Iterations and other stories (collection)

Matt chose the farther one. It would be a longer run, but there were fewer boys from either team deployed in that direction. He worked his legs as hard as he could, pumping them up and down like pistons. What a glorious victory it would be if the weaker team actually won the game! And if he—Matthew Sinclair!— got a… a touchdown, it was called—well, then, that would put an end to him being chosen last!

He ran and ran and ran, as fast as he could. His feet pounded into the sod, still damp from the morning dew. He thought, or imagined at least, that clods of dirt were flying up from his footfalls as he ate up meter after meter—no, no, no: yard after yard— coming closer and closer to the goal line. His lungs were aching from gulping in so much cold air, and his heart felt as though it would burst within his chest. But if he could only—

Ooof!

A hand had slammed into his back—he’d been touched!

No! It was unfair! He deserved this chance, this opportunity, but—

But the rules were clear: this was touch football, and Matt had to stop running now.

But he couldn’t—for it had been more than a touch; it had been a good, firm shove, a push impelling him on.

He found himself pitching forward, the moist grass providing little traction. And the boy who had pushed him from behind was now slamming into him, as if he, too, were sliding on the slick turf. But Matt knew in an instant that that wasn’t it; oh, it was supposed to look like an accident, but he was really being tackled.

Matt slammed into the ground, so hard that he thought the football, crushed beneath his chest, would actually pop open. The other boy—Spalding it was; he could see that now—slammed down on top of him. Almost at once, a third boy—Captain Takahashi himself—piled on top.

The sound of Mr. Donner’s whistle split the air, but belatedly, as if he’d been reluctant to interrupt good theater, to bring an end to just punishment. But the whistle was ignored; Matt’s crime of creating mismatched teams was too great. Somebody shouted out, “Pile on!” Another body slammed on top of them, and one more after that, and then—

Crrackkk!

It was an incredible, heart-stopping sound, like a gunshot. If Matt hadn’t been buried under so many bodies, he expected he would have heard it echo off the school’s brick walls.

There was a moment of nothingness, of no sensation, while the other boys reacted to the sound.

And then—

And then pain, incredible pain, indescribable pain.

The agony coursed through Matt’s body, starting in his leg, shooting up his spine, assaulting his brain.

The other boys, sensing something was deeply wrong, began to climb off. As their weight shifted on top of Matt, fresh, fiery pain sliced through him.

At last, Spalding got up. Matt looked up and saw an expression on the bully’s face he’d never seen before: a look of fear, of horror. Spalding was staring at Matt’s right leg.

Matt swung his head down to have a look himself, and—

For a moment, he thought he was going to vomit. The sight was horrifying, unnatural.

Matt’s right thigh was bent in the middle, twisted in a hideous way. He reached down and hiked up his gym shorts as far as they would go, so he could see—

God, no.

His thighbone—his femur, as he’d gladly have told Mr. Pope—was clearly broken. The bone was pushed up toward the surface, pressing against the skin, as if any second now it would burst out, a skeletal eruption.

Matt stared at it a few seconds more, then looked up. Mr. Donner had arrived by now, panting slightly, and Matt saw him looming above. “Don’t move, Matt,” he said. “Don’t move.”

Matt enjoyed the look on the teacher’s face—one of incredible unease; there would be an inquiry, of course. Donner would be in the hot seat. And the faces of the other boys were equally satisfying: eyes wide in fear or revulsion, mouths hanging loosely open.

Matt opened his own mouth.

And a sound emerged—but not the sound the other boys might have expected. Not a scream, not a wail of pain, not the sound of crying.

No. As Matt looked down at his twisted leg again, he began to laugh, a throaty sound, starting as a bizarre chuckle and then growing louder and more raucous.

He looked back up at the other boys—his teammates, his tormentors—and he continued to laugh.

Some of the boys were backing slowly away now, their faces showing their confusion, their wariness. The damaged leg was bad enough, but this inappropriate laughter was just too darned creepy. They’d always known Sinclair was a little weird, but they’d never have said he was crazy…

They don’t get it, thought Matt. They don’t get it at all. He’d snapped his leg playing football! How cool was that! It was a badge of honor. People would talk about it for years: Matt Sinclair, the guy whose leg got broken on the—yes, he knew the word; it came to him—on the gridiron.