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“I guess it was more just to prove that I can.” He shrugged. “One time I did it 10 times in one day,” he said at practice, both of us standing at the end of the field waiting for the coach’s call. He was quirky he wore the same pair of purple sweatpants to school every day, and he joked about how much he masturbated. It got even better when I met John during soccer practice. Mostly, I was relieved Fred was gone, and I could stop jumping every time I heard a locker slam. I heard his dad was seen screaming in the office about what a screw-up his son was, a detail I relished with a grim smile.
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That August, before the start of high school, I walked into my brother’s room and asked him, with the most serious face I could muster, if he could teach me how to punch somebody.īut I didn’t have to learn. I nodded, trying to breathe and pretending I wasn’t about to cry. “Are you OK?” asked the assistant coach, a tall, heavy-set man who was also the head of the upper school we would both be joining next year. My helmet disappeared my sweaty gloves flopped on the ground. One day during practice, he dropped any pretense of chasing after the grounded ball and simply rammed into me with all his force. In the locker room after lacrosse, he would snap at my ankles with his stick until they turned bright red.
Something about my incompetence made Fred furious. I had changed schools so often I’d forgotten how to make friends. People whispered that he smoked pot and felt up girls after school. I was perpetually clothed in hand-me-downs. He wore clothing emblazoned with Hilfiger and Klein. Fred was tall for an eighth grader, and he was clear-skinned and golden, with hair so light it seemed more than blond.
We were both faculty brats, and the school catered to elite students from wealthy families.īut our similarities ended there. When I arrived at this new private school in seventh grade, after my mom got a job teaching, I hoped Fred and I might be friends. That’s because my head was being slammed against a locker, the syllables crashing together like cymbals in my ear. The first time someone called me a “faggot” I didn’t hear it at all.