“No, sir,” he said firmly. “I’m fine. Just bad tuna I guess. No need to call. I’ll just take my time walking home.”
Mr. Sanders looked down at his watch. Obviously torn, he grunted. “I should call. I can’t let you walk home alone.” From the end of the hallway, we heard the football team approach. Leon led the pack, and I silently wondered how the hell he got out of here and changed so quickly. This was a “football” high school, though, so it was no surprise they had their own locker room where they could store all their equipment. Surely, the rest of his team was sitting there waiting for Leon to enter—probably on their knees, ready to offer up some kind of virgin sacrifice to him.
“Ready, Coach?” Leon asked, glaring over at us. “Practice starts in five, right?” There was a challenging tone in his question, egging his coach on to leave Mack and me.
“Sure you’re okay?” Mr. Sanders asked a final time.
Mack nodded, and I chimed in, adding, “He seems all right, but I’ll walk him home just to make sure he gets there okay. No need to call anyone.”
“Isn’t that sweet?” Leon mocked. The rest of the uniformed assholes laughed behind him. Even Mr. Sanders struggled not to crack a smile. Somehow reining in his reaction, Mr. Sanders told Leon to shut the hell up before dismissing Mack and me.
We watched in relief as Leon, Mr. Sanders, and the rest of the football team filed out of the locker room, release enveloping us like a warm blanket.
“Thanks, man,” Mack said, keeping his voice low and his eyes averted. He moved away from me, still unable to walk normally. He struggled to stand upright as he changed his filthy shirt.
“Dude.” I laughed. Clearly, Leon kicked him a lot harder than he’d kicked me. “You can barely walk. Let me help you.”
Mack pushed me away, losing his balance and slamming his other shoulder into the locker.
“Mack—”
“That’s not my fucking name,” he yelled, his voice finally returning to its normal volume and depth. Taken back by his outburst, I held my hands up in mock surrender. “It’s Jude. Jude is my fucking name, not Mack like some fucking football playing hillbilly.Theycall me Mack, but it ain’t my fucking name,” he ranted, his southern accent coming out as he rattled on and on.
“Okay.” I tried my best to soothe his rant. “Jude,” I continued. “Listen, you can’t walk on your own. You can barely stand.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” he muttered under his breath. Grabbing his book bag from the floor made him sway even more. He was about a dozen feet away before he actually leaned against the wall, hoping to catch his balance without drawing my attention.
Without rushing, I walked to his side. Chuckling at his stubbornness, I adjusted my bag on my shoulder. I knew better than to offer to take his, but at this point, I was walking him home whether he wanted me to or not. After another second of silence, he gave in. “Okay, fine,” he finally relented. “Maybe you’re right.” He huffed, wobbling next to me.
With the sun beating on our backs, we walked almost a mile before either of us spoke a word. And when he finally did speak, they were words I least expected.
