Malcolm Draper leaned against the boys’ locker room door
while fingering the zipper handle on his closed up jacket. He dared not pass
through the gates of his own personal hell, but the buzzer was about to ring
and being even a second late to class would have resulted in draconian
detention, which was weird because the gym teacher never seemed to be around
when it truly counted.
The sequence of the past few weeks counted a lot for
Malcolm. The fact that his last name Draper could be modified with an I instead
of the first R lent itself to some cruel traumatic jokes echoing throughout his
brain. He could hear the deep-voiced jocks shouting, “Diaper boy!” and “Dirty
diaper!” within his own personal recesses. They even came up with a clever
rhyme: “Draper-Raper”.
Immature insults by themselves carried no weight to Malcolm.
But in multiple bursts throughout his entire day, even during important moments
like exams and quizzes, it was the psychological equivalent of taking a series
of sharp jabs from a heavyweight boxer. The mental bruises remained fresh with
obnoxious voices. The muscles in Malcolm’s body remained tense at all times.
The thought of walking through the door made him slightly nauseous with extra
chills running through his back and shoulders.
“Today’s the day,” he whispered to himself. “It’s now or
never.” He threw back the door and trudged down the hallway into the locker
room. The further he ventured towards his own locker, the louder the laughter
became, both on the inside and outside. He could feel his insides being ground
up like hamburger. His face burned and prickled with anticipation. He
purposefully kept his head down with his jacket hood over his face in hopes
Daniel Burn wouldn’t notice him. But as it was…
“Hey, diaper-boy’s here today! What’s the matter, fag-tard?
You shit yourself again? Don’t worry, you can wipe your ass on that stupid
Sting T-shirt you wore yesterday!” The grating testosterone-pumped voice echoed
throughout the locker room and the laughter grew louder to where Malcolm felt
claustrophobic even in this big space. He slowly pulled his hood off and poked
his head up to see the source of those jokes was indeed the letterman
jacket-wearing football stud Daniel Burn congregating with his similarly
dressed pals.
“You’re right, Daniel,” said Malcolm, earning the silence he
desperately needed (even if it was out of confusion). “I’ll never wear that
Sting shirt again.” Daniel and his muscle buddies mockingly sang the lyrics to
“Every Breath You Take” and laughed like monkeys. This would have been a
perfect time for Malcolm to break down, vomit, and cry. But instead he smiled
and said, “My dad’s a T-shirt maker. So I figured I should dress for the job
that I want, not the job I have.”
Malcolm Draper reached for his zipper and the rambunctious
jocks made unintelligible jokes about him doing a striptease. He slowly pulled
it down and opened his jacket to once again earn his silence. This time the
jocks, Daniel Burn included, had wide-eyed shock on their faces. Any laughter
remaining was limited to a nervous snicker. In case there was more confusion,
Malcolm threw off his coat and exposed his custom-made T-shirt to he entire
locker room. The top said, “Daniel Is My Bitch” in Floydian letters while
beneath the words was a Photoshopped picture of Daniel Burn wearing a ball gag.
“I bet that Sting shirt’s looking pretty good right now, isn’t it?” asked
Malcolm with a mocking grin.
Daniel’s nearest friend leaned over and quietly said to him,
“You’re not going to take that shit, are you?”
“Of course he’s going to take it!” belted Malcolm. “He can
spew all these insults about my last name and my clothing, but he’s never
thrown a fucking punch in his life! And no, fisting a horse in the asshole
doesn’t count as a punch, buddy!”
Daniel’s square jaw went from O-mouthed shock to frowning
rage. He brushed his blond crew cut back and threw his own jacket to the ground
before slowly approaching Malcolm to the sounds of “ooo’s” and “uh-oh’s” from
the rest of the students. The two bitter enemies stood nose to nose with
Daniel’s height and weight making Malcolm look like a midget. “I’ve beaten up
lots of guys in my life, diaper-kid,” threatened Daniel. “Fags, niggers, Jews,
towel-heads…you’re just another dead ass motherfucker on that long list. I’m going
to rip your fucking head off, bitch.”
The gigantic jock threw a quick and powerful overhead punch,
which Malcolm ducked before burying his shoulder in Daniel’s gut and plowing
him against the bathroom stall. The sounds of students chanting “Fight! Fight!
Fight! Fight” echoed throughout the locker room while the sworn enemies
wrestled on the floor.
“We’ll see who the real bitch is, diaper-dick!” shouted
Daniel as he sat on Malcolm’s chest hoping for an advantage. All the jock got
was elbow’s to his temples and knees to his spine. Even Daniel’s bulky body
couldn’t withstand the small strikes as he rolled off of Malcolm after a few
jabs.
Malcolm attempted to get to a vertical base only to be bear
hugged by Daniel and wrestled with some more. “Where the hell’s the teacher?!”
shouted one of the students to a crowd of uncaring bystanders. Malcolm pushed
the question out of his mind and threw backwards elbows at Daniel’s cheekbones.
The hulking football player put an end to this impromptu MMA
match when he lifted Malcolm’s carcass in the air and slammed him down with a
thunderous thud to the concrete floor. The smaller fighter felt something snap
in his leg and screamed louder than a train whistle. He did his damnedest to
hold back the tears, but the pain in his torn knee radiated throughout his
tortured body, his nervous system burning like a fiery orphanage. The tears
dropped whether Malcolm wanted them to or not, but he tried to save face by
rolling on his stomach.
By the terrified silence of the other students and the
crushing grip on his arm as he was rolled over, Malcolm knew shit had gone
down. Through red watery eyes, he gazed up at Daniel Burn’s bruised and
bloodied face, the rage of which was more violent than his wounds. Daniel
reached down at Malcolm’s shirt collar and ripped the B-shirt in two before
holding it in the air like a trophy. “Who’s the bitch now?!” Daniel screamed
with nerve-rattling anger. “Who’s the bitch now?! You want to be a tough guy?!
You think you can beat the system?! Welcome to high school, diaper-pie! The
shit only gets worse from here!”
The rambunctious conversation was interrupted with the sound
of someone clearing his throat. Daniel and Malcolm peeked over to see what was
up, Daniel’s face a masterpiece of horror and Malcolm’s face a phantasmal
smile. Smaller students, geekier students, and even one of the jocks were all
wearing B-shirts while the rest of the bullies backed up in amazement. Same
slogan, same ball-gagged bitch.
“You see that, Danny boy?” asked Malcolm as pulled himself
to his feet with a nearby railing while clutching his aching knee. “Dress for
the job you want, not the job you have. These kids are done being your bitches.
Now it’s time for you to be theirs.” Malcolm leaned in closer and whispered in
Daniel’s ear, “This is what happens when you piss off a lot of people. You poke
the bear, the bear eats you alive!” He noticed Daniel clutching his own buzz
cut and breathing intensely, to which Malcolm replied, “You can’t possibly beat
ALL of them up, can you?”
Daniel’s breathing grew deeper and more dragon-like. “This
is bullshit,” he whispered. “I’m nobody’s bitch! I’m the star quarterback! I
get all the chicks! You fuckers just sit around and read comic books all day
while blowing your dogs!” The B-shirt wearing students slowly approached Daniel
like an army of flesh-hungry zombies, to which the bully screamed, “No! This
shit isn’t happening!” before bolting out the side door onto the streets.
“You see that, everyone?” said Malcolm with a sly grin and
teary eyes. “If you play football twenty-four hours a day, you can run as fast
as him!” The sound of a bus’s horn honking followed by a bone-crunching
collision and Daniel’s painful cries caused Malcolm to shrug and quip, “Well,
not fast enough apparently.”
The hulking gym teacher burst through the locker room door
shouting, “What the hell’s going on here?” His authoritative mood was brought
back to earth when he saw all of the students wearing B-shirts and Malcolm
nursing his hyper-extended knee. “What the fuck?” he whispered to nobody in
particular.
“We’re so glad you could finally join us,” said Malcolm.
“Actually, you might want to bring a janitor here too. Daniel Burn left his
guts all over the road. Oh wait, I forgot: Daniel Burn doesn’t have any guts.
And that bone crunching noise wasn’t his spine shattering, because he doesn’t
have that either. Seriously, those city bus drivers need to be more careful on
the road.”
