Haven’t punched anyone since that guy, though. Just…because. Seeing him down on the ground and rolling around, holding his face. I don’t know. Wasn’t the first time I laid someone out, but it was different. I broke his nose and cheekbone with one punch. I really hurt him. It scared me. Sat in my gut like an axe left in a tree.
I asked my dad about it, silently and in my head. Was it right? Was it okay? I know whenever Dad went into a bar, he’d scan the room for the drunkest guy because it was only a matter of time before some dumbass wanted to prove his machismo and take it outside. My mom told me that story when she tried to prepare me for what my size could bring. He’d tower over the entire room, sizing up the crowd, and she’d always get up and kneel on a bar stool and ask him, “What are you looking for?”
And he’d say, “The biggest idiot.”
My dad did it—he punched other people. So it must be okay because that’s what I’m doing, punching idiots.
Except I don’t want to get into it with Adam Michaels. But I fear I will, and now I’m wondering, What does it mean? Is this just leveling up? Maybe this is how it’s supposed to go.
This is like having the world’s strongest magnets inside, pushing against each other. Punch, annihilate, crush bones. No, don’t: let it go, make peace. Wipe the floor with his face; you can’t let someone disrespect you like that. Laugh it off, who cares, let bygones be bygones. Push, pull. I want both, I want neither.
Maybe if I put Adam Michaels in a coma, I’ll never have to do this for JP again. My reputation will speak for me.
It’s an appealing thought.
Who knows what Adam wanted: headphones? New Jordans? Like I said, none of my business. I don’t care. Besides, who cares about Adam Michaels when Jamie’s on my mind? She’s always on my mind, it just depends on the corner.
I hear a voice call my name.
“Dylan!” My name comes at me. “Dylan! A word, please! Don’t go home yet!”
I am not in the mood for any more delays. “Hey, Coach Fowler.”
He jogs down the hall, his silver whistle bobbing all over the place. Dignity, my man, you lost it when you started harassing me to play a sport I want no association with. Panting, he arrives and lays a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I know we’ve chatted before…,” he begins.
“Yeah, and my leg’s still broken.”
“But it won’t be next year!” he says. “We could really use you. It would be a great help to the school if we had you on the team.”
“You know the farthest I got was Pop Warner when I was ten.”
He throws his hands up. “I don’t care! I’ll take you under my wing, give you a recommendation to any school you want. Heck, I’ll even drive you to tour the colleges!”
“I already said no.” Go Team Brain.
“If you’re worried about being behind, you’ve got plenty of time to learn.”
It’s not hard to learn how to be a brick wall. “Once again, not interested.”
“Dylan, please…” He leans in and whispers, “Think of the girls!”
I grin. “Already got one,” I say, turning my wheels to go. “Later, Coach.”
Leaving him hanging in the hall was good, but even better? Going to see Jamie and get more. More bus rides and more five good things about her and just plain more of everything. I want more. We’ve only seen each other once in a room full of nutters—but now I’m the one feeling something crazy. I feel hope.
Mom picks me up and starts lecturing as soon as my seat belt buckles. “No running off today. You say hello to that girl and have a nice visit, but you stay at the hospital, understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes,” she demands.
Jeezus. “Yes.”
She rambles on about therapy and how worried she is, blah blah blah. There’s no convincing her I am fine and do not need therapy, so I nod my head to the beat. Yes, I’ll be there when you pick me up. Yes, I’ll listen to the doctor. Yes, I’ll participate. But the whole time my heart is thumping Ja-mie, Ja-mie, Ja-mie, Ja-mie….
We slow down in front of the entrance and she helps me unload. Mom hands me my bag and looks me dead in the eye. “You’ll be here waiting for me, when?”
“Ninety minutes from now.”
She smothers me in a big hug. “I love you, sweetie. Have a good session. Be strong.”
Inside the lobby, I roll toward our dismal room and wonder if she’ll be there early, like me. “Hey,” she says from behind.
I spin around. It’s her.
Jamie leans against a metal fire extinguisher cubby. “Want to get out of here and do something horrible?”
“Yes, immediately.”
TWELVE
Ten minutes later we’re across the street at a little park where tiny kids take turns falling off a slide onto a squishy sponge disguised as grass. Moms pretending not to check their phones while they push their tots on the swings. I wonder if they have actual things to check or if they’re just bored. The kids don’t care. They swing and jump and play under the drifting leaves among the last rays of afternoon light.