Only a couple of blocks from Patti’s house, knowing I’m late, I reach into my jeans’ pocket for a time check on my phone except there’s no phone. Brand-new and I’ve already lost it. Stupid! I just bought the thing at the mall three days ago, can only afford it thanks to the “walking around” money Coach keeps passing me and topping off with a bonus for every win I help us notch in our season. Damn! I know exactly where I left it, too. Took it off and set it down a few feet from the mat I’d been handspringing on most of the day. First phone I ever owned. Gone. Saleslady kept pushing the fancy models on me, said how they made me look sophisticated and cutting-edge when what she really meant to say was “not stupid.” Her interest faded pretty quick when I chose the old-school model, the only one I could afford. And then I go and lose it after only three days. Dumb!

I wheel Patti’s station wagon into the nearest driveway, throw it in reverse, then gun it back to Oregrove. I’m already late anyway. Patti’s not too keen on loaning me her car, only gave it up after I told her Coach scheduled Saturday practice, and if I miss it, he’ll dock the pay going into those little white envelopes he has me deliver every week. Not that I even have a license yet, but Patti never asks. It’s best to just let her assume things.

When I get back to the school parking lot, one of the three cars I remember in the student lot is gone. Hopefully it’s not Bruce’s. Then I spot Scott’s gold Camaro parked at the far edge of the lot, near the school’s auto-mechanics garage. Odd. Thought they were going hunting today. Maybe they decided to get ripped in the weight room instead. Never a bad idea, far as I’m concerned. No time to be curious, though. I drive into the teachers’ parking lot and slip into the Reserved—Vice Principal space nearest the building door. I hustle back downstairs, through the long basement hallway, into the team lockers and then push through the gymnasium door. The big gym’s empty but the lights are still on.

I duck under the metal guide wires that anchor the steel ring stand and then skirt around the island of four-inch mats surrounding the pommel-donkey thingy. At the other end of the gym, near the vault where I’d practiced all those handsprings, the blue mat is gone. So is the phone.

I open my mouth to call out for Bruce or Danny when I hear dampened voices and then ... something ... not . . . good ... something wrong. Something like a scream, but quiet, like a ghost screeching from under his grave. The gymnasium—halogen lights buzzing and no sun, no outside windows, no people—feels cold along my arms all of a sudden. Chalk dust hanging in the air starts scratching the back of my throat. There it is again ... another ... ghoulish wail ... coming from ... behind those big doors. Doors at least fifteen feet high, like closet doors in a giant’s house, making me feel small all of a sudden and ... then that sound again ... I ain’t imagining it. Ain’t crazy. A moan—faint, tortured—coming from behind the giant’s closet. My armpits chill, the sweat running down them turning into metal beads. My feet sink into the soft mats with each step. My thighs, fatigued from all those handsprings, grow heavier, yet trudge in the one direction I want to flee. Everything in my body tells me to run, get out, go. I’ll ask Danny about the phone on Monday. But my feet dissolve into those swampy mats, stagger me toward those big doors like I’m creeping down into his basement all over again, spying the “secret punishment” that first time . . .

. . . “breathe a word and you’ll disappear,” Crud Bucket grunts on top of Lamar. “People applaud when garbage disappears. You hear me? You hear me? Answer with a ‘sir’ this time or I’ll go longer. Cops’ll thank me if you and that bastard vanish. Give me a medal . . .” “Huff, huff, huff, huff . . .”

That sound. Coming from ...

“. . . stop ... please ... stop . . .”

. . . behind those ...

The giant doors are cracked open the smallest bit. As I draw closer I no longer hear a ghost’s voice. I hear Scott’s voice. Then Studblatz’s speaking in bursts like he’s bench-pressing, ripping out his sets. Blasting his pecs with each rep. “How. You. Like. Me. Now?”

Except he ain’t bench-pressing.

No.

He’s dealing out Crud Bucket’s “secret punishment” on a boy, the special torture that used to be just for Lamar.

None of them notice me push open the door at first. The little gymnast takes all their attention. Barely bigger than Lamar, his naked legs so skinny and pale it hurts just to glimpse as a trickle of blood stains the back of his left thigh. As I enter the storage room, a vacuum sucks out my insides. All I want is to run fast and forever away as my fingers close into a fist.

Studblatz, glancing my direction, noticing me, lifts his big, ugly self from the boy. Scott yanks the mop handle out of the boy’s mouth and his eyes bug at being caught until he sees it’s only me. Then a smile worms over his face like he understands me, understands what I want. He acts pleased that I’ve arrived. Ronnie, gagging, collapses backward to his knees while his arms and head slump against the foam block.

“You want a shot, Mr. Wolf?” Scott asks me, as if Ronnie is his to offer. Studblatz zips himself up and turns to watch me, gauging my reaction.

“You going to say som—” Jankowski, off to my left, starts talking but his voice and all sound die in a wall of flame. Gasoline races through my veins, ignites at my scars, and detonates every cell in my body. Unable to scream or breathe, unable to think, I will burn up unless I extinguish the pain. Unless I destroy them.

My fist cocks and finds the side of Jankowski’s thick head. My foot bombs Studblatz’s gut. My elbow blasts a chunk of Miller’s shoulder. They come at me now. Like Crud Bucket did. Fists and feet pummel me. I return fire. I rock them. I inflict, bruising something, cracking something else. I heave a lifetime of damage and pain at them, teach them they can’t do this. They can’t do this!

They swarm me but I am no longer small.

Scott runs out. Studblatz headlocks me and Tom punches my sides until I stop him with a mule kick to his chest. Still collared by Studblatz’s headlock, I scoop him up in my arms and ram the both of us forward into the cinder-block wall like I’m driving against a whole defense for just six inches. I back up and drive into the wall again, back up and repeat. And repeat. My head pounds but it’s okay, it’s just fine. Hurt is good as long as he feels it, too. I can endure a world of hurt. So could Lamar. One thing Crud Bucket taught us real good was how to absorb hurt. I dive the both of us into the cement floor; smashing my forehead and Studblatz at the same time, feeling Studblatz finally release me. I’m getting ready to make him real sorry when something heavy—a foot, maybe—smashes into my head, smashes me good, and things stop.