Young Writers Society

     I stumbled out of the gym, dripping sweat, listening to everyone inside still screaming. The concessions table was right in front of me, and a tall, freckled, muscly teenager sat behind it. "Whadya want, kid?"

     "One slice of cheese pizza and a soda, please." Bent over, I glanced at the window behind the guy's head. It was dark outside. Empty nothingness, except for the floodlight attached to the side of the building that was in desperate need of repair. It illuminated the night a little, just enough so that I could make out fluffy snowflakes gliding through the air.

     The guy slapped my pizza onto one of those flimsy paper plates that are always stained with whatever juices come off the food on them. He opened a cooler underneath the table. "Diet Coke okay?"

     "Sure." I rifled through the side pocket of the gym bag slung over my left shoulder, finding a crumpled fiver in the bottom corner. "Keep the change."

     "Thanks." The guy handed me the soda, grabbing the money from my hand. "Good game, kid. Sounds like ya did good."

     "Thanks." I slipped my soda into my bag, then walked back into the gym. 

     Bright and blazing, the gym was buzzing with after-game activity. Two of the tallest guys on the team, Mike and Berry, were sinking some beautiful three-pointers, with half the team staring up at them in awe. The dads were clustered around Coach, patting his back and shaking his hand and complimenting him, and the moms were trying to convince their sons to let them take photos, or trying to find their husbands. The basketball crate was empty, shoved against a lonely wall. I guess it knew that it would be shelved soon - it looked sad, sitting there all alone. I knew how that felt. 

     I climbed the bleachers and found a seat at the top. Setting down my pizza on the seat next to me, I took out my soda, cracked it open, and took a sip. Nothing like a Diet Coke after the championship basketball game. Then I opened my gym bag, and took out the book Dad had sent me a few weeks before. 

     "Whatcha got there, Dexter?"

     I knew that voice all too well. 

     "What's the matter, Dexter? Not gonna talk?"

     His was the most popular kid in our school. If the most popular kid in the twelfth grade was the mayor of New York City, the this kid was President of the United States, that magnitude of popularity. He had hair as black as the sky was that night, slicked back with what seemed like an entire bottle of hair gel. He was the sportiest of anyone who had ever been on a sports team, and his hazel eyes turned blood red when he was on the court. A mile higher than everyone else, all the girls fell for him, and all the guys wanted to be friends with him. 

     "Not gonna talk?"

     But, to me, if I were a house of cards, this kid would be the hurricane. 

     I did not look up from my book. "Go away, Bolt."

     Him being the most popular kid in school, everybody could probably fill out a personal profile about him. I knew I could. I practically knew everything about this kid. His full name was Trenton Elias Kingsley, but even the teachers knew him as Bolt. It was what the basketball coach in middle school called him, and it sort of stuck. That and it was mandatory if you did not want to get beaten up. His father was Brett Alejandro Kingsley, a respected actor that was at the time filming a mystery series with Netflix that the entire country was watching. His mother was Nina Marie Kingsley, a real estate attorney who had started her own firm from scratch. His grandfather, Nino, was the mayor of New York City. His older brother, Andrew, ran the company my mom worked for, and was pursuing a PhD. Bolt lived with his parents in one of those luxury townhouses in Manhattan that cost at least a million dollars. He already had guaranteed admission to three Ivys, courtesy of his father. 

     "No one tells me to go away." He ripped the book from my hands. "What's this, Dexter? A guide to being a nerd?"

    I felt myself turn red. "No, it's not. It's a book on quantum mechanics. Now, go away." I pulled the book from his hands and to my chest. 

     "Playin' rough, I see...take this!"

     Before I knew what was happening, something wet drenched me, my gym bag, and my book. I looked at what had once been my pristine white basketball jersey. It was brown down the front. I looked to the side. So much for my Diet Coke. 

     As I was looking to the side, Bolt punched me in the stomach, then proceeded to slap me in the face. He grabbed my pizza and bounded down the bleachers, two at a time. 

     I stared at my sneakers. They had also been white, but were now splattered with Diet Coke drops and something red. I touched my nose. Blood. My nose was bleeding, and it was bleeding down my shirt and onto my shoes. "Good God." 

     On the wall across from where I stood, I could see the clock. Six till seven. I had to leave. Mom's birthday. I looked down at my dirty uniform once again. Good thing Coach had passed out the trophies right after the game. "I'll change at Hudson's when I pop in to get Mom's gift." 

     I shoved my wet, soda-smelling book into my gym bag. I grabbed my now empty soda can and threw it down the bleachers, where it landed in a trashcan. Head hung, I walked down the bleachers and out the door slowly, dripping Diet Coke and blood. 

     The guy at the concessions table stared at me. "Ya okay there, kid? Looks like ya got a lil' somethin' on ya shirt there." 

     I shook my head again. "I'm fine." The biggest lie in the world, but it saved time. I walked out the door into the empty nothingness of the floodlight-lit night, not caring that the snow stung every time it fell on my bare skin.