Killer of Giants

It all went down three months into my high school senior year, a day that triggered a youth uprising like nothing America had seen before.

The trouble started when the new kid, Gordie Radford, scanned the Cannondale High cafeteria and turned to me. Chris, it’s about to happen.

Eminem chanted from the loudspeaker of a nearby phone, and the faint smell of weed filled the air. If it makes you feel better, I said, they won’t do it here. When they did it to Osterhout, they dragged him into the hall and bent his finger back – snapped it like a pretzel. Had to wear a finger splint for a month.

Gordie grimaced like he was trying to swallow a bug.

The mechanics of finger breaking probably wasn’t what he needed with the mess he was in. Don’t worry, I said. I’m sure they won’t do it to you.

They were going to do it to him, and soon.

Did the teachers help Osterhout?

Teachers? Osterhout was a teacher.

After Osterhout’s finger breaking, the faculty was too gutless to deal with the beatings. Even Mad Max wouldn’t survive this asylum for the homicidal. Truth was, fingers were only broken when things got bad, but Gordie landed himself in a world of shit after an accidental dodgeball nut shot last week. Chances were one of his fingers was about to have a bad day.

Gordie glanced over his shoulder at the exit. I just want to get through senior year without ending up like Mr. Osterhout.

Not ending up like Osterhout was all any of us wanted, but I couldn’t help feel for Gordie. Notre Dame Prep hadn’t prepared him for the unexpected move to a tough school in Detroit’s West Side where beatings were part of the curriculum. He was clueless, like a child walking up to a creeper in a candy van, and only a month after transferring to Cannondale he had guys twice his size lining up to destroy him. I wasn’t about to stand in their way, but I tried to look out for him because no one else did. Besides, I could count my other friends on my little finger, so it’s not like I was too cool to hang with the new kid.

That other friend, Raj Akhtar, walked down the aisle toward us with a tray of meatballs and a can of Crush. He pulled out the chair next to mine and raised an eyebrow at me, no doubt sore at having to sit with Detroit’s biggest trouble magnet again. Sup?

Gordie glanced over his shoulder at the exit. They’re coming. I can feel it.

Cool it, will you? Raj put his tray on the table and dropped into his chair. You wouldn’t be such a victim if you didn’t act like one.

Gordie’s brow wrinkled and his lips moved without speaking.

Listen, Raj said. You need to understand how it works here at Cannondale. Look around, you ain’t at prep school no more. He pointed at the cafeteria wall covered in black graffiti, chewing gum, and lumps of hardened food. Near the ceiling, yellow light filtered through a row of dirty windows. They say the guy who designed Cannondale also designed prisons: minimal windows, intense overcrowding, high tension, and wild inmates. I’d believe it.

Raj speared a meatball with his fork and pointed at Gordie’s cardigan. That Ralph Lauren number ain’t doin’ you any favors. You’re seventeen – you gotta dress like it.

Gordie picked the fluff off his cardigan, like tidying it would help him blend in with Cannondale’s gangsters and hoods.

My parents left Delhi twenty years ago and they’re still trying to get me to wear a kurta. Raj laid his fork on his plate and grabbed the edges of his t-shirt with the words ‘Fake Karate is Better than no Karate.’ Can you imagine what those maniacs would do to me if I wore a kurta?

Gordie clasped his hands together and pulled them apart, like he didn’t know what to do with them. Did they get in trouble with the cops for what they did to Mr. Osterhout?

They fessed up, but the cops still did nothing.

That’s what happens when your old man’s a cop, I said.

Raj shook his head. It’s what happens when your old man’s a dirty cop.

Another lump made its way down Gordie’s throat. He reached into his bag and pulled out a Rocky and Bullwinkle lunchbox.

Raj’s eyes widened. What are you doing?

Gordie blinked slowly, like he was confused by his surroundings. What?

Are you trying to get beat up? Put Rocky and Bullwinkle away before someone sees them.

The confusion on Gordie’s face turned to blushing. It’d be a long time before he was in his element here. He slipped his lunchbox back into his bag. It doesn’t matter. They’re going to find me anyway. He pressed his hand to his stomach and winced. They hit me twice last week. They said it was to soften me up before… He looked down at his fingers.

Show us, Raj said.

He unbuttoned his cardigan and lifted his shirt to reveal a dark purple-green bruise covering most of his stomach.

Shit, Gordo. Raj shot me a glance. Don’t worry, we’ve all had our run-ins. I’ve gotten to know all kinds of pavements: brick, concrete, asphalt – you name it, I’ve been beaten on it. It’s just how it works here.

Gordie pulled his cardigan down. I’m eating outside from now on, even if it’s a thousand degrees below. I’d rather waterboard myself than let them–

Too late. Raj tipped his head toward the door.

Swaggering down the aisle, Fink Fuller stood taller than an NBA player on stilts and was twice as lanky. His six-inch red mohawk and metal-spiked leather jacket gave him a look that’d make a punk rooster envious. He didn’t just look demented though; he’d clocked up more beatings than any other senior. And he did it all for the love of hurting people.

The clamor of voices and clanking of cutlery softened as two hundred students turned his way. According to Mr. Walter’s senior biology class, this is called the anti-predator response. Nature knows when something dangerous is near. You can experience it if you’re sleeping in the outdoors and wake up to silence. No gentle hiss of wind through grass, no crickets, no frogs, and no buzzing insects. Silence. Humans aren’t used to silence. True silence is terrifying, and there’s a reason.

Fink paused at our table, balancing his tray of what smelled like five-day-old lunchmeat in one hand.

Gordie sank lower in his chair, his skin pale and sweaty like a malaria victim. He radiated the kind of raw fear that attracted trouble, and he’d brought a ton of it our way since he started hanging with us.

A whisper came from under Gordie’s breath. Praying was all he had, but so far it hadn’t saved anyone else.

Fink’s gaze shifted down to Gordie, and he narrowed his eyes. Like a bulldog readying for attack, his face hardened and his eyebrow piercings bristled. Parting his lips, he flicked his forked, snake tongue out of his mouth and over his lips. Rumor was he’d gone into his old man’s garage on his fifteenth birthday and sliced his tongue down the middle with a rusty knife. It was easy to believe – he did a lot of messed up things.

The yellow windows flashed and a low rumble went over the school. Fink wiped his nose on the back of his hand and leaned into Gordie’s ear. Ay yo’, check it. My favorite dodgeball player.

Heads turned at nearby tables and whispers swept through the cafeteria. Standing near the kitchen, Ms. Lazaretto glanced in our direction and placed her hand on her skinny waist before turning away. She wasn’t going to break up a fight even if she had an elite team of Special Forces backing her, and right now she was the only teacher in the cafeteria.

Fink eyed Gordie steadily, nodding slightly, daring him to move. He curled his upper lip and leaned closer. Ever been in a real fight, Radford? One where you don’t just take a beating? One where you give some back?

Gordie gave a strained, defiant smile, shooting for confident but only managing constipated. He wasn’t a fighter and Fink knew it. Skinny kids were good at reading books and playing videogames, not brawling with steel-toe boot wearing gorillas.

Fink laid his tray on the table. You disrespectin’ me?

Gordie’s gaze fell away. He’d put on a good show, but even fake balls crush if you squeeze hard enough.

Fink dug his hands into his pockets and pulled out two clenched fists. Tell you what, if you guess what hand has the coin, I won’t break yo’ finger.

This was all part of his game, but nothing ever came of it but lies and more beatings. I never understood why he didn’t just get on with it.

Gordie blinked long and slow, like he was having trouble focusing. A better friend might step in, but I wasn’t about to rush to make myself a target, not if there was a chance he’d dig his own way out.

Choose quick, Dodgeball, or I’m gonna choose.

Gordie’s brow creased like he was doing mental calculations. He raised a shaky finger and pointed at Fink’s left hand. One by one, the fingers of Fink’s left hand uncurled into an empty palm. He gave a sympathetic frown and patted Gordie’s shoulder. Tell you what, bud, you can choose what finger.

Gordie swallowed. It was decision-making time: stand up and fight, or take what comes next. I’d given up expecting teachers to step in, mostly they settled for not getting hurt. Zero tolerance my ass. We’d be safer dancing naked in the streets of Baghdad.

In a flash of movement, Fink snatched at Gordie’s fingers and missed. With his right hand still squeezed tight, he threw his left fist hard into Gordie’s temple. The sickening thock of knuckle against skull sent a lump into my throat even after hearing it a hundred times.

Gordie buckled and threw his face into his hands, gasping. When he straightened, his glasses hung crooked and tears leaked from his eyes. Four knuckle-shaped red blotches stained his cheek.

At the front of the cafeteria, Ms. Lazaretto glanced at us and checked her watch, tapping her fingers on her arm. I didn’t expect her to get involved, but it would’ve been decent of her to threaten to call the cops.

Across the table, Raj sat up straight in his chair and cleared his throat.

The fingers of Fink’s right hand spread to reveal an empty palm. No surprise there. The odds of him playing fair were about the same as the Lions winning the Super Bowl. His eyes narrowed to slits and he broke into a shrieky, grating laugh that would set off a car alarm. Like a circuit frying in his brain, his mouth snapped shut and his left hand clamped onto Gordie’s wrist. His other hand gripped Gordie’s index finger.

I’d spent my share of high school curled up on the ground trying to suck air into my lungs. I wasn’t scared to fight, mostly I did, but it hardly ever ended well. I’d learned to deal with it, but Gordie was the new kid, shy and quiet, an easy blusher, and he was about to have his finger broken in front of the entire cafeteria.

I pushed out my chair and stepped between them. You hit him already. Leave him alone.

The human race can be divided into those who appreciate advice and those who don’t. Fink leaned down and tilted his head. What ya gonna do, Maddox? He spat the words, flicking his snake tongue over his lips like his brain was stuck in a loop.

An uncomfortable heat rose up my neck. I wanted to do something, but hitting an oversized thug wasn’t the kind of plan that was going to keep my fingers unbroken. Having said that, Gordie was a friend and that came with responsibility. And the thing about fighting: when you know it’s gonna happen, you gotta get in first. I balled my fist and swung it hard at Fink’s face. He dodged, releasing Gordie’s wrist, and shoved his palms hard into my chest, throwing me ass first over my chair and sending me sliding into a table of sophomores. I climbed to my knees and gasped. The only thing worse than stepping into someone else’s fight was being shown the floor before you got started. Still, it was better than looking weak. You had to show you were prepared to fight, even when you couldn’t win. Gordie had a rep as a soft target and soon every gang in West Side would be after him.

Standing in the front of the cafeteria, Ms. Lazaretto stared wide-eyed at me and then at Fink. With a toss of her hair, she bent to lift her handbag and sashayed to the door. If you’re a teacher who puts self-preservation first, the best way to avoid trouble is to leave when it starts.

Raj rose from his chair, fists clenched. Fink glared at him, daring him to move. Raj wouldn’t think twice about stepping in for me, even when the odds were against him – I’d done the same for him since freshman year. But he wasn’t about to throw himself under this bus unless I was about to be ruined. Gradually, the color returned to his knuckles as he relaxed his fists.

Fink let out a shrill cackle and jabbed his finger into Raj’s forehead. Didn’t think so. He turned to Gordie and lowered his voice. I’ll be back with some finger justice after lunch. If you’re not a wuss about it, I might only break one. With a toothy grin, he lifted his tray and swaggered back to his table with the kind of smug that was part of the deal when you’re top of the food chain.

I climbed to my feet and wiped the dirt off my jeans and hoodie. A murmur of low voices filled the room, and Gordie lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

Raj slumped into his chair. Where would you guys be without me looking out for you?

Right here, Gordie said.

Doing this, I said, straightening my chair.

The clock on the wall was at 12:53pm. Seven minutes till the end-of-lunch bell. Other than trying to jump Fink, we only had two options: wait it out and act like nothing happened, or try to make an exit. Either way we’d draw the attention of him and his crew.

Two tables away, Fink counted cigarettes next to his buddy Kyle Swindon. Kyle lifted his feet onto the table and blew into his Zippo lighter, gazing at the dancing flame. This six-and-a-half-foot wall of muscle was pumped with enough steroids and protein shakes to turn a seven-year-old into a professional wrestler, and to make him the uncontested leader of his crew. Last year, Principal Grendelmeier discovered Kyle was cutting class to train in Muay Thai fighting at a gym downtown. Instead of suspending him, he called it an off-site learning program and gave Kyle course credit. Teachers didn’t want him at school any more than the rest of us; either that or his dirty-cop old man pulled all the right strings.

Kyle pulled his hoodie back over his shoulders, uncovering the scarification tattoo of a coffin on his neck. With his left hand, he rotated the four rings on his right-hand fingers, each one decked out with a jagged metal skull sharp enough to cut skin. In the seat next to him, his bleached-blonde girlfriend, Brittany Ryerson, thumbed at her phone, her lips almost glowing neon pink. She plucked a long strand of tangled hair from her scalp and dropped it on the floor. Someone once told me her behavioral problems were because of a difficult upbringing. It can’t have been easy being the offspring of a circus clown and a feral cat.

Fink’s voice sliced across the cafeteria like the screech of a velociraptor. Hey, Dodgeball. Look after yo’ fingers. I don’t want them getting broken before it’s my turn.

Gordie folded his arms tight across his chest, his brow sweaty and his cheek swollen on one side. Waiting for a beating was almost as bad as the beating itself. Fink would be less of an asshole if he just got on with it.

Approaching from the aisle behind Gordie, a grizzly bear-like figure balanced a lunch tray on a sumo-sized gut. With the top of his head inches from the ceiling, and almost as fat as he was tall, Jeremiah Bundy was the biggest of Kyle’s crew, and the most unpredictable and scary human any of us had ever known. And he was headed in our direction.

2. Decafeteriainated

Bundy stopped halfway down the aisle and ran his free hand over his shaved head, glaring down at a table of juniors doing their best to not look up. With child-like curiosity, his eyes locked onto a kid cautiously sipping a bowl of steaming soup from his wheelchair.

Raj put his drink on the table. No way. He wouldn’t… not Danny.

The chatter of voices in the room softened, like someone turning down the volume on the cafeteria’s remote. Bundy was known for having no sense of right from wrong, but this was the first time he’d taken an unhealthy interest in the disabled kid.

Bundy placed his tray on the table and cupped his baseball-mitt sized hand around the back of Danny’s head. Before Danny caught on, Bundy plunged his face down into his bowl, splashing soup across the table. Danny thrashed his arms, gasping, and his friends stepped back.

As far as learning experiences went, Cannondale couldn’t compete with the prep schools, but it did offer its own unique experiences.

Leaning down, Bundy hooked the fingers of his left hand around Danny’s belt and gripped the scruff of his sweater with the other. Danny coughed, spraying soup from his mouth and nose, his face red from the scalding heat. A lot of bad things happened in this place, but this was about to be a new low.

Flexing his arms, Bundy dragged Danny out of his wheelchair and lifted him high above the table. Danny shrieked and waved his arms wildly, his bony legs twisted and hanging limp. Bundy carried him away from the table and, with a grunt, heaved him as far as he could throw him. His half-lifeless, half-flailing body thumped against the wall and collapsed to the floor with his legs folded awkwardly under him. He gasped and wiped his nose, smearing blood on his hand.

Two tables away, Fink buckled over laughing, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his leather jacket. Kyle glanced down at Danny and blew gently into the flame of his lighter.

With a low groan, Danny rolled over and dragged himself across the floor on his hands and elbows, smudging a trail of blood across the linoleum. With the desperation of a wounded animal, his gaze flicked from student to student at surrounding tables, and one after another, students looked away. Anyone with a will to live wouldn’t make themself part of this.

Still gazing at her phone, Brittany Ryerson yanked another long strand from her scalp and dropped it on Danny’s back as he heaved himself past their table in a limp-legged commando crawl.

Gordie held the sides of his chair like he was about to get up. Someone needs to help him.

And end up like him? Raj asked.

It’s survival of the fittest here, I said. Like in biology class. You don’t interfere with that. I felt bad for Danny, but if I stepped in every time someone needed help, I’d be the one in a wheelchair.

Gordie swallowed hard. But he can’t…

Looking satisfied, Bundy lifted his tray and lumbered toward Kyle’s table. With a nod, he put the tray down and lowered his fat ass into the chair next to Fink.

Is it true Bundy can’t speak? Gordie whispered.

Supposedly something happened when he was a kid, I said, but I doubt he has anything worth a damn to say.

I wish he’d say something. It’s creepy.

Fink’s voice cut through the cafeteria again. Hey Dodgeball, it’s time. Bring yo’ fingers over here.

This was about to go down. Gordie was going to eat shit, and I would too for sitting with him.

Let’s go, Raj said. I don’t want to be here when they get punchy and kicky.

The squeak of a nearby chair sent a chill through my gut. Bundy’s chair was out from his table, and Kyle was speaking into his ear. Nodding, Bundy stood and stepped into the aisle, wiping his hands on his pants.

He’s leaving, Raj said.

Bundy turned to us and deadpanned, staring through us like a mental patient doped up on meds.

He’s not leaving, I said.

Slowly at first, Bundy started toward us, his enormous arms hanging unnaturally at his sides. His huge gut swayed with each lumbering step as he approached our table and moved in behind Raj. Leaning down, he spread his banana-sized fingers around Raj’s head. Before Raj could get clear, Bundy drove his hand down hard, plunging Raj’s face into his meatballs and splashing bolognese sauce across the table. Raj grunted and thrashed, grappling with the giant bear-paw on his head.

Across the table, Gordie sucked shallow breaths through gritted teeth. He stood from his chair and clenched his shaking fists. "Leave him alone!"

The low rumble of voices in the cafeteria turned to silence.

Standing up took guts, but this was like bait to a shark. As far as Gordie’s tough guy act went, his short, wheezing breaths and sinking shoulders weren’t going to win him any Oscars.

Bundy looked up and down Gordie’s tiny body. Releasing Raj’s head, he lunged across the table and gripped Gordie’s cardigan. His eyes flicked to Kyle, like a guard dog waiting for the attack signal.

Kyle didn’t even draw breath. Drop him.

The color drained from Gordie’s face, and two hundred students stared wide-eyed.

Bundy flexed his arm and lifted Gordie off the floor by his cardigan. Cutlery and plates crashed as Bundy dragged him across the table and dropped him onto the floor next to his feet. Gordie rolled into a tight ball.

Two tables away, Kyle snapped the lid back on his Zippo and swung his feet off the table. Next to him, Fink scrambled off his chair and raced over to Gordie, his thin lips peeling back over yellow teeth