AFTER MY LOUSY SHOWING AGAINST Monkeywrench, I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see that little jerk's twisted smile as he looks down at my tights… I hear the screechy voice as he points and laughs. "Nice costume, Bright Buns! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
Trent is still asleep when I leave for school the next day. I can tell right from the start that it's going to be an awful day. Just picking up my backpack is an exercise in agony. I'm groggy from the lack of sleep, and everyone at school can't stop talking about what an idiot I am. I'm able to tune it out for most of the day, but after a while it really builds up. I'm on my way to seventh period when I start to lose my cool.
"Oh, man… Phantom Justice was getting POUNDED!" Some kid from my math class (I think his name is Justin) is talking to a small group of his friends from the lacrosse team. Justin (I think) is the son of some singer from some band I should probably know, but don't. "Where the heck was Bright Boy?" he yells.
"Changing his tights," one of the lacrosse kids says. Everybody laughs.
"Monkeywrench must've really messed him up," some other lacrosse kid says.
"He came back at the end," I hear myself say. The kids turn to look at me. I'm not sure if their confused expressions are because I'm defending Bright Boy, or because everyone in school knows that kids who aren't on the lacrosse team aren't supposed to talk to kids who are on the lacrosse team. It's an unwritten rule. "He knocked Monkeywrench off of Phantom."
"Yeah… nothing like coming in after it's almost over," Justin says. "Where was he before that? Phantom Justice needs a better sidekick. I bet I could do it." His friends loudly agree that he could.
Usually, I laugh stuff like this off… but it's been a tough week. "Uh, no you couldn't," I say. "You guys have ab-so-lutely no clue what it takes to be Phantom Justice's sidekick, OK?" Everyone is looking at me like I just grew an arm out of my forehead.
"Oh, like you do?" Justin says. And now he's up in my face, and it's taking all of my willpower not to fling him down the hallway on his head.
"I know better than you," I say before I can stop myself. Oh God… what am I doing?!
Everyone starts laughing. "Yeah, right!" Justin says. "Tell us what you 'know.'"
I'm tired, and not thinking straight, but I'm also frustrated. I'm this close to flipping around the hallway, leaping onto the ceiling, then yelling into all their faces, "I'm Bright Boy! I always have been! I've been right here under your noses!" I want them to see up close what I'm capable of… just how fast and strong I am, because they seem to have no idea how far out of their league I am. And then I want to explain to them that even though I'm a plus/plus, I still train my butt off. Why? The same reason they practice lacrosse, even though they already know how to play. The difference is that if Justin and his buddies fail, they lose a lacrosse game; if I fail, some nutjob takes over the world.
I'm this close to opening my big, fat mouth, when a hand closes onto my shoulder. The hand tries to whirl me around, but at the moment, I don't want to go, so I don't. I just stand there, stubborn and defiant. Then I notice all the lacrosse kids watching me, and I know that if I don't drop it, I'm going to have a lot of questions to answer… a lot of rumors to crush. The hand on my shoulder tightens its grip. I can barely feel it. I sigh, then start my act.
"Ow," I say with all the enthusiasm I can muster… which isn't much. "That really hurts." I turn around, and come face-to-face with Jake Berkshire and his group of idiots.
"Hello, Snot," he says, as if changing my name from Scott to Snot is still the funniest thing anyone has ever done ever. His friends laugh as if to confirm it… again. I sigh… again. I know the most painful thing about this encounter for me is going to be Jake's "jokes."
"Get outta here," he tells all the other kids. They all leave without a second thought. "What are you doin' in my hallway, Snot?"
There isn't a correct answer to that question, so I just keep my mouth shut. In a weird way, Jake and his friends just pulled me out of hole. They stepped in right as I was on the verge of giving my identity away. In a weird way, I'm grateful, and I'm not about to waste my second chance by losing my temper.
"I'm talkin' to you, Snot. I said what are you doin' in my hallway?"
"Yeah!" one of Jake's friends shouts. "Sissy!" another one says. The goodwill I felt for them is just about gone. I'm back to restraining myself from hurting them.
"I asked you a question, jerk-face!" Jake says, then punches me. It's a ridiculous punch, and I almost mistime my reaction because it takes forever to get to my jaw. I go limp and roll with it, so that Jake doesn't snap his wrist. It feels like someone just hit me in the face with a balled-up tissue. His friends start laughing and cheering, and I'm using all my willpower to not put them in the hospital.
Then Jimmy "Cracked Ribs" Douglas tells Andrew "Broken Arm" Buckley, Shane "Concussion" McConaughey, and Jake "Multiple Fractures" Berkshire that he thinks I've had enough. For his act of thoughtfulness, I mentally downgrade Jimmy to "bruised sternum."
Before the fight can go any further, lo and behold Dr. White, the foreign languages teacher, comes around the corner, just as she did yesterday. "Hey! Break it up!"
Jake and his friends stop in their tracks. They look nervous. This time, I'm trying not to laugh.
"Break what up, Dr. White?" Jake says, a look of cagey innocence on his face.
Dr. White levels an intense stare at him. Impressively, Jake never drops his eyes.
"Oh, this is not what it looks like. Scott here fell down, and my friends and I were just helping him up. Right, guys?" Jake's friends look like they're going to sprain something "yeah" and "of course"-ing to his suggestion.
Dr. White's eyes narrow behind her half-rim glasses. "Mr. Berkshire, there are some people in this school who are impressed with your charm. I am not one of them."
"Well let's just ask Scott what happened," Jake says. "See what he says."
"Well, Mr. Hutchinson?" Dr. White asks. "Are you going to stand up for yourself, or are you going to perpetuate Mr. Berkshire's awful bully cliché?"
I look over at Jake. He's desperately trying to give me a threatening look, and I burst out laughing. It's a reaction that no one expects, least of all me.
"Mr. Hutchinson?" Dr. White asks, a new note of concern in her voice, as if I had just gone crazy right before her eyes. Jake and his friends have an odd look on their faces. It takes me a minute to realize it's fear.
"I'm fine, Dr. White. It's just like they said. I'm a bit clumsy, and I fell. These guys were nice enough to help me up."
Jake's relief is clear on his face. For such a "bad boy," he has a real hang-up about getting in trouble. What a joke.
Dr. White knows we're lying, and we know Dr. White knows we're lying. I see a look on her face that I've seen on the faces of hundreds of criminals… a face that says, "How far do I really want to push this?"
"Get out of here," she says to Jake and his friends, even though she's clearly not happy about it.
"Yes, Dr. White," Jake says in a sacchariney voice. "See you around, Scott. Try to be more careful next time." The innocent grin never leaves his face.
"Come on, Mr. Hutchinson. I'll walk you to your class," she says when Jake and his friends are gone.
"That's not really necessary."
"That's not for you to determine."
"Oh."
She walks next to me the whole way. I try to act casual by looking at the paintings of old white men that line the walls, but it's not working. I'm very conscious of my movements. I feel awkward, knowing that she's watching me. She's an attractive woman, in a severe, intimidating way. Everything about her is precise. Her black suit almost looks like a military uniform; her hair is slicked down close to her skull and pulled into a tight bun. She's very sharp. I have to be careful. I don't want to give anything away.
"You shouldn't let them push you around like that," she says. "There are a lot of bullies in this world. You don't want to go through life doing whatever someone bigger says."
I burst out laughing again. I can't help it. There are times when the gap between my identities is so huge, it's ridiculous.
"Is something funny?" she asks.
"I laugh when I'm nervous," I say.
She stops walking and looks at me. I try to keep going, but it's just too weird, so I stop too. She stands there, staring at me. I start to get antsy. "What?" I ask.
She stares at me for a couple of more beats. "Nothing," she says, even though it was something. It was definitely something. "We're here."
I look up. It's the door to the class I was supposed to be in ten minutes ago. I open the door. "Mr. Hutchinson. Off doing a little independent study?" Mr. Privet, my social studies teacher, says.
I turn toward Dr. White, but she's already gone. Odd.
"Mr. Hutchinson?" Mr. Privet says. I turn back to him. The rest of the class giggles and whispers.
"Yes, sir," I say. I start fidgeting, playing with the big gold school crest on my sweater.
"Excellent! I expect a full report on your findings by the end of the day. Now, would you please take your seat?"
I bite my lip and take my seat without a word. I pass a kid with a picture of Bright Boy, cut out from the newspaper, on his desk. He's in the middle of drawing various parts of the male anatomy on it. I clench my hands into fists to prevent myself from grabbing the picture and making the kid eat it.
I plop myself down in my seat and try to concentrate on the lesson, but I can't. I feel so restless and wound up and frustrated; I feel like my molecules are going to fly apart at any moment. I just want to leap out the window and flip from building to building until I run out of buildings. Then I want to turn around and do it again.
Instead, I sit and watch my classmates as they take what they consider to be "risks." One girl passes the girl next to her a note. They both look at a kid (who I think is the captain of the baseball team) and start to giggle. The kid never notices them. A couple of other guys use some complex hand signals to communicate with each other from across the room. Another kid (I think his name is Sam) shows his friend (Max, maybe?) his raunchy picture of Bright Boy. They both snicker as quietly as they can, but Mr. Privet hears them and turns around.
"Let's keep the disruption to a minimum," he says in a tone that's stern, but not yet annoyed.
All the kids who were "breaking the rules" blush, but smile, as if they're both ashamed and exhilarated by almost getting caught. It's funny, because I never really break the classroom rules, not because I'm a "good guy," but because I don't have anyone to break them with.
Basically, I have no life (social or otherwise) as Scott, and now my hero identity isn't comfortable anymore either. I mean, becoming Bright Boy has always been my escape. Have a bad day as Scott? No problem! Just slap on the uni, go out, bust some skulls, and become a hero to millions. But now, that's completely changed. My stupid costume has made me joke. And I feel stuck…
I put my elbows on the desk and rest my head in my hands. I'm exhausted by it all.
"Are you OK?"
I lift my head up. Apparently, class ended. I must have fallen asleep. Everyone else in the room is gone, except for me… and Olivia Duchamp, who is standing in front of me with a concerned look on her face. It takes me a moment to realize that her concern is for me.
"Sorry?" I ask.
"Are you OK? You look like you're not feeling well."
"I'm fine. I just… I'm just a little tired."
She's easily the prettiest girl I've ever talked to who wasn't falling off a building. Her friends Charlene and Allison are standing behind her. They look like they're not sure why Olivia is talking to me. I hope they don't look to me for an answer, because I don't have a clue.
"Are you sure?" she asks.
"Am I sure what?"
"Are you sure it's just being tired?" She starts to put her hand on my shoulder, but then stops, as if it might be a little too much to touch me the very first time we talk to each other.
"I think so," I say.
"Olivia," Allison says, stepping forward, "stop with the third degree. If he says he's tired, he must be tired. Come on."
"OK," Olivia says. "Sorry."
I shoot Allison a dirty look, even though I don't really mean to. To tell you the truth, I'm actually a little relieved. I don't have any idea how to talk to a girl like Olivia. But just because I'm relieved doesn't mean I wanted it to end.
"Don't apologize," I say. "It was nice of you to ask."
Olivia gives me a warm smile that I can't help but return. "If you ever need anyone to talk to, Steve, just ask, OK?"
Steve. She thinks my name is Steve. And she's looking at me so warmly, I just don't have the heart to correct her. "You bet," I say. "Thanks."
She smiles and nods, then lets her friends drag her out of the room.
Steve?! Frickin' Steve?!
Suddenly, I want to hit someone… just punch someone dead in the face. And there's nothing I can do about it right now. I can't fight anyone in school, even Jake Berkshire; I'd kill them. Who can I hit?!
Monkeywrench. That's who. It takes very little effort on my part to make that little weasel the face of the misery my life has become, with his jokes about my outfit, and his stupid, squeaky laugh.
Monkeywrench.
My fingers start tingling at the thought of hitting him, hard and often. He's a plus/plus. He can take it. I've got a lot of anger and frustration. It'll feel good to work some of it out on his face.
