Free Foolish Fire by Guy Willard Page A

audience expected it of me.
    For example, if I saw him in the lunchroom, I stalked over to where he sat and, standing impudently before him, calmly shook salt over his pudding or his sliced peaches, staring at him all the while, daring him to tell the teacher on duty (which he never did.)
    Or I would bring my own tray along and scoop my uneaten peas and salad into his roast beef and potatoes, then stir up the batch into an unpalatable mess, commanding him to eat it. At such times I felt a hot lump in my chest which remained there long after my delighted classmates had pounded me on the back in glee. I was haunted by the fact that he never made a move to fight back, only staring up at me with eyes that begged silently for me to leave him alone.
    Whenever I humiliated Mark I felt a satisfaction afterwards which was almost sensual. What made it even more gratifying was the knowledge that every time I bullied him in front of the others, the act helped wipe out the memory of the whispered word I’d overheard by the lockers that day. Perhaps even now my classmates had forgotten that they’d ever said that word about me.
    Mark now began to haunt my life in much the same way I haunted his. In our symbiotic tormentor-victim relationship, I felt I needed Mark to prove my own strength, to win the respect I craved. If a girl sometimes remonstrated with me, I always had a ready reply which justified my bullying in the eyes of all my comrades: “Don’t you know he’s a fag?”
    The strange thing was that I had a feeling my attentions were neither undesired nor unappreciated. The martyred look which came over Mark’s face made him heart-meltingly attractive, as if smoldering fires within him were being ignited by my cruel attentions….
    If only he had ignored me from the start or had told a teacher, I would have stopped terrorizing him. But it was too late now—it was like an addiction. The way I could make his face turn pale with fear or crumple to the point of tears was a temptation I could no longer resist. And because he co-operated so well, I knew he was virtually asking to be pursued and bothered. Otherwise he would have done something about it.
    As time passed, most of the other boys left off pestering him, probably under the influence of the girls in class who came to his defense. While this had only increased their cruel joy in the beginning (because it got the girls’ attention, which was what they really wanted), eventually it had its effect. In time, I found myself alone in my sport.
    It felt strange to have such a diabolical hold over him. If he had wanted to fight me one-on-one, it was by no means impossible for him to make a good showing; he wasn’t a thin weakling, but actually quite well-built. But he seemed to fear me to an unreasonable degree. For me, his cringing cowardice only confirmed the rumors about him, and in my contempt, I felt I had to punish him for making his former overtures of friendship to me.
    One afternoon, near the beginning of spring term, I spotted him standing in the hallway chatting with a girl. As our eyes met, a strange change came over his face and posture, as if a wave of dread had transformed his very metabolism. The girl noticed it and turned around to see the cause. Emboldened by Mark’s show of weakness, I continued to glare at him and didn’t break my stride. As I neared him he panicked and broke away, walking rapidly in the opposite direction.
    I began pushing my way past the kids in the hallway to get at him. Just then he looked back, almost as if he could sense my pursuit. His walking picked up speed and he began to run. I sprinted after him and managed to catch his sleeve and drag him back into the hall just as he was going through the double doors leading to the principal’s office. He tried to shrug free but I shoved him roughly back through the entrance of the boys’ room, pinning him against the wall.
    An excitement hotter than blood pounded in my chest when his scared