Prologue
IT SUCKS being the skinniest guy at Culler High. If kids rag on me when I’m fully clothed, just imagine their joy when I whip my shirt off, exposing my stickman physique. That’s why I rush to PE and change before anybody shows up. It’s why I volunteer to be ball boy every semester. After Coach Carlson’s final whistle sends everybody else running to the locker room, I take my time herding the soccer balls in the Florida heat.
Today, the last day of my junior year, it’s no different. By the time I’m carrying a net bag of soccer balls through the doorway, the locker room is mostly abandoned. The last of the boys are turning in their uniforms and padlocks to Coach.
I swing the bag off my shoulder and drop it into the large metal basket. Then I walk deep back into the last row of lockers. Nobody’s around. Lucky me. I spin the combination into the lock and open the metal door for the last time this year. I grab the bottom of my sweaty Culler High Cougars T-shirt and start peeling it off.
The moment it’s almost over my head, pain explodes inside the left side of my face.
Someone punched me! What the hell?
The vented blue doors around me go blurry and the T-shirt falls to the floor.
I tip sideways, then back, then forward, my legs trying to find balance. Next thing I know I’m on the floor—my stomach, chest, and half my face cold.
The stench of teenage sweat and feet is way stronger down here.
There’s a high-pitched cackle—Ricky’s trademark laugh. I could pick him out from about a million idiots, just from that sound.
I strain to lift my head and catch a glimpse of Ricky’s grin through my blurry vision before he turns to leave.
Though Ricky might lift weights, he’s not what you’d consider muscular at a wiry 5'8". He’s not even the in-your-face bully who puts hands on you, from what I’ve seen. He just makes fun of people, like when he cracks on Ricardo’s fat rolls when we change. He nicknamed me Fuckstick that one time he saw my bony torso which got others in PE using that nickname. But from that to punching me?
I mean, sometimes I get shoved against lockers and kicked and punched in the arm real hard, but never by Ricky, and never in the face.
As the bell announces the official end of school this year, I check for blood. Nothing on my fingers.
I push myself up off the floor and stand, still dazed and super confused. A real guy would shake it off and go after Ricky, beat his ass good. What can I do though? Not a damn thing.
I’m not saying that to seem less like a wimp or anything. It’s just that, at my size, all I can do is shake it off. Forget the whole thing and try to move on with my life.
I remember what my mom used to say whenever we had a bad turn of luck: things could always be worse. So even though my head is wobbly, my cheek stings, and my shoulder somehow aches, I can find the silver lining.
At least it was only one punch.
At least there’s no blood.
At least I don’t gotta deal with more bullying for three months.
At least nobody saw it happen.
1
HOURS LATER, in the safety of home, I still haven’t shoved the whole Ricky incident outta my head. Enough worrying about it, I tell myself. Technically, Ricky punched me last school year. Now it’s officially summer: three worry-free months ahead of me. I get amped about that, about tonight especially, the fun that begins just as soon as I change into formal clothes.
I put on my black slacks and take in the bare torso in the mirror. A recent four-inch growth spurt has put me at six feet. Tall is good, but that upward stretch has enhanced my skinniness like when you pull apart taffy. Why couldn’t I have grown the other way too?
I slip my arms through the sleeves of my white dress shirt, covering up my knobby shoulders. I button it from the top, hiding my bird chest and pokey ribs. My twig arms are also hidden—I love that about long sleeves.
I consider my reflection. My girlfriend, Karina, often wears black because she says it has a slimming effect, so I figured this shirt, the opposite color, would help me out some by giving me the illusion of bulk. Nope.
That’s right. I, David Espinoza, have a girlfriend. Me, the guy who, as of today, has experienced every known form of bullying known to man. We’ve been going out for four months now.
The other miracle of this year is that I’m going to my first real party. You know, the high school kind—with alcohol and fun, not cake and parents. It’s a big deal, the end-of-the year party the whole school has been talking about.
Actually, it’s Karina who got invited, by her friend Emily in drama club, and I’m tagging along with Karina, just like my best friend Miguel is tagging along with Karina’s best friend. But still.
If only I can figure out how to knot this tie so it’s the right length.
“Come on,” I tell myself, “the third time’s a charm.”
Nope. Too short. I give it a fourth, more careful try. Really take my time.
The damn thing droops two inches past my belt.
I take a deep breath to keep my anger at bay. Most of the time, I catch it before it grabs hold of me.
Fifth try, here we go. I grit my teeth as I tighten the knot and slide it up to the collar: about three inches too short again. I could sell used cars like this, but it’s not okay for a party.
“Stupid fucking tie,” I say under my breath.
I pull it over my head and fling it across the room. It twists in the air and lands on my small bed.
What a stupid invention! A bit of fancy fabric to dangle around your neck, serving no purpose. And why have a dress code for a house party? I mean, who does that? We’re not actors going to the Oscars.
And why am I even going? If I get harassed at school when adults are nearby, supposedly watching out, what might happen when it’s only kids around?
Right away Ricky pops into my head again. My blood simmers and I start pacing.
Ellis comes to mind, this brace-faced guy who flipped my food tray over last week. The ketchup on my face and shirt entertained the hell out of everybody who saw it, their laughter loud enough to draw the attention of half the lunchroom. When Mr. Trevors walked over to ask what happened I told him I’d tripped.
I remember last month in history before the teacher showed up, when Julian hit me in the head with a marker from across the room. “Bring it back to me, or I’ll beat the shit outta you.” I did, walking all those steps while every eyeball in the room followed me.
This is how it happens. A horrible thought or memory drifts into my head. Another attaches to it, pulling another one behind, and so on, until I’m clenching my teeth and fists, pacing and wanting to kick some serious ass.
That’s where my thoughts end up every time.
I come to a stop and find myself facing the Nightchaser movie poster hanging on my door. Van Nelson, the star of the movie, has a fierce scowl on his face. Plus muscles to back it up. He uses them in the best fight scene of all time, at the end of the movie when he gets revenge on those guys who tried to frame him.
So when my thoughts land on Ricky again, the sucker-punching bully materializes right here in my room. He’s standing above me, cackling like the idiot he is.
You messed with the wrong guy, Ricky.
I throw two left jabs to his face followed by a hard right hook. A strong kick to the chest splats him against the wall.