I decide to give the team one more day. If Mateo knows what he’s talking about, they’ll respect me for coming back and facing my challenges. I hope he’s right.

The next morning I let the hot water from the shower soak my neck. When I get out, I stare at my body in the mirror. Flexing my muscles, I release an awkward laugh. Well, it’s better to laugh than cry. One day when I flex, maybe I’ll see something more than arms as flat as pancakes.

I put on jeans and a simple gray T-shirt. I don’t want to wear anything that attracts attention. I style the top of my leaf-brown hair in an attempt at cute spikes. Then I put in my contacts—at least I no longer have to wear glasses. 

Flexing my stomach, I lose my smile. For as skinny as I am, I should at least have abs or something, but no.

“Why are you here?” Mateo had asked. 

It’s not just about finding friends, and that’s a good thing, as I’m off to a rock-star beginning. Who will want to be friends with the kid who got a boner?

Maybe someone who is like you.

I brush my teeth, and they sure aren’t perfect either. The dentist says I need braces. Mom can’t afford that, so I don’t smile much in public. 

Would karate have been this tough? I’ll never know, given I never had a chance to take lessons. I hear Dad’s voice in my memories. 

“Karate is for wussies.”

And when he got drunk, which he did a lot:

“Karate is for pussies. No pussy son of mine is gonna wax on and wax off.”

Dad had spoken like that a lot before he left Mom and me. I can still picture him—long, messy blonde hair covered by a stupid hat. It was a fedora, I think. He wore it in public, and I never understood why. Sure, it covered the hair he never washed, but it made him look dumb.

I never did take karate lessons, but I also sure as hell never joined the football team.

I walk downstairs, and Mom makes some scrambled eggs. 

“Oh, honey. You look terrible!” Her sky-blue eyes examine me, and her ash-blonde hair shakes as her head turns side to side in disapproval. “I don’t like this wrestling business. Not one bit.” She puts her hand on my cheek. “Bruised all over. Why are you doing this?”

It’s the question everyone wants to know.

“I dunno, Mom. I just wanna do something.” 

“Isn’t there like a club you can do? Something that doesn’t involve physical violence?” she asks. The eggs smell like they’re starting to burn, but she doesn’t take her eyes off me. 

“It’ll be okay, Mom. It was our first practice. I gotta get in shape is all.” Taking a seat at the kitchen table, I stare at the skillet, where smoke starts to rise. 

She sighs, grabs a spatula and flips the eggs. She puts them on a paper plate with a side of toast. “I don’t know. If you look like this much longer—or it gets worse—you’re done. You hear me?”

I nod slowly, trying not to wince at my stiff neck.

After breakfast, I hop on the school bus. Putting in my earbuds, I want to listen to some music and not think for as long as possible. I start to rock out to a new band I like, closing my eyes and enjoying the lyrics. “I wanna be normal. I wanna be sane,” the singer repeats, and the song soothes me.

Then something wet hits the top of my head. I turn around, some guys laugh at me from the back of the bus. I recognize one of them—the red-headed kid is Logan. He’s on the team. The other boys play football, I think.

I better earn their respect for showing back up this afternoon. 

I get hit again by a spit wad. 

This time, I snap around angrily. “Quit it!”

Red-headed Logan stands up. “What are you gonna do if I don’t? Get a boner?” He laughs so hard he snorts. “I can’t believe we got a fag on the wrestling team,” he says. “No one’s gonna wanna wrestle you!”

Fag? Really? What are you—some asshole wannabe jock in an old 80s movie? I wish I were brave enough to say the words out loud. 

I swallow back my anger, and it rolls into sadness. My eyes burn, and I want to scream at them. 

I thought the world was better than this. Even in grade school, we had people talk to us about big ideas like inclusivity. 

Some people never got the lesson. Or do they just not care?

I sink into my seat and cross my arms, wishing I could just disappear. 

When we finally arrive at school, I race off the bus. Grabbing my books from my locker, I dash to my first-hour class. I’m ten minutes early, but it’s better than sitting in the commons and waiting for someone to pick on me.

“Good morning, Aiden,” Mr. Samuels greets me. He takes a sip from his coffee cup that reads I put the Lit in Literature. 

“Hi,” I say.

“You’re quite early today.” He sets his coffee down and narrows his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

He must see the bruise on the side of my face. It took me about fifty throws to learn how to take a fall. 

“I joined the wrestling team,” I tell him. 

“Going well?” He flashes a sarcastic smile. 

“It’s going,” I mumble. Mr. Samuels walks to my desk. I wish he’d leave me alone. When he approaches, I look up—way up—he’s quite tall. He wears a purple short-sleeved shirt and black dress pants. His skin is as dark as the night sky. He’s got to be in his thirties, I’d say. Not nearly as old as some of the other teachers. 

He examines my face. “What did your mom say about this?” he asks. Mr. Samuels knows about my home life because of some personal essays I’ve written. I’ve never held back on how I feel about my fedora-wearing, drunk asshole father.

“She’s not thrilled,” I reply.

“I wouldn’t be either.”

“It’s what I have to do to get stronger. What doesn’t kill you and all that,” I say.

Mr. Samuels scratches the side of his face. “I don’t like that saying. What doesn’t kill you messes you up, too. Why do you feel you need to be stronger?”

I picture Logan in the back of the bus and all the kids who laughed at me. 

“I dunno. I guess I’m tired of feeling weak.” 

Mr. Samuels crosses his arms. Underneath the purple polo, his thick muscles flex. Why is it so hard for people to understand that I’d like to have that, too?

The first bell rings, letting us know we have five minutes until class begins. Fortunately, Camila enters the classroom and sits right next to me, interrupting Mr. Samuel’s awkward staring.

Camila’s my only real friend.

But she’s more than that, too.

Camila’s my girlfriend.