Read Online Swing State by Michael T. Fournier - Free Book Online

translated to: you’re going to be late.
    Rick turned and, without looking back, walked toward the door.
    The gawking ring slowly broke up. Zachariah struggled to rise, feeling upon himself the pressure of dozens of pairs of eyes from craning heads. He waited to get used to the pain, but every second remained agonizing, as if new. Presently his nuts began to thud. Each now weighed at least half a ton.
    He couldn’t go back inside. His cords were dripping with piss, and his shirt bore jets of smelly, hardening puke. And there was still the matter of his throbbing nuts. There was no way he could concentrate on anything. He had to go home.
    He found walking possible at a greatly reduced pace. Zachariah cut slowly around the building and started back for his house. If any teacher asked what he was doing, there was ample evidence that he needed to change on his shirt and dripping from his pants. But, somehow, no one saw him.
    It took twice as long to get home as usual. Several times he had to stop and sit down. At first he thought the pain might have diminished since he was kicked, but walking back—movement—meant new, never before experienced dimensions of nausea gripping his stomach, his nuts, pumping through his body.
    Cars honked as he lumbered down the sidewalk.
    He soaked his cords and shirt in warm water and vinegar when he got home. While he showered, he thought about Rick, standing there with his hands on his hips. How he had seen Zachariah on the ground and had walked away.
    Maybe he didn’t want to be late, Zachariah thought. He was worried about getting to class.
    But he knew this wasn’t true. Rick had been too embarrassed to help him. Zachariah wondered how he would have reacted if it had been Rick who puked and got kicked in the nuts. He thought he would have helped Rick to the nurse.
    Freshly showered, he put his clothes into the washing machine. He briefly considered going back to school. The pain in his nuts, while dulled, was still bad enough that he couldn’t concentrate.
    He got into bed and pulled the covers over his head. His dad usually came home around five thirty and expected dinner. He looked at the clock: twelve forty. Plenty of time.
    But he was yanked from bed half an hour later.
    â€œWhy am I getting calls that you’re skipping school?”
    There was no alcohol on his father’s breath, thank goodness, but hot rage was still inches from his face.
    â€œDad, I—”
    â€œWhat? What was it?” Spittle hit Zachariah’s cheeks.
    â€œWe were playing soccer, Dad. And I—got hit in the nuts. Really hard!”
    â€œI don’t give a damn. Everyone gets hit in the jewels. You know what you do? You MAN UP. Deal with it! You don’t make me leave money at my station. You know how much your little nap costs?”
    â€œBut, Dad, when I got hit it was really bad. I—”
    â€œNot as bad as it’s gonna be.”
    How had he not seen the sock?
    The next day, the familiar pain was there, stronger than usual. He walked deliberately, like he’d aged fifty years since the previous afternoon.
    Nothing was different until he got to his locker.
    Kids he didn’t know walked by. Piss, some said.
    Ralph, others said.
    Girls tittered.
    Look how slow he walks, someone said. Laughter.
    Musta gotten kicked real hard.
    More laughter.
    On his desk in study hall, first period, the word “piss” was written on his desk in block letters.
    A paper football, flipped onto his desk from somewhere behind: PISS TIETZ.
    How had everyone found out?
    In every class now, and in the hallway to and from them, someone calling him either Ralph or Piss. And not just guys he recognized, either. Kids from the sixth and seventh grades. Guys, girls.
    At lunch, Zachariah moved through the line with a cheeseburger and tater tots and a carton of lemonade on his tray.
    Some kid in front of him, a little smaller, said you like lemonade? I hear you’re