Hardway Page 3

  Spencer takes a step back and watches Eddie touch the spot where Spencer’s punch landed. He releases his joystick, glances at Spencer. “Big fucking mistake, titty boy.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “HERE, TAKE THIS,” Carlos says.

  Spencer eyes the frozen slice of chicken and shakes his head.

  “Come on, it’ll bring the swelling down.”

  “That’s steak, dumbass,” James says. “All that thing is going to do is give him salmonella.”

  “Well, it’s all I have. Even if I had steak, I wouldn’t waste it on him. No offense, Spencer.”

  Leaning back against the sofa, Spencer goes back to counting the water stains on the ceiling with his one good eye. His left eye stays closed and purple, a pulse of pain living behind his eyelid.

  The sofa shifts when Tori sits next to him. “Here you go,” she whispers, placing a bag of ice on his eye.

  “That fucking motherfucker.” Without looking Spencer knows his brother is pacing back and forth in front of him. “Dude has no idea what he just started.”

  Spencer closes his right eye and tries to focus on how good the bag of ice feels. He wishes the coldness could numb his brain just like it’s doing to the left side of his face. Because the cold can’t touch his brain, he’s left to think about the beating Eddie gave him. Spencer imagines he didn’t get a very severe one—just a black eye and a bruised ass from when Eddie pushed him down to the floor. There’s a chance the beating might have continued if it wasn’t for the theater manager kicking Eddie out. But the way Eddie left without making a scene, the grin still on his face while he readjusted his mohawk, makes Spencer think the whole thing was just to prove the same point plastering the flyers all around Royal Brooks did.

  We’re coming for you and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

  “We’re kicking their ass, right, Billy?” Carlos throws his weight into the end of the sofa. He’s still holding the frozen piece of chicken. “This type of shit can’t stand. Makes us look like pussies.” He punctuates his sentences by jabbing the chicken into the arm of the sofa.

  They’re in Carlos’s apartment, Spencer having decided to come here rather than head straight home. He wasn’t sure his dad was scheduled to be off work already, and didn’t want to risk having to explain the black eye in the off chance he was. Sarlos lived by himself, his parents and their whereabouts an unknown quantity to everyone. When Carlos saw Spencer, and heard the story of where he got the black eye, he called James and Billy over, who much to Spencer’s embarrassment brought Tori along.

  “We don’t have to do anything,” Spencer says.

  “We should interrupt their next show. Just run in and start beating the shit out of them,” James says. “It’ll be like a hardcore shoot no one sees coming.”

  “Woah, I mean, I want payback and everything, but I don’t think we should be shooting anyone,” Carlos says.

  “No, dumbass, not shooting. Shoot. You know, when something real happens in the ring. Like when Hart got screwed out of the title by Vince McMahon.”

  “I still say that was all just part of a storyline,” Carlos argues.

  “We don’t have to do anything,” Spencer tries again.

  “Bullshit, man. It was all real. No way they could keep a story like that going for years. What would be the point?”

  “Guys, I think Spencer is trying to say something,” Tori says and touches Spencer’s arm. This sends tingles all over his body and causes the usual reaction in his pants. He shifts around in the sofa and tries to focus on unsexy things, like the time he caught his grandma getting out of the shower.

  “Hey, can we maybe get back to talking how we’re going to deal with those assholes?” Billy interrupts Carlos and James’s argument.

  Spencer makes himself mentally go through every of his grandma’s wrinkle until the tightness in his pant subsides. “Let’s just let it go.”

  He can feel three pair of eyes on him.

  “Dude, your brother can be such a pussy,” Carlos says.

  “Tell me about it,” Billy answers. “I like James idea. They got a show next week, right? Let’s just go out there, the three of us, and show them they shouldn’t mess with Royal Brooks.”

  The words are making Spencer’s head throb harder than his bruised eye. He rubs his forehead and gets up from the couch. “Since when do you care what happens to RBWL?” Spencer asks his brother. “Weren’t you telling me earlier this morning how you were going to vacate the title soon as you found a job?”

  “Wait what?” James says.

  “Tell them,” Spencer says, looking at his brother. “Tell them how you’re ready to leave RBWL ’cause you rather be flipping burgers like a tool over at Dairy Queen.”

  “Shut up, Spencer,” Billy says, glaring at him. He turns to James and Carlos and explains, “I got some applications for some places and this dude is all butt-hurt about it.”

  “You can’t have it both ways,” Spencer says, “You’re madder about the flyers than someone beating up your own brother.”

  “Come on Spence, that’s not true. That’s why I want payback.”

  “You’ve wanted payback ever since you heard about Woodland Terrace. It just bugs you to know that someone out there is doing the same thing you are, maybe even better, doesn’t it? That you’re not the special little snowflake you think you are. That’s why you treat me like shit sometimes and are cool other times. You can’t decide if you’re embarrassed of your fat-ass brother, or happy he’s a fat ass, so that you can shine even brighter around your friends.”

  “Awkward,” Carlos says in a high falsetto.

  Billy steps up to Spencer and jabs him in the chest, “Fuck you. Don’t pin your shit on me, man. I’m not force feeding you Big Macs or begging you to sit your ass in front of the TV.”

  “Billy…” Tori says.

  “Nah, nah, he needs to hear this,” Billy continues, his eyes fixed on Spencer. “I’m tired of you blaming everyone and everything anytime shit doesn’t go your way. You bitched about RBWL being a stupid idea in the first place, but now? Now you’re probably more into it than anyone else, always carrying around that stupid notebook and boring Tori and me with your wrestling talk.”

  “Shut up,” Spencer says. His hands are rolled into fists, nails pressing into his skin and sending bites of pain into his nerve. “Shut up, Billy.”

  “I bet you blame Dad for Mom leaving, you selfish brat.”

  After going almost fifteen years without punching someone, Spencer swings his fist for the second time in one day. His punch connects with Billy’s stomach, Spencer getting a thrill when he hears the satisfying sound of air escaping his brother’s mouth.

  “You little asshole,” Billy mutters and reaches out for Spencer. He’s held back at the last minute by James, who grabs him by the shoulder.

  “Dude, chill, man.”

  “Douche sucker punched me,” Billy says, glaring at Spencer with seething anger. .

  “Yeah, I saw, but that mom thing was kinda low, dude. Let’s all relax. Remember, it’s Woodland Terrace who are the real fuckers.”

  “Plus, you should save all that aggression for the ring. We could pitch it as ‘blood vs. blood’,” Carlos adds.

  Tori steps in between Spencer and Billy and says, “You’re not helping, Carlos,” before turning to Billy and adding,

  “And neither are you.”

  “He started it,” Billy mutters like a child being admonished by a teacher.

  “Just,” Tori takes a deep breath and raises her hands up, “enough. From everyone. This is getting out hand. Maybe the best thing to do is have RBWL take a break. School is starting up soon, so there’s that to think about.”

  The words slam into Spencer and he feels a pain unlike any before. It reaches his core and swats away whatever defenses he’s built up over two years of middle school and one year of high school. Hearing Tori suggest ending RBWL pierces the part of him where all his ideas and day dreams are born f
rom. His nails dig harder into his skin and he rapidly blinks his eyes, the start of tears watering his vision, causing everything around him to become unclear and faded.

  “That would suck. We’d be less WWE and more WCW, then,” Carlos says, referring to the big national wrestling promotion which went under a couple of years back. “And I didn’t sign up to for this to be WCW. Bad enough I’m losing to James over there.”

  “You guys can do whatever you want,” Spencer says, trying to sound just like the wrestlers’ he’s idolized throughout the years, confident and nonchalant. Like Tori’s words didn’t create a hole in his chest. “I’m out.” He walks away from the living room and towards the door.

  “Spence, wait,” Tori says.

  “Let him go,” Billy says. “He’s just throwing a hissy fit.”

  His hand on the door knob, Spencer stops. In his mind, he imagines Tori rushing over to him and forcing him to stop, tell him he’s a vital part of RBWL. Or maybe stand with him and say that if he goes, so does she.

  Neither of those two things happen, and the fantasies are left to be sucked into the hole in his chest, which grows bigger and bigger by the second. Spencer turns exits the apartment, before the hole sucks him in too.

  CHAPTER 6

  SPENCER SPENDS THE FOLLOWING DAYS avoiding his brother and letting his eye heal. When Billy is in their bedroom, Spencer is in the living room watching television, the volume turned up as high as it can without waking up their dad. When Billy is in the living room, Spencer sequesters himself in their room and keeps the door shut, spending his time reading books he checks out of the library. When they are forced to share the same space, such as on the rare occasions the entire family gathers for a quick dinner, the numbers of words passed between brothers borders in the single digits, most ending up lying flat and useless on the kitchen table next to the microwaved peas.

  There is no talk of wrestling between them.

  With Tori’s help, Billy is able to line up several interviews. He’s told their father about his job search, and with a promise to keep his grades up and put some of what he earns away for college, has his blessing. Often times, Spencer walks into the kitchen to find Billy and Tori hunched over the local want ads, Tori circling potential jobs and Billy grousing about how everything requires prior experience.

  Whenever she sees Spencer, Tori smiles at him and tries to make small talk. She asks what good books he’s read, if he’s excited about sophomore year, and if he’s watched this week’s wrestling.

  Spencer’s answers are always short and to the point. Nothing she would like, not really, and no.

  The knock on the apartment door comes on a Saturday, almost three weeks to the day since Spencer received his black eye. The sound pushes him out of a dream and forces his eyes open. Billy’s bed is already made and empty.

  The knocking continues.

  “I’m up!” Spencer shouts. Untangling himself from his sheets, he puts on a pair of shorts and walks out of the bedroom. He notices the door to his father’s room is closed and regrets yelling. The last thing their dad needs is to be woken up on his day off.

  Scratching the back of his neck, Spencer tries to remember the dream he was having. Already the specific details of it are fading away, leaving him only with a twinge of excitement in the center of his chest. Whatever the dream had been about, it’d been a good one. Reaching the door, he swings it wide open and asks, “What?”

  Tori stands in front of him, her fist frozen in mid knock. She’s wearing a tight pair of blue jeans and a shirt which hangs loose off her shoulders. Spencer has never thought of himself as a clavicle man, but the subtle way Tori’s clavicle creates two small, lovely mounds from which he can imagine his fingers traveling to on their way to her shoulders, makes him reconsiders what type of man he truly is.

  “Billy’s not here,” Spencer says automatically.

  “I know. Can I come in?”

  Spencer nods and steps aside, allowing Tori to walk into the apartment. She heads straight for the kitchen table, Spencer noticing she’s carrying a bulky gray laptop in one arm.

  “What’s your Wi-Fi password?” Tori asks, the laptop already open and her finger moving the blinking cursor across the dusty screen. “Never mind, one of your neighbor’s keeps theirs unlocked.”

  Spencer closes the door behind him. “What’s going on?”

  Ignoring him, Tori directs the browser to a popular wrestling video sharing site, clicks on a link and turns the laptop in Spencer’s direction. “Watch this.”

  The screen remains black long enough to make Spencer wonder if the laptop ran out of battery. Just when he’s starting to get fidgety and sneak glances at Tori’s naked shoulders, he hears music escaping out of its tiny speakers. Pixelated images flash across the laptop screen to the speeding rhythm of an electric guitar and the raw yells of a male singer. After a couple of seconds, the images start to slow down enough for Spencer to make them out.

  “They do have a ring,” he says and leans forward to get a better look.

  To his annoyance, Spencer can only catch brief glimpses of the structure, as whoever took the photos was more interested in highlighting The Woodland Terrace wrestlers than the ring. It’s strange for Spencer to see how many of the photos resemble scenes straight out of Royal Brook’s own shows. Some of the images show kids hitting each other with steel chairs and taking full on, unprotected headshots. Others feature guys his age and older replicating wrestling moves they’ve probably seen on television countless of times, with the photos capturing an awkwardness and clumsiness Spencer prays isn’t featured in their own shows. There are also close ups of injuries, everything from long, bleeding gashes on foreheads, elbows and knees turned red and raw, and ugly black marks left on naked skin.

  As the song comes to an end, so do the photos. The screen transitions to a shot of the back of an apartment building, a red cloth draped across the wall and the words WTF formed out of gray tape and placed on the center of it.

  Eddie Tornado steps into the frame. Even through the dirty laptop screen, his mohawk is vibrant. Blue instead of the green he encountered, Spencer wonders if Eddie dips it in paint every night. The hair continues to lean to the left, as if weighted down by Eddie’s ego. He stands bare-chested in the center of the frame, the black bruises on his ribs and chest like tumors against his pale skin. On his left shoulder rests a belt.

  It’s a Championship wrestling belt, with wide, black leather straps and five metal plates. The center plate is the largest by far, stretched into a thick, oval shape with two other square plates lining each of its sides. Eddie says nothing for the first minute and simply shines the center plate, running his hand over the lettering and ignoring the camera.

  “How can they afford that?” Spencer asks, his left eye throbbing. “I checked online to see if we could have one made a while back, and those things cost hundreds of dollars.”

  Tori says nothing and turns up the volume on the laptop.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Eddie begins, turning his attention to the camera. “Summer’s almost over and man, where does the time fly? Feels like only yesterday when Insane Richie gave me this,” he points to a not quite faded scar which starts on his right shoulder and runs down his bicep. “Of course, the bastard couldn’t keep me from winning the WTF Championship.” He stops and pats the belt.

  “It’s a pretty sight, ain’t it?”

  “Today’s not about my accomplishments though. Today is all about our friends over at Royal Brooks. See, a couple of weeks ago one of their guys jumped me when I was at the movie theater. Fool just straight out tried to sucker punch me.”

  Spencer realizes Eddie’s talking about him.

  “I took care of him, like only Eddie Tornado can. But I guess I don’t know my own strength. I kicked his ass so hard it put an end to their wrestling promotion. Haven’t heard a peep from them in weeks. So, I figure I should apologize.” Eddie puts his two hands together and continues, “Guys, I’m sorry y’all
so pathetic you gave up so fast. I’m sorry you don’t have a ring or even a real like belt like we do. And I’m especially sorry Tori has to be part of your sad little group.”

  Spencer glances at Tori. “He knows you?” Tori just stares at the screen.

  “Everyone here knows Tor, right?” Eddie asks. The camera bobs up and down in response. “Yeah, I bet you guys do. I know her too. Real well. And it down right pains me to see her hanging around losers like Billy and Spencer Anderson. Thinking about her did give me an idea how I can make it up to RBWL though. I can give you all some nice memories to end the summer with.” Reaching outside of the camera frame, Eddie comes back with a stack of Polaroid photos. He chooses one at random and motions to the camera to zoom in. When it does, its shows a grainy image of Tori on a bed. She isn’t wearing anything. “Nice, huh? Yeah, I know you all like this. And I got tons more.” Eddie plays with the stack, rearranging and running his thumb along the edges of the photos, like a card shark in a high-stake poker game. “Could show them to you all right now, but what would the fun be in that, right?”

  Spencer isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed at this.

  “Nah, what I think I’m going to do is wait until our next show. Get a projector in the middle of the ring and that way we can all have ourselves a little viewing party. Call it ‘Tori’s WTF debut’. Though I gotta tell you, I debuted three times this morning just looking through some of these pho—.”

  Tori closes the laptop.

  Spencer is drowning in a sea of questions, rocked back and forth by everything he wants to ask Tori. When was this video posted? How do Eddie and Tori know each other? How did he get photos of her? And does his brother know?

  “We used to go out,” Tori says, as if reading his mind.

  “He’s an asshole.”

  Tori nods. “One of the many reasons I dumped him.” A part of Spencer wants to look at the video again. And it isn’t just to see how many photos Eddie shows of Tori. He wants to try to get a better look at their ring and wrestlers, dissect them and compare them against what they have here in RBWL. His fingertips itching, Spencer wishes he had a pen and his notebook.