Read Between the Lines
Read Read Between the Lines Online
Authors: Jo Knowles
I STEP OUT OF THE MASS OF STINKING BODIES
and get ready to catch the ball.
“Granger’s open!” someone yells.
Ben Mead has it. He pivots on one foot, trying to find an opening among the hands blocking his vision. He sees me and pauses doubtfully, then looks around for someone else. Anyone else. Everyone knows passing to Granger is about as effective as throwing the ball out of bounds. Or worse, handing it over to the other team.
I raise my hands to show him Granger’s ready anyway. I am wide open.
He darts his head around again. Desperate. Ben Mead is the captain of the basketball team and doesn’t even need to take PE. But I guess, for him, it’s an easy A.
“Give it to Granger!” another commands. It’s Keith. He’s always looking out for me, even though it comes at a risk. It’s never a good idea to be friends with the Kcoj. That’s “jock” spelled backward. Because I am the opposite of a jock.
Ben passes it to Jacob Richarde instead. He’s also on the basketball team and also most likely trying to get an easy A. He dribbles a few times but gets swarmed by the other side. Without warning, he hurls the ball at me four times harder than he really needs to. Like we’re back in third grade playing dodgeball and he not only wants to hit me — he wants to make it count.
I hear the break before I feel it. It’s kind of a click. Like the sound my dad’s fingers make when he cracks his knuckles, one by one, as he watches a fight on TV. Like he’s the one getting ready to use his fists.
The basketball slips from my fingers and bounces into a mass of hands and white T-shirts, half of them covered with red mesh pinnies to show which team they’re on. Ben and Jacob look at me with disgust as a red gets the ball and dribbles toward the other end of the court. The rest take chase — a sprawling, blurry candy cane. Their sneakers squeak on the gym floor. The sound echoes through the empty stands.
“Defense!” Ben yells above the squeaks. No one responds. I hate gym.
I stand alone at my end of the court, finger throbbing, and try to concentrate on not letting the water welling up in my eyes spill over.
Please, God. Not that.
I take a deep breath to calm myself, but that just seems to make the pain worse, as if proof of life makes the pain that much more unbearable.
How long does it take for a broken finger to start to swell up like a sausage? I grit my teeth against the throbbing and wait to find out.
Ms. Sawyer blows the whistle she keeps on a black cord around her neck as a second wave of pain rushes at me and brings me to my knees. The candy-cane mass beyond me becomes a pink jumble as my eyes water again. If I wasn’t in so much pain, I would laugh. They are so far from
pink.
I blink away my tears before anyone can see.
“Granger!” Ms. Sawyer yells. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Her tiny body bobs toward me. Behind her, the candy-cane mob turns to finally notice they are short one guy. Not that my participation was making much difference.
Keith is the first to part from the pack and follow Ms. Sawyer up the court, ignoring one essential rule of survival: Never show the crowd you feel sorry for the Kcoj, or
you
become the Kcoj. But he’s my best friend. He can’t help it.
“Granger!” Ms. Sawyer yells again. It’s weird how in gym class everyone resorts to using last names, like we’re in the army or something. I don’t see the connection. Maybe it makes us seem more tough. Most of us, anyway.
Ms. Sawyer’s small head peers down at me. She tilts it to the right and squints at me the way a crow looks at a dying animal on the side of the road, soon to be roadkill.
Do I let him live, or put him out of his misery?
I bet she’s thinking.
Kill me now
, I think back.
Please.
She bends down and puts her hand on my shoulder. It’s small and dainty. Not like you would think a gym teacher’s would be.
“Let’s see, kiddo,” she says.
Kiddo.
Like I’m nine instead of a ninth-grader. Somehow though, coming from her, it isn’t insulting. It’s comforting.
She reaches for my hand, but I pull it away fast, knowing it will hurt more if she touches it. Instead she bends down to get a closer look and winces. “Grab the hall pass and go to the nurse,” she says. “You’ll be all right.”
She turns and jogs toward the candy canes. This seems to indicate that I’m not hurt that badly, and everyone goes back to ignoring me. Keith pauses and turns toward me, giving me a questioning look like,
You sure you’re OK?
I give him a slight nod so no one else notices:
I’ll survive.
At this school, and especially in this gym class, one guy showing sympathy toward another guy is not recommended. At least showing sympathy toward
this
guy. And by
this guy
, I mean me.
I stand up and immediately feel woozy. The gym floor rocks to one side, then the other. I spread my legs to get my balance, as if I’m standing on the deck of a boat. Slowly, the floor steadies and I find the hall pass at the bottom step of the bleachers.
Ms. Sawyer blows her whistle again. The sneakers go back to squeaking and the shouts to
Pass it! Pass it! Pass it! Shoot!
pick up. I’m not sad to leave them.
I walk down the empty hallway slowly, savoring being able to walk without fear of being pushed or tripped.
The floor is littered with crinkled-up paper and pens with no ink.
A strip of toilet paper.
The distorted metal from a spiral notebook.
An empty Doritos bag.
A crushed Gatorade bottle. Blue.
And me.
Mr. French, the head custodian, is usually so fanatical about clean hallways. Any time I leave class to hide in the bathroom or go to the nurse, I see him in the hall with his push mop, cleaning up everyone’s garbage. I always try to say
hi
or
thank you
, because I imagine it is a crappy job, but whenever he sees me, he looks away and hurries down the hall. One time I bumped into him when I was rushing out of class, and he dropped his mop and kind of panicked and just stared at me like I was a ghost. Then he kept saying he was sorry, as if me bumping into him was his fault. He’s a strange guy. My guess is he’s out sick today because this place looks like a dump.
I reach out with my good hand and clang the locks on the locker doors, just because I can.
Clang-clang-clang.
It feels good to be bad for once. Confident.
I wish this could be me all the time, not just in the safety of an empty hall. I wish I could be more than the kid everyone likes to watch fall on his face because he’s “clumsy” (they trip me). Who wears lame clothes because he’s “poor” (my dad doesn’t give me money to buy the right stuff). Who’s a “wimp” (how does a skinny guy like me stand up to someone twice his size without being trampled?).
They don’t know me.
My finger throbs with each step as I get closer to the nurse’s office, which is in the same direction as the main entrance. Or exit, depending on how you look at it. I consider what would happen if I kept walking and didn’t go to the nurse’s office. What would happen if I slipped outside? Slipped away?
But the throbbing aches all the way up to my eardrums now, and I am so tired.
All I want to do is lie down and disappear.
In the nurse’s office there is a daisy-covered plastic shower curtain hanging from the ceiling to hide the vinyl-covered bed that smells like bleach and makes a farting sound when you roll over on it.
I can’t wait do to that now, despite the embarrassing sound. I just want to go behind the curtain and drink from the paper cone cup that makes the water taste funny and swallow the white pills that I know will barely dull the pain. I want to lean back on the farting bed and stare at the dots in the ceiling tiles and listen to the nurse make personal calls because she forgot I’m in the room, behind the curtain, pretending not to exist.
