Rest In Peace Abram (Creative)

Mom doesn’t know why my heart is racing, but she hears it.

She doesn’t know why I’m sweating, but she smells it.

Doesn’t know why my face burns, but she feels it.

Doesn’t know why I’m moving fast, but she sees it.

“Abram, what is wrong with you?” Her words are sharp and final. She never repeats herself.

“It’s nothing, Mother.” I stare down at my cereal and stir it until the milk turns gold. A few pellets fall to the floor, clattering like small gunshots.

“Abram!” she snaps. “Do not be dirty in my house.” She shoos me away from the table and sweeps up the mess before I can even apologize. I stand in the corner, holding my bowl to my chest. “Eat quickly or the bus will leave you.” I take two large bites to satisfy her, but my stomach knots tighter with every crunch. How can I eat on a day like this? This is something she wouldn’t understand.

The bus ride feels short, but my breathing feels long. I always imagined what a fight would be like. Emotions high, tension thick. In a quick rage I swing and my opponent goes down. But I never imagined it being scheduled. That’s what social media opened for us high schoolers. Now we can rspv to a fight. If you’re busy, you could catch live footage just seconds after.

When I step off the bus, eyes follow me. Some look pitiful, some hopeful, others disappointed. I strap my backpack tight and push into the school.

The school itself isn’t much. The cracked tiles and rusted pipes welcome us every morning. It’s the students that give this place color; the murals, the banners, the trophies. So much beauty for a place that most of us won’t finish.

My friends and I talk about it all the time. Enzo says he’ll quit after freshman year. Nobody in his family made it this far, so he’s already a record-breaker. Dion says he’ll try to graduate, but Dion says a lot of things. Quint swears he doesn’t need the degree. Me? My mom won’t even let me say the word dropout. She calls education a blessing from God and America. With my mom, there’s no debate. You will finish school, then you will go to college.

Enzo charges into me, startling my already jolted nerves. “Whoa, my bad, gang,” he says, grinning.

“It’s cool,” I shrugged.

“So what’s the plan?” He grabs my shoulders; too tight, and too loud.

“There’s no plan,” I say. “I’m just gonna go for it.”

Enzo laughs, the sound sharp enough to cut. “That’s my boy. You the type to see red and just start whaling on a fool, huh?”

I laugh low. “Nah, I mean, I don’t really know.” Reality begins to unblur. I’ve never been in a fight so I don’t know what I’ll be like. I don’t even have siblings to practice on. I only have television and daydreams. Last night I used my pillow like a test dummy, a punching bag. In my head it squealed and begged for mercy. I laughed and everyone cheered as I finished him off. But Geo is not my pillow. He’s a real kid, and he’s already been in three fights. Two he was the clear winner. The third is still debated. 

“You’ll be fine, Ab. Just swing low, he won’t see it coming.” Enzo throws a fake hook, then pretends to be Geo staggering back. 

I grab his collar and pull him upright. “Enzo, what if…” I stop. My skin feels like it’s vibrating. “What if I lose?”

“Chill, man. Don’t even say that.” He grabs the back of my neck, firm. “You ain’t gonna let Geo beat you. Geo made a fool of you, remember? A man doesn’t let that slide.” My heart pounded so hard like it was in agreement. “You gotta get angry, bro,” he says. “Tell me what Geo did.”

I try to remember, but my mind’s blank. Just flashes of heat. “He was talking smack?” I guessed.

“Hell yeah. Said he’d beat your ass in front of the whole school. And he posted about you, mocking your clothes.” Right. It started with the shoes. I stepped on his new pair by accident, and he snapped. His anger seeped into me fast. We argued, a teacher broke it up, but online it got much worse. 

I posted something slick, mocking his dramatics. He replied subliminally, insinuating me and my mom were broke. My friends hyped me up when I threw one back, calling him all sorts of slurs. His response was clear, posted against a blank background: I’m not much of a talker. Either settle this outside or shut up.

I could’ve ignored it. But then everyone would’ve thought I was soft. Respect doesn’t grow around here, it’s taken, and the moment you let that guard down, you will be nothing. Back and forth, cursing, trolling, threatening, this became a lot more than just shoes. 

They say watching the clock makes time slow down, but for me it just doesn’t seem to work. Before I knew it, I was walking toward the atrium. My friends trail behind me, hyping me up with hate disguised as support and motivation. By the time I reached the center, there’s already a crowd and Geo was waiting. My legs move without consent and my body forms position. My fists are up, clammy but shut tight. My right leg stands forward and my left heel presses behind into the floor. Geo steps in with a more natural, comfortable stance. I peer at his face through my fists. He’s not angry, just serious and determined, like in basketball. Geo and I have played together since we could walk. We aren’t close, but on the court it’s different. We need each other to win, but in this game there are no teams. 

Phones rise like torches. Some kids grin, some look hungry. Regardless, they all shout betting on a side or just instigating. Voices swirled around my arena. When I could catch a full thought I wasn’t sure if it was mine. Geo and I pivot, front and back, left and right, teasing each other’s anxiety; pretending this is solely about rep, but really it's just giving them a show. He stares hard into my knuckles waiting for that first swift motion. I look up one last time at Geo’s face, and for a split second he doesn’t look like an enemy. He looks like a kid, just like me, dragged here by ego. The truth burns worse than the adrenaline: I don’t want to hurt Geo. But I also can’t walk away, not with all these phones out. Someone’s son has to bleed, and it can’t be me. 

I lunge. My punch lands and the crowd explodes. It was so fast I don’t even know if my eyes were open. I swing again, more stable, harder, not sure if it’s impacting him. For a moment, I feel weightless, like I finally proved something. Then Geo hits back. Hard.

My back slams into the ground. Air leaves my chest like it’s been stolen. Geo’s face hovers above me, furious now. Fear floods back into me. Geo punches down into my chest and I cough uncontrollably. He grabs my shirt, lifts my upper body, and drops me hard onto concrete. I hear yelling and can almost make out my name. A fist hurls toward me. I roll left and scramble to my feet. Geo charges to pin me down again, hugging me tight. I can’t break free, but one arm finds space and I pound on his back. Eventually he loosens his grip, and catches his breath. I seize the quick moment and throw the hardest hook I can, almost knocking myself out. For a second I see Geo’s shaking curled body on the ground, hands clenching his pockets. I grab my knees to find my breath. When I look up my friends are celebrating and cheering– I must be winning. I turn to face Geo’s bruised breathless body where I left him, only to be charged again except this time he didn’t plan on falling back down. We ran at each other, me swinging towards his face, and him going low, continuously pushing into my stomach. 

The ground suddenly rises and slaps me in the face. I open my eyes and I am on the floor, unable to move, breathless. A sharp, burning pain blooms in my side, spreading warmth that tastes like pennies. I hear only the rhythm of silence. Teachers and students press around me, Enzo among them. I look down and see splotches of red on my white polo, one in particular pulsing with each beat. My chest tightens to the chimes of an evitable alarm.

“Did I win?” I ask with all my might. “Did I win?”