Short story about a freshman.
| A swollen eye, yes, but this is to fight. Scraped knuckles, flushed cheeks dry the leftover tears against my skin, adrenaline treats my aches: All battle scars of the ninth grade. Adam struggles with his hoodie, trying to find the sleeve so he can flee the locker room. Game day banners everywhere. It's more a bully than a statement I think. Paraded to our rivals. Fight! Fight! Fight! Too much commotion for anyone to get the irony in it.
I'm tempted to tear them down, not to vandalize the school, or protest against sports, but of it's subliminal message. Did I abandon my morals? Hypocrite? First round goes to him. First punch came from me. He wouldn't leave me alone, said I needed to grow a pair. Fight-or- flight, so I've heard.
"Good right hand." Adam compliments.
"Then you really have an act for it, Chris" Patting his hand on my shoulder, as he passes me.
I considered apologizing for losing my cool, but then I might have been lying. It felt wonderful...maybe too wonderful.