The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys by Chris Fuhrman Page B

dick.
    “Fuck you, then. Join the ranks of the lemmings. And when you have your hernia operation you might as well get them to snip your nuts off.” He stared into his book.
    I slid down between the thick oak roots and they rode up alongside me like railings. “Look,” I said, “I know you’re trying to give me a friendly push, but I like this girl too much. I feel like I’m going to faint when I get near her.”
    “So tell her that stuff, fruitbat, not me.”
    Fat Joey O’Connor fouled the soccer ball and it skidded towards us. I put out my foot and it bounced off my sole. Tim stood and slung it back at them.
    I said, “Why don’t you snare a girlfriend? You’re always tricking other people into doing things.”
    He looked grim. “It won’t happen for me. I’m this little stick figure with an enlarged brain or something. I have to do things through you guys.”
    “Bullshit. If you’re such a genius, why don’t you use that to impress girls?”
    “I’m the size of a nine-year-old, if you hadn’t noticed. Asshole. But I’m as smart as a grown-up. And even if I could tolerate a twelve-year-old girl, she’s not going to be impressed by a brilliant midget.”
    “Somebody like Margie might.”
    “Well. You want me to experiment on her?”
    “No … but there might be …”
    “You go ahead. I’ll see how it works for you first.”
    To avoid punching him, I shoved off the roots and walked away. “I’m not your goddamn guinea pig,” I said, angry and shaking and ashamed.
    “That’s real noble,” Tim called. “Puss out. If you were the Boy Scout you think you are, you’d walk right over and deal with her!”
    I kept walking furiously. The soccer players shifted downfield.I looked over and saw that Margie really was watching me, and I dropped my eyes. There were soft mounds of clover puffed through the grass. Someone shouted, “Heads up!” and the ball boinged off my shoulder and swished to the grass beside me and then a body fell on me from behind and my teeth snapped and I sprawled. Kevin Hurley, our athlete, stumbled over me and booted the ball away. He glared back like I was an idiot, shouting, “I said, ‘Heads up.’” Kevin had terrycloth sweatbands on both wrists. The players stampeded around me. Rusty pounded past, laughing and wheezing.
    I got to my knees and turned to the bleachers. Margie’s hands were over her mouth. She’d seen me get tackled.
    I walked straight towards her, my knees dark with grass stains. Margie kept looking away, then back at me, until she was sure I wasn’t going to stop. Her legs were together, slanted sideways out of her skirt, white socks bunched at her ankles. She smoothed the green plaid over her thighs and folded her hands in her lap.
    I shoved my fists in my pockets and stood right in front of her so the other girls wouldn’t hear. Some of them were leaning in to each other now, whispering. I heard a thunk and glared over at the softball diamond where the ball was shrinking into the air and a boy was running the bases, a plume of orange dust rising from the clay at his heels.
    “Look,” I said, sounding much too angry, “I didn’t send that note. An ex-friend of mine did it as a joke.” I looked at her, felt ugly and stupid.
    She said, “Oh,” and stared at the ground with her lips slightly apart, wounded possibly.
    I wanted to cry now. I turned completely around and watched the soccer game. Margie’s brother Donny smacked Pat Doolan in the neck with his cast and O’Leary blew the whistle.
    “I just wanted you to know I didn’t write it,” I said. I dug a heel into the new wispy grass and turned it, grinding. I glancedback at her. She nodded without looking at me, and her hands tightened in her lap.
    “I didn’t really think you wrote it,” she said.
    “Well, I didn’t. See you around.” I hunched my shoulders and walked away, hands in pockets, sick in love with her and furious now at myself. I whirled and stared. Margie brushed her