Rebel at Spruce High

That isn’t the answer he was expecting, judging from the look on his face. But after a thoughtful glance at his Gatorade bottle, he purses his lips and murmurs, “It’s Hoyt Nowak, isn’t it?”

I stiffen up.

Coach Strong notices. “It’s okay, Toby. Look, we’re not here to ruin anyone’s life, or make things more complicated than they are already. I just want information. It’s my responsibility as a coach and teacher here. Honestly, I really wanted to confront this matter sooner,” he admits, his voice taking a tone of annoyance, “but I was told it was handled, then I was told not to interfere, then I was told to definitely interfere … I swear, sometimes I don’t think the principal knows up from left, or down from right. That stays here between us,” he quickly adds with a nervous chuckle. “Jack’s a great guy, but sometimes … eh, never mind, sorry, shouldn’t have gone there. So anyway, I’ve taken it on myself to call you in here to chat. Just to chat. Nothin’ more.”

I wonder if this is because I’ve texted Jimmy on more than one occasion telling him his brother needs to handle his jock students better. Maybe I should’ve thought twice before doing that. Didn’t I warn myself something like this might happen?

He leans back in his chair and rests his hands on his stomach. “Normally, this is when I’d call in Hoyt, have a chat with him too, get his side of things, then bring you two together and talk it out therapy-style.” He lets out a deep sigh that unsettles a couple sheets of paper on his desk, then puts his hands behind his head. “But that won’t do. You’ve had enough confrontation and stress. I want to nip this in the bud,” he assures me, raising his eyebrows. “I guarantee you, I’m not just a man of talk. I will take action.”

I’m not sure I like the idea of that. “Action?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s already handled.” He sits upright and brings his hands back to the desk, fishes a flyer out of a stack of junk (seriously, he needs an assistant to organize this mess of a desk he keeps), then slides it in front of me. “Are you aware of this club? Spruce Teens Against Bullying? It was started a few years back, can’t quite remember, but their whole mission is to prevent stuff like this, or handle it when it happens. I’m not sayin’ you need to attend one of their meetings if you aren’t comfortable, but—”

“Thanks,” I say, cutting him off. I’m already well-aware of the group and their completely ineffectual, useless existence. I’d bet the creators of that group formed it just for a cute thing to put on their college résumés. I wonder what they even do.

Coach Strong’s eyes linger on me, still troubled. “Toby, I know it seems sometimes like no one’s listening, or like … like no one’s got your back. I want you to know that that isn’t the case, and—”

“No, it isn’t the case,” I agree, cutting him off yet again. Then I meet his eyes importantly. “Not anymore, now that Vann’s here.”

The words, which came out harsher than I intended, have the effect of knocking him right in the jaw. “Well, I …” He lets out one breathy noise I think is supposed to be a chuckle, then looks down at the desk. “I’m glad you have a friend. But I think it’s important not to … ah, how to put this … not to respond to wrongdoing with … with more wrongdoing, if you get what I’m sayin’? A little bit like fightin’ fire with fire, right?”

Now it’s my turn to get hit in the jaw with words. “Are you referring to what Vann did on the first day of school? Defending me?” I’m on the edge of my seat, stirred up. “Is that what you’re referring to with ‘more wrongdoing’?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t the most mature tack.”

“And eating Hoyt’s twisted version of a Football Sundae was?” I throw back at him.

That has his face all twisted up. “Say what?”

“Sometimes the only thing you have to fight fire with is your own kind of fire. Vann was defending me that day. Against your so- football jocks.”

“I’m not excusin’ what Hoyt did. Like I said, I am dealing with him, and you won’t have to worry. But it still remains a fact that Vann shouldn’t have tried to assault Hoyt the way he did. In fact, didn’t his ‘attack’ end up hittin’ you instead? It’s a fortunate thing that enough bodies—and a couple of tables—were between them. From what I heard, Vann was downright out for blood.”

The memory of that day wrings in my head like a wet rag. I’m on the ground, blinded, and the noise of crashing trays, screams, and breaking things rings out in my ears. I didn’t see what happened. For some reason, that sole fact only now seems to occur to me as something important.