Heartbeat

I don’t know how to tell if Gym is an academic class or not. The only thing I’ve learned since we started going gym (in second grade) is how much I suck at it.

It doesn’t matter what unit it is. There are no gold stars in between, at points and places where I’ve done surprisingly good, while others are just black dots, which are my weaknesses.

They’re all black dots.

In basketball, I can’t ever get a shot because I’m too short and my arms won’t reach as far as they need to for the ball to get high enough to swoop right into the metal chains of the net, and my aim is so horrid it makes the gym teacher’s eyes bleed. I can’t keep up with anybody else and can’t catch the ball when it’s thrown to me, which is rare anyway because nobody wants me to be in charge of something they know I can’t do.

In track, I can’t run. My legs are too short. They don’t give us enough time to get a drink of water first, and my time is always the worst out of all.

In lacrosse, the ball falls out of the stick’s net. Every time.

In soccer, I just slip on the muddy, morning dew-covered grass of first block gym class when it’s still considered morning time.

In tennis, I just drop the racket.

In badminton, same as tennis.

They tell us they base their grades on Effort, not Ability, and forget to mention that the grades are also built off of Opinion, which is then based of Ability, because you need to do good in gym or the gym teacher won’t think you’re trying hard enough, so that pushes Effort out of your grade spectrum, and you end up with an either high or low C, no matter how hard you tried or how much perspiration you sweated to get a good grade that you knew in your head the whole time you wouldn’t get anyway.

It shouldn’t even be a class. It’s too humiliating for that.

Mikey is in my gym class. The worst part of this is that he’s good in gym. He can shoot a basket. He can get a good time on track. In lacrosse, he knows how to use his stick in just the right way so the opposing team stays out of his way, just so they don’t get whacked with his stick, which he uses as a weapon, purposely so they’ll stay out of his way. In soccer, he never slips on the grass, and comes off the field muddy yet victorious. Tennis is the only thing he can’t do. With the retarded scoring system and quick moving or running back and forth to ridiculous distances, it’s his only weakness and enemy.

But he still gets a good grade in class. Because he does good. Unlike me, because I suck and get a bad grade because I suck.

And then the gym teacher goes off on how the grades aren’t opinionated. I’d be willing to join the Debate Club even when I hate clubs, just to argue that point.

In lunch, they have teachers working as guard dogs, standing near the doors to make sure nobody leaves. I’m screwed.

I look around incredibly quickly, with my red, blasphemy-covered lunch tray held lowly in my hands. I need to think fast. An empty table in a dark corner I can crawl into so even if I’m sitting alone, nobody will notice because I’m hidden in the shadows. Or just somebody normal to sit with.

And then the first miracle happens.

Mikey.

He beats me in gym and smiles at me too much. His voice is weird and nasally; he always sounds like he has a cold or a sinus infection.

But he has the same lunch block as me. And the kid he’s sitting with is the same kid I used to hang out with when I was little. We used to be best friends before Gerard took that spot. This is like a twofer

I dump myself at that table and Mikey smiles at me again and says hi, and the kid who used to know me looks at me weird, trying to remember if I’m the person he thinks I am.

Lunch is nothing more than mashed potatoes that taste like paper, chocolate milk that isn’t as cold as it should be, and peas that are too cold. A plastic fork and a plastic knife because the Activities Committee wanted to improve on the ‘No Weapons’ policy. That might also be why they stuck two metal detectors in at the front doors, so the crazed Columbine copy-cat wannabes would stop freaking us out and bringing in daggers and guns filled with blanks.

In World History, we delve back into our own family’s background again. We are supposed to write a paper on what facts we found out about our ancestors.

This is where the bad part comes in. The part where I realize that I didn’t realize we had History homework in the first place, and even if I did try to get facts, I wouldn’t get much farther than how nobody’s grandfather is loonier than mine. People would laugh at me for having such a screwed-up family.

I pass no paper in. Ms. Francis gives me a disappointed look because she’s in love with me (in a safe, legal, normal teacher-to-student way).

I just shrug and apologize and tell her I forgot I was supposed to get facts, so what was I going to base my paper on?

She tells me I should stay after and get some extra help with her. I say nothing and go back to my desk and watch green leaves turn gross shades of brown.

Everybody says that autumn is such a beautiful season. That when they see the fall foliage, it’s nice and relaxing and pretty to take pictures of.

I look out the window and see no pretty.

It’s a Death Season, that’s what it is. The only reason that the leaves are turning colors is because they’re dying as they fall to the dew-covered frosty grass in a silent pit of despair. This is when the weather starts to turn cold; when you have to walk around in a jacket, at least, because it never stops being chilly. The skies don’t ever give us any sunshine because they’re getting grayer and grayer as they gather up more and more snow to pound down on us as soon as Thanksgiving comes around.

By the end of the day, I’m hiding in the bathroom again after I told the teacher I had to take a leak. My ankles are hurting again. I’m beginning to think that when I grow up, I’m going to have some bone marrow problem that will make all my bones brittle and weak.

I decide there’s no way I can avoid him at the end of the day, so I simply walk out towards the doors and let him grab me and pull me back so I don’t leave without him when I pass him by the lockers with the same group of white-teethed telephone poles.

When I get to his house, I decide I’m too tired and aching to force my brain to send me back inside. It hurts just like every other time, but I’m used to it by now and it’s like I’m numb to it. I just let him move on top of me and make faces like I’m enjoying it.

And then the second miracle happens.

When I look up at his eyes staring down into mine--glaring, almost--I delve back into my head, and not on purpose.

But then I see what’s inside and it’s not as much of a miracle as I thought.

I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at his and in my head I can see them again, still staring down at me in the same position and the sky above me is lathered in stars and his family is still in their house and don’t hear a thing and I stay real quiet and can’t say a word because my lips won’t cooperate and I feel sleepy and my eyes are heavy and when I open my mouth to say words, my tongue is thick in my mouth and nothing comes out.

I zap back to reality. He’s laying next to me, sweating and panting for breath like a dog. My jaws are clenched together so tight that they’re aching and giving me a headache and I can feel my ears ringing with flowing, poisonous blood and I can’t stop aching.

I feel myself whip out of his bed and start gathering my clothes back up.

“What’s wrong?” He sits up and looks at me with concerned eyes I’ve never seen on him before. But they don’t last. “What’re you doing?”

I don’t answer. I’m too busy pulling m boxers and pants and shirt and jacket and backpack back on to care.

“Where the hell are you going?” His voice is back to its old self now; irritated and angry and filled with burning, searing fire.

I close my eyes and can still hear and smell everything with the stars and how I feel like I’m about to go to sleepy, I’m so tired.

“I gotta go.”

“No, you don’t.” I watch him whip the blanket off and plant two feet on the ground as he’s about to get up off the bed.

“I gotta go home!” I say with eyes that plead for him to understand. “I don’t feel good…I feel like I’m about to throw up. I need to go home. I gotta go back to bed.”

He continues to sit on the bed, with a weird look in his eyes.

“Okay…” he says slowly. It shocks me, at first, but I don’t spend time gawking about it. I grab my bag and get out of there because his entire house is making me nauseous. I pass Mikey in their kitchen as I storm out of their as fast as possible, and I hear a quick “hi” come out of his mouth, which I ignore because I don’t have time to hang around a kid like that. I feel like my inners are being torn apart.

I walk all the way home and walk so fast I don’t even notice how cold it is getting outside. Inside my house, Mom and Dad aren’t even home yet, and Hannah has written a note for them and left it on the table, explaining how she’s going to ‘Becky’s house, when in reality, she’s sneaking over to the kid she likes to call her boyfriend to do things I don’t want to spend too much time dwelling on.

I find myself in my bed and I want to close my eyes and rock myself back and forth just to calm down, but I can’t close my eyes without the things coming back to my head with the stars and the sleepiness and Gerard’s parents congratulating Mikey and nice food and the rocks digging in my back and the branches from the bushes that are tangling me and cutting me up everywhere and I can’t breathe.

I sit in front of my mirror instead. Staring back into the eyes of the only kid I thought was the safest to be around, but not even he is safe anymore.

Mom is right about the bruise. I have a red mark just above my eye on my temple. When I touch it, it makes my skin pulsate and sting.

I try to look at myself and point out things that I like, but I can’t find anything.

I don’t wanna look at this kid anymore because he scares me. I put the mirror back into the closet, facing the wall.