I stiffen. This is exactly why I don’t wanna be outside. My two friends turn to the street.
A blue Honda Accord is slowing down. The open windows reveal three just-graduated seniors with nothing better to do. The car keeps cruising, emitting wild laughter.
Come back at the end of the summer, I think to myself, and I’ll kick all your asses.
That thought helps keeps my anger down inside. Also knowing that the shout was loud enough to reach Dad.
Now I shout to him in Spanish. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes!” he shouts back.
Good. Maybe he’ll stop thinking the tragedy is all in my head.
“Thanks a lot for the hookup,” Enzo says. “See you soon, I hope.”
“Sure thing,” I say.
I’ll see him in the lunchroom on the first day of school, when I’m no longer the stick he talked to at the party or the bitchslapped kid on the video.
“Six weeks without you.” Miguel opens his arms wide. “Bring it in.”
My best friend’s idea of fun is making things awkward. Most times it’s funny.
“We don’t gotta hug,” I tell him. “Don’t be weird.”
“We’ve been friends since fifth grade. It would be weird not to hug.”
Maybe he’s right. His whole family is huggy, the men too. My dad became more huggy when Mom died, but I’m not used to touching guys with my whole body that way.
Miguel keeps his arms splayed all ta-da, like he just pulled off a magic trick. “You’re leaving me hanging.”
Enzo is cracking up. Most school guys would. Around here, you’re more likely to find teenage boys fighting than hugging.
“I’m not even sure you wanna hug. It’s like you get a kick out of making me uncomfortable.”
“We love each other, don’t we? So of course I wanna hug,” Miguel says. “Are you afraid it’s not manly or something?”
Well, according to lots of people, it isn’t. I guess that’s why I’m so uncomfortable. It’s like ever since I was seven or eight, when girls became gross and supposedly too beneath us to mix with, I’ve been trying to hang onto my boy status.
It’s so easy for guys to strip that status from you. Just be too scared or weak to do something, like hop a fence, and you’re not a guy anymore.
But me and Miguel aren’t that way with each other. So here I go.
I hug him real quick.
“See?” Miguel says. “Was that so bad?”
“No, not bad.” And it’s true. Miguel grabs me by the shoulders and looks intensely at me. “Now look deep into my eyes and tell me that you love me.”
Enzo cracks up. It sort of makes me smile too.
I do look Miguel deep into his eyes, but I say something else entirely. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m going to miss your weirdness.”
7
Eighty days until school begins
STEPPING INTO the gym is a huge relief, and not just because today is the hottest day so far this summer. It’s because the weight I lift will finally prove I’ve gotten stronger.
Mirrors and other reflective surfaces have been useless but numbers don’t lie.
I give Alpha and Tower a quick nod as I walk past them. The gangsta hip-hop in my headphones insulates me. Helps me forget about who might be watching me, lifting more than me, looking down on me.
Plus there’s no better gym music than a hard beat with braggy and angry lyrics. Rappers talking about doing what they want, getting what they want, and what could happen to you if you try to get in their way.
I head to the same duct-taped bench as last Saturday. For the warm-up, I start with just the bar like last time. Damn, this thing is heavy. The fifteen reps I do feel pretty much the same.
No biggie. The warm-up is just to get the blood flowing into the muscles, loosen them up to do real work. I add the same small plates, one on each side. If I did nine reps last time, I’m thinking fifteen today. Fifteen easy ones, because overdoing it is a bad idea. For my next set I’ll add even more weight. Van Nelson and Natural Nathan on YouTube both recommend this, pyramid sets.
With Eminem screaming over a beat, I lie back on the bench, slide under the bar, and grip it. Raise it off the rack.
Fuck. This feels as heavy as last time. I ignore that. Count off the reps to the beat of the song. By the time I get to four, I’m pretty sure I won’t see fifteen. The ninth rep is brutal, has me panicking. For the tenth I grit my teeth, channeling all my anger into my trembling arms to push this bar up.
One more rep than last time? My brain tells me to rack this weight hovering over me, but fuck that. I’m doing fifteen. Even if I gotta grunt through the reps. Even if I gotta throw up from the exertion afterward. I’m hitting fifteen no matter what.
I need more anger. Instead of beating myself up like the chest-pounding Superman before every set, I beat myself up mentally. Think back to Ricky’s slap and that high-pitched cackle on that video that went viral, the video everyone has seen and will remember unless I get stronger and bigger.
My knuckles go white from squeezing the bar.
I lower it, my chest tensing as it touches down above my nipples. Then I push it out, inching it up halfway. The bar wavers and trembles above me. Without Alpha shouting insults at me like he does for Tower, I think them to myself.
Come on, Bitchslap David! You pussy! You loser!
But my arms give out, and the bar comes slamming down on my chest.
“Don’t do that!” I hear over my music.
Alpha snatches the bar up with one hand and racks it.
I sit up and slide the headphones down around my neck. Feel myself go red from both humiliation and rage.
“Always get a spot when you do sets to exhaustion,” Alpha says in a stern voice. “Always. You don’t wanna get hurt and I don’t want a liability.”
“I wasn’t going until exhaustion. I was gonna do fifteen easily.”
I get up, more interested in the weight I’ve lifted than in Alpha. What the fuck is going on? Where is the bar I used last time? The lighter one. Because there’s no way that was the same bar as last time.
I inspect the one on the incline bench. It’s the same length with the same thick cyclindrical ends. I lift it an inch off the rack. Yep, it weighs the same too. My eyes roam, searching for the right bar.
“You have to follow the rules if you wanna work out here,” Alpha says. “Hey, where are you going?”
I weave through the equipment to look at the barbell angled on the corner of the wall—which also looks the same. It must be hollow, which means it weighs less, which means it’s the one I used before. That’s the only explanation. But it feels the same in my hands. A deep ache settles in my stomach.
Alpha asks, “Are you even listening, Little Man?”
I whip around to face him and Tower, who have both followed me over here.
“Sure, Alpha,” I say. “Sorry about that. I just didn’t realize the bar I used last time was lighter.” I can’t let go of hope.
“They all weigh the same.”
“They can’t,” I insist.
I’ve been doing everything right at the gym. At home, I’ve been getting enough calories, hitting my macros, the right ratio of carbs, fat, and protein.