Free Swing State by Michael T. Fournier

so could Armbrister High. Hanley was going to get their asses kicked.
    Armbrister deferred. They kicked to the five. Good one. On the first play Hanley got stripped. A back yanked the ball from the running back. Clear even from where he sat. The crowd yelled UVVVVV. Back picked it up and ran it in. But not really ran. Twenty feet. But still. Touchdown.
    Hanley slumped like they wanted it even less. The crowd cheered.
    So did the fat kid. Flabby painted arms in the air. But it was show.
    Armbrister kicked again. Pinned them back again. Crowd doing UVVVVVV. Except what was the kid’s name? From the newspaper. The good one.
    Did the fat kid have friends? Maybe. There was a fat kid in his class. What was his name? Funny guy. Fat kids had to be. Defend yourself. Make everyone laugh. Flip it. Like ha, I’m fat. Except the ha was fake.
    Roy couldn’t flip his thing. Tried. Everyone knew. From the beginning. But him. When did it start—second grade? Third? Somewhere in there. The first few times he tried. Forget it. But it was true. That was the thing. If it was yeah you’re fat he could be like ha, yeah. But they knew even though he didn’t all the way. Didn’t understand. Not yet. Not until then. Asked Auntie Blake. She didn’t answer. Said just ignore them. So he knew.
    And it got worse. First it was your mom shops at Salvation Army. She did. So did Auntie Blake. But the kids with nice clothes said that. New sneakers. Sweaters. So that made it bad. It didn’t bother him until he understood it was supposed to.
    Then it was your mom’s on food stamps. Which she was. A small kid said it to him. He punched the small kid. Went to the office. The principal saying why did you do that, Roy? Because he said my mother was on food stamps. Just ignore them, he said. And it will go away. Couldn’t say I’ve been trying to ever since they said my mother shops at Salvation Army and it didn’t go away it got worse so I got mad and hit one so now it will go away. Because the principal would never say hit people. Even if it was fair.
    So it stopped for a few days. Detention. Auntie Blake shaking her head. Roy, she said, you must rise above this foolishness. Your roots.
    But then it started again. And the kid was bigger. Like normal-sized. And he punched back.
    It hurt. But it wasn’t bad. He could get hit. And hit back. That was his first real fight. A tie. Neither of them stopped. Kept going until they were both pulled away. An art teacher. Scarves. Smelled like stuff you put in a bathroom to cover shit. You boys! What are you doing to each other? Like it had never happened before. Like she had never seen it before. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe that’s why she was so scared.
    Every few days was like that. A fight, detention. Stantz’s office. But if he didn’t fight it would be every day. He won at first. Smaller kids. And some big kids. And he lost some. The small ones stopped talking to his face. Just behind his back. At lunch, in class. He thought it would never end. It made Artie mad.
    And it got worse. First it was about crack. Before he knew what it was. He fought about that.
    Then after. He never thought it would be so bad. Not because he was sad. He wasn’t. Which made him feel guilty. Auntie Blake saying it was okay for him to get in touch with his feelings. To let it all out. But he was. And it pissed him off. That he became a bigger target. So he fought better. Not like just enough to end it like usual. Like I am going to hurt you. Fucking break you in half. Only a few kids. New ones. After his mother died and he sent that kid to the hospital they left him alone. Pretty much. Still something said sometimes. Behind his back. Always felt it even if there was nothing to hear. Felt looks.
    After the first one he won, his first fight win, the little kid got up eventually. Walked away slumped. Like the fat kid. His shoulders said fuck with me. Hit me again. Harder. Roy