Oliver

A roll of tape jumps out of my locker as I open it. I watch it roll down the hallway as my classmates erupt with laughter. The jocks who put it there cackling from afar; fucking rich bitch pansies would never actually say anything to my face; the type to drop a bomb and run scared, taking off in the sportscars mommy and daddy bought them. I need new shoes. The soles of my Chucks are split wide enough now to notice. And notice, they do, the ones always looking for something wrong with someone else to deflect from their own teenage insecurities. I fucking hate this place.

          “Ignore them, dude,” Jordy says, coming to catch my back as usual. We’ve been best friends since kindergarten. He’s the only friend I’ve ever had whose parents let them come back to my house after seeing the shack we live in. Dad’s been down on his luck ever since mom died. We’ve always been poor, no matter how hard he works. Most of my childhood, I’ve watched him scrap to provide clothing, food, and shelter, but he’s never failed, so I’m grateful. If I ask him for new shoes, he’ll have to pick up another shift. I can’t bring myself to do it.

          Jordy and I walk to class in silence, listening to the jocks mocking me in the distance. Strongly considering turning around to start a fight, I take a deep breath. I can’t afford to get in trouble. Dad would have to leave work. I’d rather eat dinner.

          “Hello, boys! Welcome to Physics!” Mr. Dunn greets as we enter the classroom. He’s one of those adult nerds that had a glow-up, so everyone thinks he’s super handsome and cool, but deep down he’s just like me and Jordy: Straight-A-Outcasts. We’ve bonded. Mr. Dunn was hazed back in his day, too. The guy fucking loves physics, and we’re good at physics, so he loves us. He’s embraced us, encouraging us to take as many AP classes as we can saying, “Fuck the haters.” I’m okay with it. I’ll need every grant and scholarship I can get.

          Physics is right after lunch. I have to pee. I usually try to wait until Mr. Dunn gives us classwork to excuse myself, but I’m about to piss myself, so I quietly get up and slide toward the door.

          “Shhhhhh… your shoes are talking too loud,” Wide Receiver Wade can’t help but interject. The class bashfully giggles as they know they shouldn’t and don’t want to get in trouble with Mr. Dunn. He looks at my red face empathetically and nods for me to leave as he quiets them down and gets back on track.

          The empty hallway embraces me with the comfort of privacy as frustration overwhelms me and a welled-up tear bolts down my face. When is this shit going to stop? I fucking hate those guys. They’re fucking asking for laxative-laced Gatorade. Not a bad idea, I dream, as I relieve myself. As I’m turning a corner on the way back to class, I hear someone shouting behind me, “Tape it up, Buttercup!” Another fucking jock. That’s it.

I start chasing him. He’s already running, fucking pansy. He’s trying to lose me, jerking around every corner, thinking he’s slick. He’s not. He’s predictable. And he should have stayed in class. Running out of options and under-estimating my willpower, he bolts into the auditorium desperate for a place to hide. Little does this idiot know, he just put himself in a quiet, acoustically sound environment, ideal for tracking.

          It’s dark, lit only by the neon glow of exit signs. I pause briefly while my vision adjusts, then keep on his tail. Just as I predicted, I can hear every move the clunker is making. He climbs onto the stage and runs between the curtains jumping onto the iron rods of the ladder leading up to the fly tower. Stealth, still close behind him, I settle into the curtains as I hear him stop at the top to catch his breath. I sense his fear as he realizes he has nowhere else to go. He’s not sure if he lost me, but he wants to think so. I remain silent, watching and waiting for him to get comfortable.

          A box of props on the floor next to my foot just so happens to hold a football amongst other miscellaneous items. Poetic. He lets out a sigh of relief, convincing himself that he lost me. He leans over the banister looking around stoking himself up, proud of his athleticism, outrunning the dweeb. “CATCH!” I toss him the football.

          Startled by the sound of my voice and the object flying toward him, he jumps, reacting rashly, losing his balance. Gravity takes him. He hits the stage, landing like the star he is. Or should I say was? So much for all that agility training. What goes up, must come down. Physics. I better get back to class.