Short Stories - Chapter 11: Chapter 11

The following Wednesday night was our first game. It was a home game against a pretty tough team, and no one was surprised that the starting lineup hadn't changed much since the year before, with the exception of the spots vacated by graduated seniors. I was the power forward. Totally normal. Calum was the small forward. Also normal. Isaac was the center—not normal, but not unexpected.
But Calum wasn't at his best today. He kept making stupid mistakes that were costing us big time, and Coach wasn't having it. She got so frustrated, she switched his position with Isaac's before the game was halfway through.
Isaac, on the other hand, killed it. He was awesome out there. Coach left him as SF for the rest of the game and made sure to congratulate him profusely, while Calum stood nearby with a grudging frown on his face. I could tell right away that there was going to be an issue.
After the game was won—largely thanks to Isaac—the team decided to celebrate by walking to McDonald's for a greasy hunger-raid, as was tradition after a difficult home match.
Isaac sat next to me as we ate, but he talked to everyone—or at least, everyone talked to him. He had this quiet charisma to him—He wasn't too loud or too soft spoken—that made it hard not to like him. He was, for lack of a better term, cool, and his teammates gravitated towards that.
I found myself watching Calum throughout the night, and it became obvious to me that he noticed as much as I did. He was pissy the whole evening through—first he'd been replaced on the court as the star, and now he was replaced in the team as the favorite.
It felt good to see him stumble a little.
It felt less good to see the way he treated Isaac the following day at school.
I was nearly positive that the main reason he'd ever started picking on Isaac in the first place was some inferiority-complex compensation type shit—he'd realized early on that Isaac was a threat on the court and tried as hard as he could to reduce that threat. It was never about the leg. It was about the guy who used it.
So that much hadn't really changed in theory. In practice, though, Calum's reaction grew worse, and so did the abuse that came with it.
Suddenly, the nasty remarks weren't just a practice thing. Calum and his fuckboy entourage, half of which had probably never even spoken to Isaac, took to the hallways with their jeering. By Thursday, jeering had evolved to shoving.
Isaac continued as he had before. He would push his headphones into his ears and roll his eyes, and that was it. He didn't spur them on or slow them down.
It didn't help matters that he, despite not really wanting to, was quickly climbing up the school's social ladder. People recognized his name even if they didn't know his face. I kept hearing him brought up in conversations he had no part in. Isaac? Yeah, that guy's really nice. Isaac, the hot one? Who am I kidding, which other Isaac would you be talking about? I'm totally crushing on that new Isaac kid. Um, no you're not, he's mine.
Right now, he was about where I was. Known. Liked. But it seemed like he was on track to jump even higher, right up to where Calum sat—in a big golden throne labeled Potential Prom King.
Calum clearly didn't care to be replaced in a third aspect of his life—his spot at the Westview High seat of worship. And he took it out in Isaac, hard.
Though the hallway antics were frustrating, they were trivial at most. It was during practice that I really got worried. Calum and Luke never stopped playing rough. Tripping and pushing happened time after time right under Coach's radar, just high enough for her to be aware of it all. Even when Isaac's nose bled for thirty minutes straight at practice the next Monday, she acted as though nothing was wrong. We were just playing the game.
Except, in this version of the game, there was only one loser. It was downright dangerous, and I was scared to find out just how far it might go.
Our second game was on Tuesday. The starting line-up consisted of the same people, but the positions were different. At least, two of them were.
Calum had been the team's small forward since he was a freshman—it was his position, and whether or not it was the best position on the court, he made it the best.
And now it was someone else's.
We were at McDonald's again after another victory. We were all—almost all—really happy. The team had played well as a whole. Isaac played his best. So did Calum, but that didn't mean much to him when he was playing center.
"I've gotta go," Isaac said once he'd finished his food. Rather quickly, might I add. The boy could eat. "I'm walking home."
"Isn't your car at the school?" Tony, our stoner benchwarmer, asked, but Issac shook his head.
"I always walk to school for games," he explained. "Helps me clear my head."
"Do you live far?" Someone else asked. "I can give you a ride."
Isaac shrugged. "Not too far. I live by St. Holmer's street. I'd rather walk, if I'm honest."
"I know a shortcut," Tony said, and Isaac looked over at him with eyebrows raised curiously. "I live near there, too. There's a long alleyway a block from here. It's kind of sketchy, but it'll cut your time in half."
I knew that shortcut. I'd been using it for years. It went in the opposite direction of the school, where my sad excuse for a car was parked, but I always took it after victory-McDonald's because I needed to walk off the extra calories.
"Yeah," I agreed. "I know which one you're talking about. Use it all the time."
Isaac nodded. My confirmation seemed to ease any unease he'd had. "Alright, I'll do that, then. Thanks. Later, guys."
A minute after he left, Luke stood as well. "I should get going, too." he said. "Ever since mom and John had that stupid Satan-spawn they call a baby, my curfew's been pushed to ten so I can do their job for them while they're fucking when the little bitch wakes up halfway through the night and starts wailing."
"Well you're my ride," Calum said. "So I guess I'm leaving, too."
Boys started slowly trickling out after that. I left when the numbers started to dwindle, turning a block away from the restaurant to take the shady yet familiar shortcut that had been surprisingly good to me since freshman year.
The alley was dark, lined on each side with trash cans, trash bags, and just straight up trash. I wondered to myself where the family of raccoons I always spotted here were—usually I could hear them rummaging the moment I stepped into the alleyway. But as I looked around for them—I was so used to the little guys that not seeing them made me feel strangely sad—the only living thing I saw was a beady-eyed rat that was foaming at the mouth. I made a mental note to stay the fuck away from where it sat, hunched over an empty milk carton.
In scanning for the raccoons, I was met with no sight of them. I did, however, see something shiny out of the corner of my eye that caught my attention. So I gave a closer look.
And I froze. My heart sank down to my stomach, and I cursed under my breath.
I was such an idiot.
I didn't even want to look. I wanted to shut my eyes, then open them again to realize that I'd only been seeing things.
But when I opened my eyes, it was still there.
By the wall several feet ahead of me, splintered and dented and more-or-less destroyed, was Isaac's prosthetic leg.
I hurried forward, whipping my head around anxiously for some sign of Isaac himself. It wasn't long before I heard heavy, raspy breathing, and I broke into a run.
He was slouched against the alley wall, bruised and bleeding and shaking so badly, I could see it from feet away. His eyes shot wide open when he heard my footsteps approaching, and at the sight of me he flinched, raising his hands over his face. "Stop," He pleaded, and I felt my heart splinter at the sob in his voice. He thought I was Calum or Luke, back to give him more hell. "Please, stop . . ."
"Isaac, it's me," I said gently, kneeling down in front of him. "It's just me."
He lowered his arms tentatively, and I saw blatant fear in his eyes that didn't go away when he recognized me. Tears streaked his cheeks, mixing with blood that dripped from his nose and his eyebrow.
His shorts had ridden up, and for the first time, I saw his real right leg. It ended a few inches above where his knee would have been, and was covered by some sort of sleeve.
"What happened?" I asked him, but he didn't say anything. I wasn't sure he could. He looked so stricken and distant, like his eyes couldn't focus on me and he couldn't control his own body. Besides, I was pretty sure I knew what had happened. Calum has eliminated the competition. If Isaac couldn't play basketball, the slot for star of the team was wide open again, and he was ready to step into it.
"We need to get you to a hospital," I said. I didn't know how badly he was hurt, but if those guys had done what they did to a metal leg, who knew what they could have done to a boy?
That seemed to snap Isaac back to the present. "No!" He gasped as more tears fell from his eyes. "No, w-we can't."
"Isaac, you need—"
"I'm fine," he insisted, though the violent tremor of his voice said otherwise. "I just need—"
But he was cut off as his body heaved and another sob pushed from his throat. He bent forward, leaning his head against his knee as his shoulders trembled. He stayed like that for a long moment, and I could hear him trying to calm his breathing. Then he said, so softly that I barely made out the words, "I can't afford a hospital bill right now."
And I understood, because if I was in his place, I would say the exact same thing.
So I didn't press it. "Can I take you home?" I offered instead. He looked up at me, and I saw that fear in his eyes again—as if I might hurt him, too. But then he nodded.
First I backtracked a bit until I found his leg again and held it with one arm. Then I crouched next to him and helped him sling an arm around my shoulders. He winced in pain, but let me help him up.
I thought about going back to the school to get him into my car, but the walk there would be longer than it would to get to St. Holmer's Street from here.
With him held against my side, I could hear his pounding heartbeat and feel his chest rise and fall with labored breaths. His body was screaming for rest.
The walk was a struggle. Isaac had to hop along, and I could hear him grunting under his breath with the effort. Even so, I was carrying most of his weight, not to mention his leg was surprisingly heavy. We moved slowly, we dripped with sweat, we stumbled, and at one point, Isaac had to stop to sit down.
I was relieved when we got to his street. He directed me to his house; the only car in the driveway was his, and when we got inside, we were alone.
"Where's your mom?" I asked him as I helped him settle onto his couch. I practically collapsed next to him, desperately needing a breather. His tears had stopped, and so had the shaking, but he still had that distant expression on his face.
"Night shift," he said simply, his eyes fixed on the blank screen of the television ahead.
"Do you have a first-aid kit?"
"In the bathroom. First door down the hall."
So I forced myself to stand back up despite the protests of my limbs. As I left him to go find the kit, I tried to picture what would happen next, but I had no idea. Isaac, who always managed to be so calm and collected, had come completely undone before my eyes. And I didn't know how to handle that.
When I found the kit, I realized that my hands were gripping it tight. For the first time since I found him in the alley, my shock and worry had ebbed away just enough for something else to enter my field of vision.
Outside of this bathroom, there was a boy sat hunched on a couch, bleeding and in pain. The prosthetic he needed in order to walk was misshapen, possibly irreparable. He was disheartened and scared and miserable.
And all of this was the working of Calum Berkeley and Luke Freeman.
I had to set down the first-aid kit and lean against the counter, I was so angry. If this was my house, I might've punched the wall. How could anyone—no matter how mean—do something like that out of stupid fucking jealousy?
I could've stayed in there fuming for hours. God knows I wanted to. I wanted to throw a damn fit, storm over to Calum's giant house, and give that privileged piece of shit a taste of his own medicine.
But I had someone else to focus on right now. So I took a deep breath—or ten—picked the kit back up, and went back to the living room. Isaac hadn't moved an inch.
I leaned down in front of him, and he let me clean and bandage his cuts. He just sat there, staring ahead blankly and, from what I could see, holding black tears. The only thing that told me he was even aware of what was happening was the occasional hiss he let out at the sting of the alcohol on his wounds. Otherwise, he hardly shifted at all.
I wanted something more. Some sort of resistance, some version of "I can do it myself." Because that was how he'd always responded before, at least in the short time I'd known him. He was a fighter, one who didn't like being taken care of.
But there was nothing more. No resistance, no version of "I can do it myself." I missed his fire, and I wished it would come back. The fact that Calum and Luke had managed to snuff it out only made me madder.
"Those guys aren't gonna get away with this," I seethed. "You're gonna go to the principal and get them expelled, then go to court and sue their sorry asses."
Isaac sighed, lifting his arm to take hold of my wrist and gently move my hand from his face to his lap.
"I'm so screwed, Ryan," he breathed, shutting his eyes tight.
I shook my head. "It'll be okay," I said. "I'll fix you up and you'll get your rest and—"
"I don't mean the stupid cuts," he said bitterly. "Those heal. But this," he glanced down at his right leg. "This won't. And that," he turned his gaze to his prosthetic, which rested on the floor a few feet away. The sight seemed to be too much to handle, though, because he quickly turned back to me. "That's over."
Maybe it could be fixed, I thought. But when I looked at it, I could see that the socket part was badly bent. Isaac's leg wouldn't fit into that—not even close. That is, if the rest of it even worked.
The reality of the situation hit me like a blow to the face. Somehow, even as I'd been helping him walk home, I'd been too distracted to stop and really think that Isaac wouldn't be able to walk. Not just tonight. Not just tomorrow. For as long as he lacked a prosthetic leg, he was immobile.
"You can . . . get a new one," I said meekly. Isaac finally opened his eyes, and I could see that water had again welled up in them. Honestly, I didn't understand how he'd ever stopped crying. I would have broken down completely if I was in his place right now.
"My mom is still working extra hours to recoup after we bought that one," he said. "That was almost two years ago. She barely makes any extra cash to begin with, and what she does make goes into my college plan. We can't afford it."
I felt a lump form in my throat and struggled to swallow it. "Do you have any other way to get around?"
"I have a chair," he nodded, though I could tell that didn't bring him much comfort, and I could guess why. "I was going to get a job to help her out," he said, half to himself. Then he looked at me. "Do you know how hard it is to get a job when you're stuck in a wheelchair?"
No, I didn't, because I'd never been in his place, and I would never know what it was like. But I could see it enough on my own. Basketball was over for him. Other things, too—running, jumping, spinning. He had a top-row locker, so he'd probably have to carry his books around all day. And our school only had one entrance with a ramp.
His life must have been so hard before. I couldn't imagine what it would be like now. Even minute things, like opening doors and sitting at his launch table, were about to become a hundred times more difficult.
It was so easy to blame myself. To think that I should've seen right through Calum and Luke's act. That I should've left earlier, so that maybe I could've stopped them.
I knelt down in front of Isaac and placed a hand on the couch on either side of his legs. Staring up at him, a promise in my eyes, I said, "I swear, I will do everything I can to help you. Calum and Luke will get what's coming, and when you sue the living daylights out of them, you'll be able to buy a brand new leg. It's not optional. You will get what you deserve."
When Isaac blinked, a tear fell from his eye. "Why do you care so much?" he asked, his voice raw.
I thought it over. Why did I care so much? Not just now, but ever since that first time I saw his leg?
When it came down to it, it was just who I was.
"Because I believe that you," I said slowly, thinking over each word, "are someone really, really good. And that people don't always get what they deserve, but they should. I'm sure you're used to being mistreated, so maybe it's hard for you to believe that some acquaintance just genuinely wants to be here for you, and I don't blame you for that. But even though I don't know you very well, I want to. And I think you should trust me."
Isaac's eyes bore into me, and for a long moment, I didn't know what he was going to say.
"The world needs more people like you."
I smiled. He smiled back, and though it was a sad one, it made his face seem so much more familiar.
When I stood up, something flashed in his eyes, and he quickly leaned forward. "Don't leave," he said softly.
I hadn't been planning to. I'd just meant to sit next to him on the couch, and he seemed to realize that, because he blushed as I did so. "Sorry, I thought—"
"I'm staying," I assured him. "At least until your mom gets back."
He nodded, easing back into the couch.
"Do you want to watch something?" I suggested.
"Talk to me."
I was taken aback for a moment. "What?"
"You said you want to get to know me," Isaac said. "Well I want to get to know you, too, and I really need a distraction. So talk to me . . . Please."
He turned his head to look at me, and I realized he was serious. It hurt to see him, bruised and cut and constantly on the verge of tears, but I held his gaze. I could feel my heart pounding hard, though my adrenaline rush had long worn off, and I knew exactly why.
So I told him the story of baby Ryan, who's parents had him thanks to a drunk night in Vegas and left him at some hospital as soon as he was born, with nothing but a name to prove they'd known him for even a second. Who hadn't gotten out of the constantly-rotating foster care system until he was fifteen, and had used music as an outlet for his feelings—which he'd had a lot of—in his years going from home to home.
The story wasn't all sad, though. Three years ago, I was adopted by my dad—a widower in his forties with a love for superhero movies and a knack for fixing things. He was the best thing that ever happened to me—which, to be fair, wasn't difficult, but he could beat any standard. Sure, we lived in a shitty little house in a shitty little place, but this place was my home because he was here.
Isaac seemed to like that part. The concept of a home.
I gazed around as I spoke. The house was small and well-kept, and everything in it gave off that feeling of home. It was comfortable and familiar. Pictures on the walls made it seem like they'd been living here forever rather than a month. I hardly glanced over most of them, but one caught my eye. A large frame with a picture of a young Isaac—maybe seven or eight years old—smiling big and showing off a mouth full of braces. He looked a lot like he did now, but with a lot more baby-face. And he had a large freckle, mole, beauty mark—whatever you want to call it—below his left eye that wasn't there now. He was a cute damn kid.
I talked for longer than I knew I could. About my dad, about my dog Apollo, about my obsession with Game of Thrones. About my stupid job at Hobby Lobby. I talked until both of us started dozing off, and my words slowly tapered until I found myself in the hands of sleep.
We were awoken at the unholy hour of six in the morning thanks to my school alarm.
"Sorry," I mumbled drowsily as Isaac shifted next to me on the couch. I could feel our shoulders touching; we must have scooted closer in our sleep. I fumbled for my phone and turned the alarm off, but the damage had been done.
Isaac stretched his arms out next to me. "G'morning," he said drowsily. "You hungry?"
"'Course I am."
He moved to push himself off of the couch, then paused at the last moment, his eyes darting to his right leg, and I watched as last night came back to him and his expression shifted.
"I can . . ." I began to offer, but I had a feeling that would just make him feel worse, so instead I asked, "Where's your chair?"
He shook his head. "Don't worry about it," he said. "There's cereal in the cupboard next to the fridge."
"Do you want any?"
"Not hungry."
I was tempted to pretend I actually wasn't that hungry and stay on the couch, but then my stomach growled obnoxiously loud, and any hope of hiding was lost. So I got up, found a bowl and grabbed some cereal—dry, by the way, because milk is fucking disgusting—and came back to the couch to sit next to him again.
"So, what's the plan?" I asked him. He exhaled through his nose.
"I really don't know," he said. "My mom and I will get in contact with the principal, and the sheriff, I guess. And we'll see what happens from there."
"I know what happens," I said decisively. "Bad guy gets busted, good guy gets a badass new leg."
"And what about you?"
I smiled. "I get a hell of a lot of satisfaction."
We talked aimlessly for a while. I tried to keep his attention on me and away from his situation, but I knew that was what was really on the front of his mind.
About forty minutes of subdued conversation later, we both turned our heads at the click of the front door's lock.
"Oh god," Isaac groaned. "She's gonna freak."
And she did. When his mom came inside and saw some random kid on her couch with her son, who was bearing the marks of the rough night before, not to mention his ruined leg on the floor, she fell into a panic. By the time we finished relating the story to her, she'd burst into tears. Isaac lost his grip a little, too, but I could tell that he was trying to put on a brave face to calm her down.
I felt like an intruder, watching as he tried to comfort his mom while she broke down with the guilt of knowing that she hadn't been there to protect him and wouldn't be able to get him a new leg anytime soon.
"Mom, it's okay," Isaac would say, but she remained distraught.
It was like that for a long time, and sitting there, seeing how much she cared about him and was willing to sacrifice for him, showed me even more that this was a family that had been mistreated by the universe. A single mother, a nurse who worked extra hours to give her son as much as she could, had reached a dead end, and it hurt to see.
Eventually, she turned to me, wiping her cheeks and pushing a smile onto her face. "I'm sorry," she sniffed, "I never got your name."
"Ryan," I told her.
"Well, Ryan," she took one of my hands in both of hers, "I can't thank you enough for what you did for my boy. I owe you the world."
I shook my head. "You don't owe me anything, ma'am," I said sincerely.
"Ma'am makes me feel old," she said, her smile finally reaching her eyes. To be fair, she did seem pretty young for a mom with an eighteen year-old son. "Call me Lonnie."
"Okay," I chuckled. "Well I stand by what I said, Lonnie."
I didn't stay for much longer after that. I needed to walk home to get ready for school, and besides, I figured it was about time I left, anyways. Isaac and his mom needed time to themselves.
"Okay, why are you in such a bad mood?"
I looked down at Callie, who had stopped mid-step and turned to me with crossed arms.
Running a hand through my hair, I said, "Sorry. I'm just stressed."
The school day was nearly over, and I hadn't been able to get Isaac out of my head for more than two minuets of it. I was worried about him, and I was anxious to see Calum and Luke so I could knock their teeth out. I'd been a jittery mess since morning.
"About what?" She asked, but I shook my head.
"Shit happened last night. I'll tell you another time."
She pursed her lips but didn't press the subject. She knew me well enough to know that I would tell her when I was ready.
I just wanted to know what was happening. Was Isaac okay in his wheelchair? Did he have other bruises that I didn't know about, maybe under his shirt, that were causing him pain? Was his mom okay, or was she getting sick from stress? When were they going to tell someone about what happened?
"Well I hope everything's okay," Callie said, sensing my distress.
I did, too.
By the time the school day had ended, I was nothing more than a walking bundle of nerves. I kept clenching and unclenching my fists as I walked toward basketball practice—I couldn't wait to get there.
I stopped short, however, at a sight at the end of the hall.
It was Isaac himself, sat in a wheelchair with his mom at his side. Shocked eyes turned to him in surprise as he passed. It was no secret by now that he was missing a leg, but now that the prosthetic was gone, he wore shorts that displayed the spot where his real leg ended, covered only by the same liner I'd seen the night before. His face still bore the effects of last night—a bruised jaw and nose, a cut eyebrow, a burst lip.
He didn't look up, but I was sure he could feel the gazes on him. Curious students stopped in their chatter to stare, and I could only imagine how uncomfortable he felt.
I walked to meet him. "What are you doing here?" I asked. He'd been absent from school today.
"Looking for you," he answered. "We just talked to the principal."
I felt my chest constrict in anticipation. "How'd it go?"
The expression that crossed his face and his mom's told me enough.
"We need a witness," Lonnie said. "Because apparently his appearance isn't enough."
I rolled my eyes. Of course. "Well I'll definitely do it, if that's what you're wondering," I said. "I'll be your witness. We're gonna take those boys down."
Lonnie let out a little cry and rushed forward to hug me. "Words cannot describe how much I appreciate you," she said.
"I'm just doing what I wish everyone would," I told her as she let go.
Isaac was staring up at me—which was weird, because I was used to having to look up at him—and I met his eyes. I wasn't sure he even realized it, though, because he kept gazing at me distantly, as if he was lost in his thoughts, and I was somewhere in those thoughts.
He seemed to snap out of it. A smile made its way onto his lips despite the pain that hung in his eyes, and he said, "I think it's crazy that you don't see it."
"Don't see what?" I asked.
"What you're doing."
I went to ask what me meant by that, but then he said, "Call me later, okay? You know, so we can talk about all of this witness stuff."
I just nodded stupidly and watched as he and his mom continued past me toward the exit. My heart was doing a weird skippy thing.
I noticed lingering eyes on me even after the pair had left. Everything was a show in the high school universe. "Want some popcorn, too?" I snapped at the curious onlookers, and their gazes quickly turned away.