Losers by Matthue Roth Page A

ribcage and return to its normal rhythm.
    Consuela, similarly satisfied, wrapped her arm around his shoulders and started introducing him around. From that moment on, Vadim didn’t care about skipping another grade, transferring schools, or what his Decanometry teacher thoughtof him. He’d found a community, and that—for now, at least—was all that mattered.
    Between fourth and fifth periods, I looked up in the hallway and saw Bates’s staff drifting above the crowd. I worked up the courage to approach him about it.
    â€œHey, Bates,” I said, flashing him my friendliest smile. “Good to see you all freshly re-staffed. How you doin’?”
    He threw me against the closest locker. The metal slits dug into my spinal cord. His forearm tightened like a knot around my Adam’s apple, and I felt the staff wedged in the unbearably narrow area between my ear and the rest of my head.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said. “You want to run that by me again??”
    I winced. When someone squashes your neck from the front, your first instinct, no matter what, is to pull back. Even if pulling back means digging yourself even harder into a sharply molded locker with jagged points that push hard into your skin, more painful than your assailant’s choking hold.
    â€œ Mister Bates!” came the familiar monotone of Dr. Mayhew’s voice from down the hall. “We’ve received those Freedom of Religion pamphlets for you from the ACLU. Congratulations again on your recent victory…”
    The tone of his voice deepened, got lower and grew more suspicious as he saw Bates holding me in such a compromising position. But Bates’s hold loosened as he turned around and I managed to slip out and duck into the oncoming tide of students. I massaged my neck, looking around to see whether anyone had noticed the newest assault on my dignity.
    Then I heard a squeal and turned to see the girls’ soccerteam waving at me. The bitter taste in my mouth suddenly tasted a lot like candy.
    The first day or two of being popular—no, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The first day of not looking like a punching bag was pretty dizzyingly amazing. After that, it was just dizzying. Wednesday afternoon, I spotted Sajit coming out of the girls’ bathroom, surrounded by a throng of stomach-sucking soccer—team girls, all bouncing in one communal laugh. He caught my eye, twisted out of the crowd, and matched my pace.
    â€œ Juuu piter,” he crooned in that way only he said my name. “I keep hearing all these things about you, man. How come it’s all in the third person?”
    â€œWhich third person?”
    â€œFrom other people, you fnord. You’re quite the celebrity, you know. Your name is on the girls’ bathroom wall. You’ve officially become one of the popular kids.”
    I grinned. I couldn’t help it, I was really impressed with myself. “Really? What does it say?”
    â€œOh, nothing. Just a phone number that isn’t really yours. But how are you doing? How does it feel?”
    The grin flickered for a second. Sajit noticed it; not much slipped beneath his radar. “What does that mean?”
    â€œWell…” I hesitated. I couldn’t help it—I never liked to spoil a surprise, or to point out that part in the movie where you could see the overhead microphone, and I felt way guilty questioning my blessings.
    He nodded me on.
    â€œIt’s great that I’m not getting laughed at by the those kids anymore,” I said. “But, since when did I ever start liking them?”
    We both stopped in our tracks. It was a difficult question, and a valid one.
    But Sajit had always been the master of positive thinking. Ever since first grade, when he tore open the ice packs that we nursed our black eyes with and discovered that you could suck the ice, he had his own way of looking at things. “Don’t knock the