Ironman by Chris Crutcher Page B

inattention, Bo breaks free to catch them. But Wyrack’s hand grips the back of his neck like giant pliers, spins him, and slaps the side of his face so hard his ears ring. Wyrack pulls him close. “See this hand?”
    Bo stares through him, anger crowding out his fear, boiling like lava.
    â€œSee this hand?” Wyrack says again.
    Bo stares.
    Wyrack slaps him again. “See this hand?”
    Nothing.
    Wyrack pulls him closer. “If your hand touches the wall before this hand touches the wall, on one repeat , you’re gonna be seein’ this hand up close again.” He releases Bo’s coat and walks slowly toward the locker-room door.
    Ian Wyrack finishes ahead of Bo Brewster on a sumtotal of zero repeats for the morning workout.
    â€œGood effort, Brewster!” Lion yells as Bo pulls his rag of a body onto the deck. “Hey, what’d you do to the side of your face? Get out of here or you’ll be late for class. The rest of you, up on the deck. Let’s knock off some sprints.”
    Bo refuses to look back at Wyrack’s killer glare as he disappears into the locker room.
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    Lion emits a low whistle as he spots Bo entering his fifth-period Journalism class. “What happened to your face?”
    Bo touches it tenderly and smiles. “Nothing.”
    Lion moves toward him. “Let me see that.”
    Bo pulls away. “It’s okay. Really, Mr. S, believe me, it was worth it.”
    Lion moves Bo’s hand gently away, examining the puffiness more closely. “Hey, I saw this at the morning workout, but it wasn’t this ugly.”
    â€œMaybe it was the chlorine.”
    â€œMaybe it had just happened.”
    Bo smiles. “Maybe.”
    â€œWyrack do this?”
    Bo shakes his head. “Nope,” he says. “It wasn’t Wyrack. Nobody on the team. Really.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t lie…”
    â€œYeah, but I’m not. Really, Mr. S, let it go. No death, no foul, okay? I can take care of it.”
    â€œYou beat Wyrack on every repeat today….”
    â€œI did, didn’t I? It wasn’t Wyrack. Don’t be getting me in trouble with that caveman, okay?”
    â€œThis wasn’t your dad.”
    Bo smiles again. “No. My dad leaves bruises on the inside.”
    Lion pulls back a step. “Look, Bo, I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s going on.”
    â€œI don’t need any help. If I do, I’ll holler. Okay?”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    â€œWhat’re you, my mother? Jeez, Mr. S, it’s a bruise. Barely even damaged the brain.”
    Lion nods, raising his massive hands palms out in surrender. “Okay, okay.” He starts toward his desk at the front of the room and turns. “Your mother?”
    â€œOnly kidding.”
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    â€œWhat happened to your face?” Bo’s father glances up from the six o’clock news at Bo standing in the kitchen doorway.
    â€œBad genes,” Bo says. “My dad’s ugly.”
    â€œKeep it up, buddy. I’ll even out your face for you.”
    â€œJudging from the way my day’s gone, you’ll have to stand in line,” Bo says. “Where’s the waste-oid?”
    â€œIn his room,” Luke says, pointing over the back of his easy chair.
    â€œYour idea or his?”
    â€œHe had it as I was about to get it.” Luke nods toward the television set. “He got bored with world events. Everything okay at school? Are you back in class?”
    Bo wrinkles his nose; the answers to those questions can’t be covered with one word. “Yeah, I’m back in class.”
    â€œSo I take it you’re attending that anger management group.”
    â€œYeah, Dad, I’m attending the anger management group.”
    â€œYou know, you’re lucky I’m not living at home with you anymore. You know what I’ve always said.”
    â€œI know what you’ve always said,