Underdog

Underdog

(2-5-08)

All eyes are on me.

Around me, fists pump in slow motion, leaving flesh-toned trails across the air through which they slash. Faces contort in concentration, amusement; mouths utter cries I cannot hear. Around me feet are stomping and people are shouting and bets are being placed. All around me the world is circling my path like a drunken sea of bodies. All around me there is chaos, and inside only calm.

Inside all the world’s frenzy is one dull, submerged pulse- iambic pentameter wired through my skull and into my ears. Inside me rivers course and boil like geysers into red skies. My body is a molten earth unto itself, a churning presence, awoken. Inside, all I feel is fuel, I am this infernal engine, and all I see is red.

Now in that split second that molten world awakens, and the halo of chaos around me is suddenly clamoring so fast I can’t keep up. And through my red-tinted world, I see shoving and laughing and disbelieving stares, smell the reek of teenage adrenaline leaking sympathy from so many glands. I taste the bitter spice of sweat running down my face, and then Marcus swings at me again. His knuckles dig into my cheekbone true as blunted arrows, and I fall backward until my head smacks into cold steel.

For a second everything is black and then the world is swimming. I stand up and something thicker than sweat runs down the back of my neck. It’s matting in my buzz of kinky black hair, trickling past my shirt collar and onward. Somewhere, someone named Robert Carter’s head is bleeding. But right here, right now, I’m not feeling anything except my feet pumping under me, thrusting me like a jouster with bared fists straight back at Marcus.

Marcus is twice my size easy, but with all the momentum and rage I aim at him, he goes down too. Once he’s on the ground, I don’t make the mistake of letting him get back up. Once he’s down, I slam my fists into his face, stomach, and sides over and over, until my knuckles are swollen and numb from bone on bone collision, saved by only those thin layers of skin. I hit him until my hands look like smashed chocolate covered cherries, and then I stand up, and kick him once, twice, three times. And then, then I close my eyes hard and I breathe, and when I open my eyes, the world isn’t monochromic anymore.

Around me people are cheering, or cussing, or starting to walk away. Marcus is nothing, now- just a heap of person lying in the hallway. Looking at him makes me hope he’s unconscious. I wouldn’t want anyone to have to be awake after that. My body still doesn’t hurt. My body, if it’s still here, is void of nerves. I start to walk away from all of them, and soon enough Robert Carter walks back into my skin. He tells me Marcus had it coming, and not to worry about it. But his voice is shaking more than my hands are, and he’s not very convincing.

The third period bell rings, and I start walking to Ms. Dunham’s room, but before I get there two cops sidle up to me and point me back the way I came, all square mustaches and harsh looks. They march me through the door of the deans’ office, and sit me in a chair. And ten minutes later I’m still sitting there, and Marcus comes in too, sitting across the little dank room from me. Marcus won’t look at me. He probably couldn’t anyway; his eyes are almost swollen shut. The lady at the front desk looks from big bold Marcus to little old me, and she almost laughs. You wouldn’t think a little guy with glasses could do that to a guy like Marcus.

I didn’t just punch that guy for no reason, you know. I know I’ll have a big tough rep by the end of the day. I know no guy like Marcus is ever going to shove me into a locker or stick my head in a toilet ever again. I figure I won’t have to deal with another wisecrack or be compared to a cookie for the rest of the year, at least.

Despite that, I wasn’t trying to prove a point when this whole thing started. Minutes- though it seems like weeks- ago, I was just trying to go to English. Same as I do every day. I guess you can only push one guy so far until he walks out and lets someone else take over. The thing is, that someone else might just be a lot bigger and meaner than the guy who walks away. It’s not like it’s something you can control. It’s not like you ever really have to. But I think for some people, it can get to control them. I just don’t want to be one of those people. All I wanted was to go to English.