Students cluster outside the band room, waiting for lunch to end, because nothing better happens in junior high than standing around, watching someone get humiliated. Two boys play keep away with Will Findley’s glasses. Brock, the rounder one, dangles them high, like a prize Will will never win. Will jumps, nearly snags them, but Brock hurls them over his head into the hands of his fellow gremlin.
The lankier gremlin—Cody—shuffles next to me, hands behind his back like he’s about to perform some magic trick. Will steps forward, extends his hand. His fingers twitch, waiting.
“What do you want?” Cody asks.
Will doesn’t answer. Just stares at his imitation Chucks, where his big toe waves at us through a hole in the shoe. His entire existence smells like week-old gym socks and whatever it is that lingers in the fabric of clothes you’ve worn for too many days straight. His oily hair flops over his eyes. He tucks it behind his ear, rocks on his heels.
Still, nothing.
I swallow. “I—I think Will wants his glasses.”
Cody grins. Punches me in the shoulder, which is his way of saying, “You’re involved now, doofus.”
“Then give them back.”
Brock shifts his weight, tugs at the bottom of his too-snug concert T-shirt like it’ll suddenly stretch over his belly. He wants in on this.
“Quit messing with him,” Brock says. “Just give the guy his glasses.” His breath hits me, thick with the stench of tobacco and spit, like he’s marinated in it. The brown juice pooling between his gums and lower lip isn’t helping.
I mutter, “Just give him the glasses.”
Cody scoffs. “O’Connell, stop acting innocent. We know you have them.”
That’s when I feel the weight of the crowd pressing in. The air gets heavier. Cody and Brock don’t need to convince anyone of anything—they just need an audience. And now they have one.
Brock raises his voice. “O’Connell stole Will’s glasses.”
Cody’s grin spreads like oil on pavement. “And he won’t give them back.”
Someone snickers. Someone else mutters, “Dude.” A few others inch closer.
“What do you think Will should do?” Cody asks.
A different voice. “O’Connell’s a wimp. I bet Will could whop him.”
Cody nods like this is a revelation. “You know, I think you’re right.” He turns back to Will, cups a hand to his mouth but still makes sure we all hear: “You should beat him up, Will.”
My stomach flips. I scan the crowd for a way out. “Guys, come on. Just leave us alone.”
No one reacts. No one moves. They all just watch.
“I—don’t—have—Will’s—glasses.”
Cody slings an arm over Will’s shoulder like they’re best friends. “He won’t give them back, Will. What are you going to do about it?”
Brock leans in, whispers, “Hit him.”
Cody, louder: “Hit him.”
The chant starts like an earthquake rumbling underground.
“Hit him. Hit him. Hit him. Hit him.”
Will shifts. One step forward. One step back. His eyes dart toward the crowd, like he’s looking for an escape route. I’m looking too. But then he moves toward Cody and Brock. The gap between them. His way out.
They close in.
The chant pounds against my skull.
“Hit him! Hit him! Hit him!”
Will lifts his hand. Drops it. Looks at the mob. At me. And then—
He does it.
Just one slap.
But I feel it everywhere.
This is my defining moment in junior high. I’ve heard that cool heads prevail, but can I keep mine? Can I keep my head with all this nonsense suffocating me?
Years of crap I’ve shoved down, stuffed inside my stomach, churn and gurgle and grow, expanding into my chest, stretching into my throat, pressing behind my eyes. Heat surges, past my ribs, past my heart, up, up, up.
Don’t let it out. Don’t let it out.
The stunned mob waits for the explosion. Will and I just stare at each other. My body trembles. I force the heat back down, but it doesn’t want to go.
“He’s so red,” a girl whispers. “About to explode.”
And that’s when it happens.
All the names. The rumors. The jokes. The humiliations. They rise, uncoiling from where I buried them, first in the corners of my eyes, spilling out in silent, salty drips. Then more. And more. Until the rage that has been hiding in the deepest part of me pushes through my left nostril and dribbles onto my lips.
Check out my poem based on the similar themes.
