“Ronnie, the judges deduct points if you squeeze out a turd during the event,” Bruce says. “Relax a little.” That Bruce pays Ronnie any attention means he thinks Ronnie shows potential. For instance, Bruce hardly ever bothers giving Pete any tips. Or, for that matter, Fisher.

“Ronnie,” Fisher adds, “weakness makes baby Jesus cry.”

“Don’t joke about him,” Ronnie mumbles, dropping off the P-bars, insulted.

Fisher mimics a Russian accent. “Baby Jesus want you strong like bull. You do sit-up, now, for sins.”

“You got three more sets up there, frosh,” Bruce tells Ronnie, ignoring Fisher. Bruce motions for Ronnie to jump back up on the parallel bars. “Scoop your legs on the bottom of the swing and keep your stomach tight. It’ll help.”

Only Bruce knows I invited Kurt to Saturday practice. He likes the idea, since befriending the biggest wall of muscle in school is usually a good strategy. I go to retrieve a decent crash mat in case Kurt actually shows up. Our gymnasium has a giant storage room with fifteen-foot-high doors big enough to swing open and swallow all the girls’ and boys’ teams apparatus at the end of the season. We also stow extra equipment and mats needed for our home meets as well as the judges’ scoring stands, folding tables, chalk trays, plus dust mops and brooms for wiping down the tumbling floor before and after each meet. Thick mats of various shapes and sizes flop around the tightly packed cavern like bed-factory rejects. Coach Nelson nags us to stack them neatly but guys get lazy and start pushing them into any nook or corner that fits. Hopping over a foam cube before stepping under a double-parked balance beam, I grab a blue, vinyl-webbed, foam rectangle about the size and shape of a squishy, king-size mattress. I slowly heave and drag the thing out of the storage room. It’s a workout just clearing the mat from the other junk, and once I get it out into the gym, I let the blue mat flop over on its side, sending up a wall of chalk dust that envelopes Fisher. He turns to me, coated in white and coughing. “Thanks, Danny.” He waves his hand in front of his face.

“No problem.”

A piercing whistle gets everyone’s attention. Coach’s got both pinky fingers in his mouth, blowing till our ear-drums rupture. “Okay, no funny stuff,” Coach tells us. “I have to leave early. Just finish your strength sets. No fancy tricks while I’m gone.” Coach says the same thing every Saturday practice, like it’s a surprise he suddenly has to leave early. He tosses the gym keys in a high arc toward Bruce, letting everyone know exactly who is in charge in his absence. Bruce snatches the keys out of the air with a one-handed, behind-the-back, showboat catch. I imagine making that catch next year when Bruce is gone.

About three minutes after Coach leaves, Gradley gathers up his gym bag, tosses off a “peace out,” and heads into the locker room. Over the next fifteen minutes, the other guys, relieved of the label first to leave, trickle out of the gym. Fisher, still belching up Mountain Dew between turns on parallel bars, plops down on a crash mat, lets off a loud fart, and pulls on his street shoes.

“You want a ride?” he asks Paul Kim.

“Yeah,” Paul answers, gathering up his bag.

Vance Fisher and Paul Kim are walking toward the lockers when Vance stops and calls to me over his shoulder. “Hey, Danny,” he says. “I left a present for you in your gym bag.”

“Dude, farting in someone’s bag doesn’t actually work.” Paul shoves Fisher’s arm. “It dissipates.”

“It ain’t a fart,” Fisher says loud enough for me to hear. “Think of it more as a piece of the legend.”

Since whatever Fisher left me can’t be good, I’m in no hurry to investigate. Besides, I’m in the middle of my second set of pull-ups and I never quit strength sets until I’m finished. It’s cheating otherwise. Cheating doesn’t win high-bar titles. As soon as I drop off the bar, arms trembling, I forget my bag for another reason.

Kurt Brodsky’s standing in the doorway. He steps cautiously into the gym, hands stuffed into his front pockets, moving along the wall as if trying to blend into the brick. When he sees me see him, he pulls out one hand and offers a halting half wave, then stops, as if awaiting permission to cross our turf. I can’t believe he actually showed.

“Hey, Kurt,” Bruce calls, hopscotching over mats, making his way toward the big fullback. “Heard you want to improve your end zone dance.”

“Um . . . naw . . . er . . . muh-maybe . . .” Kurt’s waving hand returns to its home deep in his front pocket. His eyes bounce from one piece of equipment to another, sweeping across our little jungle, taking it all in. Saying the plan out loud makes it sound kind of silly. I think maybe Bruce does it on purpose.

“Hey,” I say, walking over to join them, “you stretch at all today?”

“Nuh-nuh-not yet.”

“Well, come over to the floor mats and I’ll show you a few stretches,” I say, leading Kurt over to the thin, two-inch mats. “You ever stretch?” I ask.

“We suh-suh-stretch before fuh-fuh-football,” Kurt says, kicking off his shoes and lowering his big body to the mat. Bruce rolls his eyes.

“You guys can barely touch your toes,” Bruce says, shaking his head. “No offense.”

Kurt stays quiet.

“You know, that’s one reason Danny kicked Jankowski’s ass so badly in the weight room that day. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Danny’s way stronger in his abs than Jankowski but he’s also not fighting against his own tight hamstrings when he does those leg lifts.”

Kurt just nods and sticks his legs out in front of him and reaches for his feet, imitating me, but he’s straining and bending his knees. Finally he manages to grab a toe.

“Wow,” Bruce says sarcastically. “What a champ!”

“Thanks.” Kurt grunts.

Bruce, arms folded across his chest, chuckles. I can tell he approves of Kurt’s answer.

Bruce and I take turns showing Kurt basic stretches before walking him over to the blue mat I dragged out earlier. If anyone else came in wearing denim jeans, Bruce would make them change, but it’s Kurt Brodsky, so he lets it slide. Menderson—mouth open since Kurt entered the gym—sits watching the giant fullback with open fascination. He finally puts on his left shoe and zips up his gym bag and leaves us with a wave. Pete Delray pretends to work on pommel horse but he mostly sits on it while Ronnie diligently works sets of pullovers. I start thinking maybe Ronnie might make a good high-bar specialist like me.

“You got anything in your pockets?” Bruce asks Kurt, not bothering to wait for an answer. “Better empty them.”

“Whoa! Almost fuh-fuh-forgot,” Kurt says, and pulls out a no-frills cell phone, the kind everyone but grandpa had upgraded from last decade. “Juh-just bought it,” he says, then sets it down on the floor next to the mat.

“Okay, let’s get started,” Bruce says.

Kurt’s a good student. He listens carefully to our directions. All that brute power needs to be focused properly, torso aimed and limbs harnessed to serve the acrobatic task. I guess it’s sort of like solving one of Mr. Klech’s trajectory equations. Bruce and I stand on either side of Kurt, explaining how he has to lead up and backward with his hands, lock his elbows, and drive hard with his legs to push himself around to his feet again.

Once he understands what we want him to do, and after Bruce and I both demonstrate a dozen times, each of us pointing out things to watch on the other, we tell him to go for it.

“You mean just duh-duh-do it?” Kurt asks. “Now?”

“Yeah,” Bruce and I answer at the same time. It’s the three of us, plus Ronnie and Pete, left in the gym. Pete lives close enough to walk home but Ronnie’s stuck until we finish and Bruce gives him a ride.

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” Bruce breaks it down for Kurt. “You’re not going to trust us the first time and you’ll be scared, so you’ll half jump like a pussy and Danny and I will catch you, sacrificing our backs in the process, and muscle you over. That’s your one freebie. Then you’ll realize you didn’t die and that it felt kind of cool. Then you’ll jump really hard the next time—no more freebies, so you better—making our job easy. After repeating this process several hundred times, you might be able to walk out of here one day and into the glory of the end zone, blowing the minds of your fans and caveman teammates. Danny and I, now crippled from lifting the equivalent of a mountain gorilla, will hold on to the satisfaction of knowing we injected a certain amount of grace into a big, uncoordinated football player.”

“He’s coordinated,” I say, defending Kurt. “He’s a fullback.”

Bruce snorts

“I’m serious,” I say. “Ball carriers are excellent athletes.” Kurt narrows his eyes like he’s trying to figure me out, see if I’m setting up a punch line. I’m not. It never comes up, but I love watching NFL football. Rooting for, and being disappointed by, the Vikings on Sundays is one of the few things my dad and I do together.

“Maybe some of them are,” Bruce admits, then tips his head at Kurt while looking at me. “Guess we’ll find out if he’s one of ’em.”

“Wuh-wuh-what do you mean, ‘fuh-fuh-find out’?” Kurt asks.

“Well, if you’re gifted as Danny thinks you are, then no worries. But if you suck and we can’t lift your deadweight, then you do a head plunge into the ground and break your neck. No mat, no matter how thick, is going to protect against a head plunge.”

“Bruce! Come on,” I say. The last thing we need is to try to lift a huge guy too scared to propel himself. I snap my fingers by Kurt’s ear, hoping to short-circuit Bruce’s image. “As long as you jump backward with good power—no sissy stuff—then we’ll get you around. Remember, it’s easy to turn you. It’s hard to lift you. So jump.”

Kurt nods back at me. “Okay,” he says. Bruce and I get on either side of him, each of us placing one hand on his lower back and one hand just above the back of his knee. Then we count to three. Kurt jumps! He jumps just like we told him. He jumps and we flip him easy and he finds himself back on his feet, his face pinking up with relief and victory. Then Kurt Brodsky’s mouth broadens and a full smile warms his face. Didn’t know he could even make that expression.

“Whoa!” he says, standing there. “That was puh-puhpretty cool!”

“Of course it’s cool,” Bruce answers. “Why the hell you think we do it?”

“Can we tuh-tuh-try it again?” Kurt asks, and even though he is huge and Bruce and I are dwarfs next to him, he’s the one who sounds like a kid busting to ride the roller coaster a second time.

“Yep,” I say, proud of the secret gift only we can teach him. Ronnie claps for Kurt in a joyous way that makes me ashamed of all Fisher’s religious teasing I snicker at. Pete skitters over to another mat to work on his handsprings, inspired for the first time that day. I nod at Bruce and then look up at Kurt. “As many times as you want,” I offer.

As many times as you want turns out to be seventy-eight times. I count every single try. At first, Kurt bites his lips nervously and glances backward half a dozen times before each attempt. Every time he makes it around, though, his eyes expand with triumph. By the end, he’s mastered the trick enough that he only needs one of us to spot him and whip his legs around. So Bruce and I take turns. And even Ronnie practices spotting him a few times. Pete slips out around handspring thirty-seven or otherwise we’d make him practice spotting Kurt as well.

“My legs are shu-shaking,” Kurt says, surprised by his own fatigue, as if it can only come from lifting weights, tackling, and running.

“It’s a good workout,” Bruce says. “Coach has us do sets and sets to build our endurance.”

“Probably beats ruh-ruh-running bleachers in fuh-fuhfull pads,” Kurt admits, then notices the clock up on the wall. “I promised I’d have the kuh-kuh-car back an hour ago.”

“So you’re going to wimp out of the strength sets?” Bruce asks. “Typical football player. As soon as things get a little rough, they take off.”

“That’s a chu-chu-challenge,” Kurt says, pulling on his shoes without untying them. “Next Suh-suh-Saturday. We’ll finish in the wuh-wuh-weight room.” Kurt hustles toward the locker-room door. “Suh-suh-see ya in math, Danny.”

Bruce jumps up on the parallel bars and starts pumping out dips like a machine. I can tell he feels good about teaching Kurt. Ronnie finishes eating an orange and then starts his sit-ups. I kick up against the wall to do a set of handstand push-ups.

“The big guy left this,” Bruce says, jumping down from the parallel bars and holding up Kurt’s new-old phone.

“I’ll give it to him on Monday,” I say, taking the phone from Bruce with only the tips of my fingers, trying not to get chalk dust on it, and stuffing it in my gym bag. My hand pulls back as it touches something soft and squishy.

At least my hand’s not wet. Or smelly. I reach back into my bag and pull out Fisher’s surprise. It’s a rubber George Bush mask; the one used in the water balloon attack on the homecoming court. Ugly as sin, the thing lies in my hand like a dead fish. Without thinking, I flick the mask toward Bruce in disgust. It flutters in the air and lands on the pommel horse.

“It ain’t mine,” Bruce says.

“Might as well be,” I answer. I let the mask lie where it lands, too irked to go retrieve it. Instead I do another set of handstand push-ups followed by a set of dips and then squat-jumps. After the jumps, I decide I better drag the crash mat we used with Kurt back into the storage room before I get too tired to lift it. The thing is heavy and bendy and trying to guide it into tight spaces and shove it up against a wall is like trying to eat warm Jell-O with a knife. I get the mat halfway into the cluttered storage room before it snags on something and bulges every time I push. I lean it against the door frame and go inside the room. The bottom of it is caught on the steel base of the extra set of dismantled parallel bars that weigh about three hundred pounds. I scoot in between the metal prongs and then shimmy flat between the mat and the back wall, lifting up on the foam to unsnag it and pull it toward me. The thing is finally standing up in place but now I’m sandwiched between the back of it and a dark cinder-block corner. I start squeezing out of the back corner when I hear an angry voice, a few of them, yelling back and forth. My hearing is dulled by the mat pushing up against my head but I definitely hear Bruce yelling, wild and harsh, and then ... Jankowski and Studblatz barking. Then Miller’s voice, taunting, stirring up his dogs.

“You don’t ever come into our weight room again, understand?” Scott Miller threatens. “Don’t matter what your coach says.”

“The weight room is our house,” Jankowski huffs. “Our house!”

“He tricked us,” Studblatz yells. “You ain’t as strong as Jankowski. Those leg lifts are dumb.”

“Go jump off—” Bruce’s voice begins, but stops. Something thuds followed by the crack-slap of skin on skin. A scream—not Bruce—squelches into a gurgle. The sound flies into the storage room and swirls around me. It has to be Ronnie! I freeze in place behind the mat, still wedged into the corner of the dim space, my legs refusing to move.

“Scott, lookit this.” I hear Studblatz’s voice.

“Think this is funny?! Huh?” Scott demands. “Takes some balls, little boy, letting that mask just lay around here like a trophy. Must make you feel good, huh? Soaking me and Stud at the pep rally in front of all those students?” Scott’s raises his voice, getting more and more worked up as he speaks.

I hear a soft thud followed by a coughing groan.

“Not mine,” Ronnie squeaks, his tinny voice scraping against my teeth. “I swear. The mask isn’t mine.”

“Nobody else here, needledick, but you and your captain,” Scott answers. “Two of you on that dirt bike. Two of you here now and that mask just laying there for the both of you to admire. For you to jack off to, remembering your glory. Why’s it just laying here?”

“Let go—” Ronnie’s cry gets cut off by two more skin smacks.

Sneak out! my mind screams. Sprint for the locker room! Race out to the hallway! Pound on the custodian’s door! Holler for an adult—anyone!—to come back to the gym!

My body won’t budge. Not an inch. The mat pressing me into the wall insulates against the terrifying wreckage occurring outside the storage room. Ronnie’s next cry is muffled, like a hand shoots over his mouth. Then I hear laughing. Mean laughing.

“Wait,” Scott’s voice commands. “Not out here.”

After a pause, a smothered whimpering seeps through the cinder block-walls of the storage room, where I remain stuck.

“In here! Bring him in here!” Scott directs, his voice just outside the big doors. I retreat farther into the dark corner, burrowing deeper into the nook behind the mat, feeling the chilled concrete press up against my bare calves and arms. I tug the mat into my chest as goose bumps ripple over my skinny limbs.

A cry.

Ronnie’s cry is now inside the room with me.

“Shut your mouth,” Jankowski grunts, mere steps away from my hiding spot. Heavy breathing fills the room.

“You tied up the other one good?” Scott asks.

“Yeah.” Studblatz’s voice. “He ain’t going nowhere.”

“Shut that door,” Scott bosses. “We got a lesson to teach.”

My corner grows darker as the big door swings shut and only a single bare bulb lights the space. I peek one eye around the side of the mat. It’s mostly dark and shadows but I see Scott holding up the rubber George Bush mask. He, Mike, and Tom stand over Ronnie, pressing him, stomach-down into a square block of foam, like they’re getting ready to chop off his head.

“Know how much trouble you little shits cause us?” Scott asks. “Trying to take over our weight room. Pissing on our game uniforms. Soaking us at homecoming. Make you feel like a man wearing this mask?” Scott asks. “Riding in, embarrassing us at the pep rally? You like the taste of rubber?”

Without warning, Scott wads up the rubber mask and jams it into Ronnie’s mouth while Mike and Tom keep him pinned down to the cube mat. Chuckles, mean chuckles, mix with Ronnie’s choking. Scott suddenly looks up and searches the room. I turtle my head back behind the mat.

“Hand me that mop,” Scott orders.

I look again and Ronnie’s legs kick and thrash like he’s trying to swim across the mat. Facedown, his head flips from side to side, searching for oxygen, mouth stopped up.

“He’s begging for it!” Scott sing-songs. Mike hands Scott the mop and Tom rips down Ronnie’s pants. Scott shoves the mop handle inside him. Even choking on the rubber mask, Ronnie screams and screams and SCREAMS!!! Beyond the storage room, no one knows, but in there with them, Ronnie’s pain travels through my bones. The lone bulb casts shadows and spooks my eyes as Scott finishes with the mop handle and Ronnie’s voice finally breaks in half.

“Do him!” Scott barks at Tom.

“You do him!” Jankowski answers back.

“I’ll do him,” Studblatz says.

“Keep him down, Tommy,” Scott orders.

Scott pulls the mask out of Ronnie’s mouth and then Tom shoves Ronnie’s head so hard into the mat that it looks like he’s trying to suffocate him. Ronnie makes only a dull moan as Mike gets on top of him and starts chugging. Tom lets go of his head and Ronnie weeps in short bursts, each muffled cry snuffed out by a hog grunt from Studblatz. Through all of it, Scott cheers on his teammate.

“Get some,” Scott cackles. “Get some.”

“See. If. You. Dis. Re. Spect. Me. Now,” Studblatz huffs. I can’t move my arms up to block out the sounds. They’re pinned between the wall and the mat. As I’m forced to hear all of it, my nose runs and a sickness enters me like poison gas, burning out my lungs and brain.

“He likes it,” Scott laughs, then directing Tom, “Give me that mop again.”

“Please,” Ronnie whispers, nothing left in him but the breath being pumped out by Studblatz.

“Shut your little faggot mouth!” Scott snaps, grabbing a handful of Ronnie’s hair. In his other hand he draws the mop handle closer, forcing it into Ronnie’s mouth. The sound of gagging fills my ears.

The door to the storage room slowly pushes open. Kurt Brodsky stands there, his hands slowly forming fists....