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“No fair,” he says, and I stare at the controller I paid for with my own money. “You didn’t tell me how good you were at this.”
“How is this my fault, jerk head?” I stare at the controller on the floor. “Don’t ever throw my stuff. Pick it up and put it away.”
He stands up, his hands on his hips, narrowing his gaze on me. “You’re the one who cheated.” His hands are turned up, and he’s moving toward me.
“I didn’t cheat. I’m just better than you,” I return, standing in his face when he pushes me. “Don’t ever touch me.” My voice raises, and his eyes widen at my tone.
“Make me, Farmer.” The next thing I know, I have him by the shirt, and he’s gripping my hands. My ma pulls me from him as his mother yanks him from me. Our moms say something about coffee dates without ungrateful bratty kids, and this is one way to guarantee my ma will never again attempt to set me up on a playdate with Xander Lynol—the demon child.
3
XANDER
Eighth grade
Unlike Susie Weaver, I’ve yet to find a way to get rid of Clark Farmer. For the last five years, he’s been a thorn in my side.
At the age of thirteen, I now know better words that describe the fuckhead. And we’re always in the same circle of activities and courses.
Tackle football begins in eighth grade, whereas the younger grades still play with flags. “Tryouts are today, Clark,” the PE teacher says as he passes me, speaking to the asshole on the other side of the lockers. It had been a glorious summer where I didn’t see the jackass at all, but on the first day of school, I realized Clark had shot up in the three months I’d somehow managed to avoid him.
“I’m trying out, coach,” he calls in the locker room. No fucking way. This was the year I was going to give football a try. I’ve grown this summer, too. Clark is built of solid muscle, whereas I’m leaner, like a runner. And fucking Clark Farmer now looks like the Jolly Green Giant at six feet, though I’m just a couple inches shorter.
The quarterback went to high school this year, and my goal has been to play that position.
“What about you, Lynol?” he asks when I leave my locker, passing them. “Is this the year you give football a try?” I grin, knowing this is bugging Clark, now with the focus on me.
“Actually, yeah. Been working on it this summer.” It’s the truth. I’m not surprised Clark is trying out, but with his open mouth catching flies, he’s shocked that I am.
“Typical, can’t leave me alone for anything.” He doesn’t hide his anger, and the coach turns from me to him and back to me.
“Okay, listen up, you two. If you’re on my team together, this competitive shit has to end.” We don’t bat an eye at his language. Every three to four words out of his mouth is a curse. We’ve had him as a teacher long enough.
No one, including the teachers, is surprised by our little rivalry, which has now spanned five years. “Maybe you can channel your fucking anger and accomplish something together.”
Our eyes meet, and in them, I know he’s thinking the same thing. No fucking chance in hell.
An hour later, we find ourselves on the same line on the football field, with every other eighth grader trying out for the sport. I’m not near the asshole, but I know he’s here. His pussy squad, as I call them, are all together. They’re from the other side of town, the part with typical suburban homes, and are the working class. The rest of us, those from money, my crew, are on the other side, talking trash, waiting for the coach.
“All right, guys.” He blows his whistle, and we stop immediately. The coach is someone you don’t mess with. “Listen up! Every fucker trying out for the offense, move to the end zone. All you fuckers trying out for defense, go meet Coach Smith on the other end of the field.”
My crew is split evenly, and Micah and some of my other friends move for the offensive side. Of course, Farmer is wanting to play offense, too. The coach looks at the number of boys and moves the bigger ones to the side as offensive linemen. He doesn’t move Clark, though he could be an O-lineman.
“Who are my runners? I need wide receivers, running backs, and tight ends.” The other guys, except Clark and me, raise their hands. His gaze swings to us.
“Oh, fuck me,” he groans, looking our way. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You two want quarterback, should have fucking known.” He removes his ballcap, raking his fingers through the remaining strands of his hair.
We’ve learned how to push each other’s buttons but we’re similar when one of us pisses the other off. We both cross our arms over our chests simultaneously, scowling at the other, and neither one will give in. “Yes, sir.” We answer at the same time.
“Shit, I should have seen this coming. The good news is you’re both fast as fuck.” He turns his attention to Clark. “Even though you’re built like a wall, you’d be a great wide receiver.” I let out a chuckle under my breath. He switches his attention to me. “Watch it, Lynol. You’d be a great tight end.” He returns his ballcap to his head, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Okay, you little jackasses, I’m gonna let you both try out, but fuck if this isn’t a recipe for disaster.”
He walks away, yelling at the offensive line. “Come on, you pansies, let’s see what you’re made of!”
We’re left together but turn our backs on one another. I’m not trying out for quarterback because Clark is, it’s just a coincidence. It’s the position of power and mine for the taking. It’s an added bonus that I’ll be snatching it from the farm boy.
* * *
I watchfrom the back row in the class I just transferred into because of a scheduling change. Clark motherfucking Farmer is in this class. A whiny voice calls for him when he enters the classroom. He sits down, turning his head toward the aisle, and his stupid face instantly is covered with a grin. He’s smiling at Jennifer Laney, the school’s sweetheart. Of course, he’d gravitate toward her. Wholesome meet wholesome.
