An Infinite Number of Parallel Universes by Randy Ribay Page B

been mentally declaring his sexuality, ready to make the announcement once Sam and Sarah arrive, even though they never usually talked about stuff like this as a group.
    But it does not look like Sam and Sarah will ever arrive.
    As he continues watching the kids, Dante can’t help but remember “Smear the Queer,” a game most of the boys liked to play back when he was in grade school. Whoever had the football ran about in order to avoid getting tackled by the others for as long as possible. Once taken down, the kid would toss the ball to someone else, and that person became the “queer” who everyone else tried to “smear.”
    Like wolves targeting the weakest in the herd, the boys had always measured the look of fear upon the receiver’s face and the amount of tears streaming down his cheeks post-tackle. Those deemed the weakest would be thrown the ball most frequently, as they provided the most entertainment.
    It was a malicious game that could only be the product of childhood or the medieval age.
    Dante never liked to play it and was glad that the other boys seemed to naturally fear him. Nobody wanted to be tackled by the big, black kid. Dante spent most recesses wandering up and down the playground scanning the gravel for unusual stones that he could add to his rock collection.
    But one day the ball had sailed through someone’s hands and landed at Dante’s feet. He picked it up to toss it back as he heard someone bellow, “
Smear the queer!
”
    Caught in the frenzy of the game and finding confidence in numbers, the boys ignored their natural fear of Dante. They rushed toward him.
    Dante froze.
    They smashed into him. He saw sky and then a flash of red as the back of his head smacked concrete. Bodies piled onto him, crowding out the sky and crushing his lungs. Anonymous fists pummeled his body.
    He struggled to breathe. Bright bursts of pain flashed in a hundred different places.
    He saw a patch of blue emerge between the crush of bodies and, as if by instinct, he flung the ball through the gap. As quickly as they had descended upon him, the frenzy departed. Dante was left a crumpled mess of tears and bruises.
    He waited for the paraprofessional who monitored the playground to rush to his aid, but the man was known for turning a blind eye to the brutality of the children. He believed that such torment built character.
    After some time, Dante pushed himself up and slowly moved into a sitting position. He wiped the wetness from his eyes with dusty hands. He pulled up his shirt and examined his torso to ensure that all internal organs remained internal. He touched the back of his head and was relieved when he did not find blood.
    Dante did not stand and sprint toward revenge. Neither did he seek a teacher to tell. Instead, aching and convinced that half the bones in his body were broken, he rolled onto all fours and searched the ground for the rocks he had dropped when the ball had fallen into his path.
    The other kids left him alone for the remainder of that recess, but word of his softness spread through the school in whispers and giggles. Boys were not supposed to be soft. Big boys were definitely not supposed to be soft. And big, black boys were not even supposed to say the word “soft.”
    They relished his weakness. It became the whetstone against which they sharpened their own inflated senses of strength and self-worth.
    They started to go out of their way to throw him the ball whenever they played. Even if he wasn’t playing, even though he never wanted to play.
    If he were at the opposite end of the playground, sitting in the shade of some tree looking at leaves shifting in the wind, they would work their game in his direction and toss him the ball.
    Even if he didn’t pick it up, they would still rush over and dog-pile him. Sometimes he would run. Slow and uncoordinated, his attempts at escape only elicited additional mockery later as they reenacted the sad scene.
    Dante usually just picked up the