Page 14 of Playworld
Kepplemen shrugged, shook his head. His nose, long and broad at the bridge, dominated his face. He had covered his mouth with his hand in a sign of concern, and this made his prominent beak seem larger.
“It’s just a pound,” I said.
He shook his head. “Swain,” he said. He meant Frank Swain, a junior. “He’s sucking down from one thirty-five.” I couldn’t beat Frank on my best day.
I bit my fingernail, spit it out. The balance didn’t move.
“What if I dropped to one twenty-one?”
Kepplemen brightened. “Can you make it?”
“Is the slot open?”
Kepplemen nodded. “It’s all yours.”
“Not a problem then.” My confidence, my willingness to cut the weight, lightened Kepplemen’s mood. Before I could bend to pull on my briefs, he collected the hair at my scruff and gave me a loving shake. He eyeballed me—we were the same height—from head to toe. “Christ, Griffin, you’re so fucking big. How much have you grown since last season?”
“Four inches.” I was five-ten now, though I hadn’t filled out. Over Labor Day, when my father and I had gone to Brooks Brothers for my back-to-school shopping, there was no containing his frustration. “You can’t keep me in clothes,” I said to Kepplemen, parroting Dad when he’d complained to the tailor.
Relieved, Kepplemen said, “We’re set,” and I nodded, thrilled. A starting position! As if to sign the agreement, he reached out and palmed both my ears, gently knocked my forehead to his. Then he left while I got dressed.
I hurried to find my friends. In the few minutes before fifth period ended and lunch began, people congregated in the upper school’s long front hallway, which was lined with pews on which we sat in our respective cliques. I spotted Simon Pilchard. Seated, he was circled by three friends. He was also a wrestler—tiny, a ninety-eight-pounder. There was no faculty present, so I walked over, broke through their ring, and cuffed Pilchard’s forehead with my palm’s heel, knocking his skull against the wall.
“Thehell,Griffin?” Pilchard said.
“That’s for English,” I said, and then joined my friends at the pew across from them. Cliffnotes stood, check-swinging a baseball bat. He was a die-hard Yankees fan. The World Series had just ended, and although he was happy Kansas City had lost—they’d beat the Bronx Bombers in the pennant—he was mourning the season’s conclusion. Tanner Potts, my other best friend, was seated before him, tossing a wadded piece of paper in the air and catching it.
“Just talked to Kepplemen,” I said to them. “I’m starting.”
“No way,” Cliff said, and took his stance. “What weight?”
I sat next to Tanner. “One twenty-one.”
Tanner said, “Have you got that to cut?”
“I’d drop to one-fifteen if I had to.”
“That wasn’t the question,” Tanner said, and tossed the wad toward Cliff.
Cliff swung the bat and hit a line drive. Pilchard, who was walking up behind him—to apologize, I figured, or explain himself—caught the barrel right on the nose.
It sounded like a light bulb bursting. Pilchard cupped his face in both hands. Blood dribbled down his chin. He turned in a circle, taking a handful of paper towels from Cliff, who’d raced to the bathroom. Miss Sullens, who was walking by, suggested he come with her to the nurse’s office. They departed soon after, Pilchard with his head tilted ceilingward, Miss Sullens leading him by the elbow.
Tanner, who had neither moved nor reacted during the episode, said, “That’s broken.”
Cliff took this as blame; his voice rose an octave. “He walked right up behind me!”
The bell rang for lunch.
“I’ll meet you guys there,” he said glumly. “I should probably go see how Pilchard’s doing.”
My mood had lightened. My sorrow over Miss Sullens spent, my starting slot secured, I felt a great load lift. I still had an algebra quiz to bomb, but I was for all intents and purposes back in sync with Boyd’s rhythms, the reset button pressed. After eating, I went to the locker room to weigh myself again. Nine pounds to lose, if I didn’t count what I’d just gained at lunch. I considered my naked self in the full-length mirror. Stoked, I did a couple of bicep flexes. I thought about Naomi dreamily for a moment, about seeing her this afternoon and telling her my news—that things were looking up! Then I heard the bell ring and cursed. After dressing, I raced to get my book bag and then ran to Introductory Physical Science. The second bell rang before I arrived. Miss Brodsky, who had a quicker fuse than any upper school teacher, paused her instructions to the class. Already mid-lab, she greeted me with“Why?”and when I began to explain she cut me off with“Enough”and then ordered me—“There”—to my station.
Cowed, I took my stool next to my lab partner, Deb Peryton. She shook her head at me and tsk-tsked. She regularly wore baggy, knitted turtlenecks that hid her figure, but she also liked to wear dusty-pink lipstick on lips I sometimes imagined kissing. She frowned at me, coyly. “Nice of you to join us,” she said. Here I was, late again, and as usual failing to pull my weight. But Deb was either not immune to my charms or took a special kind of pity on me. She was also a science whiz, thank God, and because our lab grade was a shared one, she let me copy from her notebook whenever necessary, a task I hurriedly began. We were comparing the boiling points of various liquids, and our test tubes—Bunsen burners blackening their bases—bubbled merrily, the white smoke thickly rising from their tops like Newark’s industrial chimneys.
At the station across from ours, Tanner was showing off for Justine Keaton. “Ready for a magic trick?” he said to her. From a wash bottle, he squeezed some burner fuel into his cupped hand. Justine pressed her shoulder to his while she stared at his palm. “Watch closely,” Tanner said, as if she weren’t already. He lit and then touched a match to the pool, upon which the liquid burst into a small cloud of flame that immediately disappeared. Justine jumped, covering her mouth while she laughed. “Presto,” Tanner said.
For Deb’s enjoyment I attempted the same stunt. “Check this out,” I told her, and began to fill my palm with the fluid, a few runnels coursing down my wrist and covering the back of my hand.