Bruiser

emphasizes how small his brain is, the same way
his Speedo emphasizes how small other things
are,

Which makes his friends laugh at him instead of at
me, and Ozzy laughs, too, telling me it’s so funny I
deserve to get my ravioli first, because I’ve
earned it, then he hands over his plate full of the
slithery, sluglike pasta pockets,
and I’m confused enough to think that maybe he’s sincere,
because I don’t know the rules of the game,

When he rests his finger on the edge of my tray, not
forcefully enough for the lazy-eyed lunch lady to
notice but enough to shift the balance and flip the
whole tray, turning the ravioli into projectile pasta,
splattering every available surface, including the
expensive fashion statements of several
speechless kids,

Who believe Ozzy when he calls me a clumsy waste
of life, all eyes turning in my direction as if I’m the
one to blame, and I know I’m beaten because as
much as I want to expel my fury right in his face,
as much as I want to play whack-a-mole on his
hairless head, I can’t, and wouldn’t they all laugh
from here to the edge of their miserable universe
if they knew that the boy most likely to fry was
incapable of lifting a finger to hurt anyone, even if
the hurt was earned.

With nothing left but humiliation and red sauce, I just
want to escape, until Tennyson arrives out of
nowhere, barging his way between us, casting
himself as an unlikely avenger, and says, “Got a problem, Ozzy?”

While the lazy-eyed lunch lady, out of touch with
anything on the far side of the warming trays,
hands a plate of ravioli to Ozzy, which Tennyson
grabs from him and gives to me, asking Ozzy if
he plans to do anything about it because, if he
does, he should fill out his complaint form in
triplicate and shove them in all three of his bodily
orifices,

Which Ozzy has no comeback line for because he’s
still trying to figure out which three orifices
Tennyson might be referring to, if he even knows
what an orifice is, and even though I don’t want
Tennyson fighting my battles for me, I can’t help
but crack a smile, because now I finally
understand what it means to have a friend, and
maybe it’s worth the pain I’ll endure because of it.

28) ANABOLIC

Chest press, shoulder press, lats press, squats;
Tennyson is all business in the gym,
“Free weights are the way to go. Machines are for girls.”
Half an hour in, I’m feeling muscles I never knew I had.

Biceps, triceps, deltoids, pecs;
I am Tennyson’s new project,
“You need muscle mass to take on guys like Ozzy.”
Bronte might appreciate some muscle mass, too.

Crunches, curls, extensions, thrusts;
Tennyson is the trainer from hell,
“You want something easier? Go pick flowers.”
He tells me it’ll hurt even more tomorrow.

Low weight/high reps, high weight/low reps;
I’ll learn to love the burn if I don’t puke first,
“You think this is hard? Wait till next time.”
Tennyson says he’ll make a bruiser out of me yet, and laughs.

Elevate heart rate, hydrate, repeat;
Better living through anabolic exercise,
“Great workout,” he says. “And I’m not even sore.”
Right. Because I’m sore for both of us.