Week 10, Prompt 1 of 3

51. Just calm down and begin at the beginning.

Satisfying.  Feeling his jaw give under my clenched fist, his head snapping back, his teeth making a clipped sound as they clicked together; all I could think of was how satisfying it felt to do it.  "Hey!" he cried out in protest, everything in slow motion in my mind’s eye, watching his body being pushed back by the force of my fist.  Blood trickled from his lip.  "Hey!" he said again, as I moved, eyes wide in horror with what I had done, the satisfaction washing away, leaving behind disbelief.  Me, ME, the goody two-shoes, the girl who had cried when she got her one and only school detention (late homework) in sixth grade.  Me, hitting my best friend.  My jaw slackened in horror.

I turned from him, from the sound of the air letting out of his mouth, from the stumbling of his feet as he fell backwards, feet trying to find balance after suddenly and unexpectedly losing it.  I looked at my clenched fist, the horror growing along with the realization of what I had done, realizing the possible repercussions.  Let alone the possible retribution.

And retribution was swift, not from him, but from his best friend, no friend of mine, who came out of nowhere, a dark blur, tackling me from the side like a football player.  We fell against the bleachers, crashing into them, his body on top of mine.  I think I would have felt the pain of the collision more, but the slow motion unrolling of events leave me stunned and unable to think clearly.

….

“Come on everyone, let’s line up!”  Our science teacher waits for us to get into some semblance of order before taking us to the gym.  Excited whispers ring up and down the hall, in anticipation of what’s to come.  This is meant to be a treat for us, something to look forward to.  The gym room and anything that has ever happened in the gym room has never meant any good for me.  How can teachers think that something like dodge ball, a game of the strong torturing the weak, could be anything other than misery?  That to some of us in the crowd, the excited whispers of fellow classmates sound more like hungry wolves fighting over choice pieces of meat, rather than students looking forward to a bit of exercise?

And at this particular sport, I have somehow always been blessed and cursed.  Cursed; always having weak arms, pathetic throws.  While volleys of yellow foam fly past my face, I never bother trying to reach out and catch one, to throw one back.  Such attempts would only end in failure.  Perhaps, it would be easier to let them hit me, but my stubborn pride always gets in the way.  They’re all horrible to me; I can never bring myself to give them the satisfaction of “getting” me.

But there is a silver lining to the cloud.  Despite my lack of catching and throwing finesse, I am somehow a dodging genius.  I have always hated being hit with flying objects, to the point where I become as flexible and fast as a martial arts movie star, twisting and bending, feeling the wind of high speed weapons just centimeters from my face.  I’m shameless when I play, too.  I’ll stand behind anyone, using them as a shield.  I’ll pretend to be out and just watching, so as to become an uninteresting target.  On several occasions I have been the last person standing on my team.  But, like I said, this seems to be my only talent.  In the end I’m left with a sea of unfriendly faces, waiting for me to make a wrong move.

….

My friend’s name is Lewis, but we all call him “Chip”.  He’s one of my few friends here, one of the few people I can rely on to be kind to me at this school.  I can’t stand his best friend, Ben, but Chip has such an easy-going, kind nature that it’s hard not to like him.  We have simple conversations, laugh and joke about nothing in particular.  There’s a sense of fondness and warmth when I see his smile.  Somewhat unreliable and absentminded, nonetheless he is someone I can believe in.  Not like with the others, whom I fear and distrust.

….

We’re on the same team for this game.  That doesn’t matter for dodge ball though.  The painful intensity of the game means every person for themselves, in my mind.  The energy is high; I’m barely avoiding being hit as the volleys begin.  I feel my mind getting more stirred up as the game progresses.  Some classmates shout mean things at me, goading each other to “get me”.  I become more worked up, more anxious, as the game progresses.

Brian, a member of the opposing team, leaves the “jail” created for those already tagged by a ball.  He’s always had a particular mean streak for me.  He picks it up and hurls it at me.  I feel it tagging my side, and my vision is filled with red.  The unfairness of it all, how dare he, it didn’t count!  All this is pulsing through my mind as I go to tell the teacher, too full of pride to let this go, storming off to the sidelines.

And then there’s Chip, silly old Chip, who, without really thinking, points at me and calls out “ha ha, you’re out!”  Something snaps.  I turn to him and without a single thought deck him in the mouth as hard as I can, all that anger, all that red, finding its target in the foolish friend pointing at me.

And then suddenly Ben is tackling me, hurling us both towards the bleachers.  Miraculously, though, before the situation can continue to move in this ominous direction, the teacher is calling us to line up, not even noticing this violent little drama that has been playing out in front of him.

….

We have science next, and I’m scared of what’s to come.  I usually sit across from Chip; how can I look him in the eye?  Kids in the hall start calling me “the Thumper”, a nickname that ends up only sticking for the day.  They have my card, they know that will probably be the first and last time I ever hit someone in anger.

Sitting down across from Chip, a lump forms in my throat.  I have a speech of apology vaguely prepared.  “Chip – I’m so sorry-” I can’t quite think of a good line to toss at him though.

But he gives me his same old goofy smile and says, “Naw, don’t worry about it.”  Ah, easy, too easy!  How could someone let something go so quickly?  For me, all the slights I have received at this school are like tattoos of hurt that won’t wash away.  I blink back tears.  “Friends again?” I ask, the surprise slipping out.  “Yeah,” he says, like we were just talking about lunch or the weather, “friends.”