Slob - Ellen Potter [28]
“You should be last and I should be second to last.”
“Forget it,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. It’s not something I do often, and I was sorry I did it now. It makes me look like the Buddha in Nima’s living room. And yes, I was aware that I was arguing with a kid who kept a knife in his sock, but you have never seen me on a trampoline.
“Clock’s ticking! Five, four, three—” Mr. Wooly shouted at us.
Mason spit out another lineup, again putting me last and him second to last.
“Two one. Okay, Team B. Step up.”
Everyone hustled toward the equipment, arranging themselves in Mason’s sequence.
“No!” I said again, but Mason shoved by me and said, “Shut up.”
Mr. Wooly blew his whistle, and Steve Taylor shot off toward the balance beam. So that was that. I was doomed. I would be the last one. The grand finale. I’d be flopping all over the gym and everyone would be screaming with laughter, thanks to Mason.
No, Team A would be screaming with laughter. Team B would be screaming with rage.
The first couple of guys did really well, which made me feel like vomiting. None of them even toppled off the balance beam. Now we were actually contenders for the winning spot, which made my situation increasingly worse. In fact, it all might come down to me in the end. I glared at Mason. Look, I’m used to bullies. I was never exactly popular, even before I was fat. Back then I was picked on because I was smart. When I started gaining all this weight, about a year and half ago (I gained it so fast and so furiously that I have stretch marks across my thighs and belly), I became the person everyone loves to hate.
Still, most of the kids who picked on me were morons. Yes, the things they said and did hurt my feelings, but they were thoughtless insults from teeny-tiny minds.
Mason Ragg, however, seemed to be thinking.
Darren Rosenberg was finishing up on the mats, and Mason stepped up to the starting line. His jaw was working again. I was beginning to think this wasn’t a sign that he was going to spit at someone, but instead it was a sign of nervousness. Darren tagged him on his shoulder—carefully, I noticed—and Mason headed for the balance beam. The strange thing was, though, he didn’t run to it, like everyone else. He just walked. Actually, it was more of an amble. Team B started shouting at him, “Run, run!! What are you doing?”
I had fairly good idea about what he was doing. He was trying to make it even harder on me. Team B would be so behind on time that the pressure would be on me to make it up.
When he got to the balance beam, he eased himself up and inch by inch made his way across. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. As though he were terrified of heights. Well, maybe he is, I thought. He certainly looked scared.
Team B was practically rabid. “Go!” they screamed. “Can you freaking believe this?” And other choice things.
When he was halfway across the beam, the fire drill sounded.
There was a cry of outrage from Team A and a cry of joy from Team B and a cry of “Shut it!” from Mr. Wooly. While everyone else was hustling out of the gym or appealing to Mr. Wooly for a rematch, Mason got off the balance beam. I watched him. He had no trouble with balance. He had no issues with height. He had hopped off the beam and landed on the floor mat as easily as a cat.
He was diabolical.
Our eyes met, and he smiled at me. This was a definite smile. A gloating smile that crinkled up his scar.
Do you know what I did then? I actually smiled back. And this is the weird part. I don’t know how to explain it. For a split second, I felt like Mason and I were on the same side rather than sworn enemies. Amazing what a smile can do to you physiologically. I think it pumps up the endorphins so you automatically feel like the universe is a good and friendly place.
That lasted all of twelve minutes.
Nine minutes of standing outside in the frigid cold in my gym shorts, two and half minutes of walking to the lunch closet. At the twelfth minute, I discovered that