Bullied

CHAPTER ELEVEN

But I didn’t want to figure it out that day. I went home, had a quick bite to eat, which in this case meant finishing off the bag of chips I found in my parents’ booze-ridden pantry, and then I went to my room and stayed there. As day stretched into night, I could hear my parents pass by my door as if I didn’t exist.

Sometime after nightfall, they turned on the television and cranked the volume to the point that it was blaring.

They were watching “Dancing with the Stars,” likely at the demand of my mother, who once thought she’d have a career as a dancer even though she couldn’t dance to save her ass.

Sometimes, when I was bored and watched the show with them, I’d see on her face a sense of excitement clouded by a kind of sad longing for what never was. My mother once worked at as a bank manager and she was good-fastidious, polite, accurate. But then the recession hit, she lost her job and somehow found a way to claim disability in an effort to keep the money coming in.

I will give her this-there isn’t a week that goes by when she doesn’t call her old boss at the bank to see if they are hiring again. At least there is a part of her that knows she can’t live like this forever. My father? Ever since he lost his job and gave himself over to the lower calling of the bottle, I’ve never held out much hope for him. Maybe he’d prove me wrong one day, but I doubted it.

I went to my door, locked it and then stood in front of the cheap full-length mirror that hung on the wall next to my closet.

I took off my shirt, my pants, everything but my underwear, and just stood there, looking at my joke of a body.

I was like a piece of thread, only thinner. There was nothing to me. I turned in front of the mirror and hated what I saw. I wondered what I’d look like if I had even a trace of muscle on me. If I had abs, stronger legs, bigger arms. I wore loose-fitting hoodies at school, so no one really knew what I looked like beneath the folds of fabric, though there was no question that I was skinny.

Still, if I was subtle enough over the next several days, I might be able to create a positive change.

In my mind’s eye, I pictured what that body might look like. I never wore T-shirts because they really showed how slight I was, but the idea of filling out one like so many of the other guys at school was tempting.

I looked at my chest and remembered what creepy Jim told me. I didn’t need to be angry for the amulet to work. I just needed to feel what I wanted, see it and then channel it.

I went to my computer and went to the one website where I knew I’d find somebody who I’d like to resemble-Abercrombie amp; Fitch. I clicked through the links and found a guy who was tall like me, had the same angular, chiseled face as me, but who was built a hell of a lot better than me. He probably lived his life at the gym, working out for hours each day to get a build I’d never be able to achieve without a little help.

I looked at him and wondered if he was Jennifer’s type. Looking at the guy, I had to face it-he was flawless. Strong chest, toned arms, an eight-pack. I couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t be her type. He was paid to be perfect. And guess what? He had achieved something close to it.

I stood in front of the mirror and thought hard of what I wanted. When I could picture it in my head and in my heart, I went to work.

Next morning, I did something I’d never done. I pulled out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. No hoodie. No clothes that would conceal my body.

Now, there was no need to.

I showered and looked at my face in the bathroom mirror. It still was something of a shock. I had no acne and no scars-they were gone.

I ran the palm of my hand over my face and was surprised by how sharp my jaw line was in the absence of the boulders that once consumed my skin. And my complexion was different-my face didn’t look raw. It was no longer red but instead reminded me of my father’s olive complexion.

When I shaved, I did something different and left a line of stubble from my lower lip to my chin. I stared at it for a moment and decided to make it a bit fuller, like one of the guys did on the Abercrombie site I saw. It worked. It gave me an edge.

I shook my wet hair and watched it fall naturally into place. I dried it with a towel and ran my fingers through it.

When I was finished, I dressed and stood in front of the mirror again. I looked the same but not the same, if that makes sense. The change was just enough. I filled out my clothes but not ridiculously so. I hadn’t gone too far. People would notice and they might mention it, but I had a plan for that, and over the next several weeks the changes would continue to be subtle.

I left my bedroom and was met by my father in the kitchen. He was brewing a cup of coffee. His lower back was pressed against the countertop and his eyes were bloodshot. One look at me and they widened. “What the hell happened to you?”

I wasn’t staying long. I grabbed my backpack and swung it over my shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“You working out or something?”

“Trying to.”

“Huh.”

No criticism? No caustic judgment? That was new. I wonder if he knew it was my eighteenth birthday today. I doubted it. “See you tonight,” I said.

“I’ll probably be out.”

Of course, you’ll be out. You’ll be at Judy’s with creepy Jim.

“Time to find work.”

And that stopped me.

“What kind of work?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just time to find work.”

“That’s great, Dad.”

“Nobody’s going to want a washed-up drunk, kid. Don’t fool yourself. But I’ll give it a shot. I have to. They’re cutting off our disability.”

“I can get a job.”

“You might have to.”

“I can flip burgers or something.”

“What you need to do is do better in school so you won’t have to when you’re my age.”

I walked outside, surprised by what had just taken place and glad that it was another sunny day. I started walking up the incline that led to the street, where a group of other students were waiting for the bus to arrive. I hoped he could find a job. I hoped they could turn their lives around. I felt that if they could get back into their routine, the drinking would stop and it would be better at home.

As usual, I hung back from the other kids, not wanting to draw their attention, but when a car rounded the corner and stopped beside me, that changed. It was Jennifer and she was smiling. I felt a little rush and couldn't help smiling back.

The passenger-side window was open. “Want a ride?” she asked.

“You’re picking me up?”

“Maybe.”

“That would be great.”

I slipped off my backpack and was aware that she was looking at me.

“No hoodie,” she said. “That’s a change.”

I got in the car, aware of the others watching and likely wondering why this girl of all girls had swung by to give me a ride. “Change is good.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without one.” She looked over at me. I could almost feel her eyes on me as I tucked the backpack between my legs. “You should wear a T-shirt more often.”

“I had nothing else to wear.”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

Was she flirting with me? What the hell? Nobody ever flirted with me.

She put the car into gear and moved forward to turn around. And then we saw it. She stopped the car and put her hand over her mouth. I stared at it and felt shame, embarrassment and anger.

It was our trailer.

Sometime in the night, somebody had spray-painted the words “A FAGGOT LIVES HERE” in huge black letters that took up almost the entire side of our home. Behind us, the kids at the street corner started to laugh because they knew we had just seen it. I stared at the words and while I knew I could make them disappear, I obviously couldn’t do anything about them with Jennifer or the other kids here.

I looked at her and saw genuine concern in her eyes. Behind us, the bus arrived in a rush of squealing brakes.

“Would you mind if I walked to school?" I asked. "I need to take care of that.”

“Let me help.”

“No,” I said. “I appreciate it, but I need to do something now before my parents see it. They’ll freak and I don’t want you to see that if it happens.”

I grabbed my backpack, opened the door and stepped out. “Would you mind telling Principal Roberts that I’ll be a little late.”

“Of course.”

“And don’t worry about this,” I said as I shut the door. “I’m used to it. I can handle it. I’m stronger than they think I am." I smiled at her. "See you in class.”

I watched her drive off and made sure she was well down the street before I turned to look at that the trailer and the words someone had scrawled across it. Would I never get a break? Is this how I always would be seen?

Happy fucking birthday. My chance to have a moment alone with Jennifer, who for some reason had gone out of her way to offer me a lift, was now driving away.

I looked around and wondered how many people in the neighborhood had seen this. No one was around, but still it was humiliating. I looked around me, saw that it was clear, and waved a hand over the side of the trailer. The words disappeared.

Now, the larger question was who did it? Hastings? Would he really come after me after what went down yesterday? If he was sane, it would seem unlikely. But the thing about Hastings is that he is off. Something isn’t right with him. There’s a craziness about him that's always worried me. You can see it in his eyes.

Yesterday, I gave him one hell of a show. He busted his hand on my pinky, which pretty much was a kick to his balls and to his masculinity. Was he pushing back or was this done by somebody else? Maybe a friend of his? Maybe one of the dozens of others who’d like to see me burn?

I didn’t want to be late. There was nothing worse than walking into a classroom when class was in session-all eyes suddenly were on you. I checked my watch and knew I could make it. I hurried to the woods behind my house and, with a little boost from the amulet, I ran faster than I ever had.