Terry

Five

When I got home, I was greeted with my Dad and Suzie, who were staring at me like starving lions eager to pounce. "So..." dad started, " How was the party?" My heart almost instantly sunk with fear. I refrained from telling him what happened earlier tonight, in fear that they would flip out for weeks.

Hesitant, I began to lie. "The party was okay," I responded, "It was nothing special-" I was suddenly bombarded with questions. Everything from the simple "Are you okay" to "Did you have fun" were thrown at me. Just when I thought I was in the clear, I was interrupted again by my dad. "I smell alcohol on your breath, Terry." My dad said to me. "Tell me, did you drink at the party?" I quickly lied. "No." I said, "Not a single drop of alcohol."

He leaned in closer to me. "Liar," he called me. "You know you're too young to drink-" "I know!" I interpreted, "but it wasn't my fault!" He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" he said. "Then enlighten me." he stood in front of me with his arms crossed, like a stereotypical angry parent. Feeling the pressure to tell the truth, I soon collapsed and confessed.

I told him almost everything about Damian, and how he always picks on me and my friends, I even told him how he tricked us into drinking alcohol and got one of my friends drunk. "So why didn't you kick his ass?" My dad responded. I looked down, embarrassed to tell him.

"I don't know how to fight." I said.

Surprised, (and I frankly don't know how he actually is since I've never been in a fight) his face changed from surprised to serious. "Well you're gonna learn how to fight," he said, "and like it or not, you're gonna defend yourself." He soon dismissed me to my room for the night.

There were only two things on my mind that night: My relationship with Casandra and the inevitable confrontation with Damian. These two thoughts swirled around in my head like angry wasps. Soon they were like a people angrily yelling in my ears. I couldn't stand it.

I went to my desk and began to write about how I feel. It didn't help much, but it helped with the thoughts of Casandra. When I was done with that therapeutic exercise, I realised what was originally supposed to be a simple little note turned into a vivid love letter. Content with myself, I flopped on my bed and went to drifted off to sleep.

The next morning can only be described as hell on Earth, that all started when My dad took me to a small building inward into town. The sigh above said "Uncle Jeff's boxing club". When we went in, a strong sent of must slapped me in the face as if I just offended it. We were surrounded by the sounds of grunts, shouts and general yelling that were being emitted from various men who were fueled on testosterone.

"Ah, there you are!" an old, raspy-like voice said behind us. "How ya been, Greg?" I turned around to only to find that a man who looks like he sounds. He was an old man who has grey hair, who was extremely in shape for his age. My dad leaned in to hug him, "I've been fine, Uncle Jeff," he said. "But I'm not here to just catch up with you," My dad pointed at me, causing Mr. Jeff to look and notice me."This your son?" he asked, "Yeah," answered my dad. "And he's having some bully problems, and I want you to help him toughen up. You know? Give him some skills in fighting."

Mr. Jeff squinted at me for a few more moments, then made a slight grin. "Alright then," he said, "I'll teach him how to fight." "Great! I'll be back in about an hour." My dad abruptly said as he jogged outside.

Before I could even get a chance to get mad, Mr. Jeff started to rush me to get changed and "work the bag". I got changed into boxing shirts and an undershirt (at least nobody made fun of my man boobs). When I got out, Mr. Jeff was waiting for me at the punching bag. "Since you're new to boxing, we're gonna start you with something simple:" He said, "Simply punch the bag." I got into my fighting stance (which was an awkward reenactment of a fighting stance I saw in a video game) and made a somewhat heavy jab.

The bag gently swayed back and forth.

He let out a sigh. "Hit it harder than that." he said assertively. I put in just a little more force into it. Yet again the bag barley moves. "Again!" shouted the coach, "Hit it harder than that!" I thought to myself that there was no more holding back anymore. I took one of my strongest swings ever, enough to assume that the bag would move.

The bag flew back, causing Mr. Jeff to stumble backwards a few steps.

"That's good," he said proudly, "Now hit it again!" I stuck again. "More!" he demaned. I must of punched that bag no more than a million times before he allowed me to rest. My arms felt like Pudding melting in the Summer Sun. It didn't take long for Mr. Jeff to come out of nowhere with more instructions. He pulled out a jump rope from a nearby duffel bag. "That was a good start for you," he started, "But your not done yet." he stood up and skipped rope for about five seconds. "I want you to skip rope for a little bit. It shouldn't be that hard."

I didn't even make one skip before tripping over.

He let out a long sigh. "This is gonna take some time..." he says almost disappointed. I looked over and saw the guys pointing, snickering and poking fun at me. I got angry. I'm tired of people making fun of my size, and my physical ability! I've had it up to here with everyone who has ever made fun of me!

"No." I said to him and myself, suddenly finding the urge to continue. "I'm gonna keep practicing until I can't feel a muscle in my body!" Somehow finding the strength, I jumped up and started skipping rope. I would jump once then fail, twice them fail, four times them fail. The persistence kept me going, to the point where I completely forgot about the exhaustion I had. I felt like my body was on auto pilot for the next 3 hours. Running, punching the bag, skipping more rope, and even push ups were done completely and efficiently.

When it was time to leave, all I could hear were the sounds of clapping from people who had been watching me earlier. Proud of myself, I fell to the floor sore and exhausted; with no intentions of waking up, or getting back up.

It was a well earned victory nap.