Read Online The Monkeyface Chronicles by Richard Scarsbrook - Free Book Online

stick blades jabbed out in attempts to trip me, but I didn’t fall a second time.
    The change-room banter is different today, and it isn’t just because Grant and Graham Brush aren’t in here swinging their penises around. We weren’t officially keeping score, but everyone knows that the four-man Blue squad beat the five-man White squad by a score of ten to two. I got five goals, with assists from Michael, and Michael got five, with passes from me. Ten short-handed goals from the Skyler Brothers.
    By the end of gym class, the Red and Yellow squad guys were cheering every time Michael or I touched the puck. Caleb Carter got so excited he fell off the end of the bench; he’s holding an ice pack on his elbow now. Even avowed individualist Anthony Caldwell-Wheelwright patted me on the back as we filed out of the gymnasium and said, “Good game, Skyler.”
    â€œDoesn’t mean nothin’,” Sam Simpson says. “They weren’t our real teams. We weren’t even keeping score.”
    â€œSo you fags can knock off the friggin’ cheerleading already,” Turner Thrift adds. Brandon Doggart, White squad’s goalie, assures his Blue Flames teammates, “Don’t worry, boys, I wasn’t even trying today. It was a charity game.”
    â€œWe’ll start playing for real again when Graham and Grant get back,” Sam Simpson says, “and Monkeyface can go back to warming the bench for the Faggot squad.”
    Michael strides over to the bench where Sam, Turner and Brandon sit.
    â€œYou guys lost fair and square, so stop being sucks about it,” he says, staring at each one of them in turn. “Wanna tell me my goals don’t count? Wanna call me a faggot for beating you?”
    None of them say anything else, but when Michael turns around, Sam Simpson looks at me and mumbles “Faggot Monkeyface” under his breath.
    Michael spins around, hissing, “What did you say, Simpson?”
    I’m getting just as tired of people speaking for me as I am of them speaking about me. I am right here. I am not going away. “My name is Philip ,” I say, “ not Monkeyface, Simpleton .”
    The volume of conversation in the room drops. Everyone knows how much Sam Simpson hates the nickname “Simpleton”; it probably has something to do with the fact that, other than Phys. Ed., he is failing every subject.
    He rises in front of me and raises his fists. “Stand up, Monkeyface,” he demands. “Let’s fuckin’ go!”
    I stand up. “What, Sam? You gonna re-arrange my face?” I stick my chin out. “Maybe you can fix it up for me a little. C’mon, Sam, do me a favour.”
    A few of the guys chuckle at this.
    â€œAh, screw you!” Sam barks. He retreats to the bench on the other side of the dressing room.
    â€œYou’re so dead at recess, Monkeyface,” Brandon Doggart says. “I’m gonna make your right eye match your left one.”
    I am not putting up with this crap for the rest of my life. I walk over to where Brandon sits. “Just in case you missed it earlier, my name is Philip.”
    â€œNo, faggot,” Brandon says, “your name is Monkeyface.”
    â€œOkay then, Doggart. And from now on, your name will be Dogfart.” I sniff the air. “Kinda fits.”
    The dressing room is completely silent now. Brandon shakes his head slowly back and forth. “Monkeyface, you are so fucking dead at recess. So. Fucking. Dead.”
    â€œYou must have learned that each-word-as-it’s-own-sentence technique from Coach Packer, eh?” I say.
    â€œDead,” is all Brandon says, then he stares at me, glowering, unblinking.
    His stare won’t kill me, though. In fact, nothing he is prepared to do will actually kill me. He can punch me, kick me, throw elbows at my face during a floor hockey game, call me names, whatever. Nothing he or anyone else here is prepared to