Precarious Youth

For the fourth day in a row at Saint Moore’s Middle School, Luke had been on a campaign to make Paul’s life miserable; surprise party crackers, sabotaged science projects, and the public mockery when Luke was circled with his friends was becoming unbearable. It was bad enough that Paul had to sit in, not one, not two, but three classes with his nemesis, and in each class they were together, he was on the receiving end of either a bad joke or a wet glob of chewed paper spat at him through a straw.

Recess was no better. Many of the corridors that Paul needed to go through matched Luke’s usual passes. At first, it was simple enough to walk down a different hall, but found himself ganged up by Luke's friends. Worse yet,, running just made them excited as Luke, a seasoned soccer player for the school team, would frequently outrun him and tackle him, laughing, dancing and clapping around Paul like a monkey before carrying on.

Paul believed this could all be weathered. The constant harassment had to stop eventually and things had to return to normal, finding a new friend group, and praying Luke would just forget about him. With each attempt to subvert their game, however, Paul found it gave them further excitement and reinvigorated them.

Who would have guessed this whole ordeal began between the two in a pottery class, when, as a joke, Paul stuck the sharp end of a potter’s needle into his then-friend Luke’s spinning clay bowl? This wasn’t uncommon between the two. Fooling around in class was commonplace, and the teacher gave them a verbal warning, but nothing else. Despite the fact that the class was considered an easy-A class and the clay could be easily reshaped in a short ten minutes, this moment saw Luke getting a few chuckles out of his friend group, something which Paul had never managed to do before, and for reasons unknown to Paul, Luke took this personally.

…

Paul was about to enter his fourth period science class, when Luke approached with his syndicate of buddies. One of them pointed excitedly at their favorite target.

“Paul ain’t got no balls!” The group sang for the hundredth time that week.

Paul was reaching his tipping point. He felt hopeless, lost. All this was affecting him, and concentrating on school was becoming difficult. Everything was spiraling out of his head, but the thing he feared most wasn’t that this irritation was happening. It was having to expect it again and again, fearing what new torture awaits him and he could not live like that.

With his fingers tightening into a fist, Paul’s feet dragged towards Luke. The group saw his approach, still bantering among themselves without any thought for alarm. When Paul shoved Luke into the side of the fence, watching him trip into the vine branches that poked out from the creek side, the gang fell silent.

Luke, without a doubt in his mind, felt an unjustness in this act. It might have been something he could have brushed off and admitted that things had gotten carried away. After all, they were friends just last week. He could have, if the circumstances were different. With his buddies all huddled around him, carefully watching him, especially when a mere moment ago they were all praising him with their attention, the idea that he could just apologize was out of the question.

“The fuck is your problem!” Luke sprang up on his feat.

“My problem is you, asshole,” Paul retorted, giving another shove, only this time Luke stood his ground and pushed him back.

“You want to go right now? I will kick your ass and send you home crying to your mama, boy.” Luke then mocked Paul with the exaggerated moaning with his fists wiping below his eye line. His buddies chuckled.

“You couldn’t kick a ball if it was sitting still.” Paul quipped.

This statement did hit something in Luke, and he was about to step forward, but one of Luke’s friends steps forward and gets close to Paul’s face. “And you could, no-ball Paul?”

“Cute,” Paul ignores him, looking at Luke. “Luke needs his posse of boy scouts to stand up for him.”

The gang riled up and surrounded Paul.

Luke stepped forward to close the gap in front of Paul, curling his hands into a ball, and fixed his gaze on where he planned on striking.

Before Paul could respond, the bell rang and the teacher stepped out from the classroom. “Everyone inside. Hey!” She calls out to the group surrounding Paul. “Get to class! Go, all of you!”

Luke’s friends look at each other, then disperses. Luke however, stood eye-locked with Paul.

“Tomorrow, after school, behind the field,” Luke says.

Paul nods. “Sounds good.”

…

For the rest of the day, Paul’s stomach was in knots. He accepted a fight with a well-known athlete, and throughout that class, people were messaging back and forth between one another, whispering about the fight. Paul's legs trembled all throughout those two hours. In contrast to the star athlete, he was a swimmer who barely made the junior varsity team. All he had wanted was to stand for himself. Instead, it made the headlines of the school gossip, spreading like wildfire.

Every student eyed him as he walked through the corridors. Were they judging him? Did they think he stood a chance? Did any of them think he would win? Paul wanted to run to the bathroom and throw up. It was making him sick, thinking about how poorly everything will go. What little self-esteem he carried will be beaten out of him, then remembered by dozens, if not hundreds, thousands.

Not long before the final class of the day, a small paparazzi swarmed him. Among them were actually a few people from Luke’s friend group. At first, Paul imagined this might be some new, sick joke. He braced himself to hear the words that had been repeated all week to him, only they never came. What did come to him instead was something completely out of the blue. They were interviewing him.

“Paul! What is your plan on fighting Luke?”

“You do sports?”

“How well can you punch?”

“Are you preparing yourself?

“I could show you a few things. Interested?”

“Do you think you can win?”

Some of Luke’s own friends were present, whether they were there to collect info or were in it for the clout was hard to determine. Regardless, nothing like this had ever happened to him. It was the first time he ever got attention that both excited everyone and a certain uniqueness that grew out of the quiet life he so enjoyed. Paul smiled.

With what little experience he had, Paul tried his best to appear charismatic, show some charm and answer questions, pretending he understood what went on in a fight.

Among the crowd, a girl approached. She didn’t give her name, nor did she have anything to contribute to the overall excitement of the crowd. Instead, she hugs Paul and the crowd falls silent.

“Kick his ass…for me…” She winks, before slithering out of the crowd.

Ignoring the fact that someone had even hugged him, Paul was over the moon and so was the crowd. They all saw what transpired. And they were teeming with envy, praising him and hooting Paul’s name. Paul was all for it, howling in the sunlight with courage. The first taste of the bitter sweet cup of glory. Bitter, but Paul kept reveling in it.

All throughout that day, he walked with a new beat to his step, recalling an old song that he would listen to for motivation. The weight of woe fell from his shoulders, and now, strode through the halls with a newly discovered joy in the face of the world.

…

That Friday, Paul showed up to school wearing his athletic shorts and beat-up t-shirt, more so for the heat wave of the day, but the flexibility it offered compared to most days was a welcome change. A crowd formed around him, and many pointed out he looked ‘ready for war.’ Paul let out an assertive laugh.

So far, the rest of the school went by as usual, only this time, Luke was never once in sight of Paul. The fight overwhelmed Paul’s mind, and as he imagined, it might be overwhelming Luke as well.

In those moments where no one was there to recognize him, Paul would sneak off to the bathroom and pull out his phone to watch videos of street fights. He had to know how to fight, but knew only the basics from his karate practices in elementary school. He knew how to block and punch, but he was not prepared for how vastly intricate street brawls were from hand-to-hand combat. Seeing how rough those fights could get brought him no ease, but throwing a few warm-up punches in the empty bathroom halls gave him some solace.

“I just got to land one punch in his face,” Paul muttered. “Just a single hit.”

One more class to go. It was only a few minutes in and Paul wrote the notes on the board into his notebook. But with the moment of truth upon him, his heart leapt out of his chest.

“I want to win!” The hunger fueled Paul's thoughts. During recess, he caught a glimpse of Luke “He looked cocky, but didn’t even approach me,” Paul thought as he wrote. “Maybe he thinks he can get a few free shots on me, and close it out early. Is he afraid of this fight? No, he will be there. And I have to win. I have to fight!”

The teacher’s phone rang. Nothing unusual. Paul continued thinking as he wrote. As he was about to finish the sentence in his pad, Mr. Thomas called. “Paul!”

Paul shot a look up, seeing the teacher gesture him over with his index finger. Paul stood up and approached. Mr. Thomas then pointed to the class exit. “Office. The principal is calling for you.”

“Y…yes, Mr. Thomas,” With a solemn nod, Paul left and crossed through the empty hallways. What once felt like a moment of triumph, now rewound Paul back to the lonely days when he was pushed around by Luke and his friends. Somehow it felt worse without anyone there. Just the ghost and memories of them surrounding him. He had a sneaking suspicion as to the reason for this call. If so, it meant Paul was facing the consequences for reacting to Luke’s harassment. Wasn’t this the right course of action? Wasn’t he standing up for himself? He could not justify the idea that letting Luke walk over him was an acceptable way of moving forward.

Entering the office, Paul caught sight of Luke sitting in one of the guest chairs on the far side of the administration desks, confirming his fears. The lady at the desk spotted him and brought the two to the principal's office. They were seated before Mr. Rothschild, the burly man with a well built body for someone in his sixties. His dark reading glasses, while square and boring in style, hid his eyes in the dimly lit room.

“Paul and Luke,” he began. “Are you or are you not planning a fight on the school grounds?”

Paul froze, every part of his body gripping itself into the cozy chair. The principal bore a hefty impression and the last thing he wanted to do was be given a reason to call his parents. He quickly glanced over to Luke, and for the first time this week, discovered there may be that old friend in him, because he too could not move and now, any notion of a fight seemed less important than facing the situation they were both in.

“We…we were planning a fight…” Paul said meekly. While avoiding any trouble, the last thing he had planned on doing was lying to the principal’s face, getting called out for it, and receiving the belt from his dad at home. “But…” Paul scrambled for words. “But…we planned on doing it outside the school campus…” He glossed over at Luke, hoping he may have something to add.

“Where?” The principal’s voice boomed.

“Where…uh…” Paul tried coming up with a location in mind. The field was originally where the fight would have taken place, except it was on school grounds.

“Behind the entrance of the field on the street!” Luke said with a jump. Behind the entrance ‘next’ to the school, not ‘on’ the school grounds. That should - well technically should - be enough to get their hands free from this.

“Behind the fence?” Mr. Rothschild asked, turning to Paul. “Is that right?”

Paul looks towards Luke, but Rothschild snaps at him. “Don’t look at him. Answer the question.”

Paul's head was in a tizzy. He wanted to look, but the principal had his mind on lock. “Y-yes. Sir…”

Mr. Rothschild nods and leans back in his swivel chair, thinking for a moment. “So let me guess this straight,” his stern voice lowered. “You planned to fight each other at one of the entrances of the school where you could disrupt students from entering?”

“No!” Both Paul and Luke shouted in unison.

“Quiet!” Mr. Rothschild roared.

The two retreated in their chairs. But with timid hope, Paul raised his hand.

“What is it?” The principal said.

“We-we planned on it after school…”

“After school?” Mr. Rothschild jumped with sarcasm. “So just because you thought you could fight after hours, ‘next’ to the school, you suddenly think I can’t have both of you dragged back into this office when I get a call from a neighbor that two troublemakers are stirring up some problems in the street ‘next’ to the school?”

Paul silenced himself.

“You think I am that stupid?” Mr. Rothschild lashes out a snarl.

Again, neither Paul nor Luke said anything. The two absolutely spent on defenses for themselves. Mr. Rothschild nodded, although more out of an understanding that he had hushed two students into submission. With a deep breath, he prepared his final verdict.

“Now I am going to say this once,” Mr. Rothschild's voice was more soothing with forgiveness this time. Both Paul and Luke looked up to meet his eyes. “If I hear of a fight that is on or ‘next’ to my school, I will personally make sure I tell both your parents about this, have your coaches suspend you from practices and games for a month, and reflect this in your grades for poor behavior,” He lowers his glasses to reveal his hazel eyes, bouncing between Luke and Paul.

Paul and Luke both shook their heads approvingly, understanding of the ultimatum.

“Good,” Mr. Rothschild brought his glasses up. “But I need more than that.” Mr. Rothschild motioned with two fingers for them to stand up, and the two boys stood up.

“I want you two to shake your hands.”

“What?” Luke asked.

“I’m waiting,” Mr. Rothschild cocked his head.

Paul and Luke turned to look at each other. For the first time, they might have come to some consensus about how ridiculous this whole thing was. Luke threw an open hand out to Paul. The gesture of peace and the surrender of conflict. This moment that Paul had glorified himself in was now over. Lifting his arm up and taking Luke’s hand, all the he gloried in, all that adrenaline of life he felt? It was sealed away with this one act.

“I want you to hear you say it, too.” Mr. Rothschild said.

“Say what?” Paul asked.

“Promise you won’t fight.”

Paul nodded. “I promise I won’t fight you.”

“I also promise to not fight you.” Luke breathed. Despite them being forced into this act, Paul could tell he was sincere.

“Good,” Mr. Rothschild said, slumping back in his chair with a deep breath. “If you have any more problems, you should talk to me or a teacher. Now go, you still have class.”

…

The weekend passed and Paul arrived at school that Monday, and everything seems to have returned to normal. For the first two periods of the day, nothing exciting happened, although many asked what happened and Paul gave an honest account, while, of course, embellishing some details. Turned out, the fame hadn’t entirely died down. Since that whole ordeal, Paul had been more open and conversant with others, and found a small niche of new friends to spend recess and lunch with. The future was already seemingly brighter for Paul, but he was still ill at ease.

By third period, he was back inside the pottery class with Luke. Paul had once more braced himself for the worst when the two met eyes with each other. Luke spoke with him, and he spoke maturely.

“Thought you might still be mad about everything,” Paul said.

Luke did not answer right away, instead looking around for his friends, and found they were together inspecting others pottery pieces. “No,” Luke responds. “I am… sorry. Things went a little too far.”

Paul smiled and took the potter’s wheel next to Luke. They spent some time catching up while they spun the clay in each hand. Unbeknownst to Paul, however, when he had looked away to ask his teacher about his other clay projects, he would return to the wheel and find Luke working on his clay.

“The others ruined it,” Luke said. “Thought I would try and fix it.”

“I can do it,” Paul smiled. “It only takes ten minutes.” And true to his word, it did take him only ten minutes to remake it.