Stick

by Andrew Smith

  To me, it felt like we were all in some kind of cruel Nazi science experiment, but we didn’t question it. I realized that it’s hard to question rules when you’re standing in alphabetical order, waiting in line, freezing and scared, wearing nothing but a jockstrap.

  The last time we had weight-check day was in January. Ricky Dostal and Corey Barr, who had gone through the line and been measured by Mr. Lloyd ahead of me, went and put their gym uniforms on and then pulled me out of my place between the other kids with Irish last names. I thought about fighting back, but it was only a thought.

  Apparently, being dressed in only a jock makes you even more of a pacifist.

  They forced me out of the boys’ showers, and pinned me up to the outside wall, facing the tennis courts, with my bare ass cheeks pressed against the icy and damp bricks of the locker room, while the girls’ classes all came out from the other side of the building and stared at my freezing, pale near-nakedness. Ricky and Corey announced it was to show all the girls what a retarded one-eared stick looks like wearing nothing but a jock.

  Later that day, and for a few more days after that, about half of the girls who’d seen me asked why do boys wear jocks, and I felt like I was lying when I said, “Because they keep our balls safe.”

  My jock never kept anything safe on me.

  Thinking about it that day, as I dutifully carried with me my cleanly laundered jock, perfectly rolled up inside my gym clothes, I thought Corey and Ricky must have been two of the “key guys” who Emily thought I should grow some balls and punch.

  I had balls.

  But I wasn’t sure how punching someone would make me feel like having balls made a difference.

  * * *

  It was St. Patrick’s Day.

  Emily waited for me by the mailboxes.

  She had a green scarf slung around her neck. I noticed her so much more now.

  All of a sudden.

  And I wore a green flannel shirt, buttoned, tucked into my jeans, of course, with a white undershirt beneath it. She smiled as I walked toward the mailboxes. It was a smile that said she approved of my green.

  I am Irish, after all.

  “Neither one of us gets pinched,” she said.

  “The crab kids will have to leave us alone.”

  * * *

  Once, while we walked in the quiet woods last summer, I told her the story of my name.

  “Sometimes,” I said, “names make you the opposite of what they say.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s supposed to be strong and unyielding,” I explained. “Stark. It couldn’t be farther from the truth if it meant ‘boy with two ears.’”

  “I don’t like that,” she said.

  “What? My name? Neither do I.”

  “No. I like your name. Stark.”

  That was the first time I can remember Emily saying it, and she made it sound almost musical.

  “But I don’t like it when you make fun of yourself.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “So you’re not allowed to do it in front of me anymore.”

  “Okay.”

  “Because it’s nice to have a friend like you.”

  “No girls would probably catch crabs with you. Or hang out at our fort.”

  She nodded. “But when you make fun of yourself, it’s like saying anyone who really likes you is a loser or something.”

  She made everything sound easy.

  “The other name, McClellan, has a story.”

  We’d stopped next to a fallen tree. It was stair-stepped with white mushrooms, jutting out from its mossy trunk, and stacked in layers like trophied ghostly ears. In the dark gap ahead, between the trees, was our plywood fort.

  “It means ‘son of the servant of Saint Fillan.’ That name, I think, says who we are.”

  “Who is Saint Fillan?” Emily poked a stick into the narrow cleft between the mushrooms.

  “He was the patron saint for the insane. His left arm glowed, so he could see in the dark. And the mentally retarded people would take a bath in Saint Fillan’s pool. Then they would be chained to a cot all night. And, in the mornings, if the chains were loose, it meant they were cured. Just like that. So, me and Bosten, we are the sons of the servant of Saint Fillan.”

  “Do you believe in that?” Emily had a look of wonder.

  I said, “Yes. You can’t make stuff like that up.”

  “Well, someone does.”

  * * *

  We were the only two kids who ever waited at that bus stop.

  And I wasn’t what Emily would call “weirded out” over anything specific on that Monday morning. It was just that the entire weekend—beginning with Emily softly touching my ear (and I couldn’t get the sensation of her fingers out of my thoughts) and Friday night’s UFO invasion, to winding up in punishment last night and everything in between—ricocheted around in my head and made me feel like I was choking back an explosion.

  Everything was changing.

  I felt sick, and Emily could see it.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I think maybe I’m getting sick.”

  “You should stay home from school.”

  “I’d rather drink poison.”

  “I would ditch school with you if you wanted to,” she said.

  “Could we take a bath?” I teased.

  “No. My mom’s home. She wouldn’t understand.” Emily’s matter-of-factness, again, told me she didn’t think there was anything more complex to our bath-taking than the simple sharing of some time together.

  Like catching crabs on the beach.

  Emily.

  “Yeah,” I said glumly. “So’s mine.”

  “I guess we might as well go to school then.”

  That was Emily.

  Perfect.

  * * *

  There was a special bench in the gym for kids who couldn’t do PE.

  Ricky Dostal, his face zippered shut with a picket line of black stitches under his left eye, sat on it, watching me watching him.

  And two rows up in the stands, sitting in almost the exact spot where I’d gotten a hard-on when Paul Buckley’s mom put her hand on my leg, Mr. Lloyd sat, making pencil marks in his blue book of records.

  Mr. Lloyd always wore dark glasses. Even indoors, like in the shower room. I don’t think I’d ever seen his eyes. Maybe he was missing one. Or maybe he was blind from jacking off too much when he was a boy.

  Every so often, guys would brush over to Ricky. I could tell they were talking about his stitches and Bosten McClellan and me. And, once in a while, Ricky would erect a stiff middle finger at me, holding it close in front of his waist, penis-like, so Mr. Lloyd couldn’t see.

  The gym steamed with our sweat. Mr. Lloyd’s class had three basketball games going on simultaneously—half-court five-on-five, shirts against skins, at the main baskets on either end of the floor, and one more game being played on a backboard that could be lowered electronically where the visitors-side stands had been rolled away. And, as things worked out, in my game, Ricky’s best friend, Corey Barr, assigned himself the spot of covering me. So every time my team got the ball, Corey would press up into me. Sometimes it felt like he was trying to hump me, rubbing my back with his sweaty chest, leaning over me with his chin in my spine and his hips pushing against my butt, even when we were away from the play.

  When our teammates were playing in the key and he caught me outside, he’d grab my shirt and pull me around, calling me a pussy and saying how I couldn’t cry to my big brother now. I tried to ignore him, but he kept after me through the game. I finally told him to fuck off.

  Corey was close-guarding me from behind then, and he tried to lean over my shoulder, but he was too short, so he put his forehead into my back, and he said, “You’re a faggot, Stick. I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”

  Next thing I knew, the ball was passed to me. Corey reached around my hips and slap-grabbed me, hard, right up into my nuts.

  It hurt so bad I almo
st fell down. I thought about Bosten—what he would do. And I thought about Emily, too. And even though I didn’t really want to do it, I spun around, already feeling sick and dizzy from Corey clawing my balls, and made a fist, shut my eyes; and then I punched Corey Barr squarely in the nose.

  It hurt my hand.

  Corey was stunned. He tumbled back onto his elbows, hitting the wood floor with his butt. He sprang to his feet, swinging wildly, and we were instantly surrounded by every other boy in the gym. I could hear Mr. Lloyd stomping his way down the bleachers, yelling, “Hey! Hey! You dipshits, cut that out! Cut it out, NOW!”

  Corey hit me at once in the ribs, but I couldn’t feel it. I was already in too much pain from his hand on my balls. In fact, I probably would have fallen onto all fours, but I was afraid Corey would try to kick me in the face. Before I could throw any more punches, Mr. Lloyd squeezed between us, pushing us apart with the flat of his hand pressed into Corey’s sweaty, bare chest, and his other hand twisted into my own damp T-shirt, right where my name was written.

  Corey’s nose bled.

  I made him cry.

  It felt horrible, and I was honestly ashamed for what I’d done. I know this was stupid, considering what he did to me, but I had an urge to hug Corey and tell him I was sorry. The boys in our gym class stood around, invigorated, thrilled, some of them teasing Corey for getting punched by the retard and especially for crying about it.

  And Corey left a trail of dark maroon blood-dots leading all the way across the floor from where our fight started to the doors through which Mr. Lloyd angrily escorted us to the principal’s office.

  When we got out of the gym, into the freeze of the morning, I shivered, partly from cold, some from the pain in my balls, but mostly because of what I’d done to Corey Barr. Mr. Lloyd leaned over to my left ear and whispered, “It’s about fucking time you did that, McClellan. Nice job.”

  To add to our shame, the principal was busy, so we had to wait in the front of the office, sitting on the same bench in our sweaty gym clothes while everyone who came and went just stared at us. At least I had a shirt on. And wasn’t bloody. Or crying.

  The crying was the worst part, because everyone who looked at us seemed to immediately assume an expression like they’d figured everything out, and that everything meant that I was the bad guy, since I wasn’t bloody, bare-chested, and in tears.

  I felt like telling Corey to shut up.

  I dreaded the thought of what Mom and Dad would do if I got kicked out of school for this. So I found myself wishing I’d gone ahead and agreed to ditch school with Em when she offered it, bath or no.

  In the end, Corey and I were escorted back to the locker room where we had to be watched while we showered and changed into our school clothes, so we wouldn’t fight again.

  Neither of us got suspended. They tended to be more lenient about boys fighting in junior high than at Bosten’s school, and I think Mr. Lloyd said something to them about how Corey started it. We did have to spend the entire day together in detention hall, though.

  But a phone call home had been made, and I knew what that would mean.

  * * *

  By the time school let out, everyone in eighth grade apparently had been talking about how I’d beaten the shit out of Corey Barr and made him cry, too.

  Every day I’d ride home on the bus and sit next to Emily, so that day, as she made her way back toward my seat, I could tell by the look on her face she’d heard about what happened in Mr. Lloyd’s gym class, too.

  She smiled and her eyes gleamed, and when she threw herself down beside me she actually hugged me, tightly. I could feel the side of her face against my neck, and how her tight breasts pushed into my arm. It was the first time she’d ever hugged me like that. I thought it was way sexier than us being naked together in the bathtub. I tried thinking about poor Corey Barr’s nose, just so I wouldn’t get a boner, but it didn’t work.

  It was too late now.

  Everything had changed.

  Everything.

  “I am so proud of you, Stick.”

  And that was the first time anyone ever said that to me.

  I got so choked up. I thought we were going to kiss or some-thing, but in junior high, making out on the bus will get you into much deeper trouble than popping some asshole in the nose.

  Still, I couldn’t help thinking about putting my tongue in her mouth, the way I’d seen Bosten doing, and I wondered what that would feel like. And that wondering mixed with my heated embarrassment over getting a boner with Emily sitting next to me, and the frustration I felt about not knowing how to really sort out in my mind what I’d done to Corey. So I just sat there, dumbly, moping.

  But we did actually hold hands the entire way home.

  And she said, “I knew you could do it! What did it feel like? Corey Barr is just as big a jerk as Ricky Dostal.

  “With both those guys laid out, you’re exactly like Julius Caesar now, or something.”

  How could I even say anything to that? I was so confused and flustered, I didn’t know what she wanted to hear from me.

  “Well. I felt bad about making Corey Barr cry.”

  Emily laughed and squeezed my hand tight. “You really felt bad?”

  “I think I could get over it, though.”

  * * *

  When I came home, Bosten was already there. I knew he’d be suspended that day because of what happened at the basketball game on Friday night. Dad had to go down to Wilson, sign his forms with the dean of students, and take Bosten out of school for three days.

  That was the usual high school punishment for boys who got into fights.

  Bosten didn’t mind, I guess, but Mom made him stay inside the spare room all day until I got home. I think Mom had come to expect that she’d never have to see or deal with us during school hours.

  I wondered how she was going to manage our being home for two weeks with Easter vacation coming up. So I hoped Mrs. Lohman was really going to make that call, like she said she would, and suggest I go sleep over at Emily’s house for a while.

  If I could last until then.

  So Bosten came out, and I went into my Saint Fillan’s room.

  Mom didn’t touch me.

  She stood back in the hall and said, “Your father will decide what to do about this when he gets home.”

  And Bosten said, “What happened now?”

  “I punched Corey Barr in gym class.”

  Bosten smiled approvingly.

  That was all.

  Then I got locked inside.

  * * *

  One of these times they will let me out and I will be cured.

  BOSTEN

  Dad came home late.

  He was drunk, and I had fallen to sleep on the cot without eating anything for dinner. I heard Bosten arguing with Mom about it, but nothing happened.

  It was ten o’clock.

  The key turned.

  Dad came into the room. When I opened my eyes, he looked like a shadow puppet with a Cyclops red eye where he sucked air through the cigarette he pinched in his lips. I had all my clothes on. This wasn’t a regular trip to the spare room; today, it was more of a holding cell. The flannel shirt I had on was damp from my sleeping sweat, and I felt a chill when I pushed the thin sheet off from me.

  “Bosten,” he slurred, and swiped a hand over my head in the air.

  I ducked. “No. It’s me.”

  “Bos—”

  Dad grabbed me by my shirt, began pulling it up out of my pants.

  “No!” I said. “It’s Stick!”

  He fell onto his knees at the side of the bed. He smelled terrible, like vomit and gasoline. His cigarette tumbled out of his mouth and onto the floor.

  Dad’s touches were suddenly all over me—not hitting—he began grabbing, pulling at my clothes, tugging at me, slipping his cold hands up inside my undershirt, rubbing my skin.

  I pushed him away.

  “Stop it!”

  I’d never said anyth
ing like that to my father in my life. It startled him. His gray eyes clouded angrily at me in the numb light from the hallway. He looked surprised, like he didn’t understand what was happening. Then he collapsed weakly across the cot.

  I got away from him and went to the door.

  Dad was already asleep.

  I looked back and saw the cigarette, still burning on the floor at the edge of the bedsheet.

  I thought about leaving it there.

  But I picked it up.

  The rest of the house was dark and dead.

  I went down to my basement.

  * * *

  Lying in bed, I pressed my ear against the pipe and stared up at the little window.

  I couldn’t see anything, but outside was lighter than in here.

  No sounds came through the pipe.

  Sleeping in the basement, I’d usually leave my door open.

  But not tonight. Dad scared me.

  Sometimes, not hearing things was good.

  Other times, it was terrifying.

  * * *

  My bedroom door swung open.

  “Shhhh … Stick. It’s me,” Bosten whispered. His voice made me jump, anyway.

  I propped myself up, and Bosten came over, tiptoeing, and sat down on the bed with me.

  “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “Sorry, Sticker. I wanted to see if you’re okay.”

  “I’m okay. Dad’s asleep in the spare room.”

  “I saw him.”

  “He thought I was you.”

  Bosten only said, “Oh.”

  And the way he said oh made me feel a little sick.

  “He’s drunk. I can smell it.”

  I said, “Oh.”

  Like that explained everything.

  We sat there for a while. Neither of us moved, or said anything. I could feel the warmth radiating from Bosten’s body.

  “What about Mom?” I said.

  “She went upstairs a long time ago. She’s mad.”

  “At me?”

  Bosten shook his head. “I bet you’re hungry.”

  “I am.”

  “Want to go to Crazy Eric’s?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, dumbshit. Right now.”

  I was out of bed in less than a second, scrambling around to put my pants on.