by Mark Gimenez
"Come on, Max, get up so we can knock you down again."
Do I look stupid? (Don't answer that.)
Fortunately, I was wearing my rec specs so I could find my way to the sideline. I crawled on my belly like a soldier in a live-fire drill at boot camp—balls whistling past overhead like bullets, pained screams rising above the squeaking of sneakers on the wood floor, kids getting nailed and falling to the floor—but I was safe down here—it was against the rules to hit a downed player. Coach Slimes was sitting on his big butt and grinning like a goober when I crawled to the sideline. I wanted to tell him that stretch knit coach's shorts on a chubby guy wasn't a good look, but I decided against it. He might send me back into the game.
" 'Medic'—that's funny, Max. Not as funny as my boys nailing you with four balls at once—see, now that's teamwork—but funny."
"Oh, glad you enjoyed it, Coach."
See? I told you he was a big fat jerk. Dee soon crawled over and joined me along the wall, followed by Eddie.
"Whazzup, amigos?" Eddie said.
We high-fived each other. We had survived another day of dodge ball. On the way out of the gym after PE, Vic gave me a wicked grin and said, "After school, Max, you're dead."
Only if they caught me.
It was three-thirty and I was running again. The same route, the same chase, the same game. All four were chasing me on their scooters. Any hope that Vic and his gang would get bored with bullying me and find another victim had ended when I puked on their Legends. Now they wanted their six hundred dollars, which I didn't have and would never have. Which meant I would soon be dead. But maybe not today. I had a good lead on them when I rounded Mrs. Baker's hedgerow—only two more blocks to go—and I was feeling pretty confident that I could beat them around my hedgerow so I wasn't too worried when—
My left leg tightened up.
Aw, man, I'm gonna pull a hammy.
Then my right foot almost slipped out of my sneaker.
Dang, the laces had come untied.
I couldn't stop and tie the laces, so it was like trying to run in flip-flops. I crossed Third Street and prayed they'd stop to admire Mrs. Cushing's garden—she was bent over in her short-shorts—"Hi, Max!" she yelled between her legs. But they didn't. They zipped right past her house. Then—
"Whoa!"
I hit the downhill slope. My speed increased, but my feet didn't—the dang shoe kept slipping! My body was now tipping forward too much and the heavy backpack pressed against my back and the buzzing noise was almost on top of me but I was almost to the hedgerow when—
I ran out of my shoe.
Not good.
The backpack bounced then hit me hard which tipped my upper body forward even more but my one-shoed feet stayed back which caused me to lean forward even farther … too far … and I—
Uh-oh.
—tripped and hit the concrete and tumbled down the sidewalk. When I stopped rolling and looked up, I realized that I had ended up at exactly the same spot as the day before, right in front of the neighbors' house. And Vic and his crew again surrounded me like a pack of hyenas about to pounce on a fat juicy baby antelope like on that PBS show. Except I was the prey today.
"You're dead, Max," Vic said.
They jumped off their scooters and crowded around me. Vic snatched my backpack.
"Unless you got six hundred bucks in here."
I didn't. I had snack money. Which Vic found.
"Two dollars?" Vic said. "That's all your mother gives you? Oh, yeah, you're poor now 'cause your dad got himself—"
"Shut up, Vic!"
I jumped up and swung at Vic, but he dodged my fist then punched me hard in the stomach. I doubled over, and they all started pounding me harder than they ever had before. Every time before I had cried. But today I didn't cry. Today I got mad. Really mad. All the anger that had been building inside me the last five months … all my anger at these bullies shooting spitballs at me during English class and rubber bands during Math and blasting me in dodge ball during PE and pounding my iPod into pieces and bullying me every day before school and during school and after school … at five months of crying myself to sleep and missing my dad and trying to be the man of the house and failing because I was only ten years old … at not being big enough to fix the house or mow the grass … at seeing Mom cry because she couldn't pay our bills … at that stupid therapist acting like he knew how I felt … at the Army and the government and those mean Taliban people in Afghanistan … all that anger now energized my entire body and made my hands ball up into tight fists and the heat built inside me like a ticking time bomb and then I finally—
EXPLODED.
I screamed louder than I had ever screamed in my entire life—"NOOOO!"—and my fists shot out at them and—
—they flew down the sidewalk as if they had been shot from a cannon.
The world froze.
I stood there, my body shaking with anger, my arms still extended in midair, as if I were that soldier in the Civil War monument on the State Capitol grounds. Vic and Biff lay sprawled on the sidewalk twenty feet one way and Bud and Rod twenty feet the other way. They stared at me with stunned expressions—the same expression I knew was on my face. After a long moment, Bud broke the silence.
"How'd he do that?"
I looked at my fists.
"How'd I do that?"
I could tell from his confused expression that Vic's dull mind was trying to answer the same question. All I had done was throw my fists out at them. I didn't remember even hitting them. But I must've hit them. Hard.
"Vic," Biff said, "look at our scooters."
Their scooters lay further down the sidewalk. They got up and walked over and lifted them. The metal frames were twisted like pretzels.
"How'd he do that?" Rod said.
Vic's dark eyes darted from me to his scooter and back to me.
"That scooter cost five hundred bucks, Max."
"Wow, bullying is getting expensive for you, Vic."
"This ain't over, Max."
But it was over for that day. Vic dragged his scooter down the sidewalk toward Second Street.
"Vic," Rod said, "Let's go this way. Mrs. Cushing's outside."
Vic didn't turn back. He just said, "Shut up."
Rod shrugged then followed Vic. He pulled his scooter like a kid with a broken toy. Biff and Bud trailed behind with their scooters. They gave me dirty looks as they passed by, but they also gave me space. I looked at my fists again.
"How'd I do that?"
I looked up from my fists to the second-story window of the neighbors' house and saw the same pale face.
"S-T-R-A-N-G-E," I said. I put down my letters on the Scrabble board. "Eight points plus a fifty-point bonus for using all seven letters."
We were playing Scrabble and eating dinner. Whole wheat spaghetti and organic tomato sauce with meatballs made from leftover bison. Which Maddy had put on her head.
"Good word, Max," Mom said.
"Thanks." I sniffed the air. "Something's burning."
"Oh, no, the rolls!"
Mom jumped up and yanked open the oven door. Smoke billowed out. She waved at the smoke then pulled the tray out of the oven and set it on the counter. The rolls looked like little black charcoals. Mom tried to open the window above the sink, but it was stuck. Again. She dropped her head and closed her eyes like she was about to lose it, but she took a few deep breaths and calmed herself.
"Sorry, guys, no rolls."
"That's okay, Mom," I said.
She sat back down and poured another glass from another long bottle.
"Max, did those boys bully you today?"
"They tried. But you won't believe what happened," I said while stuffing long strands of spaghetti into my mouth. "Vic and his posse chased me home on their scooters again, and I was almost to the hedgerow by our house but my shoelace came untied, and I ran out of my shoe and tripped right in front of the house next door. They surrounded me and grabbed my backp
ack and stole my snack money and then they said something about Dad, and I tried to punch Vic but he punched me in the gut instead, and they started pounding me, and I got really mad, and I threw my fists out at them like this"—I demonstrated—"and they just went flying way down the sidewalk. Their scooters were all bent up and ruined. I think I'm like the Hulk."
"The Hulk?"
"Yeah, he's a nice guy until he gets mad, then he turns into the Hulk with superpowers."
"You beat up four bigger boys?"
"Yep."
I swallowed and looked up. Mom and Scarlett were staring at me.
"You're right, Max," Scarlett said.
"That I have superpowers like the Hulk?"
"That we don't believe you."
"It's the truth."
"Liar."
"I'm not a liar!"
"No. That's my word." She put down four letters. "L-I-A-R. Four points."
Mom looked real concerned. "Max, the therapist said if you didn't talk about the anger, you could explode. That's not good for you."
"It was good for me today. Mom, beating up the bullies, that was way better than seeing that therapist."
"Max, violence never solves anything."
She had never been bullied.
"It solved a big problem today. Besides, Dad told me he had fights growing up."
Mom smiled. "He was an Irish boy trying to survive South Boston."
"I'm trying to survive fourth grade."
Scarlett won again, and we finished dinner. I put my dishes in the sink then headed upstairs but turned back to tell Mom that I was just going to the bathroom and would be back down to wash the dishes. I was almost to the kitchen door when I heard Mom and Scarlett whispering like they always did now whenever they were talking about me or Maddy. So I listened at the door like the time Mom talked to Scarlett about the facts of life, which grossed me out so much I could only listen for an hour.
"He sleeps with his teddy bear," Scarlett said.
Dang, she ratted me out.
"I know," Mom said.
She knew? Is there anything moms don't know?
"The therapist said his world's been turned upside down, that he needs a sense of security, something that makes him feel safe."
"He's sleeping with his teddy, and Maddy's sleeping with you."
"And what about you, Scarlett?"
"I don't sleep."
I could tell they were hugging like girls do, and I heard Scarlett's sniffles.
"Are you okay?" Mom asked her.
"Let's talk about Max. Saying he beat up four bigger kids, Mom, that's not good."
"His dad is his hero," Mom said. "He's trying to be like his dad."
"Mom, pretending he's the Hulk and has superpowers? I'm worried about the little guy."
But I wasn't pretending. I did have superpowers.
four
"Superpowers?" Sunny said the next day as we walked to the cafeteria.
"Yep."
"You hit them, and they all went flying?" Dee said.
"Yep."
"And bent their scooters like pretzels?" Eddie said.
"Yep."
"Are you making this up?" Sunny asked.
"Nope."
Vic and his gang were sitting at their usual table, but they didn't trip us when we entered the cafeteria. They turned and stared at me—but their eyes were different today. They weren't so cocky now. But I was. I took a step toward them, threw my fists out at them, and yelled, "Aaah!"
They jumped back and covered their faces. When they realized nothing had happened, they dropped their hands. But they were nervous. I pulled my fists back then struck a Hulk muscleman pose. Okay, I was enjoying myself. I turned and walked over to the food line.
"Wow," Eddie said.
"That was interesting," Sunny said.
"Max, what's going on?" Dee said.
"I don't know, but I like it."
I smiled.
You couldn't slap the smile off my face that day.
It's funny how having superpowers changes your view of the world. You're not afraid of bullies, you don't feel nervous around strangers, and you don't detour around a bunch of tattooed bikers loitering on the low stone wall out front of Doc's Motorworks Bar & Grill. Instead, you walk with your head high and your chest out. You don't hurry. You take your own sweet time.
I took my own sweet time.
I didn't run home that day. I strolled. I window-shopped. I snacked on a Butterfinger candy bar. It was a beautiful Friday afternoon, and I was feeling pretty darn good. I was walking up the sloping sidewalk on South Congress Avenue, a five-lane road that ran north-south right through Austin and dead-ended at the State Capitol. If you stood in the middle of Congress and faced north, you had a perfect view of the Capitol which sat on a low hill at the northern boundary of downtown Austin. I liked the Capitol but not downtown. Too many people, too many cars, too many big buildings, and too dark because the buildings blocked out the sun. But mostly because it was kind of scary, all the homeless people wandering around like zombies. Mom said drugs stole their lives.
I didn't want to be a zombie, so I was never going to use drugs.
South Congress Avenue cut straight through my neighborhood, so everyone called the area "SoCo" for short. It was just south of downtown, but it wasn't anything like downtown. Or any other part of Austin. It was different. Mom said it was the way Austin used to be back in the sixties because everyone in SoCo wished they were still living in the sixties—well, as long as they could have their MacBooks and iPhones and iPods. I liked our part of town—the people, the music, and especially the stores. Lots of funky shops lined Congress in SoCo, like Blackmail (all things black), Stella Blue Boutique & Salon (where my mom got her hair cut), Creatures Boutique (alternate clothes for the entire family), The Turquoise Door (authentic Native American silver-and-turquoise jewelry), South Congress Massage & Bodyworks (don't even ask), Austin Motel with its Corporate Free Since 1938 sign (Mom said Julia Roberts stays there when she visits Austin, but I don't know who she is), and Jo's Hot Coffee (Mom and Dad's favorite coffee joint), a little walk-up place just off the sidewalk. Mom hated Starbucks because she said they were a corporate conglom … congom … congrega … they were a really big company. I didn't really understand what corporations were, but everyone in SoCo hated them, like Luke Skywalker hates Darth Vader until he finds out that Darth is his father and then Darth suddenly turns into a good guy and saves Luke's life, which didn't make a lot of sense to me why he would do that. Sunny said it was in the script. Anyway, Mom liked Jo's because it was a local coffee joint. I liked it because they had great muffins.
"Max, my man!"
Guillermo Garza called out to me through the service window at Jo's. He had worked there as long as I can remember. I waved and walked over to the tree-shaded patio with tables where the locals were drinking coffee and staring at their laptops like they were hypnotized. I loved checking out the crowd each day. That day's crew featured green and orange and purple hair (on the same person), colorful tattoos covering entire bodies, a girl wearing shorts and striped Pippi Longstocking leggings and Army boots, others with rings in their ears, noses, lips, and places my mom said I didn't want to know about, geeky guys riding fat-tired Schwinns, and bikers riding big Harleys. Man, stopping at Jo's was like going to the circus.
I heard tires screeching.
I turned back and saw a long-haired guy on a trail bike swerve south off Nellie Street and onto Congress at a high speed and then play chicken with the traffic. He skidded to a stop at Jo's and jumped off his bike. Andy Prescott was SoCo's resident traffic-ticket lawyer and adrenaline junkie. He rode a Stumpjumper trail bike, which was like tempting death with the traffic in Austin. He had gotten a ticket dismissed for Mom a while back; she was speeding because she was late picking Maddy up from after-school. After my dad got deployed, I tried to hire Andy to sue the government and make them stop the war, but he said, "Dude, haven't you heard of the military-industri
al complex?" I hadn't. "Well," he said, "you might as well sue Mother Nature to stop the sun coming up." I wasn't sure what that meant. He now stuck a fist out at me and said, "How're you doing, little man?"
We fist-bumped.
"I'm good."
"Keep the faith, bro."
I wasn't sure what that meant either, but I said "Okay" and continued my stroll up South Congress past the Hotel San José, the silver Airstream camper in the parking lot where they sold crepes (not "creeps" like Coach Slimes, but "crepes," which are like French enchiladas), and George playing his guitar for tips next to Güero's Taco Bar. I crossed Elizabeth Street and walked by Lucy in Disguise with Diamonds (a costume store with a front wall of painted faces of famous people) and my favorite store, Uncommon Objects (a secondhand shop with a metal sculpture of a cowboy riding a jackrabbit above the marquee). When I got to the tattoo parlor—Body Art by Ramon—I put my nose against the glass and cupped my face to block out the glare so I could see in. I always liked to watch Ramon work. He was inking in a tattoo on a girl's leg. She was bleeding. I thought I might hurl the Butterfinger bar.
"Whaddaya say, Max?"
A scruffy looking old guy sitting on the stoop was talking to me; he was the kind of person your mother would grab your arm and pull you away from if he approached you on the street. He looked crazy, but he wasn't.
"Hey, Floyd T."
Floyd T.—no one knew what the T stood for—was the neighborhood homeless person. He had blue eyes, red reading glasses, and no left leg below the knee. My dad said Floyd T. had been an Army soldier, too, a hero in a war a long time ago. So I always saluted him, which I did now. He saluted me back.
"Pull up a piece of concrete and sit a spell with me and Rex."
Rex was Floyd T.'s dog. I sat on the stoop and petted Rex. He was a big German shepherd, but he never bit me. He was a good dog. But he smelled bad. Or maybe it was Floyd T., I was never sure. But I didn't care. I liked visiting with them because Floyd T. didn't talk down to me like I was just a kid. He talked to me just like I was a grownup, too, which I appreciated even if I didn't understand everything he said, like that time I asked him why he was homeless, and he said, "Because we lost my war."
