone.

  Every expert agrees with Alpha and Tower. There is no fucking way to get so big so fast without the help of anabolic steroids.

  I think back to the action movies I’ve seen, the extra-swole tough guys and the superheroes without the muscle suits. As I sat in the theater, munching popcorn and slurping Coke, it never occurred to me that those physiques were because of steroids. That those stars were popping or injecting illegal drugs.

  I get up from the chair to look at the movie poster on my door. I’ve seen Nightchaser like a million times and this image every day since I hung the poster up.

  Why did you take steroids and lie about it, Van Nelson?

  The movie comes back to me, every action-packed scene, especially the glorious ending at the shipyard. Nightchaser was one of the biggest-budgeted movies of all time, a total blockbuster that turned Van Nelson into a major star almost overnight.

  And there’s my answer. He did steroids because that’s what it took to play the Nightchaser role. He did what it took to reach his goal.

  Now I wonder, clinging on to the last sliver of hope: Am I willing to do whatever it takes to reach my goal?

  Is taking steroids really out of the question?

  They may not be as dangerous as I think. Or dangerous at all.

  What about all that propaganda back in the day about marijuana being dangerous? How a few puffs could make you crazy and criminal to the point you might kill your parents.

  Google brings up a list of websites about steroids. I click one that ends in .org. It’s a medical institute website. The article is written by Jonathon Weber PhD, who says he’s been studying anabolic steroids for twenty-two years.

  He explains that anabolic steroids are synthetic variations of the male sex hormone, testosterone.

  That doesn’t sound so bad. Steroid users give their bodies more of what they already produce. That sounds different from drugs.

  Thank you, Dr. Weber, for cheering me up.

  The following section is about the potential side effects. It mentions aggressive behavior, severe acne, prominent breasts, premature balding, heart disease, liver damage, infertility, impotence . . .

  I stop reading. Damn, Dr. Weber. What are you doing to me?

  What if he isn’t really an expert? Some doctors turn out to be quacks. I scroll to the bottom, where there are links to the studies he’s referencing. Too many to count. After another ten minutes of clicking and reading studies that back him up, I know he’s legit.

  I slump in my chair, still unable to accept defeat. Van Nelson seems fine. Same with all the actors who have taken steroids. The hardcore guys at the gym too, even though they’re so much bigger.

  Me, I don’t wanna take steroids for years. Not even months. I’m talking weeks. Twelve weeks in total, from now until when school starts.

  To achieve my ideal size and then give them up forever.

  A boost is all I need.

  After a few minutes of searching, I find out that a typical “gear cycle” lasts anywhere from ten to sixteen weeks. Sweet. The price is a little harder to determine. Black market prices differ all over the place, but the ballpark cost is in the hundreds.

  Sorry, used car. You’ll have to wait. I’d much rather be swole on a bike than a skinny twerp in a car.

  So it’s settled. I won’t worry about the horrifying thought of injections. I’ll buy the pills instead. And I won’t worry about where to score steroids, like these guys on the bodybuilding forums.

  I know exactly the place to get hooked up.

  9

  Seventy-nine days until school begins

  YOU DO NOT go up to the biggest man you’ve ever seen in real life and just straight up ask him for steroids. Besides, Alpha’s eating now, shoveling food into his mouth as Rassle, who just finished his workout, chats him up.

  Rassle’s skin is almost as red as his hair. He’s an alligator wrestler who spends most of the day in the sun. A few days ago he showed me the half gator tooth lodged into his bicep. Says he’s waiting for his body to reject it naturally.

  He, Alpha, and a few bodybuilders on the posters on the walls have that little gap between their front teeth. I’ve learned that it’s another potential side effect of steroids—a long-term one. Your jaw may grow wider.

  So I can ask either guy. As far as size, Rassle is less intimidating. Plus, Alpha may not love the idea of hooking up a minor in his place of business.

  As I finish my third set of pulldowns I hear, “Later, David!”

  Rassle lifts the arm with the tooth in it and waves. Dammit. Through the glass wall I watch him get into his truck.

  I’m not waiting one more day to start my cycle. Nothing to do but ask Alpha for the hookup. He’s been so nice and helpful with everything else, I remind myself. Not that it makes me feel any less nervous.

  Alpha spoons the last bit of brown rice into his mouth, his square jaws chomping. He sets the container behind the reception area and heads over this way. The gym was busier than usual when I came in and he was occupied, renewing another month for one member and then spotting a few others.

  Now it’s just him, an older man doing barbell curls, and me.

  “Glad to see you back today, David.”

  He looks at where I put the pin on the machine. I’m working with three rectangular plates.

  “You keep eating and training right, eventually you’ll be doing that whole stack of weight.”

  “How soon you think?” I ask.

  Talking about progress and time. This is good. We’re easing into the conversation we need to have.

  He shrugs, his volleyball-sized shoulders moving up and down. “Depends. Everybody’s different. It’s also about genetics. A hundred people eating and training the same will grow at different rates.”

  No doubt. Some guys are bulky without ever lifting a weight or doing manual labor.

  “So it will take me forever to make gains.” I hope he catches the deep disappointment in my voice and will wanna come to my rescue.

  My palms are sweating and I got a knot in my throat. We’re getting closer to my big question.

  Alpha shrugs again. The distance between his thick neck and where his arms begin is ridiculous. You could set dinner plates on his shoulders.

  “Not forever,” h
e says. “Besides, everybody has a different idea of what big is.”

  True. Let me show him what small is in my case. I unzip my hoodie, the first time I’ve done so in the gym.

  I slip it off, feeling naked in my short-sleeve T-shirt.

  “These are my genetics right here, and I’m trying to get as big as possible by the end of the summer. Got any advice?”

  A subtle question. I’m not flat-out asking for illegal drugs.

  “Just what I already told you, bro. Eat right and train hard. There are no shortcuts.”

  Yeah, right. Is he trying to make me laugh? He’s all about shortcuts. The guys on the wall of champions, his heroes, took shortcuts too.

  I say, “Some guys take shortcuts.”

  Perfect. Not the least bit accusatory.

  “Yeah, well.” He turns his head, as if suddenly shy, and speaks with a lower voice. “I don’t know about that.”

  He starts to walk away.

  “Do you know where I can buy steroids?”

  I didn’t mean for that to come out. What’s wrong with me? That was the opposite of subtle. The knot in my throat has gotten bigger.

  Alpha stops. The stringy tank top shows some of the definition in his wide back, all those ridges of muscle. He turns around and there are his pecs again, big and thick and jutting.

  He points to the wall of champions. “If your goal is to compete at that level, you might fuck with gear one day. For now though, get as big as you can on your own. Don’t be lazy.”

  The knot slips down my throat and becomes hot rage in my stomach.

  Lazy?

  As he heads to the bathroom and lockers, I aim all my hate at the back of his head.

  He called me lazy! Don’t I have a 3.4 GPA? Don’t I work at the shop, do my chores, and take care of my sister? I’m reminded of the bullshit stereotype about Mexicans being lazy, which only pisses me off more.

  Why am I shocked though? Big guys can talk shit. And when you’re Alpha’s size, you can do whatever the hell you want.

  Usually. Not with me. I don’t take shit from anybody. Not anymore.

  I stomp across the gym to follow him, the fury in my blood propelling me.