Starlight Crashing Through the Room Part One
“Okay, meatheads, listen up! We’re going to be the best team this year! The best in the district, the best in the region, and the best in the goddamn state! But that means hard work! Hard work and lots of practice! And practice can only happen if you work together! And hard work can only happen if you work hard!”
I rolled my eyes, but subtly. I’ve always had a low opinion of wrestling coaches (well, sports coaches of any kind), but Coach Ogreski lowered my opinion even more. Fortunately, I was sitting behind a very large senior so he didn’t notice. Because seriously, who talks like that?
It was my own fault, really, being stuck on a wrestling team with a semi-illiterate coach. When we moved to Prosaica a month after I started my freshman year of high school, I had made it very clear that I wasn’t going to participate in any form of institutionalized hazing, otherwise known as extracurricular activities.
Dad didn’t like that attitude, so he signed me up for the sport I was least likely to succeed at, possibly in the hopes that I would be so miserable that I would voluntarily sign up for something else.
Or maybe my dad’s secretly a sadist or something.
“So let’s get you put into your weight classes!”
We shuffled into the weight room as a herd. Some of the older guys were jabbering and being way too loud in general, but most of us were silent, being already exhausted from school.
“Stand over there and be quiet for fifteen minutes!” Coach Ogreski shouted. I was quickly learning that the man had no indoor voice. “It’ll be faster without your inane babbling! Okay…Antwiler!”
Of course I was first. So everyone would see my skinny, unmuscled body. I held my head up and stepped forward. There was an outbreak of mocking laughter the moment the other guys saw me, but I ignored it. Maybe I’d get lucky and Coach Ogreski would reject me for being too small.
I stepped onto the scale, not even bothering to look at what it said. I knew my weight-109. It was a constant source of worry for my mom, in spite of the doctor’s assurances that I’d start gaining weight once I finished my next growth spurt.
Coach Ogreski raised his eyebrows at me. “Have you ever wrestled before?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“Thought not. Step down. Brewer!”
I stepped off the scale and disappeared to the back of the room, hearing the sniggers and whispers all around me. I wondered briefly if any of them would be in my weight class. Probably not.
The rest of the team weighed in and we then listened to a very boring lecture on maintaining or losing weight. By the time Coach Ogreski was finished, the scheduled practice time was over, so we were sent back to the locker room to shower and change.
Coach Ogreski stopped me as I left. “What are you doing here, Antwiler?”
“Sir?” I asked, confused.
“You’re not made to be a wrestler. You’re a 109 pound shrimp and you have no muscle to speak of. So what are you doing on this team?”
I didn’t know how to answer except for the truth. “My dad wanted me to try something new, sir.”
Coach Ogreski considered me for a moment. “Okay, Antwiler, here’s the deal. I have one other guy in your weight class and he’s still ten pounds heavier than you. So you can stay on the team, but I expect you to gain ten pounds and to be in the weight room an extra half-hour before school every day. I’ll let you in at 5:30, so find a partner and be there. Understood?”
I nodded, even though I knew that gaining ten pounds was going to be impossible and finding a lifting partner willing to be at school at 5:30 AM was going to be even more impossible.
“Now get out of here.”
I scurried past Coach Ogreski and into the locker room. Most of the other guys were just horsing around and making snide comments at the younger boys. I tried to slip past unseen, but I wasn’t that lucky.
“Hey, shrimp!” one of the senior boys, whose I remembered had been called “Evans,” shouted at me. I ignored him. “Hey, I’m talking to you!” I still ignored him. He stomped over to me and grabbed my shoulder, whirling me around to face him. “When I talk to you, you answer!” he snapped.
“Didn’t know you were talking to me,” I said. “Since you didn’t use my name.”
He glared. “Your name doesn’t matter, shrimp. You know I’m talking to you, you answer.”
“Sorry,” I muttered. “What did you want?”
He smirked at me. “Want to know if you can take a punch or if you’re really as pathetic as you look.”
I didn’t like where this was heading. “I doubt it,” I said, trying to estimate how big Evans was. At least a hundred pounds heavier than me.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I suddenly realized that all of Evans’s friends were behind me. “Should we find out?” Evans asked.
It was probably just ritual hazing, though the other freshmen weren’t being bothered. Maybe they had already been harassed and figured out the secret code to be left alone.
“I think we all know the answer,” another guy called “Brewer” said. “Kid probably can’t even take a light tap without crying like a pussy.”
“Probably,” Evans agreed. “You agree, shrimp?”
I said nothing. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.
Evans grabbed my upper arm and started squeezing. “Say it,” he said. “Admit you’re a pussy.”
I gritted my teeth to keep from screaming as he squeezed harder. I wasn’t sure what to do. If I did what he wanted, it would be an admission of weakness and they would keep beating on me. If I didn’t, they’d probably punch me and prove that I was weak.
He kept squeezing harder, trying to force an answer out of me. I knew there would be bruises there, and I wondered if he was strong enough to break my arm just by squeezing it. I was biting the inside of my cheek now. My mouth filled with blood but I still made no noise. I could tolerate it. I was tough enough. I would show them I was strong.
I still don’t know how long we stood there except that it was long enough for me to consider giving in. But just before I gave up, another voice spoke up. “Hey, let him go!”
Everyone turned to look at the interloper. It was a freshman with glasses who I vaguely recognized as being in my math class.
“You got a problem, fag boy?” Evans asked.
The boy didn’t seem upset. “Yeah,” he said. “I have a problem. Let him go.”
The seniors all glared at him, but he didn’t flinch. Finally, after a tense moment, Evans let go.
“This isn’t over, shrimp,” he hissed. “Just cause your boyfriend saved your sorry ass doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.”
The seniors wandered off. I grabbed my street clothes and changed quickly, not looking at the guy who had intervened. I tried to remember his name and eventually came up with “Love Hog,” though that couldn’t possibly be right.
He didn’t seem to mind that I was ignoring him. He sat down on the bench, keeping an eye on the seniors. After a moment, though, he looked at me. “You okay?” he asked quietly.
“Fine,” I lied. My arm still hurt a lot, but I knew it would stop soon.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I can take worse than that.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So you would’ve let him rupture all your veins?”
“Why do you care?” I asked.
“I just don’t like strong people picking on…not as strong people. Strength should be used to help others and defend the weak.”
“So you’re saying I’m weak?”
“No!” he said quickly. “Of course not! I’m just saying that bigger people shouldn’t pick on smaller people just because they can…” He broke off. “I’m not helping myself, am I?”
I couldn’t be mad at him. “No,” I said. “But thanks anyway.”
He smiled. “My name’s Linkara.”
It seemed rude not to answer him. “My name is Spoony.”
“Wanna be my lifting partner?” he asked. “I mean, if you’re staying on the team…”
I looked over at the seniors. They were still horsing around and being obnoxious, but maybe if I worked hard enough…
“Sure,” I said. “But Coach says I have to come in at 5:30 to catch up a bit…”
“That’s fine,” he said. “I was going to ask to come in early anyway. But don’t feel obligated to stick around because of me…”
“If I quit now, that’ll just prove their point. If I get back up and try to be stronger, eventually they’ll give it up.”
Linkara nodded. “Okay,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”
*
If I was going to prove my own strength, lifting weights in the same room as all the people who hassled me probably wasn’t the best way to do that.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t any other place I could go, so I had to go in. Fortunately, since I got there half an hour before everyone else, I had a good excuse to already look exhausted when the other guys came in, and even once they got there, they were all too focused on their own workouts to pay attention to me. Well, except Linkara, but he wasn’t going to make fun of me.
I was a bit surprised to learn that, in spite of the fact that he was quite a bit heavier than me, Linkara wasn’t much stronger, proportionally. I didn’t comment, but he noticed my expression.
“I know,” he said when he set the weights. “I’m trying to get better, but…it’s not easy for me.”
“So those guys yesterday don’t know?”
“People assume I’m strong because of my size,” Linkara said. “So either I’m incredibly weak or you’re a lot stronger than you look.”
I grinned ruefully. “Can’t be the second one,” I said.
Linkara shrugged. “You never know,” he said.
We finished our workout in silence. By the time we were done, my entire body was aching, but Coach Ogreski said that was a good sign. “No pain, no gain,” he said, laughing like he was the first genius who ever thought that one up.
If I was going to have to listen to any more stupid clichés, I was going to puke.
Linkara rolled his eyes and limped back to the locker room with me. “How’s your arm?” he asked, glancing at the bruises Evans had left.
“Fine,” I said. It wasn’t, but I wasn’t going to say it.
I don’t think he believed me, but he didn’t say anything. We showered and changed quickly, avoiding eye contact with everyone and ignoring all the shouts and insults flying around. None of them seemed to be directed at us, so it was pretty easy to get out of the room without incident.
“See you in math,” Linkara said as we separated. I nodded and headed into my first period English class.
Truth be told, all of my classes were really boring and difficult and I wasn’t sure which led to the next. Or maybe they both stemmed from the fact that I didn’t care about anything I was being taught. This was further compounded when Miss Cory passed out copies of “The Standard Boring Short Stories that Federal Law Requires Every High School Freshman to Read Whether They Like It or Not.” (Okay, that wasn’t the real title, but the real title was even more asinine.)
“We’ll be studying one story each week for the next four weeks,” Miss Cory said. “And for the fifth week, you’ll be put into lit circles and in the sixth week, each group will present one of the last five stories.” She looked deeply unhappy that this was going to take six weeks, though that was nothing compared to how I felt about it. “So let’s start with ‘The Most Dangerous Game.’”
Next
I rolled my eyes, but subtly. I’ve always had a low opinion of wrestling coaches (well, sports coaches of any kind), but Coach Ogreski lowered my opinion even more. Fortunately, I was sitting behind a very large senior so he didn’t notice. Because seriously, who talks like that?
It was my own fault, really, being stuck on a wrestling team with a semi-illiterate coach. When we moved to Prosaica a month after I started my freshman year of high school, I had made it very clear that I wasn’t going to participate in any form of institutionalized hazing, otherwise known as extracurricular activities.
Dad didn’t like that attitude, so he signed me up for the sport I was least likely to succeed at, possibly in the hopes that I would be so miserable that I would voluntarily sign up for something else.
Or maybe my dad’s secretly a sadist or something.
“So let’s get you put into your weight classes!”
We shuffled into the weight room as a herd. Some of the older guys were jabbering and being way too loud in general, but most of us were silent, being already exhausted from school.
“Stand over there and be quiet for fifteen minutes!” Coach Ogreski shouted. I was quickly learning that the man had no indoor voice. “It’ll be faster without your inane babbling! Okay…Antwiler!”
Of course I was first. So everyone would see my skinny, unmuscled body. I held my head up and stepped forward. There was an outbreak of mocking laughter the moment the other guys saw me, but I ignored it. Maybe I’d get lucky and Coach Ogreski would reject me for being too small.
I stepped onto the scale, not even bothering to look at what it said. I knew my weight-109. It was a constant source of worry for my mom, in spite of the doctor’s assurances that I’d start gaining weight once I finished my next growth spurt.
Coach Ogreski raised his eyebrows at me. “Have you ever wrestled before?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“Thought not. Step down. Brewer!”
I stepped off the scale and disappeared to the back of the room, hearing the sniggers and whispers all around me. I wondered briefly if any of them would be in my weight class. Probably not.
The rest of the team weighed in and we then listened to a very boring lecture on maintaining or losing weight. By the time Coach Ogreski was finished, the scheduled practice time was over, so we were sent back to the locker room to shower and change.
Coach Ogreski stopped me as I left. “What are you doing here, Antwiler?”
“Sir?” I asked, confused.
“You’re not made to be a wrestler. You’re a 109 pound shrimp and you have no muscle to speak of. So what are you doing on this team?”
I didn’t know how to answer except for the truth. “My dad wanted me to try something new, sir.”
Coach Ogreski considered me for a moment. “Okay, Antwiler, here’s the deal. I have one other guy in your weight class and he’s still ten pounds heavier than you. So you can stay on the team, but I expect you to gain ten pounds and to be in the weight room an extra half-hour before school every day. I’ll let you in at 5:30, so find a partner and be there. Understood?”
I nodded, even though I knew that gaining ten pounds was going to be impossible and finding a lifting partner willing to be at school at 5:30 AM was going to be even more impossible.
“Now get out of here.”
I scurried past Coach Ogreski and into the locker room. Most of the other guys were just horsing around and making snide comments at the younger boys. I tried to slip past unseen, but I wasn’t that lucky.
“Hey, shrimp!” one of the senior boys, whose I remembered had been called “Evans,” shouted at me. I ignored him. “Hey, I’m talking to you!” I still ignored him. He stomped over to me and grabbed my shoulder, whirling me around to face him. “When I talk to you, you answer!” he snapped.
“Didn’t know you were talking to me,” I said. “Since you didn’t use my name.”
He glared. “Your name doesn’t matter, shrimp. You know I’m talking to you, you answer.”
“Sorry,” I muttered. “What did you want?”
He smirked at me. “Want to know if you can take a punch or if you’re really as pathetic as you look.”
I didn’t like where this was heading. “I doubt it,” I said, trying to estimate how big Evans was. At least a hundred pounds heavier than me.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I suddenly realized that all of Evans’s friends were behind me. “Should we find out?” Evans asked.
It was probably just ritual hazing, though the other freshmen weren’t being bothered. Maybe they had already been harassed and figured out the secret code to be left alone.
“I think we all know the answer,” another guy called “Brewer” said. “Kid probably can’t even take a light tap without crying like a pussy.”
“Probably,” Evans agreed. “You agree, shrimp?”
I said nothing. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.
Evans grabbed my upper arm and started squeezing. “Say it,” he said. “Admit you’re a pussy.”
I gritted my teeth to keep from screaming as he squeezed harder. I wasn’t sure what to do. If I did what he wanted, it would be an admission of weakness and they would keep beating on me. If I didn’t, they’d probably punch me and prove that I was weak.
He kept squeezing harder, trying to force an answer out of me. I knew there would be bruises there, and I wondered if he was strong enough to break my arm just by squeezing it. I was biting the inside of my cheek now. My mouth filled with blood but I still made no noise. I could tolerate it. I was tough enough. I would show them I was strong.
I still don’t know how long we stood there except that it was long enough for me to consider giving in. But just before I gave up, another voice spoke up. “Hey, let him go!”
Everyone turned to look at the interloper. It was a freshman with glasses who I vaguely recognized as being in my math class.
“You got a problem, fag boy?” Evans asked.
The boy didn’t seem upset. “Yeah,” he said. “I have a problem. Let him go.”
The seniors all glared at him, but he didn’t flinch. Finally, after a tense moment, Evans let go.
“This isn’t over, shrimp,” he hissed. “Just cause your boyfriend saved your sorry ass doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.”
The seniors wandered off. I grabbed my street clothes and changed quickly, not looking at the guy who had intervened. I tried to remember his name and eventually came up with “Love Hog,” though that couldn’t possibly be right.
He didn’t seem to mind that I was ignoring him. He sat down on the bench, keeping an eye on the seniors. After a moment, though, he looked at me. “You okay?” he asked quietly.
“Fine,” I lied. My arm still hurt a lot, but I knew it would stop soon.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I can take worse than that.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So you would’ve let him rupture all your veins?”
“Why do you care?” I asked.
“I just don’t like strong people picking on…not as strong people. Strength should be used to help others and defend the weak.”
“So you’re saying I’m weak?”
“No!” he said quickly. “Of course not! I’m just saying that bigger people shouldn’t pick on smaller people just because they can…” He broke off. “I’m not helping myself, am I?”
I couldn’t be mad at him. “No,” I said. “But thanks anyway.”
He smiled. “My name’s Linkara.”
It seemed rude not to answer him. “My name is Spoony.”
“Wanna be my lifting partner?” he asked. “I mean, if you’re staying on the team…”
I looked over at the seniors. They were still horsing around and being obnoxious, but maybe if I worked hard enough…
“Sure,” I said. “But Coach says I have to come in at 5:30 to catch up a bit…”
“That’s fine,” he said. “I was going to ask to come in early anyway. But don’t feel obligated to stick around because of me…”
“If I quit now, that’ll just prove their point. If I get back up and try to be stronger, eventually they’ll give it up.”
Linkara nodded. “Okay,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”
*
If I was going to prove my own strength, lifting weights in the same room as all the people who hassled me probably wasn’t the best way to do that.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t any other place I could go, so I had to go in. Fortunately, since I got there half an hour before everyone else, I had a good excuse to already look exhausted when the other guys came in, and even once they got there, they were all too focused on their own workouts to pay attention to me. Well, except Linkara, but he wasn’t going to make fun of me.
I was a bit surprised to learn that, in spite of the fact that he was quite a bit heavier than me, Linkara wasn’t much stronger, proportionally. I didn’t comment, but he noticed my expression.
“I know,” he said when he set the weights. “I’m trying to get better, but…it’s not easy for me.”
“So those guys yesterday don’t know?”
“People assume I’m strong because of my size,” Linkara said. “So either I’m incredibly weak or you’re a lot stronger than you look.”
I grinned ruefully. “Can’t be the second one,” I said.
Linkara shrugged. “You never know,” he said.
We finished our workout in silence. By the time we were done, my entire body was aching, but Coach Ogreski said that was a good sign. “No pain, no gain,” he said, laughing like he was the first genius who ever thought that one up.
If I was going to have to listen to any more stupid clichés, I was going to puke.
Linkara rolled his eyes and limped back to the locker room with me. “How’s your arm?” he asked, glancing at the bruises Evans had left.
“Fine,” I said. It wasn’t, but I wasn’t going to say it.
I don’t think he believed me, but he didn’t say anything. We showered and changed quickly, avoiding eye contact with everyone and ignoring all the shouts and insults flying around. None of them seemed to be directed at us, so it was pretty easy to get out of the room without incident.
“See you in math,” Linkara said as we separated. I nodded and headed into my first period English class.
Truth be told, all of my classes were really boring and difficult and I wasn’t sure which led to the next. Or maybe they both stemmed from the fact that I didn’t care about anything I was being taught. This was further compounded when Miss Cory passed out copies of “The Standard Boring Short Stories that Federal Law Requires Every High School Freshman to Read Whether They Like It or Not.” (Okay, that wasn’t the real title, but the real title was even more asinine.)
“We’ll be studying one story each week for the next four weeks,” Miss Cory said. “And for the fifth week, you’ll be put into lit circles and in the sixth week, each group will present one of the last five stories.” She looked deeply unhappy that this was going to take six weeks, though that was nothing compared to how I felt about it. “So let’s start with ‘The Most Dangerous Game.’”
Next