Free The Summer I Wasn't Me by Jessica Verdi Page B

Martin hands Ian the Nerf bat and nods in Gabe’s direction.
    Ian’s face crumples like he’s in pain. He turns to Mr. Martin and speaks in his normal voice. “I can’t.”
    Mr. Martin’s brow furrows. “Yes, you can.” Ian shakes his head, and a shadow crosses Mr. Martin’s face. “Don’t you want to help Gabe, Ian? He’s in your group; he’s your friend. Do you really want to let him down like this?”
    Ian looks back and forth between Mr. Martin and Gabe, as if he’s trying to decide which is worse—hitting Gabe or defying Mr. Martin. Finally, he lifts the foam bat and brings it down onto Gabe’s head.
    “Harder,” Mr. Martin says.
    Ian repeats the action, with more force this time, swiping Gabe across the chest and arms and shoulders with the yellow bat. Even though the Nerf material couldn’t possibly cause real injury, the thick, dull sound of the foam meeting Gabe’s body over and over again makes me shudder. Gabe shrinks to the floor, cowering in the fetal position, wailing out, “No, Dad! Please, no.”
    A cry sticks in my throat, and I know that the moment I unclench my jaw, it will fly out. This isn’t right. Gabe has been through enough in his life. He shouldn’t have to relive it like this. I look to my right—Matthew’s face is now red and severe. He’s gripping the sides of his chair as if to keep himself planted in his seat—much like how I’m keeping my mouth shut to trap my protest.
    I look to my left—Carolyn’s face is smooth, unreadable, her eyes unfocused. She looks like she’s not even watching the scene at all—instead, she’s lost in some faraway memory of her own. It’s a familiar sight and makes me feel even more uneasy.
    Daniel’s face is hidden behind Carolyn’s, but his hands are folded securely around a small wooden cross, his thumb steadily grazing the engravings.
    “What do you want to do, Gabe?” Mr. Martin shouts over the wailing and repeated thwack of the bat. “Now’s your chance! You can say whatever you want! You can do whatever you want to do! You can tell your father what you think of him once and for all! Trust your instincts!”
    Gabe lies there a moment more and then slowly pushes himself up to a sitting position. Ian is still hitting him, but there is a look in Gabe’s eye now that wasn’t there before. It’s something like determination. So quickly I almost miss it, Gabe reaches an arm out and snatches the bat from Ian’s hand. He stands up and pushes his shoulders back. His face and neck and arms are red where the foam touched his skin.
    “I am not your punching bag!” Gabe shouts. “I am your son . You aren’t supposed to treat me this way! You aren’t supposed to hurt me!” He lifts the bat and hits Ian with it as hard as he can. Even though the foam is soft, Ian flinches at the impact. Gabe hits him again and again, and Ian cowers to protect his face. “You’re supposed to love me, Dad. Why don’t you love me?”
    Mr. Martin slides the punching bag toward Gabe. “Use this, Gabe. Get it all out!”
    Gabe drops the bat and begins tearing into the bag, punching and kicking it so hard that the sound it makes reminds me of thunder. Ian escapes to the far wall, as far away from the action as he can get. Gabe is lashing out at the bag, tears streaming freely from his bloodshot eyes, shouts and cries fleeing from him in a muddled jumble. He punches until his hands are raw and his knuckles are bleeding, and then with one final wave of energy, he tackles the bag so that it crashes over and lays defeated on the carpet.
    There is a stunned silence as we watch Gabe stare at the obliterated punching bag, gasping for breath. “Screw you, Dad,” he whispers.
    Mr. Martin steps forward and puts his arm around Gabe. “Well done, young man! Well done indeed! You did it. You took control and stood up to your father. You are no longer that helpless boy lying on the floor.” He gestures to the general place on the floor that Gabe had been