You’ve moved on to a strength unit in conditioning, and your coaches have decided to use the buddy system to assign spotters.
And your buddy?
It’s Dayton Reilly.
You’ve managed to avoid him ever since he shouted that word. Ignored him in history, evaded him in the halls, grabbed a warm-up spot as far away from him as possible in conditioning every day.
But now you’re stuck with him on his knees, holding your ankles while you do your sit-ups.
Next to you, Angel Pacheco is doing the same for Brody Connors, and you’re proud to find yourself outpacing Brody. Despite his gains (his arms have been looking impressive lately, solidly A-tier), it seems you’ve got the stronger core. You do thirty minutes of core every day at boxing, so at least it’s paying off.
Dayton is counting your reps under his breath, though every so often he makes a funny face at Brody, which makes Brody laugh, and then Brody must dosomethingbecause then Dayton laughs and shifts and smashes your toe with his knee.
“Sorry.” He gets off your toe and draws his eyebrows together. “You’re good at these.”
You can’t shrug while you’re doing sit-ups, or nod for that matter, so you mutter a “thanks” between breaths.
“No homo,” Brody huffs next to you, “but you gotta give me your ab routine.”
No homo?
The exercise had driven it from your mind, but it all comes rushing back: who Dayton is, what he said, what he believes.
Who he hates.
Your rhythm slips for a second, you only do half a rep, and crap, you hate this feeling, when you mess up one and then your whole form falls apart.
You’re stronger than this.
“Brody,” Dayton says, but you don’t know why. You’re honestly surprised Dayton’s even willing to spot you.
Not that he knows anything about you. Not that there’s anything to know about you anyway. You don’t think.
You might only be fourteen, but you’re old enough to know that people who run around shouting what Dayton shouted usually shout other words, too. Words for people with brown skin, words for immigrants who come from places America looks down on even though America messed them up in the first place, words for people who are different in whatever way matters that day.
You’ve been holding your breath—you know better than to do that, but you were too distracted—so your core gives out on you and you collapse to the floor with a wheeze. You try to rise again but your abdomen gives a fluttering shake before failure, and you feel lightheaded for a second.
“Seventy-seven,” Dayton says, patting your shins, but youscooch out from under him as quick as you can. You don’t want him touching you, don’t want him judging you, don’t want him saying anything for any reason whatsoever. You tug your shirt down where it’s ridden up a bit. In addition to the hair on your upper lip, you’ve also started getting some around your belly button, dark coarse hairs that trail downward. You think about shaving them, too, except you kind of like that they give a little definition there, at least until you can get your body fat low enough to show some abs.
Dayton leans back and stands, offering you a hand, but you roll over and get up yourself. You feel a flash of fire along your rib cage before you hunch a bit, relieving the pressure from your screaming abdominal muscles.
“Farshid? You okay?” he asks.
“Fine,” you say. Why is he asking, anyway? He doesn’t care, couldn’t possibly care. Maybe he was a Boy Scout, or maybe the sanctity of the buddy system matters more than all the bigotry, or maybe it’s just the bro code, but you’renothis bro and never will be.
Brody and Angel have finished, too. Brody shadowboxes Dayton for a second before giving a backhanded slap to Dayton’s stomach. Dayton flinches away with a “Cut it out, man.”
Brody just laughs and turns to shadowbox you instead. His form is atrocious, but his arms are really popping, straining the holes of his T-shirt. Did he order it a size too small? Maybe you should do that, too. Maybe that would make your own arms pop.
But form? There’s nothing there. His feet are even, planted flat, and he’s not rotating from his shoulder with his jabs, and there’s no power in his cross because his fist isn’t even crossing his body with his hips so square.
“Come on, square up,” he says, bouncing back and forth, not even a proper bob, and then he throws another jab your way.
On the one hand, there’s no way you’re actually going to box Brody, there’s no way you’re going to box anyone, because while you like hitting the bag, the thought of hitting another person makes you want to throw up.
On the other hand, he’s blocking you from the bench where you’re supposed to be doing your presses, and even though you’ve gotten better at push-ups lately, your chest still needs work.
So you shift into a proper stance, weave around his fist the next time it comes your way, and—three-four-five—just miss him with a left hook, right hook, left uppercut. You don’t touch him at all, but he almost trips and stumbles back until Dayton catches him, laughing.
