The Boys

The Boys got him again. Jackson Creed, flanked by Kurt Marshall and George Paulson, the new kid with pimples, cornered Timothy into the stall and pushed his head into the toilet. 

The water wasn’t so bad. Timothy had practiced holding his breath at home, during bathtime. Sure, he flailed his legs and screamed into the water so bubbles erupted around his head, but he just knew he needed to make a show.

But his neck—now that hurt. Jackson seemed to shove his entire weight against Timothy’s neck, and one minute into the torture, Timothy thought his head might snap clean off.

At 83 seconds, Jackson pulled Timothy out of the water. Timothy coughed and spluttered, but 83 seconds was nothing compared to last week, or the week before that, or the week before—

George ran into the stall. “Someone’s coming!” he whispered, and Jackson and Kurt shot Timothy death glares before they sprinted out of the bathroom.

Timothy leaned against the toilet, gasping, and realized that George was still standing by the door.

“What?” Timothy snapped. He’d had so many encounters with The Boys that he no longer cared if he had an attitude.

“Are—are you okay?”

Timothy stared. “What do you care?”

George opened his mouth and closed it again. Timothy thought George might follow Jackson’s footsteps and shove him into the water, but the new kid just shook his head and left.

Timothy groaned as he shakily stood and stumbled over to the sink. He pulled a wad of paper towels out of the dispenser and slowly started squeezing the droplets of toilet water out of his hair, staring at himself in the mirror.

Besides the dripping water, nothing was out of the ordinary. His cheeks were flushed, but no more than usual, and his eyes were red, but that would fade. He didn't think he was too awful-looking.

It was the ears that caused all the trouble, sticking out like that. 

“Going for a ride, Dumbo?”

“How’d you find headphones that fit?”

Mom said he’d grow into them, but Timothy supposed that’s what mothers were required to say.

The door suddenly creaked open and Timothy tensed when George reentered. The new kid was at least a foot taller than Timothy, and surprisingly lanky. He had more acne than anyone else in the tenth grade.

Timothy wasn’t sure how he ended up with the likes of Jackson and Kurt, and he watched wearily through the mirror as George walked up to the sink next to his and turned on the faucet.

“Hey,” said George, not looking up.

Timothy glanced behind him at the empty stalls. “Are you talking to me?”

“Who else would I be talking to?” George finished washing his hands and grabbed a paper towel.

“What do you want?” Timothy asked, cautious.

George finally looked at him. “Meet me at the bus loop after school.”

Timothy blinked. “What?”

“Today, after school, I want you to come out to the bus loop.”

“The toilets are still open for swirlies if that’s what you’re going on about,” said Timothy, sticking his chin out at the big handicap stall The Boys always shoved him into.

“I’m not—I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Are you high?” demanded Timothy. 

“What?“

“Or did Jackson put you up to this?”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Look,” said Timothy, getting frustrated now. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re trying to play, but I’d rather just take the toilet again, to be honest.”

Goerge pressed his fingers to his forehead. “Just...trust me. Go to—”

“Trust you?!” He crossed his arms and cocked his eyebrows with a confidence he didn’t know he had. Maybe it was the lack of Jackson and Kurt, or maybe it was the way George stood hunched over, as if trying to look small, but Timothy didn’t feel particularly scared of the new kid.

“Why’re you friends with Jackson anyway?” blurted Timothy.

George dropped his eyes and shrugged. “He—he heard me asking about you.”

Timothy suppressed a groan. Great. Even the new kids talked about him.

“I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, and you don’t really know me, either, but I have an idea,” said George, glancing behind him. “Just go to the bus loop after school, okay?”

Timothy stared at the lanky boy in front of him and jerked his head in a single nod.

With that, George hurried out of the bathroom, leaving Timothy with dripping hair and a growing sense of apprehension.

***

Timothy walked as slowly as he could to the bus stop, coming up with excuses to tell his mom when he showed up looking like a peach thrown from a ten-story building.

“Fell down the stairs Mom, no big deal.”

“Tripped into the dumbbell stand in P.E.!”

This was stupid. This had to be a trap by Jackson, some kind of public display of dominance. He almost laughed when he realized he missed the toilet.

He approached the bus loop and sucked in a deep breath. There, leaning against a pole, stood George.

Better get this over with, thought Timothy. He walked up to the new kid and planted one foot slightly in front of the other.

“Just do whatever you—”

“Hit me,” George whispered.

“What?”

“Hit me in the face.”

“Why?”

George looked down. “Let’s say I used to be the guy in the toilet,” he said quietly.

Timothy blinked. “I...wouldn’t have guessed that,” he said, guarded.

George shrugged and looked Timothy hard in the eye. “If you want it all to stop, just do it.”

Timothy met George’s determined stare, and for some inexplicable reason, believed him with his entire being. There was something about his eyes and how they flitted around nervously, and the way he wrung his wrists—as if always looking for a predator.

Timothy knew that look well.

“I was asking Katie Lou if you had friends, and Jackson overheard and said something about your—your ears,” mumbled George.

Timothy gritted his teeth. “Sounds like Jackson, yeah.”

“And I just...made a joke about them. I’m sorry,” George said fervently.

Timothy looked at the new boy, and a sudden sense of pity washed over him. “I don’t blame you. I might’ve done the same, honestly.”

“I just didn’t want to be Pizza Face again,” whispered George.

Timothy stared at the acne covering George’s face and felt bile rising in his throat, along with the strange urge to cry.

“But what are they going to do to you when you...” he trailed off.

George glanced over at the school doors, where Jackson and Kurt had just walked out. The Boys started walking toward them. “Don’t worry about me—I’ll figure it out.”

Timothy suddenly thought about Jackson and Kurt and all the times he had to practice holding his breath in the bathtub, and he curled his fingers into a fist.

“Thanks, George,” he whispered.

”Don’t mention it.”

He pictured Jackson’s face as George’s and swung his fist forward.

Right as Timothy’s knuckles brushed George’s cheek, George flung backward in an Oscar-worthy performance, something red dripping from his nose. Timothy saw the flash of a Ketchup packet and almost burst into laughter.

Jackson and Kurt turned from walking to sprinting, and Timothy felt his heart stutter at their furious glares.

“F-f-fine!” stuttered George from the ground when the two boys reached them. “I’ll leave you alone! Just—just don’t hit me again, please!”

Timothy cocked his head at George, who winked.

“I—I won’t,” said Timothy, playing along. “As long as you never come near me again.”

George nodded vigorously, holding his nose. “Got it, man.”

Without looking at Jackson or Kurt, Timothy turned around and walked away.

That was the last day The Boys ever pushed Timothy’s head into the toilet.