Dwayne had a mullet and a rat tail and a dumb accent and a chipped front tooth and a scrunched-up face full of freckles. He said the leather bag he brought to school was his dad's and that his dad had been a marine who'd been killed in the war and that it was better than a backpack. But it wasn't a backpack, and he didn't even have a trapper keeper, and all his books were used.
We knew our mission. We had to destroy him.
Second period, Preston got Dwayne on the floor and pinned his chest with his knees and spat in his mouth. Dwayne punched him in the eye and gave him a shiner and they both went to the principal's office. Dwayne got it the worst because he'd thrown a punch.
This was all-out war. And it was going to be a slaughter. We had the numbers. We knew the battlefield and we knew the rules.
After school, Preston and Davis and Hiram followed Dwayne and a bunch of us followed behind them waiting to see what would happen. Dwayne got to the crossing guard but instead of crossing the street he took off running towards the woods. Preston and Davis got after him and I was part of the crowd that ran after them.
But Dwayne got away. He managed to hop the chain link fence around the grocery store parking lot. Then he ripped his pants on the metal and cut his leg and we all saw it happen and he started crying as he ran away.
Everyone was talking and laughing and then Davis invited a bunch of us back to his house to swim in his pool. Even though I was never part of that crew, I went with them and we all had a great time.
Dwayne didn't come into school the next day, but he was back Friday.
By then, the rumor had spread that he had peed and crapped himself on the fence, even though his pants just ripped. But we all knew this was a much better story.
Dwayne spent the day trying to tell people it wasn't true. And then, last period, he started to cry and ran out the school building. Mrs. Henson ran out into the courtyard after him, and all of us went to the windows and watched her screaming his name, Dwayne, Dwayne! Come back.
She cuffed him by the collar and dragged him to detention. Well, Hiram started talking about this crazy, mad scheme idea he had to get himself into detention. And then he would be with Dwayne and could corner him. But then he was all talk and he didn't do it.
So, Dwayne was in detention after school that day alone. There was a crowd waiting to see when he'd get out. But we only waited about a half hour and then we fell apart and everyone went home. So, actually, Dwayne got pretty lucky he was given detention.
He seemed to figure this out too because he started going there a lot every day after school. First, Mr. Priskin corrected him when he said the word, Ain’t, and Dwayne got mad and threw an eraser. Then Dwayne didn't do his math homework and he lied and said that the lights went out in his house so he couldn't see and we all knew that was bunk because who doesn’t have electricity?
So, he figured he’d be safe if could just stay in detention till everyone got bored and went home or maybe he was just stupid and couldn’t help getting in trouble.
Dwayne’s mom never bothered to make him lunch once. He was the only kid that bought the cafeteria lunch every single day. This led to a new tactic: siege.
We would starve him out.
Every day we would try to steal his lunch money. Sometimes Hiram would just slam Dwayne against the wall and pummel him while the other boys would grab into his pockets and take out all his cash and his coins. He always had the exact amount of money he needed for lunch and nothing more for a snack.
He never had two solid bills. It was always $1.85. Sometimes not even that. And we managed to get it almost every day. If we couldn’t beat it out of him, we’d try to be sneaky. It was a game to try and reach into his pocket or his weird leather bag and steal his money. With everyone trying to do it, he could never keep watch on everyone.
This was the first time the school interfered. We all knew what happened because Sarah Henkley was there waiting for her mom to pick her up so she could get her wisdom teeth out and she saw Dwayne go into the principal's office and she sat next to the door and she heard the principal explain that the school was now going to be providing him free lunch and he didn't need to bring the money in.
That's when we knew things were serious. The school was changing the rules of the game. They were trying to save Dwayne. He was a more serious opponent than we had ever thought.
Dwayne was the number one topic at every bell, every lunch, every recess. Everyone had their reasons for hating him:
I hate his stupid accent.
I hate his stupid clothes.
I hate his stupid bag. What's with that?
Why is his tooth chipped? Why doesn't he get it fixed?
Why does he have a hole in his shoes?
Why can't he buy new jeans?
Ew. He smells so bad. Doesn’t he shower?
I hate him. I hate him.
He doesn't belong here.
Why does he even go here? Who does he think he is?
Then Dwayne stopped going to recess. We always gave him a head start. We never jumped him right out the gate. We would let him go, run, and hide, or try and defend himself wherever he thought he could. Then a group of us would gather around him, and then we’d start teasing him. Start calling his mother a fat drunk hillbilly and saying his dad wasn't a Marine, he was a coward and a fruitcake and he ran away from battle and got shot in the ass and that’s why he was dead.
Every single time it worked. Dwayne would always throw a punch or start crying or kick someone in the shins or hit them with a stick or throw a rock or throw sand in their eyes or kick a ball at their face or push them off a swing. He always fought, even though he knew he was going to lose. And he could fight.
He'd obviously had practice. Probably at his last school, before they kicked him out and sent him to us. He could throw a punch, and he could bite, and he could kick. He didn't hesitate. He didn’t hold back. He knew he was fighting for his survival. People that just thought it was fun to join in the taunting became blood enemies because he kicked them in the balls or slapped them or gave them a shiner and he even cut open Paul Deangelo’s knee with a soda can and Paul needed four stitches and got a cool scar.
Then Dwayne got to go to a special recess just for him. So, we immediately started calling him Special D and that became his nickname. The special room was in the same room as the detention room so Dwayne probably spent about a third of his life in that room either kicked out of class or hiding.
It got real bad then. The school got our parents involved. All our moms and dads got a letter. A letter about Dwayne. The letter explained in detail every single thing we had done to him.
That we called him names, that we stole his lunch money, that we beat him up whenever we could. That kids were tying his stupid leather bag to his desk, tying his shoes together, pantsing him in the hallways, sticking wet fingers in his ears, flicking spitballs and boogers at him. Writing notes that said, We hate you, everyone thinks you should die. Cornering him in the bathroom and sticking his head under the urinal. Making him chew gum from under a desk. Stealing his shoes and putting dog poop in them. Stealing his clothes at gym and throwing them on the roof. Pegging him with pine cones and tennis balls.
It was a long, long letter. And it worked.
You had better not be torturing this poor child, Mom said to me, after she read the letter.
No, mom, of course I'm not, I told her. None of this stuff is true anyway.
Oh, it's not? What do you know about it?
I'm just saying it's not that bad.
Well, listen, I don't care. I want you to stand up for this kid, okay? Talk to him. Be nice to him. Be friends with him. Be a giraffe, stick your neck out.
Be friends with him, I said. Great idea, mom.
After the letter, everything changed. No one teased Dwayne anymore. No one called him Special D. No one tripped him or whispered, You should die, in his ear or tried to cut off his rat tail. He was protected. Some of the kids from the high school came and we had an assembly and they told us that they didn't think it was cool what we were doing and that bullies were the worst.
All the teachers were on high alert. If anyone caught you so much as looking at Dwayne, you got a rocket ship to the principal's office, and they even told your parents.
He's untouchable, Hiram said.
We were at lunch, watching Dwayne from across the cafeteria. Dwayne was sitting at his usual table in the corner by himself, picking the gross stringy cheese off the cafeteria pizza. And then two kids went over and sat down across from him. They started talking.
Look at that, Preston said. Disgusting. They're only doing that to get in good with Mrs. Henson.
We need to do that, I said. We can still get him.
I shared my plan and Hiram and Preston listened and then they laughed and they patted me on the back and they called me a genius and I did agree it was pretty smart. We spread the word.
Soon, everyone treated Dwayne real nicely. We invited him to our houses after school to play freeze tag. We shared our action figures with him. When it was deemed safe for him to return to gym, we picked him first for kickball and ghosts and goblins. We got him to tell us things. Things you really shouldn't tell anyone. He told Stuart Bradley that he missed his dad. That sometimes he cried himself to sleep at night. That sometimes he still wet the bed.
Stuart ran right to Preston’s house after that and told him everything. The word spread like wildfire.
He still wets the bed.
He still wets the bed.
Dwayne still wets the bed!
The next morning, when Dwayne came in, it's all anyone would say to him.
Bedwetter.
Bedwetter.
Hey, wet the bed lately?
Someone managed to spill orange juice on his pants at lunch.
At recess, everyone, the whole grade, gathered in a big crowd and stood on one end of the field. And wherever Dwayne went, we would, all of us in the class, try to get as far away from him as possible.
Then I don't know who said it but someone yelled, Get him!
And we were off. We broke into a dead run. Dwayne saw us and he ran too, right off the playground and we followed him. We crossed the street into the neighborhood and we followed him with Mrs. Henson running after us blowing her whistle and screaming.
Dwayne made it two blocks and then he tripped. Someone had stolen his shoelaces and his shoes came right off. We caught him and surrounded him. For a moment none of us knew what to do. He cried on the pavement and looked up at us.
And then Preson stepped forward and in his hand he held a chunk of broken pavement and he threw it and it hit Dwayne in the face. We grabbed anything we could: acorns, sticks, rocks, handfuls of dirt and gravel, and started to throw them and then someone screamed, Bedwetter! And we all screamed, Bedwetter, bedwetter, bedwetter!
Then Mrs. Henson got there blowing her whistle and she actually pushed Preston to the ground and got hit right in the ear with a stick and screamed and we scattered.
The next day, Dwayne didn't come to school.
We never saw him again.
Fucking hell, Andy! This wasn't just a punch to the gut - my guts have been thoroughly pummelled.
Your writing style makes me feel as if I am in the middle of the action, as both victim and perpetrator.