by Mark Gimenez
She sighed at the iPod remains like I did when my frog died, and I had to bury him. Her. It.
"The same boys?"
I nodded.
"They chased you home?"
I nodded again.
"You threw up?"
Another nod. "On their Legend sneakers. The hundred-fifty-dollar styles. Vic gut-punched me." I shrugged. "It was pizza day."
"I'm going to see the principal tomorrow."
"No, Mom, don't! Please. It'll only make things worse."
"Max, you didn't flush!"
Scarlett's voice from the bathroom.
"Sorry!"
Mom walked over to the dresser and put the iPod pieces down. She stared at Dad's photo then picked up the Old Spice bottle. She opened the top and put it near her nose. She liked Dad's scent, too. After a moment, she set the bottle down then came over and sat next to me.
"Max, this psychologist on TV, she said kids who are bullied should use verbal and nonverbal language to back bullies down."
"What does that mean?"
"She said nonverbal language means you stand tall and step forward toward the bully and don't cower down. Verbal language means you shout 'Stop!' "
"And that's supposed to work?"
"Fifty percent of the time."
I tried not to laugh.
"What about the other fifty percent, when Vic steps right through my verbal and nonverbal language and punches me in the gut? What am I supposed to do then?"
"She didn't say."
"Because she's never been bullied. Mom, that stuff sounds good on TV, but guys like Vic, they understand one thing: brute force. And I don't have it."
I wish I could talk to Dad about the bullies; he'd know what to do. Moms were also girls, so they couldn't understand how it was with bullies. I'd seen girls tease each other pretty bad and act mean sometimes, but that's not the same thing as being gut-punched on pizza day.
"I worry about you, Max. The therapist said you have some anger issues, that one day you might …"
"Explode?"
She nodded. "Max, I wish you'd talk to him again. He works with a lot of Army kids. He's helping Scarlett. He could help you. I know you're trying to be strong, like a man. Don't. Be a boy. You don't have to be the man of the house."
I started to cry again.
She wiped tears from my face and hair from my forehead. For a second, I thought she might cry, too. She fought not to cry in front of us. But sometimes, when I couldn't sleep, I went downstairs and heard her crying in her bed. She did that a lot since Dad. They had been together almost half her life. They had met at the hospital when Mom was still a student nurse; Dad had been overcome with smoke when he had gone inside a burning house to rescue a child. She really missed him. I wish I could help her. I wish I could help all of us. None of us were "coping," the therapist said.
Which was therapist talk that meant we were a mess.
Maddy, she was lucky; she was too young to understand, so she was still happy. Scarlett, she needed to let it all out with a "big cry," the therapist said, but she held it inside her. Me—I punch walls. Mom was right: sometimes the anger builds up inside me, and I think I'm going to explode. And other times I want to curl up in my bed and start sucking my thumb again. But I don't because that's not manly, and I'm the man of the house now.
"I'm forgetting his voice," I said. "I wish I could hear his voice again."
Mom sighed and her body sagged. "Me, too, Max."
"He was supposed to call that night."
She just nodded.
"It's not fair," I said. "Why did Dad have to go to Afghanistan?"
"Lots of dads had to go, Max. And lots of dads didn't …"
"Doesn't make it any better for us."
"No, it doesn't." She patted me. "It's only been five months, Max. It'll get better."
"When?"
three
It didn't get any better the next day.
Vic and his gang had formed a gauntlet on the front sidewalk and harassed every kid entering the elementary school. When I walked through, they stepped in front of me and blocked my path. I was chewing on a peanut butter cracker.
"You got my money, Max?" Vic said right in my face.
Time to survive on my wits.
"Uh, yeah. Right here."
I grabbed my stomach and puffed out my cheeks and made a hurling sound like I was going to throw up again and then I spit out the chewed-up cracker.
"Blaaah."
They all jumped back. I grinned.
"Not wearing your Legends today, huh?"
They were momentarily stunned, so I hurried past them and into the school. I had survived the morning gauntlet. But why did I have to walk their gauntlet every morning? Why did all the kids? Why did Vic and his crew think they had a right to bully us? Why do bullies bully? Was it just human nature for bigger people to beat up smaller people, like football or pro wrestling? Or were bullies mentally disturbed individuals, like when we drove through downtown and saw all the homeless people wandering the streets and talking to no one, and Mom said they were mentally ill and needed professional help? Did Vic and his boys need professional help? Or did they just need to get the snot beaten out of them by somebody bigger?
I couldn't help but hope they got the snot beaten out of them.
Especially after they nailed me with a barrage of spitballs during English class. Mrs. Broadus was sitting on her stool reading Holes to us—I really liked that Stanley Yelnats; he was my kind of kid—and I was sitting at my desk and sneaking peanut M&Ms and listening intently and totally enjoying the story when all of a sudden four wet spitballs stung the side of my face like machine gun bullets—bap, bap, bap, bap—and dang near knocked me out of my chair. Which ruined the whole listening experience for me. Vic and his crew buried their faces on their desks to prevent Mrs. Broadus from hearing their laughter. Without looking up, she said, "Max, is there a problem?"
Mrs. Broadus was a mother as well as a teacher, so she had that spooky mom-knows-all thing going for her, too.
"Uh …" I glanced over at Vic; he was giving me the evil eye. I turned back to Mrs. Broadus. "No, ma'am."
Ratting out Vic wouldn't be good for my health.
"Don't eat in class. Wait until lunch."
"Yes, ma'am."
When class ended, Vic walked past my desk, pushed my book onto the floor, and said, "See you in math class, Max."
One-third divided by two … hmmm … two-thirds? … nope, that doesn't look right … three-halves … that doesn't make sense … boy, Dad would know the answer, he was good at math … he was good at a lot of things … he was … I don't care about fractions. I was staring down at the fractions quiz but the numbers became a big blur. I tried to wipe my eyes inconspic … inconstip … inconpits … without anyone noticing, when—
"Ow!"
—something sharp stabbed my face. Only it wasn't something sharp; it was something rubber. A thick industrial-sized rubber band, which could really leave a mark. I heard Vic giggling two rows over. I didn't need to look. He had shot me with his clothes-pin-rubber-band-shooting gun that he carried in his backpack. It really hurt. I felt my eyes water up. Sunny in the desk next to me scribbled a note and showed it to me: UOK?
"Yeah," I whispered. "My allergies are just acting up."
I really did have allergies—cedar was awful in Austin—but I don't think Sunny bought it. She gave me a sympathetic nod. I snuck a few M&Ms for solace. When class was over, Vic walked past my desk, snatched the rubber band, and said, "See you in the cafeteria, Max."
I was getting down on the peanut M&Ms again when I walked into the cafeteria and immediately fell to the floor. Vic had tripped me. I dropped the M&Ms, and they rolled across the linoleum like marbles. I crawled after them and stuffed them into my mouth as fast as I could (I had it from a reliable source that germs could not stick to the candy coating) but Vic tripped Eddie, and he fell on top of me. Dee stumbled into us, and Sunny into him. Vic and his posse
laughed like it was the funniest thing they had ever seen. They always sat at the table by the door so they could harass every kid who walked in. The two teachers who were supposed to be monitoring the lunch room were chatting like old aunts over in the corner.
Dee and Sunny helped Eddie up. I was still on my hands and knees when I spotted a blue M&M rolling across the floor; I lunged for it, but a big foot smashed it. Vic's big foot. Man, I loved the blue ones.
"I want my money, Max."
"I want a new iPod."
I stood up. Vic glanced over at the teachers then poked me in the chest with a big finger. It sort of hurt.
"After school, Max—you're dead."
Since I had only a few more hours to live, I decided to enjoy a big last lunch. We went over and stood in the food line. I had brought my lunch—Mom said we could only afford to buy lunch once a week; I picked pizza day—so I bought two cartons of chocolate milk then found an empty table across the lunch room from the bullies. The others soon joined me.
Sun Hee—everyone called her Sunny—had moved here from Korea a few years ago, but she could speak English way better than Vic, who had lived here all his life. She was wearing, what else, a yellow sundress. She had a MacBook.
Dee—his real name was D'Wandrick, which is why we called him Dee—wore a red Legend Jones "1" basketball jersey that hung almost to his knees and red Legend Jones high-topped basketball shoes with the signature "1" on the back seam. Dee was decked out like a pro athlete, but he dribbled his milk way better than a basketball. But he was really smart, like Sunny. He had an iTouch.
Eduardo—he went by Eddie—had a worse weight problem than I had, but he was a math whiz. He had an iPhone.
I had an iPod. As in past tense.
Sunny, Dee, and Eddie were in the "gifted and talented program" at our school. I was in the "everyone else" program. But I hoped one day to have a gift or maybe a talent. The confidential evaluation report Mrs. Broadus mailed home to my mom (I wasn't supposed to read it) said I suffered from a lack of "self-esteem." I wasn't sure what that meant. Sunny pushed her glasses up and said, "That was rude."
"Sorry," I said. "I've got gas."
"Not that. The bullies."
"Oh."
"How'd you do on the fractions quiz?"
"Not so good. I can't focus on fractions, not now."
Sunny nodded and gave me a buddy pat. Even though she was a girl, we were still buddies. I really didn't like girls, except Sunny. And Maddy and Scarlett, but they don't count because they're my sisters. And Mom—you always make an exception for your mother. I pushed up my glasses then took a big bite out of my preservative-free-ham-and-cheese-on-stone-ground-whole-wheat-bread-with-Canola-mayonaisse sandwich and spotted trouble three tables away. Vic and his posse were making their daily rounds, terrorizing each table of smaller kids.
"What was that about?" Dee said. "Vic saying you're dead after school?"
"They chased me home yesterday," I said. "Vic smashed my iPod then gut-punched me. I threw up on their Legends."
They laughed.
"You puked on their hundred-and-fifty-dollar sneakers?" Dee asked.
"A whole day's worth of food."
"Wow. That's a lot of hurl."
"Tell me. They said I gotta buy them new Legends. Six hundred dollars. Or I'm dead."
"You're dead."
"Here they come," Sunny said, nodding at Vic and his crew.
"Fudge," Eddie said.
"Where?" I said.
"No, not real fudge. Fudge, like, you know …"
"Oh. Don't tease me like that. My heart's racing."
I loved fudge.
Vic led the bullies over to our table. Rod grabbed Dee around his neck and gave him a noogie while Vic snatched Eddie's lunch box.
"What's for lunch, Hobbits?"
Biff cackled like Vic was a comedian or something. "Yeah, Hobbits."
"Give me my lunch back, Vic."
"Or what, Frodo?"
Biff laughed again. "Frodo."
"Or I'll throw up on you."
Vic didn't think that was funny so he turned Eddie's lunch box upside down and emptied his lunch onto the table then pounded his PBJ sandwich flat with his fist. The PBJ spewed out the sides like … well, use your imagination.
"Puking on our Legends cost Max six hundred bucks," Vic said.
I was sucking my chocolate milk through a straw when he grabbed my hair.
"And he's gonna buy new sneakers for us, aren't you, Max?"
The chocolate milk tasted really good, and I liked to suck the whole carton in one continuous swallow so I was holding the carton with one hand and still sucking on the straw and trying to get out of his grip on my hair with my other hand.
"You need to cut your hair, Max, you look like a girl."
"Yeah, like a girl," Biff said.
"Is there an echo in here?" Dee said.
I finally squirmed free of Vic's grasp and finished off the first carton of chocolate milk.
"Biff," Sunny said, "do you ever have an original thought?"
"Uhh …" Biff turned to Vic. "Do I?"
"No, you don't."
Biff turned back to Sunny. "No, I don't."
"Dee, why do you wear Legend gear?" Vic said. "You ain't never gonna be no athlete."
"And you're never going to be an English major," Sunny said.
Vic snorted. "Why would I want to live in England? They don't even play real football."
Sunny rolled her eyes. "ISWC."
If Stupid Were A Crime. Sunny and Eddie and Dee had texting capabilities, so they often lapsed into texting talk. I didn't text, but I had learned the lingo.
"Vic, haven't you ever heard of cyber-bullying?" I said.
Vic frowned. "Cyber-bullying? No. What's that?"
"You do your bullying over the Internet."
"But how can I punch you over the Internet?"
Dee rolled his eyes. "That's the whole point, you dope. You can't."
Vic grabbed Dee in a headlock. "Who you calling a dope, dope?"
"Take a pill, man!" Dee said.
Sunny stood and cupped her mouth and yelled, "Mrs. Nelson! Vic is bullying us!"
"You better shut up, slant-eye!" Vic said.
"Slant-eye? That's an ethnic hate crime!"
"It's a crime you hang out with these dorks."
She pointed at us. "Hey, I'd rather hang out with these dorks than the best kids in school." She turned to us and shrugged. "That didn't come out right."
Mrs. Nelson broke away from her conversation with the other teacher and started their way, but she was taking her own sweet time, so Vic released Dee and emptied his lunch box and smashed his stuff, too, then he and his boys retreated to their table by the door. Sunny sat down.
"I wish someone would beat the snot out of him," she said.
It was a universal hope at the elementary school.
"I talked to a sixth-grader," Dee said. "He said he'd protect us for five dollars a week."
Eddie's face brightened. "That's a dollar and a quarter a week for each of us, forty-five for the school year. That's a good deal."
"Five dollars each," Dee said.
"Each? How much does that come to?" I asked.
"One eighty."
"A hundred and eighty dollars? There's no way."
"Cheaper than six hundred for new Legends," Eddie said.
"I don't think his services are retroactive," Dee said.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"It means he can't protect you against your prior run-ins with the bullies, only your future ones."
"Well, that sucks."
"Dee, ask him to give us a group rate."
"That is his group rate."
"We can't afford that."
"Survival doesn't come cheap."
"Maybe we could buy the bullies off cheaper."
"We're gonna pay Vic to leave us alone?" Sunny said. "That's what my parents had to do in Seoul, pay the street gangs so they coul
d keep their business open. That's why we moved to America."
Eddie shrugged. "It's a global economy."
We ate our lunch and brainstormed other ways to ensure our survival that school year, but nothing sounded promising. I glanced around. The noisy cafeteria looked like an Apple store. Kids were listening to music on their iPods and playing games on their iTouches and texting and talking on their iPhones—in English, Spanish, Swahili, Croatian, Australian—twenty-seven different languages were spoken at our elementary school.
"Place sounds like the General Assembly at the U.N.," Sunny said.
She had actually been to the United Nations.
"You gonna eat the rest of your muffin?" I asked Dee.
He tossed the muffin to me. We finished our lunches and got up right before the other students became rambunctious, as they always did by this time at lunch. Half-eaten apples and banana peels and empty milk cartons suddenly flew through the air from one side of the cafeteria; retaliation from the other side was swift—someone yelled, "Fire the artillery!"—and wadded-up lunch bags, a barrage of grapes, and muffins rained down on the aggressors. Sunny shook her head.
"Public school in America."
While Mrs. Nelson and the other teacher tried to restore order to the cafeteria, we carefully maneuvered along the wall to avoid becoming collateral damage as well as being spotted by the bullies. We were almost to the door when Vic swiveled around in his chair. He was grinning.
"See you in PE, Max."
Four balls hit me simultaneously, one right on the side of my head. I went down to the gym floor.
"Medic!"
Man, I really hated dodge ball. For three reasons: A, all the girls got picked for the teams before I did—even Sunny, and she couldn't throw the ball worth a darn. Two, Coach Slimes—his real name was Grimes, but we called him Slimes—was a big fat jerk who'd had a mad on since first grade when he got stuck teaching PE at the elementary school when all he wanted to do was coach football at the middle school where he was an assistant coach. Consequently, he enjoyed seeing pain inflicted on us by his future stars, Vic and his posse. C, I always got creamed. And D, I was always the first player to get out. Oh, that was four reasons I hated dodge ball. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Vic's cackling voice and saw him and his boys standing just over the centerline.
