The small school desk that separated them was decorated with florid graffiti.
Danny is a blow monkey.
Tracy takes it up the ass.
Maybe he was, maybe she did. Nobody ever knew these things for sure. Crude hieroglyphs drawn out of boredom and spite.
James and Steve sat opposite each other in the middle of the gymnasium; their eyes never straying, never blinking. Steve picked up the glass of water and took a long swallow. He slammed it back down and sent a burp all the way across the hall.
Two, three dozen bodies, formed a ragged circle around them — ties askew, shirts un-tucked, laces snaked across the floor. Some sat, but most stood, because battle was better on your feet. A pile of rucksacks and satchels separated them from the combatants. The sound of gum being smacked filled the hall like the flutter of pigeons.
Underneath the desk, feet jostled for position. It was a bad game of footsie. Rubber soles squeaked on the polished floor.
George stood over them, waiting for silence. He had refereed many of these encounters, but he still felt the hairs on the back of his neck before every one. He raised his hands to hush the salivating crowd. They were like dogs waiting for meat. The throng surged forward, a wave of sweaty anticipation.
"All right boys," he said, "You ready?"
They both nodded. A voice of misguided encouragement rose from the crowd.
"Ok. Let's have your fists on the wood, please."
James slapped his hand onto the desk and curled it into a tight fist. White knuckles stood out like wild eyes. He popped his thumb out and flashed a cheeky grin at his opponent.
Steve was less animated, his movement slow and measured. Next to James' fist, his own looked small and weak. He wiped the back of his other hand across his brow.
George leaned in. "On the count of three, let's see what you've got, ok?"
"You think you're man enough?" James said.
Steve smiled, just a little. It barely reached his eyes. "Bigger man than you."
"All right, then let's get it on!"
George again moved to silence the crowd as the volume had increased. James licked his lips; Steve swallowed. It felt like a ball of glass slicing his throat.
"1... 2... 3!"
James showed scissors.
Steve had paper.
"Scissors beats paper," George confirmed. "First round to James!"
There were cheers and whoops of applause. The onlookers were rabid with excitement, as if someone had squeezed a drop of hysteria into the crowd while they weren't looking.
James rubbed his hands together. "Now we're talking."
"Ok, James. There are six trays." He motioned to a desk at the far end of the gym, underneath the basketball hoop. "Which one are you going to throw to your opponent?"
James looked down the hall at the table, laden with delicacies he couldn't even begin to imagine. Each tray was covered with a plain white towel, big black numbers scrawled on each one. The smell of paint and puberty filled the room.
"Give him Number Four."
The crowd sucked in a collective breath, as the air in the room seemed to thin.
Steve swallowed hard as George went to retrieve the fourth tray, his sneakers like mice on the polished floor. He knew it could all end right here. There would be no second chances.
"I heard your grandma popped a cherry once and her head exploded." James cracked his knuckles. In the silence, it sounded like fireworks. "Yeah, I heard it was a real mess."
"It was my aunt, actually. And she's fine now. Her face cleared up just perfect, thanks."
"Your aunt's a real looker." James nodded. "I'd pop her cherry for sure."
"Shut it you asshole."
George returned. He held the tray in front of him, like a magician about to reveal his greatest trick. "You ready?"
Cheered on by the audience, Steve wiped the sweat from his brow. "Go on."
George whipped the towel away in one quick motion, revealing a single plum. Steve let out his breath — almost laughed as the nerves got hold of him — and picked up the ripe fruit. The crowd deflated; enthusiasm hissing out of them like air from a crippled balloon.
"Lucky prick," James said, as Steve bit into the purple flesh.
"Wipe that goddamn smile off your face, will ya?"
Steve slid his arm across his mouth, but the smile remained. "Tastes great." Purple juice smeared the back of his hand.
He finished the fruit quickly, spat the heart into his palm, and tossed it over his shoulder. The crowd went wild and parted, as the wet seed bounced along the ground. It was like Moses at the Red Sea. Suddenly a chant broke out.
Ste-eve. Ste-eve. Ste-eve.
"All right." George put a hand on each boy's shoulder. "You ready for the next round?"
They both nodded.
"Okay. Fists above the desk, boys."
The crowd settled.
A rush of anticipation.
"1... 2... 3!"
"Paper kicks your ass, dickweed," James said.
Steve turned his rock into a bird, and flipped it.
James ignored him and rubbed his hands together. "That's two in a row. Maybe I'll go for the clean sweep."
"Ok James." George silenced the crowd. "Which number would you like to pass over this time?"
James looked across at the table, and the five trays that remained. He stroked his chin and worked the pause.
"Number two," he said finally, "'Cos you're a great big one of those, aren't you, Steve-boy?"
Steve tried not to let it bother him.
George walked over and brought back the tray James had asked for.
"Least you ain't gonna be hungry after this." James cackled.
The chant threatened to break out again but George silenced it with a finger to the lips. Order restored, he held onto one corner of the towel, looking first at James then Steve.
Whoosh.
"An orange!" James folded his arms theatrically and leaned back in his chair. "Come on Georgy-Porgy. That's a pussy fruit."
"Actually, it's a tangerine," George assured him.
"Whatever."
"You chose it." Steve shrugged, picked up the fruit, and started to strip the skin.
"Fix." James grumbled, his mouth a sour frown. "Everyone likes oranges." He kicked out at the desk and the tray clattered onto the floor.
Steve offered him the fruit. "Have it."
"Choke on it you freak."
The slow handclap started on the east side and within moments the entire crowd was involved. It was like watching fire spread. The smell of orange zest filled the gymnasium.
Steve popped a couple of segments into his mouth. "Oh, that is sweet. It's like liquid Heaven. You want a piece?"
"Of you? Definitely. Outside, after this."
"What makes you think you're going to be here after this?"
"Guys, please let's calm down." George stuck his head in between the argument, reminding them who was in charge. "Steve, if you don't mind, please continue."
Steve ate the rest of the tangerine in silence, glad he had made it through the first couple of rounds unscathed.
George gave him a moment to finish, and the crowd a moment to compose themselves. Once Steve gave him the nod, George removed the tray.
"Right boys. This is the third round coming up out of a possible six."
"Bring it on." James rubbed his hands together as if he was trying to create fire.
"1... 2... 3!"
Steve's shoulder dropped as he realised he had lost this one as well.
James clenched his fist. "Tut tut, Jimmy. Paper again, huh? You suck at this game."
"All right James. It's your turn." George invited him to browse the table again. "What would you like to give Steve this time?"
"Apart from a kick in the balls?"
"Ok, let's try to keep it clean." George walked over to the table and waited for James' response.
"Give us number five. I've got a feeling about that one."
George picked up the tray marked five. Smaller than the one James had been given in the previous round, he slid it onto the desk in front of Steve; a gourmet treat yet to be revealed.
He asked Steve to confirm he was ready. Steve nodded.
"Here we go." George removed the napkin with a practiced flair. The crowd sucked it in, and released it slowly in a series of whoops and cheers. The grape rolled around on the tray, like a blind man trying to find the door.
"I love these."
Steve picked it up and began to peel the pale green flesh with his nail. He popped the grape onto his tongue and burst it like a liquid balloon, letting the fruit fill his mouth. "Got any more?"
"Hope you have a good appetite, faggot, because you're getting it all." James nodded in the direction of the remaining three trays.
"Halfway there." Steve held the seed between his teeth and fired it like a bullet. It hit James squarely on the forehead.
"Bullseye!"
The anonymous voice acted as a release for the rest of the crowd, and within moments they were all pushing forward once again.
"Quiet please!" George raised his hands. "Fourth round!"
Steve inhaled deeply, his lips moving in a silent prayer to whichever God was listening.
"1... 2... 3!"
Two rocks.
"My rock would have blitzed yours, ass-munch." James laughed. "You must have been shitting bricks there."
Steve shrugged. "Cool as a cucumber, me."
"Oh yeah? Then I hope you get one here, so I can shove it right up your ass."
"Cucumber is a vegetable, numb-nuts." Steve grunted. "We're only doing fruit."
George leaned down over the desk. "Cut that out, the pair of you. There will be no trash talking while I'm officiating. All right. Now, let's try that again. Ready?"
Both boys nodded reluctantly.
"1... 2... 3!"
James stuck with his rock. Steve changed his mind and went for paper, and it won him his first victory of the competition. He enclosed James' fist to symbolise the victory, but his opponent shook him off.
"Get away from me you fucking fruit!"
The crowd laughed. There was a wry smile on Steve's face.
"Steve, which tray would you like James to try?"
"I'll go with number three, please."
James grinned. "My lucky number."
"We'll see about that."
George walked slowly to the table and lifted the tray marked with the number three. He brought it over to the two boys and placed it in the centre of the desk. James tried to get a measure of what was under the towel. Nervous perspiration beaded his brow.
"You're going to pay if this is bad," he said.
Steve just looked at him in silence.
George whisked away the towel. Both participants leaned closer. Neither of them knew what it was. James touched it with one finger then pulled it back in horror as it sank into the soft fruit.
"Why's it all hairy?"
"It's a peach," George said.
"I'm not eating anything that's got hair on it!"
"Those are the rules, Jimmy." Steve's smile got wider. "You refuse, you lose."
"Don't call me that." James turned to George. "What's it taste like?"
George shrugged, seemingly thrown by the question. "I don't know, but I'm sure it's perfectly safe."
James picked up the peach, grimacing.
The crowd started chanting.
Eat it. Eat it. Eat it.
He sniffed it. "Smells like a girl's fruit."
"It's the closest you'll ever get to a girl's fruit." Steve cracked his knuckles, leaned back in his chair. "Just eat the damn thing already."
James bit into the peach, not taking his eyes off Steve. The orange flesh was soft and flavour exploded in his mouth. "You know what? It's actually not too bad. Very refreshing."
"I'm happy for you."
James bit deep and struck the seed in the middle with his teeth. A sharp jolt stabbed his gums.
Steve flashed a smile, sipped some water. "Don't break a tooth, will you?"
"I may break yours."
George signalled for the start of the fifth round. Steve readied himself as James finished off the peach and flicked the pip into the crowd, just as Steve had done earlier with the seed from his plum.
"1... 2... 3!"
This time it was Steve's turn to get lucky with the scissors. James let his paper drop onto the desk, and his head drop into his chest.
"Lucky bastard," James said under his breath.
"Which tray would you like, Steve?"
There were only two left. Number six was quite large compared to tray number one. It didn't look like there was anything under there.
"I'll go for number six."
The crowd rose then fell as George brought the tray over and revealed what was under the towel.
"How do you like them apples?"
Steve had a knot in his brow. "It's only one apple you doofus."
"Whatever."
James opened wide, and for a moment it looked like he was going to swallow the fruit whole. Then he pulled back and his teeth crunched down on the apple. Clear juice dribbled down his chin. James smiled around his mouthful.
Steve tried not to look. "You're disgusting."
"And you're jealous."
It was difficult to hear George over the din of the crowd.
"All right, guys. James, you ready?"
James took another bite. "Sure, lay it on me. This is a lovely apple by the way, Georgie." Juicy flecks flew across the desk and sprayed Steve.
"Ok — James, Steve." George held up his hands to placate the audience. "This is it, the final round."
"I'm ready."
"You're going down, Stevie-boy."
"1... 2... 3!"
There was a moment — one single moment — in which the world seemed to stop turning, when even it held its breath, and then Steve raised his rock and pumped it to the crowd. Blood beat in the heart of the audience like jungle drums. "Can I do the honours?" he asked, pushing his chair back, but George stilled him.
"Let me do my job, Steve. You just sit there. It'll soon be over, one way or the other."
James drilled his fingers on the desk. "You'd better hope I like whatever's under there, asshole."
George collected the tray and carried it back like a waiter in a five-star restaurant.
"You just keep throwing them out #8212; " James held his hands as if he was away to hit a home run " — and I'll keep on knocking them right back."
"It's a bit late for the psyche-out, don't you think?" Steve looked at the tray and smiled at his opponent. "I reckon that's a real doozy under there."
James shrugged. "Gimme what you got."
George stripped the cover away, like a matador goading the bull.
"I'm allergic to strawberries, you asshole." James pushed the tray away from him. "I told you at the start I wasn't going to do this if you were going to spring one of those things on me."
"It's a raspberry."
"Same difference."
"It's not the same at all." Steve pushed the tray back towards James. "Stop crying and eat it."
"You eat it."
"I would." Steve shrugged; smiled. "'Cept it's not my turn."
The crowd began to get restless again. Someone lobbed an empty Coke can at the competitors. It narrowly missed James' head and clattered to the ground beneath his feet.
George cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to eat the fruit, James. It was a fair draw after all."
"Gimme a second for God's sake!"
James took a couple of deep breaths, wondering why he didn't go for rock in the clutch like he always did. Everybody knew that scissors sucked under pressure!
He picked up the fruit between thumb and forefinger. Wispy hairs danced as he squinted; red flesh inviting.
Eat. Eat. Eat.
The crowd; like salivating dogs.
James popped it in his mouth hesitantly, as if awaiting a father's slap. For a moment he didn't chew, just sat there with it on his tongue, letting the sweet taste seep out.
"You're gonna pay for this jerk-off," James said; mouth full, words slurred.
"Swallow."
"Like your mum, you mean?"
George placed a hand on Steve's chest and shook his head. No.
James closed his eyes and let the fruit slide over the back of his tongue. He picked up the glass of water and chased it down, as if he was putting out a flame. Cheeks red and eyes streaming, he opened his mouth to show George it was all gone.
"You know, it would go down a lot easier if you chew it."
James coughed, his throat dry. Spittle rained on the desk. "Why don't you take your advice and —"
Suddenly James' back arched forward — eyes wide and rimmed with red — and his body lurched onto the desk, as if somebody had punched him in the kidneys from behind. There was a sound, a bit like a stifled fart; and a smell, like curdled milk.
The crowd gasped.
For a moment that seemed like a long time, James didn't move. When he lifted his head from the desk there were blotches boiling all over his face, like pus-filled bubble wrap. They started to burst. Sticky liquid popped all over the desktop like grisly fireworks on the fourth of July.
Steve shielded his face with one hand as warm, wet fluid slapped him from across the desk. He shuddered. He could hear James cooking. It was like listening to his mother's microwave popcorn on full power. He pushed back, away from the desk.
George picked up the white towel that had covered the tray and used it to cover his mouth. The rotten smell was almost too much to bear.
Most of the audience turned away in disgust; a few ran screaming. A couple stayed, feet frozen. It was like watching a car wreck.
Steve grabbed a towel that had been dropped on the floor from one of the previous rounds and threw it over James' bobbing head, to stem the ugly approach of death.
Soon the head stopped moving, and dark blood spread out over the white cotton towel.
What was left of the crowd turned as one then and dispersed. In a moment, they were gone. The game was over.
"Guess he was allergic to raspberries as well," George said, lowering the towel from his mouth, as James' body sputtered for the last time.
Steve grimaced. "Guess so."
Click here for commentary by Brian G. Ross
Copyright © Brian G. Ross 2006
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