Life Imitates Art

Part 15 - Taken Down

Max_

What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I even considering considering letting her dress me as a girl again? I know all of the effects that stuff has on me. It's a weakness that ripples and tears throughout my body like frantic waves on an unsettled coast and a battered cliff face. Whenever she even brings up wearing anything else of hers, I always get the same feeling. It starts as a sinkhole in my stomach but it swallows every other organ and takes sole focus inside my brain. And that just isn't normal at all. It shouldn't be happening. I didn't know my real weakness would be girls' things but it gives me a sort of allergic reaction. And yet, it's also a rush. I guess that's why I agreed before, but I need to cut myself from this vice sooner or later. I need to get back to being a guy and nothing more. Maxine is a myth. I've spent too long telling myself that much to give in now. I can't be that weirdo.

I hop on the school bus with that simple four-word mantra buzzing through my core. 'Maxine is a myth.' Much like any mythological creature, artwork exists so commonly yet no one has ever seen the real thing. That's what Maxine is. Illusion, deception, misunderstanding and all. Like all conspiracy theories, there's a lot that goes into it. One thing I must slap myself on the wrist for is believing she's actually real.

It's only as I start the fourth period of the day that I am all too aware of something I did recently. My legs are bare. The guys will just lap this up. What a mess I've got myself into with all this Maxine stuff. True, Tessa has helped it to become a bigger issue, but I can't blame her. She didn't make me do anything. I could have said no.

"Nice legs!" The sarcastic shout from across the changing room is the first of many. Since the boy responsible for the call chooses the most public spot to do such a thing, it isn't long before the room is a firing squad of verbal abuse and jabs. I rush into my kit and leave the room.

One look at the coach - we aren't allowed to call him a teacher - and what's in his hand tells me all I need to know about today's session. It starts with R and ends in ugly. Oops, I mean ugly. UGBY. Apologies, I couldn't turn my own joke filter off there.

"OK, listen up. It's cold and wet out there and still raining, but rugby is just like that sometimes. No hoodies, no coats, no bags. We'll be back in and warm again before you even feel it." Just a side note; that is never the case here. At all. The heating takes a while to kick in, and I'm colder than ever with my stick legs now stripped of the hair that warmed them before.

Teams are picked. No prizes for guessing who gets picked last. I don't even get picked as much as the last team to pick has me forced upon them. I hate rugby. My team hate me. Rugby also hates me. I also hate my team. The triangle isn't quite working as it should, but there is a Spiderman meme in here somewhere.

"I want you to really try to tackle one another in this game. Take on other players and don't be afraid to get dirty either!"

I can't think this is anything other than a setup. They've stuck me on the wing since my size should mean I can move quickly and use agility to dodge oncoming butch trains derailing towards me. It doesn't work, but the guys get their kicks. I catch the ball only to be completely wiped out. Not only this, but when the opposing player tackles me, he knocks me back into a teammate who ends up sending my leg the other way. I know the drill at this point. I simply roll off the field, and the nurse comes to check on me.

"My word, you really are quite delicate. A fragile one."

"Yep. You could say that again." My leg is aching in a brand new way. I know it's not a break, but something isn't working right at the minute. I retreat to get changed, knowing my sports for the day (at least) are finished. I'm not quite limping, but walking is tender for the calf muscle in my right leg.

I change into my uniform and, since lunch is next, I just sit outside the P.E. rooms and wait for the bell. I can't go to Trundell's classroom right now. He likely has another class in.

"What happened out there, Max?"

The coach is back here. That tells me the other guys are back in the changing room. I'm glad that I'm well out of the way.

"The tackle. My leg went one way when it was grabbed but I think it was hurled back into the other player."

"Did you really have to leave the field though? You were walking fine!" He says so in a jovial way. I'll try to be nice when responding.

"It was just best for me not to be there. I...don't really belong out there with the rest of the guys." I excuse myself to go and use the toilet. Clearly, I'm pale enough for the coach to allow it.

I make it just in time to throw up. Ugh, injury trauma. Or just trauma trauma. That will be 2 more days off school if anyone heard.

"Hello? Are you alright?"

A male voice is asking. I might be able to get away with this. No one needs to know that I'm sick. No one has to hear or see it.

"I'm fine," I weakly croak. I wash my hands, flush a few times and leave the room. The man at the door is still there.

"Max?"

"Oh, Mr Trundell."

"Was everything alright in there?"

"Not exactly. But I'm alright now."

"I wondered where you were. The bell has gone for lunch. I checked the attendance record and it says you are here, so I just got puzzled. I didn't think you got lost or anything!"

Mr Trundell leads me to his room. I can only drink water. Food isn't an option right now. My sandwich will keep for another day if it has to.

I'll distract myself with drawings. They always make me feel better. Creativity conquers all. Except for some reason, this right now. I can't shake the queasiness. Must have been a worse tackle than I thought.

Towards the end of lunch, I man up enough to eat. I'll only feel worse if I don't.