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It’s a very random thing to do. Yes, I counted on him reacting. And I also considered my odd action here could prove ineffective.
I did not at all, however, count on Hoyt Nowak being the most ticklish person in Texas.
The instant I attack his feet, Hoyt scrambles in his chair to get his ankles free from my underarm grip—to absolutely no avail. As I continue ruthlessly digging in with my fingertips, he manages to keep all his screams swallowed down at first. It’s a bit admirable in fact, as he squirms and writhes like a snake, making all sorts of odd pre-vocal noises. “S-S-Stop it!” he finally hisses out. Heads are starting to turn. Someone else snickers nearby. A girl gasps. “S-S-S-Stop!” Hoyt continues to hiss at the indifferent back of my head, not bearing to cry or shout out in the middle of class.
And still, I continue to dig, scratch, wiggle, and burrow my fingers into the soft, cottony bottoms of his feet. I can hear him as he clings to his desk, then the arm of his chair, then the desk again, his hands flinging out wherever they can. He even tries to reach ahead and grab me, but with the position I’ve got him in, he is at my total mercy. Hasn’t he basically been asking for it all semester?
And then he can’t contain it in: “STOP IT!! AHH-HAHAHA!!”
At once, the class bursts into laughter as everyone becomes aware of what’s going on near the wall. Hoyt by now has tried to twist and pull and kick in every possible direction to free himself, but I have his ankles locked so tightly under my arm, his precious feet are my prisoners. I don’t dare give Hoyt one second’s reprieve from my evil fingers as I dig, claw, and grind.
Ms. Bean, tired and squinting through her glasses, sighs when she takes in the scene. “Now what in the world’s going on here?” she asks lazily. “Class? Class …? Excuse me …?”
Hoyt by now is screaming out, howling, and hooting like some kind of wild animal. Everyone in the classroom is laughing as if my fingers might as well be tickling them, too. Phones are out. People are taking sides, yelling across the room at either of us, laughing.
But no one even remotely attempts to come to Hoyt’s rescue.
He is all on his own in this overdue tickle torture.
“STOP!! HAHA! S-S-STOP THAT! YOU BITCH! HAHAHA! STOP!! TOBYYY!! AHHHH!!”
“Toby Michaels,” Ms. Bean reprimands me in the most lazy and unintimidating drone imaginable. “Please stop tickling him.”
“He’s turning purple!” shouts a girl at my side.
That’s what finally distracts me enough to break my tickling trance. My arm barely slackens without my realizing it, allowing for Hoyt’s next kick to free both his feet. The next instant, he’s out of his seat, heaving and breathing and gasping for air. When I turn to get a look at him, I’m shocked to find Hoyt’s entire face covered in tears of forced laughter, his eyes red, his perfect hair a mess …
And a huge wet spot at his crotch.
“Holy crap!!” someone else cries out from the next row over, pointing. “He pissed himself! Hoyt Nowak pissed himself!!”
There is a moment when I meet Hoyt’s eyes, and what I see in them is exposed, naked, and shattered into pieces. Maybe it’s the tears, or his reddened nose, or the look of absolute mortification that now enflames his humiliated, puffy face …
But I feel instantly horrible.
Hoyt doesn’t say a word. He bolts for the classroom door amid the roiling, exploding laughter in the room. I stare after him, the door left ajar, my heart beating with heaviness at what I’ve done. As Ms. Bean tries to get her classroom back in order, I slowly turn to his desk, taking note of his things that remain there—his blue spiral notebook, with a few pages crinkled up from where he was no doubt struggling to break free from me, and his pencil on the floor nearby, kicked off in the scuffle … as well as his shoes.
I’m no longer the brave, takes-no-shit Vann. I’m Toby again. I’m all me. I’m sensitive, emotional, and anxious.
And I can’t just sit here another second.
Without thinking, I rise from my seat, grab Hoyt’s shoes, and go after him. I hear the teacher call out at me, but I’m already halfway down the hall, searching for where Hoyt went. Obviously the restroom. As my heart continues to beat with worry, I head to the closest restroom. Inside, I see no one, but the farthest stall is closed. When I approach, I give its handle a tug. Locked.
A quick peek under the door reveals a set of legs—with two socked feet.
“Hoyt …?” I try softly.
No answer.
“Hoyt. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go that far. I’m really …” He can’t be taking this well. I fully realize he could burst through this door and put a fist through my face right now. He could turn me into blood, pulp, and tears for the very first time in our long, tumultuous relationship. I’m seriously playing with fire just being in here. “I’m … I’m really sorry. I mean it. I …”
