Leverage Read Free Page A

around his wrists—way more than he needs—to prevent bone splints. We have boxes and boxes of the white tape and a few of the guys use it up like toilet paper.
    â€œDipshits,” Bruce mutters under his breath. Vance Fisher, Paul Kim, Bill Gradley, Larry Menderson, and I stand around, pretending to get dressed even though we’re ready to go. All of us small in our own way.
    â€œWhat does Coach Brigs feed his goons?” Gradley asks under his breath.
    â€œSomething you need a prescription for,” Fisher answers.
    â€œCome on, guys,” Bruce says, and we follow him. We might be small, but we are a pack, and packs are a safe bet. We turn out of the room in time to find Tom Jankowski pushing the cross-country runner belly-down on the pine bench and Mike Studblatz yanking his shorts and jock-strap down past his knees. Scott Miller’s snickering. The kid’s face, turned sideways on the bench, is bright red. He sees us and he’s not hoping for help. He’s expecting us to join in the laughter and humiliation. That’s how it works.
    Bruce slows. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks the three varsity football players. That he says anything startles me and makes me proud of my captain all at once.
    â€œWhy do you care, pussy?” Tom Jankowski asks, daring Bruce to admit he actually cares. Caring is for the weak. Bruce shrugs his shoulders.
    â€œI don’t. But it’s weird you like to pull down boys’ pants,” Bruce answers. “Maybe Chrissy would find that interesting, Scott. It would be a shame if the homecoming couple broke up because the quarterback likes feeling up freshman boys.”
    Scott’s eyes narrow and so do Jankowski’s. But they let the kid go. The boy tugs up his pants without saying anything and bolts out of the locker room.
    â€œYou faggots try spreading lies about this to anyone and you’re all dead. You understand, Chink Kong?”
    Bruce is Vietnamese-American, so Scott thinks his joke is really, really hysterical. Paul Kim is Korean-American, so I’m guessing both he and Bruce are laughing hard on the inside.
    â€œYeah, chink-faggot!” Jankowski echos like a toilet bowl fart. “Mind your own business.”
    â€œ I’m the faggot?” Bruce asks, ignoring the chink part. His voice isn’t so calm anymore and his face starts turning red. “Last I checked, it was you three playing grab-ass in the locker room.” This gets Vance Fisher, our team’s clown, laughing. Bruce is getting into dangerous territory. Jankowski and Studblatz are huge, but worse than that, they are just plain mean. And Scott, their leader, is cruel. You hear it in his laugh and what he finds funny—basically things involving torture. Jankowski and Studblatz step over to Bruce. We monkeys circle around the three gorillas, keeping our distance but not retreating. Larry Menderson sidles down the hallway toward the gymnasium, ready to run and call the rest of our team for help.
    â€œDon’t talk again,” Jankowski growls. “You understand?” He pokes a heavy finger into Bruce’s chest. As strong as our captain is, he looks puny compared to the overstuffed lineman, but as Bruce stretches his flushed neck to try to meet Jankowski’s face eye-to-eye I can tell he is way past logic. If Tom pokes Bruce’s chest again, it’ll be like pressing a detonate button. I cringe as Tom pulls back his finger just enough to poke Bruce one more time in T minus three ... two ... one ...
    Click-click-click ...
    The sound of approaching football cleats on cement pauses doomsday. The man-giant, Kurt Brodsky, in a varsity Knights’ football uniform—shoulder pads spanning across him like vulture wings—turns the corner and fills all remaining space and light. This time his eyes do not search the floor, but land like concrete blocks on every single one of us. His scars look wicked cool. He