Gym Candy by Carl Deuker Page A

anything like this ever happens again," Drew said, "I'll be ready. I won't stand and watch."
    "Forget about it," I said. "That's the best thing." I started the Jeep up, managed a small wave, and drove home.
    ***
    My ribs were so sore, I didn't return to school for two days. My gut was an ugly yellow-purple from the bruising, and I had trouble eating. I could have stayed
home a third day, but by then my mother was suspicious. "A twenty-four-hour flu does not last seventy-two hours," she said. "If you don't feel well enough to go to school tomorrow, you're going to the doctor's."
    As I started up the stairs leading to the main entrance of the school, I heard a voice call out: "Mick. Wait." I turned. It was Kaylee Sullivan.
    I'd known Kaylee since middle school when we'd done a science project on landforms together—known her and liked her. She is tall, with brown hair and brown eyes. She is also an athlete: a sprinter and a volleyball player. All year I'd seen her around Shilshole High and said hello every time. And every time she smiled and said hello back, but we didn't have any classes together, so that was as far as it went.
    "I heard about what Drager and Clark did to you," she said as we walked into the building. "They are just animals—two against one like that. Animals and cowards. That's what everybody says. They'd have no friends if they were still here. None at all."
    "What do you mean, if they were still here?" I said.
    She looked confused. "They're gone. Didn't you know? The day they beat you up—that was their last day. That's why they did it; they knew they could get away with it. But if you told Mr. Z., he'd get them suspended from West Seattle."
    I shook my head. "I'm not telling anybody."
    "I had a feeling you'd say that."
    I looked at her. "Do you think that's wrong?"
    "No. I guess not." She paused. "Well, I've got to go to math now. See you around."
    ***
    Kaylee wasn't the only person who approached me that day. So did her friends Natalie Vick and Heather Lee. So did Russ Diver, a fat guy in my last-period class who I've known since first grade. And so did a kid with green spiky hair who I didn't know at all. It was as if every single person in the school had heard every detail. They were all trying to be nice; they were all saying that two against one wasn't fair. But I didn't want pity.
    For the rest of the week, I went straight from one class to the next, keeping my head down in the hallways. I ate lunch by myself on the steps leading down to the tennis courts. And when the school day ended, I walked straight to the parking lot, hopped in my Jeep, and drove home—skipping weight training.
    That weekend my dad had me turn over the soil in a spot behind the shed where my mother grew vegetables. The earth was wet from all the rain, and my arms ached from the work. As I shoveled dirt, my muscles
burning, I kept picturing Drager, on his back, bench-pressing one eighty pounds like it was nothing. Then I saw myself, straining every muscle but only managing a fraction of what he'd done.
    It would have been okay if Drager had been a little stronger than I was. That would have made sense, even—he was older and outweighed me by fifteen pounds. But Drager was a lot stronger. And I knew there were other running backs on other teams, guys born naturally strong like Drager but who also worked the weights every day. Drager didn't put in the work, so I could see myself catching up to him. It would take time, but I'd do it. But how could I catch up to guys who were just naturally stronger than I was and who didn't dog it?
    Monday I went back to eating lunch with Drew and DeShawn, but nothing felt right. One of them would say something and I'd laugh too hard, and then I'd say something and they'd laugh too hard. After school I returned to the weight room. Guys nodded to me, said "Good to see you," but basically they left me alone. On Tuesday, Nolan Brown came over while I was doing squats. "What those