Ironman by Chris Crutcher Page A

the people you think are makin’ your life hell.”
    â€œAin’t nobody makin’ my life hell,” Elvis says.
    â€œYou’re doin’ that by yourself?”
    â€œMy life ain’t hell!”
    Nak says, “Eye of the beholder.”
    â€œYeah, well, behold someone else’s life. I’m sick of this shit.”
    â€œYour choice.”
    Bo is tentative. “Mr. Nak, how am I supposed to own what I said to Mr. Redmond in a way I can be proud of? I don’t mind that I called him that, really, but I mind that I let myself that far out of control. I mean, you just don’t go around calling your teacher asshole.”
    Shuja laughs. “Not to his face, you don’t. Yeah, Mr. Nak, let’s hear you teach this young sewer mouf how to be proud he called his teacher asshole. Now I could find plenty to be proud of, an’ ol’ Rock ’n’ Roll here probably be all swellin’ up in the chest if he done it, but this boy look like he come from a good home.”
    â€œI didn’t say he should be proud of what he done,”Mr. Nak says. “I said he should own it in a way he can be proud of. A man makes a mistake, he’s got to be able to stand up and say so. That way he don’t get so many of ’em stacked on his shoulders they weigh him down.”
    Shuja says, “So how he gonna own it in a way he be proud?”
    â€œName it an’ claim it,” Nak says. “He can say what he done and why he done it. If he thinks it was a mistake, he can say so. If he’s sorry, he can say that.”
    Shuja laughs. “What if he ain’t sorry? He get to go tell Mr. Redmond that? ‘Mr. Redmond, my man, wish I was sorry I called you what you is, but hey, can’t do it, homey.’”
    â€œProbably makes more difference to the powers that he don’t do it again,” Nak says. “You don’t have to say you’re sorry to say you’re gonna cut it out.”
    Shuja sits forward. “How come nobody make Redmond apologize for bein’ an asshole?”
    Nak laughs. “Eye of the beholder,” he says. “One man’s asshole is another man’s toilet-seat cover. Sorry, Shu, you come to the wrong place if all you want is justice as you see it.”
    Â 
    â€œFinish your piece on Yukon Jack’s?” Lionel Serbousek stands behind Bo, who stares at an emptyword-processing screen.
    â€œNot yet. Can’t get an angle. I don’t think anybody at this school cares about some stupid triathlon.”
    Lion lays a hand on his shoulder. “Good journalism will make them care.”
    â€œI’ve been thinking about doing a piece on ‘American Gladiators.’”
    â€œ That’ll be an in-depth piece. What the hell is an American Gladiator?”
    Bo quickly explains the concept.
    â€œAnd you think people won’t be interested in a triathlon?”
    Bo explains why he wants to do a piece on American Gladiators.
    â€œTell you what, lover boy,” Lion says, “you get me a three-part article on training for Yukon Jack’s, and I’ll consider letting you do a short piece on American Gladiators.”
    â€œYou’ll consider letting me do a piece?”
    â€œMake Yukon Jack’s a good one and American Gladiators is in.”
    â€œYou’re on,” Bo says, turning back to the empty screen, staring a moment. Then, “I still need an angle.”
    â€œDo it from a Stotan angle,” Lion says. “That’ll win ’em over.”
    â€œWhat’s a Stotan?”
    Lion swells at the chest. “You’re lookin’ at one, lover boy. Find out what Stotan means, and you’ll have your angle. Guaranteed.”

CHAPTER 7
    Bo gently pumps the brakes as his mother’s Blazer approaches the stoplight at Browne and Sprague in downtown Spokane. Shelly sits relaxed, feet on the dashboard. It is Christmas Eve, and they are in town for