Holding Up the Universe(36)

I almost drift off, but I hear someone yelling “Leave me alone,” over and over, and it’s a voice I recognize, bellowing and foghorn-like. I open my eyes and see a big guy lumbering past the school and there’s this group of guys following him. They’re all around my age, white, kind of interchangeable. I don’t recognize any of them, but the foghorn voice sounds like it belongs to Jonny Rumsford.

I’ve known Jonny since kindergarten, back when he was just Rum for short. He was always bigger than everyone else, a kind of gentle giant. For as long as I’ve known him, kids have been following Rum around, heckling him for being a little slow, a little simple, a little clumsy, like a pack of hyenas targeting a buffalo.

I’m watching these guys now, and they’re yelling stuff at him, even though I can’t hear what. The Boy Who May Be Rum’s shoulders are all hunched up, like he’s trying to pull his head into his neck or maybe right down into his chest. And then one of the guys throws something at him and hits him on the back of the head. Suddenly, I’m seeing myself like everyone else does—I’m one of those heckling, yelling hyena kids, throwing things at people who don’t deserve it.

I set my sandwich down, and I take off like I’m being launched to the moon. At first, May/May Not Be Rum thinks I’m running straight for him and he freezes, clearly terrified. The guys are laughing and throwing shit—rocks, trash, anything they can find—and I run right into the herd of them. They don’t even have time to think. One lands on his ass in the dirt, and suddenly they’re not laughing anymore.

“Did he do anything to you?” I point at Rum. “Did he?”

“What the hell, Mass?”

Of course they know me. I’m probably friends with these scumbags.

“Tell me one thing he did to you.”

One of the guys gets up in my face, and he’s as tall as I am and wider by a couple of feet. But I don’t back down because I’m at least three heads angrier. “Seriously, Mass? You’re gonna give us shit? What did that fat girl do to you? Huh? Tell me one thing She did.”

Another guy goes, “Yeah, how’s detention, jackass?”

I don’t think. I act. Maybe because I’m angry. At everyone. At myself. I feel like I could take on the whole world right now. I say to Rum, “Go home, Jonny. Get out of here.” And then I turn around and punch the first guy I see. He drops to the ground, and another one comes at me, and I haul off and punch him too. Even when my hand feels broken, even when I can’t feel my knuckles anymore, I keep pounding on these guys. And at some point, it’s as if I leave my body on the ground and float up into the sky, where I watch the fight like it’s happening to someone else.

Some part of me thinks, What if that’s it? What if whatever malfunction in my brain that’s causing this face blindness is spreading, so that I can’t even recognize where I am or what I’m doing? What if my brain is completely broken and I never get back down there to me again?

I’m not sure how much time passes, but at some point I’m aware of something or someone tugging at my arm. I turn around and I’m on the ground again, and it’s Libby Strout. She’s yanking me back.

One of the guys says to Libby, “Don’t hurt me, Flabby Stout! Don’t hurt me!” He pretend-cringes, his hands up in front of his face.

She goes, “Don’t call me that.”

“What’s that, Flabby?”

I say, “I know you’re not talking to her.” All cool and collected.

“She knows who I’m talking to.”

And I don’t like the way he says it, so I punch him. Then this tall black guy with a smooth, shaved head is there, and he’s glaring at the herd of hyenas. “You better run. My boy here, he’s gonna kill you, and if he don’t, I will.” This can only be Keshawn Price.

Those boys go walking away, and the Guy Who Must Be Keshawn stands watching them. “Son, you’re as stupid as you look.” He’s staring at me. “What do you think Sweeney would have done if he saw you?”

“He’s inside. He didn’t see. Come on.” Libby pulls me toward the bleachers. “Your lip,” she says. “It’s bleeding again.”

But I don’t even remember getting hit. I look back toward the street, and Rum is wandering across the bridge that I know will take him home.





We’ve got fifteen minutes left of lunch, and Jack Masselin drops onto the bleachers, lip bleeding onto his shirt. As he stares off into the tree line, I’m watching him, trying to put myself in his skin again.

I think about going home and what it would be like if my dad walked in and I couldn’t recognize him. Or if my mom miraculously came back from the dead and I didn’t know it was her. If I’m putting myself in the skin of Jack Masselin, I’m feeling pretty lonely. And maybe scared. How would I know who to trust?

I sit down beside him and say, “It’s Libby again.” Even though I probably don’t need to because it’s pretty obvious in this group, even to someone with face blindness.

He’s staring out at the street, like he’s itching for another fight. The blood is dripping down his chin and onto his shirt, and he’s not doing anything to wipe it away. I hand him a napkin.

“No thanks.”

“Take it. You don’t want Sweeney to see.”