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Elliot would have loved to run laps. Exercise he didn't mind. It was playing the game that he hated. Having the same 140-pound monster tackle you and fall on you six times during one game, quite obviously doing it deliberately, and the gym teacher watching and doing nothing, almost certainly secretly enjoying it. Getting yelled at for fumbling a catch, when the ball was impossible to hold: cold and greasy with thick, wet winter mud.
Oliver had gone out without so much as a word to Elliot. Elliot trotted into the cold sunlight, his chest tight, his heart already thumping uncomfortably. This was where all the acting skill he could muster could let him down in an instant.
But in the end, surprisingly, it wasn't too bad. He ran around enough to convince both Mr. Phillips and the other players that he was a decent enough player and eager to get the ball -- even though he was tackled three seconds after he caught it for the first and last time.
Someone else wasn't so lucky: a gangly kid with angry red spots on his forehead and a raw-looking nose. Every other pass seemed to be directed at him. If he caught the ball, he was instantly tackled, crushed into the ground again and again, until even his face was brown. A couple of times Elliot saw a sly hand press his head down into the mud. When he didn't catch the ball -- which was usually -- he got the resentful stares of the rest of his team.
When they eventually walked off the field, Elliot's team had lost 28-14. He noticed the raw-nosed boy lagging behind.
In the locker room, Elliot quickly peeled off his muddy uniform and dived for the showers. He wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible. The more serious players on his team looked angry at their defeat, and he had no wish to be a potential target for their frustration.
He let the hot water power the dirt and sweat away. "Good game," said someone next to him. He vaguely recognized him from the morning's English class.
"Yeah." Elliot injected false enthusiasm into his voice.
Suddenly the end of the showers was blocked. He recognized his team captain, Stewart Masters, a big, burly center-forward who played aggressively, knocking challengers aside with casual flicks of his arm. He was still wearing his gym uniform, and glaring.
Please don't look at me, Elliot prayed. He tilted his head back to let the water flood onto his face, trying to look unconcerned. His skin felt cold, although the water was uncomfortably hot, filling the narrow space with clouds of steam.
When he next looked, Stewart had gone.
Thank you, God. Elliot stepped out into the main changing area and began toweling himself off.
"Here he is. I've got the little wimp."
The locker room went silent.
Elliot froze. But the attention wasn't directed at him. In the far corner of the room, Stewart Masters had ahold of the raw-nosed kid, his hand twisted in the boy's hair.
Everyone else in the room was still as a statue. The air was still with expectation, a stillness that somehow emptied it of smell -- of bodies, sweat, damp uniforms, of sound -- of the showers, breathing, of anything that might distract attention from whatever was about to happen.
Stewart spoke quietly into the stillness. "Baker, you're a snot rag. What are you?"
"A snot rag." The voice was flat and dead.
"Louder, Baker. I want the whole locker room to hear you."
"I'm a snot rag."
"And you stink, don't you, because you never take a bath. Don't you?"
"I -- I stink because I never take a bath."
"You're disgusting, Baker. I'm polluting myself by touching you."
"I'm disgusting."
"Did I ask you to speak, you little maggot? You filth stain. Did I?"
Stewart let go of the boy's hair. The tension in the room remained. Everyone knew there was more to come. Elliot held his towel, covering himself; the air suddenly felt cold; there were goose bumps all over him.
Stewart continued. "You're filthy, Baker. Get your clothes off and take a shower."
Slowly the boy undressed, carefully placing his clothes on the wooden bench behind him. His skin had an unhealthy, off-white appearance. He looked like a ghost, or a dead body animated by some supernatural force. Naked, he walked the length of the locker room and went into the showers.
Everything else was still.
Stewart scanned the room. "I want a volunteer. Quickly, before Phillips gets here." He pointed to Oliver. "You. You're volunteering to man the showers."
Clearly knowing what was expected, Oliver walked over to the tangle of pipes and wheels on the wall that controlled the flow and temperature of the water to the showers. He reached up and rapidly twisted one of the wheels clockwise.
"A nice cold shower, Baker, to clean the filth off you," Stewart said. He pointed to another two boys. "You and you -- clothing duty, now."
They too knew the drill: Baker's uniform followed him into the shower.
Elliot wondered how many times this had happened before -- to Baker or to anyone else. Something about the whole thing gave the impression of a routine perfected from long practice.
"What the hell's going on?"
In an instant the group unfroze into furious activity.
The gym teacher came into the locker room and went straight to the showers.
Elliot raced to pull on his boxer shorts and pants, his heart thudding.
What are you so concerned about? a little voice hissed in his head. You didn't do anything.
The gym teacher twisted one of the wheels on the wall, and the noise from the showers stopped.
"Come out of there."
Baker stepped into the locker room, his hands covering between his legs, his thin white frame shivering.
"Why aren't you getting dressed, Baker?" There was impatience in his voice.
The boy awkwardly half-turned back toward the showers.
"For crying out loud!" Mr. Phillips's gaze swept over the room. Elliot saw Stewart staring back: brazen, challenging. He remembered noticing Stewart's name in gold leaf on the football roll-of-honor board. He sensed the gym teacher weighing his options.
The teacher turned back to Baker. "Just get your clothes and get dressed. And hurry up." He turned to the others. "And the rest of you. You've got three minutes, or you'll all be taking cold showers."
Elliot finished putting on his tie, threw on his blazer, and got out before anyone could have a chance to speak to him.
Don't be noticed. But he knew it was only going to be a matter of time before he was. And then he'd be joining Baker underneath those showers.
Nothing's going to be different here. Nothing.
I was stupid to imagine anything else.
