Sprout

pretty damn funny if you think about it.
    The cigarette should’ve been my first clue, I guess. That Ian was thinking about what we were doing, even when we weren’t doing it.
    …
    It seemed like he followed me everywhere that first week of seventh grade. Part of that had to do with the fact that our lockers were about six doors away from each other, and part of it had to do with the fact that he followed me everywhere that first week. Every time I turned around, there was Ian’s Yankees cap and Josh Hartnett smile.
    “Hey, newbie!”
    “Yo, Long Guyland!”
    “Der, what’s up, doof-butt!”
    We only had two classes together. One of them was first-period homeroom, where Miss Tunie did a pretty good job of keeping him under wraps. The other, however, was gym. Depending on your attitude, or whether your name was Ian Abernathy, Mr. Balzer was either the dream gym teacher or a total nightmare.
    “Girls, I see that many of you have begun developing. I want to let you know, first of all, that a sports bra is not acceptable outerwear, and secondly, that having your period is never an excuse for sitting out class.”
    “Mr. Bradford, I don’t know how they do things in New York City, but in Kansas we wear the proper attire to gym class. Proper attire does not mean blue jeans and canvas loafers—especially not ones with writing on them. Now drop and give me ten.”
    “Yo, Abernathy, wassup my man! Are we gonna take Nickerson this year or what ?”
    Mr. Balzer wasn’t really the problem however. I actually liked gym. I used to like team sports, but when enough people aim a basketball at your face (or a football at your crotch) the shine kind of goes off them. That’s why I took up cross country. When Mr. Balzer—who also coached the track team—saw how fast I ran the mile, he pretty much let me alone, and nobody else could catch me. But no matter how fast I ran, how far, I always ended up back in the locker room forty-five minutes later. Let’s face it, the only thing worse than being teased with your clothes on is being teased when you’re naked, and the only thing worse than being teased when you’re naked is being teased when you’re naked and in a communal shower surrounded by fifteen other naked guys.
    “Hey, newbie, I think I dropped my soap. Why don’t you pick it up for me?”
    “Yo, Long Guyland, my good friend Beanpole Overholser dropped his soap. Why don’t you pick it up for him?”
    “Der, doof-butt, looks like we all dropped our soap. Why don’t you crawl around the floor on your hands and knees and pick up every single bar ? Don’t mind that yellow streak. That’s just some Gatorade I drank, oh, about a half hour ago.”
    But as bad as all the public harassment and humiliation was, it wasn’t nearly as bad as when Ian got me alone.
    It happened that first Friday of seventh grade. Ian had gotten detention from Miss Tunie for picking on me, and I had gotten detention from Mr. Balzer for having the first three letters of the most unacceptable of all four-letter-words written on my left shoe. The rule at Buhler was that at least one of the detention-giving teachers had to stay with the detention-given students. Mr. Balzer sauntered into Miss Tunie’s classroom about ten minutes after school let out.
    “Yo, Abernathy, wassup?”
    Like gym teachers the world over, Mr. Balzer liked to walk around the halls in his shorts, as if to rub in the fact that all the other male inhabitants of BGS, students and teachers alike, had to wear long pants, even though the school didn’t have any air conditioning and September temperatures often broke the 100-degree mark. Now he hooked one of his bare, tanned, sweaty legs over the edge of the desk where Miss Tunie was impatiently tapping her nails, his shorts riding up and exposing an inch of milk-white thigh.
    “Hey, Brenda. So. How shall we work this out?”
    Miss Tunie rolled her eyes and reached into her purse, brought out her car keys and a quarter. “Let’s flip for it, Norberto. Heads I win, tails you lose.”
    “Sounds like a deal,” Mr. Balzer said. “Tails.”
    Miss Tunie flipped the coin and let it roll on the floor. While Mr. Balzer scampered after it like a puppy, she walked towards the door.
    “Tails!”
    “Huh,” Miss Tunie said. “You lose.” And she was gone.
    Mr. Balzer spent about five minutes trying to figure out what happened, then shrugged it off.
    “Yo, Abernathy. They’re waxing the gym floor today, and if I don’t