Leverage by Joshua C. Cohen

lifts her hand off mine and looks out across the lunchroom. The moment is over. I turn and watch Jankowski with his chin almost resting in his potato mush, shoveling it into his mouth. A thick trail of zits dots his neck like oozing pellet-gun scars.
    Gross, I think, knowing Cindy’s thinking the same thing about my face.
    â€œHey, man, we’re having a party at Studblatz’s place this weekend,” Scott says. “We’re hazing the JV players before the girls come over, so you gotta be there.”
    â€œWe should be hazing him ,” Studblatz grunts, pointing the corner of his chocolate milk carton toward me. I take a bite of my mush and replay drilling him into the turf.
    â€œWe don’t haze starters.” Scott shakes his head and then claps his hand on my shoulder. “Especially star starters.”
    â€œHe’s new to the team,” Studblatz counters. A bit of gristle tips off his lower lip and back onto his plate. Red boils, big as snails, fester from his hairline down into the collar of his jersey shirt. “He should be initiated.” Studblatz stabs at his plate of food with his spork to make the point.
    â€œHe’s only new because they stuck him in that zoo at Lincoln before Coach Brigs rescued him. It’s not like he’s new to football. He isn’t getting hazed and he doesn’t have to get initiated if he doesn’t want,” Scott says. “But he does have to come to the party. No excuses.”
    Tom Jankowski and Mike Studblatz don’t look too convinced. But they go back to shoveling food.
    â€œHey, Tommy, you find that thing I wanted you to get?” Scott asks, changing subjects. “The critter?”
    Tom Jankowski stops eating and stares dully until his brain kicks in behind his eyes. “Yeah, I got it,” he answers. “Caught it yesterday. Kept it out in the sun so it’s starting to get nice and ripe.”
    â€œGood boy,” Scott says.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” Cindy asks.
    â€œNothing you need to worry your pretty little head over, darling.” Scott winks at her. Wish I even thought to wink at her—not that I would because she’d probably slap me—but just to even attempt it puts Scott way beyond the rest of us.
    â€œThat means they’re up to no good,” Cindy tells me. “Boys, boys, boys,” she tsks.
    Scott stands up, retrieving his long legs out from under the table. Studblatz, Jankowski, Cindy, and the other girl I never met all follow him.
    â€œYou coming?” Scott asks, waiting for me to get up.
    I shake my head no, pointing to my plate still full of food. Scott shrugs. “Okay, see you at practice.”
    They move as a group, and Scott taps fists with a couple of JV and low-rung varsity grunts at different tables before leading his entourage out of the lunchroom. Watching them exit takes my eyes past the goth group again, all studying me like I just crawled out of a hole, which for them might actually be a bonus in my favor. Mohawk girl’s mouth moves, talking to one of the others, but her eyes stay on me. Safety-pin-in-her-cheek girl nods back while observing me like she really wishes she had binoculars because the beast is eating his kill and that’s a rare sight during safari. The two guys with them, dressed in long black coats even though it’s about eighty-five degrees in the lunchroom, twist around to watch me, see I’m looking at them, and turn away. I dig into my food, wrapping an arm protectively around my tray, letting hair fall over my face, trying my best to create a curtain.
    About a minute later, one of the goth girls sits down across from me holding a bag of chips and an armful of books. Her skin is baby-powder white like her friends’, and her cheeks are flawless and I wonder if she understands the gift she’s been handed. Heavy mascara and black eyeliner circle pale blue eyes. She dyes her hair jet-black but