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Mrs. Ruiz was cool, even though she gave Michael a you-better-call-your-parents look when they walked through the door. She didn’t even bring up the fact that he and Carlos had ditched the last couple periods of school. She just handed Michael a fresh bag of ice and sent them up to Carlos’s room.

“Dinner will be ready in a couple hours,” she said.

“Thanks, Mom,” Carlos said.

“Gracias, Señora Ruíz” Michael added.

They stormed upstairs and then burst into Carlos’s room. Carlos took a seat at his computer, booting it up, while Michael plopped down on the bed, grabbing a Spider-man comic from the nightstand.

“So what’s that shit all about?” Carlos asked.

“Wha- huh?” Michael mumbled as he flipped a page.

“’Gracias, Señora Ruiz’,” Carlos said, mocking Michael’s bad accent. “You sound like a hick when you speak Spanish.”

“Hey, just being nice,” Michael said, setting the comic aside, “since she didn’t make me call my folks.”

“And what’re you going to tell them?” Carlos asked as he started clicking the mouse to his computer.

Michael got up and moved to a chair next to Carlos.

“The same old,” he replied. “That I fell. Hit my face against something. A door, maybe.”

“Didn’t you say ‘a door’ last time?” Carlos chuckled.

“Oh yeah,” Michael frowned. “Better not use that one again. How about a table?”

“And they’re gonna buy it?” Carlos asked.

“Probably not,” Michael said, “but at least they won’t pry.”

A medieval ballad chimed from the speakers on Carlos’s computer. Then the words “Mages of Mayhem” flashed across the screen followed by the image of a wizard holding a glowing staff overhead.

“So, are we playing with the dark or white arts today?” Carlos turned to Michael.

“I feel like kicking some ass,” Michael replied.

“Dark arts it is. Let me just log into a game.”

*          *          *

Michael groaned.

The screen turned blood red, and a funeral dirge sounded from the computer’s speakers.

Then a message from HPotty flashed on screen, “GOT U AGAIN”.

“Come on, man!” Carlos exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “That’s the third time you’ve gotten fried in the past half hour.”

Exasperated, Carlos started pacing the short distance between his computer and the bedroom door.

“Half the kids playing against us are freshmen, and they’re gonna be trashing us in school tomorrow. You want that?”

Michael tossed the mouse aside, frustrated. Leaning back in his chair, he fingered his lip. It was sore and swollen

“Just not into it today,” Michael said with a heavy sigh. “Sorry”

Carlos threw up his hands.

“Damn it! She’s just a girl!” he shouted. “There’re hundreds of them at school.”

“But —” Michael began.

“But what? You like getting your ass kicked?” Carlos berated his friend.

“But she’s going out with the biggest dork in school.”

“Who happens to be twice your size.”

“Not with the ‘roids, he ain’t,” Michael said, grabbing his crotch.

Carlos stopped and chuckled. “Yeah, but it’s his fist you have to worry about smacking your face, not his shrivelly itty-biddy parts.”

Michael spun around in his chair to face Carlos. With his thumb, he pointed at the computer screen.

“Sometimes, don’t you wish this was real?”

“What? Mages of Mayhem?” Carlos asked.

“No, no.” Michael shook his head. “Magic. Don’t you wish it was real? That we could cast spells and stuff.”

“You want to get fried for real?” Carlos chuckled.

“No, but then Darren’s wrestle mania wouldn’t be a factor,” Michael said. “I’d just curse him so that he’d have a limp dick, and then Kelly would eventually dump him.”

A wave of seriousness suddenly darkened Carlos’s gaze. “When I was little,” he said. “My father told me stories about the brujos back home. Scary stuff, witchcraft. You don’t want to mess with that.”

Carlos looked down at his feet, a curtain of silence hanging over him. Michael could only guess what his friend was thinking, that it really wasn’t about magic or witches, but his dad. This was the first time in a long time that Michael remembered Carlos mentioning his father. Carlos’s dad is usually an off-limits topic between them.

The awkward moment last only a second as Carlos seemed to shake free of his thoughts with a visible shudder.

“You’re sad. Really,” Carlos said with a smirk. “Now get the hell out of my seat. I’m gonna kick some freshman ass.”

Michael didn’t know how Carlos did it, half carrying him, half dragging him. His friend wound their way down a couple hallways, through the boys’ locker room, another hallway, the kitchen, and then out the loading dock. In minutes, they were in the school parking lot, and Michael was holding a bag of ice against his face.

“You drive today?” Carlos asked.

“Yeah, but –“

Michael was trying to focus on the cars in front of him: the three blue Toyotas, the three Chevy pickups, the three yellow bugs past that.

“But what?”

“I don’t know which one is my mom’s.”

“Didn’t you drive her bug?”

Michael rubbed his eyes and squinted.

“Yeah, but there’s three of them.”

Michael felt Carlos’ hand dig into his pants’ pocket.

“Maybe I should I drive.” Sounding a little distant, Carlos added, “just walk toward the middle one.”

Without his friend’s support, Michael took an unsteady step forward. The adrenaline of the fight was wearing off, and his head began to spin. His stomach felt like he had just spent all day at the fair, getting whipped around and around and around on rides. He gulped back the zesty flavor of spaghetti sauce that filled his mouth.

“You look like you’re going to lose your lunch,” Carlos laughed.

“Shut up!”

Michael lurched forward to his mom’s car and used it to steady himself. Then he walked around to the passenger side, expecting Carlos to unlock the doors.

A sound like a chalk against a chalkboard made him shiver. He looked back, and Carlos was leaning against the Chevy pickup as he walked toward Michael. One hand was in his pants’ pocket. The other, held close to his thigh, dragged along the side of the pickup. A thin silver groove trailed behind that hand.

“Shit, Carlos!” Michael exclaimed. “That Darren’s truck.”

Carlos just kept walking, smoothly, like nothing had happened.

The locks to the bug beeped.

“Get in,” he said, opening the driver-side door. I don’t think anyone saw me.”

Carlos was calm enough not to even squeal the tires as he shifted the car into drive.

That’s what Michael liked about Carlos. Even in the thick of things, he kept his cool. He told Michael it was machismo, facing the bull as it charged and showing no fear, showing it that you’re a man. Michael often suspected the “bull” Carlos referred to was actually his father.

A few years ago Carlos’s father had just disappeared. Neither Carlos nor his mom talked about what happened, but the rumors were that he was illegal and got deported.

No matter, Carlos changed over night from a kid who shouldered his way down school hallways to the guy Michael now knew. And that was right about the time Darren and his friendship started to become strained by the high school pulls of popularity. And then there was Kelly . . .

“She’s playing you, man.”

“Huh?”

“Kelly, she’s playing you,” Carlos repeated. “She knows how much you like her and . . .”

Michael didn’t want to hear it and tuned his friend out, wishing he could do the same for the pain. He fingered his lip to feel if it was swollen yet. It had grown to the size of a watermelon.

- last revised 01/15/09 -

“I told you to stay away from her,” Darren Lagget snarled at Michael Dissanti.

“Hey, Kelly just —” Michael began, but before he could finish, Darren shoved him, hard.

“Kelly just what, huh?” Darren snapped. “What?”

Darren shoved him again, and as Michael crashed into a row of lockers, he purposely drove his elbow into one of the metal doors, hoping someone — a friend, a teacher, anyone, would hear the loud, hollow clang and come running to his rescue.

Michael wasn’t afraid of Darren, even though his rival for Kelly’s affection was on the wrestling team and had biceps the size of bowling balls. The two heavyweights, Matt and Brad, keeping a lookout were another story. Even if Michael kicked Darren in the balls, there was no escape. Now way out.

“I told you to stay away from her.”

“But we have Calc —”

Darren grabbed the front of Michael’s shirt and pressed him up against the lockers.

“I don’t care, Piss Ant!” he roared.

And with that, Michael knew he was in trouble. Darren had used his childhood nickname, dismissing the years they had been friends, living a few houses down the block from each other. So much for fishing on McDill Pond or sledding down the hills at Iverson Park together. It was like they were ten years old again, and Michael was the new kid in the neighborhood. Darren had bullied Michael constantly then, before they became friends. Problem was, Darren now hit like a sixteen-year old, with fists and muscles.

“Chill, Fag Butt,” Michael said, faking a casual laugh. “Kelly and I are just friends.”

He couldn’t resist retaliating with Darren’s childhood nickname, despite the danger. The smirks on Matt and Brad’s faces were at least a small victory.

“Oh yeah, Piss Ant. What of those things you said about her in junior high? Huh?” Darren asked, shoving Michael into the lockers, again. “You were crushin’ on her big time back then. Don’t tell me that’s all changed.”

“I wouldn’t date someone who’s been with you.” Michael muttered.

“What was that, Piss Ant?” Darren asked. “I dare you to repeat that.”

Michael didn’t know what suddenly snapped inside him — anger, fear, or a mixture of both, as he realized that he had nothing to lose. He was going to get punched. Or worse, humiliated. So he pushed back, catching Darren off guard.

“Lay off, Fag Butt!” Michael screamed.

Darren stumbled backwards, and the heavyweights moved in to stop his fall. If Michael hadn’t been shocked by the sudden ferocity of his own actions, he would have slipped away in the brief seconds that the wrestlers fumbled about, arms entangled. Instead, he stood there, amazed at the fact that he, and his mere one hundred and twenty pounds, had nearly pushed over the most-muscular kid in school.

Darren regained his balance before Michael could realize his mistake.

“I’m gonna kill you!” Darren screamed, cocking his arm back, slowly, as if he were loading a cannon.

Still, Michael didn’t run. He stood, rooted to the spot like the old cliché — a dear in the headlights.

Then suddenly, the world exploded in a brilliant red flash. The blow from Darren’s fist whipped Michael’s head around, smashing the side of his face, his shoulder, his arm into the lockers. The loud bang echoed down the hallway.

Surely someone will come now, Michael thought.

He managed to remain on his feet by leaning up against the lockers. Never before had been hit that hard — not in playground fights or crashing bikes off of jumps or falling out of trees. His legs were liquid, and his vision foggy. Darren’s voice roared, angry and incomprehensible, in his ears, but was dulled by the wave of pain that washed over him with every heartbeat.

Michael felt himself being pressed up against the lockers, and Darren’s arm was across his throat, pinning him.

“Are you even listening to me?” Darren yelled, punctuating each word with a spray of spit.

Michael reached up, grabbing Darren’s arm, but he might as well as have been trying push aside a bulldozer. It didn’t budge, and he couldn’t breathe as Darren leaned into him. The edges of Michael’s consciousness grew fuzzy.

“Come on, someone’s coming,” Brad shouted.

“We’ll finish this later, Piss Ant,” Darren growled in Michael’s ear.

As the pressure on Michael’s throat disappeared, his legs finally gave out, and the floor slammed into his knees. Michael caught himself with an out-stretched hand, keeping himself from falling flat on his face. As he heard the wrestlers’ footsteps fade and new ones rush toward him, a dark red pool grew, drip by drip, on the floor in front of him.

“Mike, hey, you okay?”

Michael looked up. It was Carlos Ruíz, his best friend.

“Aw man, your lip’s hamburger.” Carlos winced. “We’d better get you out of here.”

“But it’s only 5th period,” Michael mumbled. “I’ve got Calc.”

Michael felt gravity release its hold as Carlos pulled him to his feet.

“Darren must have rattled something loose upstairs,” Carlos laughed, “if you think bleeding all over a girl is going to impress her.”

- late revised 01/15/09 -