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High School Hijinks

The boys went to different high schools but stayed in touch, either by phone or visiting. Like other 14 year old boys, both were rather naive freshmen who were anxious to form new friendships in the more complex social scene at senior high. Beyond that, athletic participation and girls took up any spare time when they weren’t doing homework.

“They got broads at my high school with jugs you wouldn’t believe,” Tree said.

“They ain’t limited to the south side, I guarantee,” Michael replied, with equal enthusiasm. “You score yet”?

“I’d be lyin’ if I said I have,” Tree said.

“Well, me neither, but I’m sure keepin’ my eyes open.””

His raging libido didn’t interfere with Michael’s performance in academics. His favorite activity, though, was working out with the swim team after classes. As a freshman, he was not allowed to compete in swim meets, but his performance level at practices was as good as, if not better, than most of the older guys on the team. During workouts, everyone noticed his ability and looked forward to his contributions the following year and in seasons to come.

Michael’s debut in formal meets didn’t go unnoticed; in fact, it became legendary. He had already won the 100 meter freestyle and placed a close second in the 50 when his coach asked him to swim a leg in the 800 meter relay. Though exhausted, Michael, always ready to do what he could for his team, readily consented. He would swim the anchor leg, 200 meters or four laps, of the free style.

His team was ahead when the third racer finished the breast stroke portion of the relay; in fact, Michael hit the water with a full body length lead. All went well for the first 50 meters, at which point he executed a perfect flip turn and noticed a cooler than usual sensation on his butt. The other competitors lagged behind, but not far enough for him to stop and pull up his trunks. Although they had slipped below his butt, the suit didn’t restrict his kick, so he swam on. “Shit, I can’t stop now, even though I’m mooning the whole crowd.

The crowd went wild, screaming and laughing in disbelief. When Michael touched out to win the race, the ovation echoed through the school. Even the opposing team gave him a round of applause. Thus, Michael became an instant hero and a person very well-known at school.

That evening, Michael told Tree everything that had happened. They alternated between giggling, laughing, and roaring until their stomachs hurt. “What are you going to do for an encore?” Tree asked. “How ‘bout we call you Blazing Buns? Maybe you’ve set a trend that will spread to girls’ swimming. Their meets could use a few more male fans, ya know.”

On the other side of the city, Tree, bright as he was, was coasting through high school. He had a lot going for him, not the least of which was his appearance. He had a mop of jet black hair, and a genetic oddity left him with a streak of pure white on his forelock. Bright blue eyes hinted at his Irish heritage. His workouts broadened his shoulders, gave shape to his pectorals, and sculpted his abs into a well-formed six pack. Any objective observer would have concluded that he had a perfect athlete’s body without an ounce of body fat.

Many of the kids had jobs after school, but none as unusual as an amateur/professional prize fighter. His “vocation” took up much of his time, given that it required early morning training runs and hours at the gym after school. The academic requirements were easy enough for Tree, but he had little time for extracurriculars, activities like language clubs, the school newspaper, or intramural sports.

Students of all types came to school. There were the nerds who carried around briefcases and were interested, above all other pursuits, in getting straight A’s and applying to prestigious universities. There were the jocks, for whom outstanding performance on the athletic field was their most important goal. A third group consisted of the socialites who cared more about dating the “right people” than eating. And finally, there were the hoods, would-be tough guys and a few girls, who weren’t good at anything except gangbanging, doing drugs, and terrorizing the neighborhood. These kids ate lunch at Bob’s, a sleazy place across from school that served up greasy burgers and marijuana. Those who frequented Bob’s were easily identified by the odor that clung to their clothes. Sitting next to them in class after lunch hour was almost a spiritual event.

On occasion, one of the dope heads took his lunch in the school cafeteria with the rest of the students. Dilbert Doverall, also known as Sweets, because he wasn’t, thought it would be humorous to remove a chair from behind a girl who was in the process of sitting down. Angie was her name, and, of course, she fell to the floor followed shortly thereafter by her macaroni and cheese. Sweet’s satanic laughter revealed a set of crooked, yellow teeth.

Tree had seen the entire event and moved quickly to help his classmate. The spring to his step was exceptional, no doubt motivated by the fact that Angie was, in his eyes, the most beautiful girl in the school. Really, it was no contest; in fact, strangers who saw her for the first time would often stop and stare.

Tree lifted her to her feet, and Angie was grateful, especially since she had been eyeing him for weeks, wondering how she might meet him. Her adolescent mind was quick to fantasize, and she envisioned a serious love affair, all the while picking pieces of macaroni from her blouse. She struggled for something clever, or at least appropriate, to say, but before she could manage, Sweets chimed in.

“How charming,” he shouted. “Pretty little girl got a superhero to save her.” Clearly, he was intent upon further provocation, for no reason other than to demonstrate and reinforce his tough guy image. When guys aren’t much good at anything else, they will sometimes turn to intimidation as a twisted means of gaining respect.

Tree glanced in Sweet’s direction but essentially ignored him. He would have been pleased to avoid any further confrontation, knowing full well that fractures to the hands could end the careers of musicians, surgeons, and boxers. Indeed, boxers’ fractures, usually to the long bones of the hands, can disable a fighter for months.

Being ignored upset Sweets even more. “I know who you are fella,” he said. “You’re one of them pretty boys who dance around here like queers. I’m thinkin’ about makin’ you a little less pretty.”

Tree remained calm and turned away from Sweets, ready to attend to Angie. As he did, he felt a meaty hand grabbing his shirt collar. “Let’s take it outside,” Sweets said, “and I’ll show you some moves you ain’t never seen.”

“If you’re looking for a fight, you can have it,” Tree said. “Lead the way.” Heading out the side door of the cafeteria onto the running track, he noticed that Sweets stood about two inches taller than he and was at least 25 pounds heavier, probably a light-heavyweight. No one followed them, but everyone knew that a brawl was coming.

About 30 seconds later, Tree returned to the cafeteria. “What happened?” one of the jocks yelled.

“He changed his mind,” Tree answered. He offered nothing else while walking over and taking a seat next to Angie.

“Let’s get some burgers and shakes after school, he said. “How does that sound?”

“That would be great,” Angie said, trying not to suggest that she would have uttered the exact same words had Tree invited her to have her wisdom teeth pulled with a pliars and no anesthetic.

Tree saved the detailed explanations for Michael. He reviewed the events of the afternoon but devoted more time to describing Angie than anything else. “You’ve got to meet her,” he said. “I’m going to marry her some day.”

“Great,” Michael said, “but what happened to the creep you followed onto the cinders.”

“He opened the door, and I followed him outside. I could tell from the way he was holding his shoulders that he was about to throw a punch, and when he did, I ducked and he missed me by about a foot. I booted him square in the nuts, and he dropped like a sack of wheat. He was on his knees looking up at me squealing and whimpering like a stuck pig. I grabbed him by the throat ’til his eyes started bulging and told him to stay the hell away from me and Angie and to pass the message along to his greasy friends.”

“I will. You can count on it,” he said between groans, and I left him with his hands cupping his jewels and cinders stuck to his pants.”

“Too boring,” Michael said. “I’ll wait for the second round. Now, tell me about Angie.”

They talked for at least half an hour.