Chapter 6- Nick P.O.V

Nick Grutler did not go to the mall for lunch nor did he attend the afternoon assembly. He didn’t own a car to drive anywhere, and no one had told him about the election. Indeed, although Nick had been in school every day since Monday, no one at Tabb had even spoken to him outside of class, and that included his teachers. Nick Grutler was six feet four, wiry as a hungry animal, and as black as midnight. No one had spoken to him for the simple reason that they were afraid of him.

Tabb High had several black students- four to be exact, two girls and two boys- but none of them was a recent transfer from East L.A. where youth gangs ruled. None of them had the pent-up emotion that came from having to master the use of a switchblade by age twelve just to survive. Nick had not killed anybody- no one he had been forced to stab, at least, had died in his presence- but he had seen more violence then most war vets. And he had always hated it, and worse in his own mind, for someone of his size and strength- had been afraid of it. None of his teachers that had yet to speak to him had noticed that the new boy from the other side of the city who sat so still during class actually had tremors beneath his skin. Nick had a lot he wished he could forget.

But it was his intention to forget, or if that was not possible, at least to put the past behind him. He considered the new job his divorced father had landed ina  nearby aerospace firm as a gift from above. Another summer in East L.A. like the past one, Nick probably would have seen him killed. On the other hand Tabb High was no paradise either, so far.

He was enrolled as a senior, but he had to admit to himself that he hardly qualified as a freshman in this part of town. He was going to have to read the text book they had given him. He was going to have to learn to read.

He had absolutely no one to talk to. The white kids at school were all caught up in things that he had always imagined were just for TV characters. They went to the beach and parties and worried about what they were going to wear to the next dance.  In a way they were children to him. They had never stared down the barrel of a sawn- off shotgun and been ordered to kiss cold metal. They had lived incredibly sheltered lives. And yet, there were light years beyond him. They knew all kinds of stuff. They could get up in front of a whole class and speak what was on their mind. They had nice clothes, nice cars, and lots of money. They could laugh at the drop of a hat. He had spent Monday through Thursday feeling superior to them. But now that it was Friday he realised he was jealous- and all alone.

His councillor had put him in sixth period P.E where all the athletes were. The only connection Nick had with any sport was basketball. He used to play in a lot of pick-up games in the inner city. Of course, basketball season was months away. The coach who oversaw the P.E class hadn’t known what to do with him. Finally he asked if Nick would like to lift weights. Sure, he had said.

Nick was working up a sweat with over two hundred pounds on the bench press that Friday afternoon when the big, fat legged dude with the thin-lipped mouth began to hassle him.

“A little heavy for you?” the dude asked, taking up a position near Nick’s knees. Lying on his back, Nick could see the weight room was fairly crowded abut twenty guys pumping iron. He suspected they were all on the football tam, and that not a single one of them would rally to his side if this guy started to get rough. He knew instantly the guy was looking for a fight. He had an instinct for such things.

“It’s not bad,” he muttered, letting go of the bas and sitting up. Perhaps if he went on to another machine he thought, there was a chance the guy would leave him alone. Unfortunately the guy was blocking his way.

“What did you say boy?” the big white kid asked.

“Nothing.”

“Yeah you did. I heard you say something. What was it?”

Nick scooted back to where he was able to swing his leg around the bench press table without touching the guy. “I said it was not bad. The weight wasn’t.”

The guy smiled. A couple of his buddies behind him stopped lifting to watch. “You must be pretty strong boy. How many pounds were you lifting there?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? How come you don’t know?”

Nick stood up. “I wasn’t keeping track.”

The guy followed him to the next machine, which exercised the hamstrings. To use it, Nick would have to lie face down, which was not something he wanted to do at the moment. He stood undecided as all around him more guys stopped working to stare.

“What are you waiting for?” the dude asked, moving closer. Nick estimated the guys had forty pounds on him, but knew that his gut was soft; a swift fist in the diaphragm and the white kid would go down. Nick also estimated that about twenty guys would jump in the moment the guy hit the floor.

“Nothing.” Nick had never mastered the art of talking his way out of a fight.

“Aren’t our machines good enough for you?”

Nick lowered his head. “They’re all right.”

“Just all right? You sure spend enough time on time time that somebody else on the team could be using. Are you getting my meaning boy?”

Nick got it very well. But suddenly he didn’t feel like he should. That is how it had always been with him. He would try to avoid a confrontation up to a point and then he just wouldn’t bend any more. He would explode. He hated being called boy.

“No.”

The guy lost his smile. “No what?”

Nick looked him straight in the eye. He hadn’t really looked anyone in the eye all week. “I have as much right to use this equipment as you do. If you think I don’t that’s your problem.”

“Really? Well I think it just became your problem.” And with that, the guy shoved him hard in the chest.

Nick had been expecting the move, and it was still his intention to floor the guy without seriously injuring him. But what followed proved unexpected. Absorbing the blow without losing his balance, Nick moved slight to the right and forward. He planned to grab him by the left arm, spin him around, and put him in a choke hold. He figured that would be the best way to keep his teammates at bay. He couldn’t believe it when the overweight tub anticipated his move and caught him by his hand, whipping him into the nearby wall with incredible force. On the wall hung a mirror the guys used to admire themselves. It splintered on impact beneath Nick’s skull, cutting into his scalp. Then he was on the floor, trying to stand. Blood trickled down the side of his face. The guy’s feet were approaching.

“You goddamn piece of-“the dude swore as he let fly a kick towards Nick’s forehead. Nick was through treating him carefully. He ducked the fat foot and crouched, coiling the power in his legs. The momentum of the misplaced kick left the white dude twisted at an awkward angle. Nick launched himself upward, grabbing the guy’s hair with both hands and snapping his right knee into his groin. The b*****d couldn’t even scream out. Doubling up, making a strangled gasping sound, he fell to the floor, turning a sick pasty colour.

“Who’s next?” Nick barked, glaring at the remainder of the room. He doubted that he’d scare off the whole gang, and he was right. You couldn’t bluff people out of a twenty-to-one advantage.  A few of the stockier fellows began to close in. Instinctively, Nick knelt and grabbed hold of a large jagged slice of mirror. The players paused warily, glancing at one another. It was then the head of the football team, Coach Campbell barged in.

Nick had seen the man before. Approximately forty years old, he had tanned leathery skin and a wide blunt face Nick thought particularly ugly. Although below average in height, he was built like a tree trunk and had one of those thick raspy voices that was usually the result of years of shouting.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded. He saw his player rolled up on the floor and then saw Nick bleeding, with the glass knife in his hand. A look of pure disgust filled his already disgusting face. “Put that down!”

Nick set the piece of mirror on the floor. He had been gripping it so harm it had cut into his fingers and they were bleeding as well. Coach Campbell moved so close to Nick that Nick could feel his hot breath on his bare chest. “What did you do to Gordon?” he asked.

“He attacked m-me” Nick stuttered.

“He attacked you? Why would he attack someone carrying a knife?” The coach backed off a step, scowled down at Gordon. “Skater, Fields, help The Rock to the infirmary.”

The Rock, Nick thought.

The players did as told and soon the guy had been cleared away. From the outside, Nick knew he was standing perfectly still, but inside he was shaking. He half expected the coach to belt him in the face. Worse he had no doubt at all that he was to be expelled, and that his father would kick him out of the house when he heard.

“What’s your name son?” Coach Campbell asked.

“Nick Grutler.”

“Where you from? What are you doing here?”

“This is where I go to school.”

“Who gave you permission to use the facilities in this room?”

“The other coach.”

“Who?”

“I don’t remember his name.”

Coach Campbell folded his arms across his chest nodding to himself. “I know who you are. You’re a transfer from Pontiac High downtown. I was warned about you. I see I should have listened.”

Nick swallowed. “He started it.”

Coach Campbell looked around the room. “Is this true?” He waited for an answer. No one spoke up. The coach sighed, shook his head. “Grutler, either you’re a liar or else no one here gives a damn about your hide. I don’t know which is worse. But I can tell you one thing; you’re on your way out, out of this room, and off this campus.” He began to walk away. “See someone at the infirmary about your cuts. Then come to my office.”

A heavy weight descended on Nick, and for the first time an outsider might have noticed a crack in his reserve. He was stooped over slightly; he couldn’t quite catch his breath. He really had wanted to fit in.

Then the unexpected happened for the second time in a few minutes. One of the guys in the corner began to laugh. The sound caused Coach Campbell to stop in the doorway and glance over his shoulder. The guy in the corner kept right on laughing, louder and louder. The coach turned towards him glaring.

“What are you giggling about, Desmond?” Coach Campbell demanded.

The guy got up slowly, shaking his head. “It’s just that you remind me, Coach, of a sheriff in a movie I saw last night on TV. The sheriff tried to put a black fella behind bars just  because he didn’t like his looks. Sitting here, I was thinking you talked just like him. You see that movie, Coach? You would have liked it. The sheriff ended up going to jail.”

“What’s your point?”

The guy yawned. “Seems to me if The Rock wants to pick on people that can kick his a*s, I don’t see why it’s anybody’s business except his and the guy he’s hassling.”

“Are you saying The Rock started this? Why didn’t you speak up earlier?”

“Couldn’t be bothered I guess.”

Coach Campbell glanced at Nick then back at the guy. Nick could see Desmond was no slouch either about six feet with a head of thick brown hair he had a powerfully developed physique. More important to Nick, though, when he had begun to laugh, the other guys in the room had backed off slightly, as though his humour intimidated them. Coach Campbell seemed to take him seriously enough.

“What are you doing in here, anyway, Desmond?” the coach asked. “Don’t you have a cross-country race to run this afternoon?”

“I do, yeah. So what?”

“You shouldn’t be tiring yourself out beforehand lifting weights.” Then his tone took on a bitter edge.  “You shouldn’t be running at all. Why don’t you suit up for tonight’s game? We need some help at full back.”

“I’ll tell you why, Coach. Because I don’t feel like it.”

“You’re wasting God given talents. You could go to college on a scholarship. You have the potential to go to Notre Dame.”

Desmond looked bored, sat down. “No way, I aren’t even Catholic.”

Coach Campbell let out an exasperated breath, turning to Nick. “All right, Grutler, we’ll let it pass this time. But in the future try to stay out of trouble.”

Nick had not expected an apology. “Yeah, sure.”

When the coach had left, everyone went back pumping iron, except for Desmond, who pulled on a torn cross-country jersey and strolled outside. Nick caught up with him on the hot asphalt between the weights room and the gym.

“Hey, I just wanted to thank you,” Nick said.

The guy didn’t even slow down. “No problem. I got a real kick of seeing you knee The Rock between the legs. I bet that pig can’t stand up straight for a week.”

“Well, I won’t forget it. I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me nothing. But if you want to buy me a case of beer someday, I’ll drink it.”

And with that, Desmond walked away.