A layer of sweat clung to my body in places I didn’t care to think about. My gym shorts were riding up, and my shirt was sticking to me. My breath came in short, rapid paces, begging me to take a break. But that wasn’t an option. Not yet anyway. Coach Harding had already snapped at some other kids who’d decided to do just that. I wasn’t about to place myself on his radar. There were enough eyes on me already. Instead, I continued on, jogging lap after lap. It took eight revolutions around the upper level balcony to make a full mile. I was approaching my seventh. If I could hold out for the final one, I’d be able to stop without invoking his wrath.
Ignoring the pain, I pressed on, trying to lose myself in the rhythmic beat of sneakers against the polished floor of the Hyper building’s upper level. The place reminded me of the images I’d seen of the Colosseum in Rome. It wrapped around a basketball court, giving it that amphitheater type feel. And considering there were a series of halls, rooms, and other places beyond that, not to mention the fact that is seemed tailored to sporting events, I could only guess the guys shooting hoops down below were the modern-day gladiators. Though I had some doubts they’d be any good with a sword.
Rounding the southeast corner, I passed the restrooms and approached the main entrance. There were several glass doors displaying the outside stairs and the parking lot beyond. A concession booth rested on the far side of the entrance, sealed by aluminum shutters. If I had to guess, this was where the school hosted their basketball games. But outside of that, it served the purpose of Physical Education, Health Class, and one of the three JROTC areas.
Despite sweating my ass off, I was glad to be here. JROTC was my next class. Which judging by the people lingering around the glass doors, I was already in the right place. I watched them as I jogged past. Several small groups of kids were lined in formations at the edge of the parking lot. Some were practicing marching, while others appeared to be working on simpler tasks, such as standing perfectly still. Occasionally one of the other students would circle around them, correcting a small detail here and there. The teacher watched from the bannister of the stairs, silently supervising those before him. He wore some kind of uniform, though not being fluent in military attire I couldn’t say exactly what. Other students congregated near the concession booth, talking and joking among their own. I didn’t know where they belonged. Most were dressed in normal clothes, unlike those of us dressed to sweat. Though it seemed a few people from my class had snuck away from Coach Harding’s watchful gaze to converse with them.
My final lap was drawing to an end. I rounded the corner and slowed my pace. A warning about stiff muscles or something similar replayed in my mind, telling me to keep moving despite my desire to lay down and die. Crossing the finish line, I slowed to a walk. My legs were on fire. I wanted nothing more than to sit until I caught my breath. But even that was out of the question unless I sat on the floor. The stairwell to the locker room was on the complete opposite end of the building, so it wasn’t like I could simply cease all movement.
Grimacing, I continued around the balcony, aiming for the stairs. I came into view of the main entrance again. Some of the people had changed, but much of it remained the same. Though there was one addition that caught my attention. There was a kid standing near dead center of the entrance, wearing a faded-brown leather duster. Long hair, a shade between red and dirty blonde hung down his back. I could sense a power within him, though I knew better than to ask about it.
For no reason I could garner, this kid, granted he was a few years older than me, leaned backward into a backbend. Both his hands and feet were flat upon the floor, exposing every weakness his body had.
I heard the kids from the group near him break into a mixture of whispers and laughs.
“Freak!” A male voice shouted, though I couldn’t tell whom it belonged to.
“Watch this.” Another said, breaking away from the flock. I recognized him from my class. He was a senior, almost a foot taller than I, and fairly lanky. A basketball player if I had to guess. Which was probably why Coach Harding seemed to cut him some slack.
The senior broke into a short jog, drawing his foot back as if he were going to kick the kid between the legs. My voice tried to escape in warning, but it was too slow. Though not for the reason I’d feared. Before I could find the words, the kid sprang forward and was standing upright in the flash of an eye.
The senior skidded to a halt, stopping a few inches from the kid’s face. I could see the concern in his eyes. He wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. “Get out of my face, Faggot!” He ordered, refusing to abandon his aggression.
A smirk formed on the kid’s lips, suggesting he knew more than he was letting on. There was a confidence in him, like he had already played out the scenario before it had happened.
I wish I knew what he was thinking. Whatever it was, it seemed to be working. I could feel the transfer of power within him. But none of that compared to the calm emotion he displayed.
“Get out of my face!” The senior demanded a second time, as if he hadn’t been the one to place himself there.
The kid held fast, standing tall, refusing to offer anything more than the smirk.
My admiration grew. A part of me wished I was capable of handling these types of situations so calmly. Instead, I was prone to letting my anger to do the talking. This kid hadn’t said a word, let alone lifted a finger. And yet the senior appeared as if he were ready to turn tail and run the other way.
A crack echoed through the air and I saw the senior’s fist follow through. The kid’s head was slightly cocked, and a trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Yet, that smirk remained as if it had never gone.
The kid spit a mouthful of blood into the floor beside him. Staring blankly into the senior’s eyes, refusing to drop his amused expression, he spoke.
I heard the words escape him. They were almost musical, divine even. I heard the gasps of spectators, just as shocked as I. I’m pretty sure I even heard the senior’s testicles retreat. But what surprised me more than anything was the intent of the words. They cut quick and clean, sharper than any blade could have. They bypassed flesh and bone, burrowing deep into the psyche. This was a mental attack if I’d ever seen one.
“Do you feel better about yourself?”
Stunned, the senior took a step back, unsure how to react. “Whatever, faggot. You aren’t worth my time!” Unable to offer anything more than retreat, he shoulder checked the kid as he passed.
I stood there, trapped in the memory of what had just happened. This kid was different. Different like me. Although his way appeared to be much more effective than mine. And less troublesome. I wanted to shout my compliments. I wanted to compare tactics. Hell, maybe I just wanted to ask his name. It didn’t matter. My opportunity evaporated. Frozen in hesitance as to what I would say, I watched him shrug off the encounter as if it were little more than a misunderstanding to him. Content with his life, he turned and walked out the doors, disappearing into the crowd of kids who had formed into a single, large group.