PINTA PARADE

That night Hans is holding me as I walk out of the locker room writhing in pain.

“The problem is the parents. The parents get involved in a school like Richwoods and make sure the kids are involved in extra-curricular activities. Here no one gives a fuck. Half the school will be parents by the time they graduate at the rate it seems to be going.”

Well Hans is blathering it occurs to me that the freight train of hoity-toity Richwoods fucks who trampled me when my leg inexplicably gave out inevitably brushed past Dawn Michelle and Karen Christmas in the hallway perhaps several times earlier that day.

. Hans says hell, my folks and yours are the only ones who seem to come and cheer on the race.

No one has ever seen or inquired about Peacocks parents. When asked he says that his dad is always working.

Peacock easily sacrificed 20 seconds off his own time when he stopped to see if I was okay.

When I reach the pool atrium I look at the record board and, w/out thinking, furl my fingers into a cusped fist and plow into as hard as I fucking can.

 Hans tells me easy there. He says you don’t need a wounded hand to go along with my foot.

When I look back I see the time of 17:20. My cousin’s name is looking back at me through a spider web of self-inflicted ripples.

 

 

 

I scream out the word fuck as loud as I possibly can.