Body Slammed! (9 page)

Jesse had heard about backyard wrestling from his father. It was something kids all across the country were doing. His father didn't think much of it. He said that kids who participated in backyard wrestling were stupid because they were attempting dangerous stunts without any training or supervision. Even professional wrestlers, he said, with extensive preparation and conditioning, always risked getting seriously hurt.

“Anyway, after graduation my pops wanted me to go to college,” TJ said. “He's a hot shot attorney in Amarillo, and he wanted me to study law. But I barely made it through high school, and there was no way I was gonna survive through law school. So I decided to go into pro wrestling. I Googled wrestling schools and found the Ox Mulligan Pro Wrestling Factory here in San Antonio. Now I'm a superstar on American Championship Wrestling.” TJ picked up his bottle and finished his beer. “And there's nothing my pops can do about it,” he added with disdain.

“I take it that you and your father don't get along,” Jesse said.

“Oh, we get along fine. As long as he stays in his part of the state and I stay in mine.”

Jesse checked the time. It was ten after twelve. “I have to go.”

“Yeah, okay.” TJ pulled his keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Jesse. “I'll let you do the honors.”

Jesse was glad he hadn't asked the guys to join them. It wouldn't have been nearly as much fun. The guys were all right. There was nothing wrong with them. Goose was kind of goofy, though. And Bucky's high-pitched voice sometimes grated on Jesse's nerves. He realized that Wendell was trying to lose weight, but his body was full of flab that jiggled when he walked. Jesse didn't want TJ to think that he hung out with a bunch of losers.

On the way home, they neared Jesse's school.

“There's good old Erastus ‘Deaf' Smith High,” TJ said. “No offense, Jesse, but that's gotta be the weirdest name for a high school I've ever heard.”

“Actually, we pronounce it
Deef
Smith,” Jesse corrected him.

“All right.
Deef
Smith High. Who was he, anyway?”

Jesse pulled the car to the curb and stopped in front of the school. “I'm not sure. Some famous guy from the Texas Revolution, I think. Didn't you study about him in school?”

“If we did, I don't remember,” TJ said.

“Anyway, that's him up there.” Jesse pointed to the life-size statue of Deaf Smith, a figure in a long coat with a rifle at his side. The statue stood on a pedestal at the top of the steps.

“Serious-looking man, isn't he?” TJ said.

“I guess. I walk by the statue so often, I hardly notice it anymore.”

An impish grin spread across TJ's face. “Hey, Jesse. You ever pull any ribs?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, pranks, practical jokes. The ACW boys love to pull ribs on each other. Like the time Karl Nelson was about to go out for his match, and Red Lassiter hid his Black Mamba mask. Karl went ballistic. He tore up the dressing room
trying to find it. Finally Frank Collins threatened to fine whoever it was that took Karl's mask if they didn't give it back.”

Jesse had heard that story from his father—and many others. Wrestlers spend a lot of time on the road together, and sometimes, just for the fun of it, or out of boredom, they'll rib each other.

TJ picked up the Mil Máscaras mask and said, “I dare you to climb up the statue and put the mask on Deaf Smith.”

“No way, man,” Jesse said, but the idea made him laugh.

“Come on, Jesse. I'll get you another one. It's dark out here. Nobody'll see you do it. If a car passes by, I'll honk.”

Jesse looked around. The streets were empty. Most of the neighbors were probably asleep. He giggled nervously.

“Do it, Jesse,” TJ coaxed. “Let's give old Deaf Smith something to smile about.”

Why not? Jesse thought. TJ wasn't telling him to tag the statue or destroy it. Plus, it would be hilarious for the kids who saw it the next morning. He took the mask and opened the car door.

TJ shooed him away with the back of his hand. “Go on.”

Feeling a rush of excitement, Jesse climbed the steps and shinnied up the statue. He tried to slip the mask around the head, but the mask was too small. He undid the laces and tried it again. The mask wasn't secure, but it would do.

When Jesse turned around, he saw TJ standing at the bottom of the steps, holding up his camera phone.

“Wait, Jesse. Don't move.” TJ pressed the button. “I want us to have something to commemorate the evening.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
he next morning, Jesse arrived at school forty-five minutes earlier than usual. He wanted to see the kids' reactions when they saw Deaf Smith wearing a Mil Máscaras mask. Ordinarily, he caught the bus, but he talked his grandmother into driving him. He made up a story about how he needed to get to school early to speak with a counselor about his classes for the next semester. His grandmother dropped him off in front of the building without noticing that Deaf Smith now looked like a Mexican wrestler.

Soon the buses began to arrive. As the kids got out, their eyes and mouths widened. They giggled and pointed at the statue. Some of the kids pulled out their camera phones and took pictures. By the end of the day, the photos would be all over the Internet.

Later, Jesse would tell the guys that he was the one who had put the mask on the statue, but he had to be careful not to let too many people know.

Jesse's excitement over his rib didn't last long. Dr. Ríos, the principal, walked out the front doors with Lester Marrs, the head custodian. Lester was carrying a ladder. He leaned his ladder against the statue and climbed up. The kids booed when he yanked off the mask.

José Bernal shouted, “Put the mask on, Lester!” Other voices joined him. “Put the mask on! Put it on!”

Lester grinned. He waved the mask in the air like a flag. He was about to slip it over his head, but Dr. Ríos glared at him. Instead, Lester climbed down the ladder and handed the mask to the principal.

During first period, while Jesse was in the middle of English class, trying to stay awake through a reading of
The Grapes of Wrath,
Lashundra Jones walked in the room and handed the teacher a note. Mrs. Dowell looked up from the rim of her reading glasses and said, “Jesse, Dr. Ríos needs to see you right away.”

Jesse didn't bother to ask why. He was pretty sure he knew what the principal wanted. He took the note from Lashundra and headed to the office.

Mrs. Castillo, the office manager, told him to have a seat while she notified Dr. Ríos. A few moments later, she returned and told Jesse that the principal was ready to see him.

When Jesse entered the principal's office, Dr. Ríos was clicking away at the keys on his computer. The Mil Máscaras mask sat on his desk. Dr. Ríos paused to read what he had just typed. His face grew pensive, and he made a grunting sound. He scratched his bristly mustache and typed some more. Then he smiled satisfactorily and saved his work. He looked up and said, “Good morning, Jesse. Please sit down.”

Dr. Ríos clasped his chubby fingers together and placed his hands on top of his desk. “Are you keeping up with your studies? Making good grades?”

“They're all right,” Jesse said, but that wasn't what Dr. Ríos wanted to know. If he was interested in Jesse's grades, all he had to do was look them up on his computer.

“I watched you play last night,” Dr. Ríos said. “You made a couple of pretty good blocks.”

“Thank you, sir. I just wish Coach Blaylock would give me a little more playing time.”

Dr. Ríos nodded, and his eyes took on a sympathetic look. “Your grandfather has called the school several times to share your concern, and I've spoken to Coach Blaylock about it. That's probably why you got to play last night. Maybe next week Coach Blaylock will give you even more time on the field.”

That was good to hear, but Jesse couldn't help wonder if his father had ever called Coach Blaylock, or if that was another one of those promises he had failed to keep.

“What do you generally do after your games, Jesse?” Dr. Ríos asked in a more serious tone.

Jesse shrugged, pretending he didn't know what Dr. Ríos was getting at. “Usually I go home with my grandparents. Sometimes a few of us guys go out to eat.”

Dr. Ríos leaned forward and asked, “Is that what you did last night, Jesse? Go out to eat with . . .
the guys
?”

“Um, no,” Jesse replied calmly. “One of my father's friends, a wrestler named TJ Masters, took me out to dinner.”

“Oh?” That piece of information threw Dr. Ríos off. He blinked several times behind his thick glasses. He pushed himself back in his chair and rested his hands on his ample belly. “TJ Masters. Didn't he wrestle this past Monday night?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dr. Ríos snickered. “He didn't fare too well against Solomon Grimm, did he?”

“No, sir. I guess he didn't.” Jesse knew Dr. Ríos was a wrestling fan. The one time Jesse's father came to the school, Dr. Ríos recognized him right away, even without the skeleton-face make-up.

Dr. Ríos picked up the mask. “Jesse, do you know anything about this?”

What did Dr. Ríos expect him to say?
Sure, I know what it is. It's the Mil Máscaras mask I put on the Deaf Smith statue last night.

“Looks like a wrestling mask, sir,” Jesse said.

“Mil Máscaras,” Dr. Ríos said.
“This morning Lester discovered it on the head of the Deaf Smith statue. Do you have any idea how it got there?”

The principal was fishing. He didn't have anything. “I guess someone put it on the statue, sir.”

“Of course someone put it on the statue,” Dr. Ríos roared. “Whoever did it must have done it last night after the game.”

He suspected Jesse, but he didn't have any proof. Jesse decided to turn the tables on him. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that just because my father's a wrestler, I put the mask on the statue?”

Dr. Ríos's eyelids fluttered. “No, it's just that . . . ”

“It could've been anyone,” Jesse said. “There's a shop near the Alamo that sells those masks. Sir, most of the kids in school watch wrestling. The mask could belong to any of them. I can't believe that the first person you suspected was me.”

“No, that . . . that's not it at all,” Dr. Ríos stammered. “It's just that since you were here last night, I thought you might have seen something suspicious.”

“Like I told you, sir,” Jesse said, trying to sound offended, “last night I went out for a pizza with TJ Masters. We went to Romo's on Hanson Road. I'll have him call you to prove that I'm telling the truth.”

Dr. Ríos smiled awkwardly. He rose from his chair and came around his desk. “That won't be necessary, Jesse. I apologize for the misunder
standing. Let's just forget the whole thing. I'll have Mrs. Castillo write you a hall pass so you can return to your class.”

Jesse glanced down at the mask. For a second, he considered asking Dr. Ríos if he could have it, but that would really be pushing it. He opened the door to let himself out. “Just so you won't have any doubt, I'll have TJ Masters call you so he can verify where I was last night.”

Out in the hallway, Jesse's insides bubbled with glee. This had been fun. He loved the look on the principal's fat face. Jesse pulled out his cell phone and made a call. “TJ, hi, it's me, Jesse. Listen, can you do me a favor?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

O
n their way to the field house, Jesse told the guys about his evening with TJ, and about how he had put the wrestling mask on the statue. He also told them that TJ had invited him to the UFC matches at the Alamodome.

“So you're hanging out with that jobber now?” Goose asked scornfully.

“Don't call him that,” Jesse said. “Just because TJ plays a jobber on TV doesn't mean he's not a tough guy in real life. In a shoot fight, he could probably beat up half the guys in the locker room.” Jesse didn't know if that was true, but it bugged him that Goose kept referring to TJ as a jobber.

“Jesse might be right,” Wendell said. “I read on the Internet that a lot of jobbers are actually better fighters than the guys they go up against. Take Iron Mike Sullivan, for example. When was the last time he won a match? But I bet Ice Man Sloane wouldn't last two minutes with him in a shoot fight. And Sloane's the ACW heavyweight champ.”

“Maybe,” Goose said, unconvinced, “but Masters is still a jobber. I swear, the moment he comes out on TV, the first thing I wanna do is change the channel.” He smiled smugly and asked Jesse, “What does TJ stand for, anyway? The Jobber?”

“That's a good one, Goose,” Bucky said. “What does TJ stand for, Jesse? The Jobber?”

The guys laughed, which irked Jesse even more.