Slob - Ellen Potter [3]
“First, we are going to learn how to do a somersault properly.”
A lot of the boys groaned, including Andre. I, on the other hand, felt like I had been handed a death sentence reprieve from the governor. Justin Esposito actually smiled.
Big mistake.
“We’ll start with Mr. Esposito, since he is so overjoyed at the thought of doing somersaults. Gather around the mat, gentleworms.” Hardy har har.
We stood on either side of the long blue mat, while Mr. Wooly guided Justin Esposito to the front of it. Poor Justin looked like he was about to vomit. I was actually wishing that he would vomit so he’d be spared. A vomit exemption. But seeing someone vomit makes me want to vomit, so I took back the wish. I didn’t think I’d tell Nima about that, since it was less than empathetic.
“Get down on all fours, Mr. Esposito,” Mr. Wooly commanded.
Justin did. “Now put your head down two inches in front of the line of your shoulders,” Mr. Wooly said. “Legs hip width apart, toes tucked under, tailbone down.”
Justin Esposito’s ears were turning crimson, and he looked like he was in pain.
“Push your left hip out a little. Now tuck your head down and push with your toes. Now! Push! Now!”
Justin’s right leg kicked up and he toppled over to his right side. People laughed. I did too. I’m not proud of it. I almost didn’t tell you. I definitely will never tell Nima.
Mr. Wooly could not have been more pleased. He didn’t even have Justin try again. It would have ruined the moment if he’d actually managed to do a somersault on the second try.
The next boy up managed a decent somersault. The one after that did too. But then came a kid who was one of the lousier basketball players, and he failed miserably. What I noticed, though, was that when the athletic boys were on the mat, Mr. Wooly hardly gave them any instruction at all. However, when one of us nonathletic types came to the mat, Mr. Wooly would bark out all these instructions about where to put their head and how to adjust their hips, and by the time the kid was all situated he looked as stiff and unnatural as if he were playing a game of Twister. When he pushed off into a tumble, he’d fall in this cockeyed way, which would make everyone laugh. Except for me. I wasn’t laughing any more. It was becoming clear to me that Mr. Wooly was setting these kids up. The way he had them place their bodies, they were bound to fall in some weird way. It was pure physics.
It made me so mad I wanted to rat on Mr. Wooly. I didn’t, though. I’m very nonconfrontational. But I wouldn’t laugh anymore.
“And next comes Mr. Birnbaum! Show us how it’s done, Mr. Birnbaum.” Mr. Wooly was already snickering. A pre-guffaw snicker. He was really looking forward to this. The fattest kid in class, flopping on the mat like a giant ravioli. Hysterical.
I walked up to the edge of the mat, avoiding the faces of my classmates. I could hear them laughing already.
“This is going to be so excellent,” I heard someone say.
“All right, Birnbaum, down on all fours.” Mr. Wooly started yelling his instructions at me. “Arms shoulders’ width apart. Head tucked. Rump to the sky. The birds will think the moon has fallen.” Everyone laughed at this. He waited till the laughter died down. “Okay. Now push your right hip out slightly.”
That was it. Wooly’s little trick to get me to fall funny.
“Come on, Birnbaum. Push out your right hip,” he said.
I wouldn’t do it. And you know what? It was less about not wanting to fall funny than it was about Mr. Wooly thinking he was smarter than I was. He really thought no one knew what he was up to. That just deep-fried me.
“If I push out my right hip,” I said, my voice sounding strangled because of the odd angle of my head, “I’ll topple to the side when I tumble.”
“Don’t whine,” Mr. Wooly snarled. “Just do what I tell you to do, Birnbaum. There are other people waiting their turn. Now, push out your right