Take a Chance Ch. 01

With our statues holding their forms, we then play something of a guessing game. "Each sculptor was given an emotion," Ms. Burton's tells us. "Now your job is to figure out which one." She points at a boy posed on the floor, his hands out in front of him as if to ward of an attack, and his face turned away, and one of the other kids calls out: "Fear!"

"That's right," Ms. Burton says with a nod, walking over to Alyssa and I. "How about this statue?"

For a moment, there is silence, and then a painfully skinny girl with curly blonde hair raises her hand. "Sadness," she guesses, and though five minutes ago this game wasn't something I cared about, now I feel relieved. After all eight emotions have been guessed - not all of them on the first try - our statues are permitted to stand up. Before I can decide whether to thank Alyssa out loud for letting me move her body around, Ms. Burton is on the move with her list again.

"Time to switch," she tells us, and then shows Alyssa another list. "This time, you can pick one," she offers, and Alyssa flashes her a smile before pointing. As the teacher moves away, Alyssa catches my eye, holds up her hands, wiggles her fingers and then grins. I nod, silently, giving her permission to move me around the same way that I moved her. This time, as the statue, I'm not thinking, only moving the way she puts me, and so I have a chance to observe a few of the other groups. Most of them don't seem comfortable with the choice Alyssa made, and so there's a lot of furious gesticulating back and forth between partners who don't want to touch each other.

Alyssa reaches up to place her hands on my shoulders, gently pushing down, and again I'm conscious of how close our bodies are as she touches me. I can see her chest rising and falling with each breath, but I try not to get distracted and sink down to the ground. Once I'm there, she guides me to where she wants me to be, moving my legs until I'm kneeling on my right knee, with my left foot flat on the ground, upright with my back straight. She pauses for a moment when she touches my left arm, and I have an absurd urge to flex my bicep to make it seem even bigger than it already is, but then the moment passes and she's straightened my left arm, pointing it out from my body and then showing me to make a fist with her own hand. My right arm, she draws back, bent at the elbow so that my forearm is doubled up against my upper arm, my fingers by my ear, which she then spends some time rearranging my hand before I realize what I am: an archer, bow drawn and ready to loose. After that, I'm able to pose my head and face without much confusion, and then we wait for time to be called - this time around, we have a moment to spare.

When the guessing begins, Ms. Burton explains to us what this list consisted of. "This time," she says, again projecting her voice effortlessly through the auditorium in a way I'm desperate to learn, "Our sculptors each chose from a list of Greek Gods and Goddesses."

We go through a limping Hephaestus, a seductively hip-cocked Aphrodite, and a somewhat comically furious Ares before it's my turn to be judged. "He's either Cupid or Apollo," one of the guys ventures.

"Apollo," says a short brunette. "Cupid hasn't got muscles like those!" The class, including Alyssa, gives a low key giggle.

"Got it in one," my partner says dryly, and then the bell is ringing for next period and everyone is grabbing their bags.

"I think I'm going to like this class," I say as I get up.

"Well, don't expect to be grabbing my legs every day," Alyssa leans in to tell me in a low voice. For a moment, I freeze, and then she gives me a grin that lights up her face and dashes out the door.

Mia picks me up and drops me off at a study hall, which passes quickly enough as I browse wrestling news on Reddit. I have to turn off the school wi-fi first, because for some reason their security settings block the site, but before I know it the bell is ringing for lunch.

"So," Mia asks me as we walk to the cafeteria - it isn't really necessary for her to take the lead with so many kids heading in the same direction - "How do you like the place so far?"

I shrug. "I think I'm going to like the theater class," I tell her, trying not to compare Mia and Alyssa in my mind. "I'd love to learn to project my voice like Ms. Burton."

"That's important," she asks, waving to a couple of girls who are already grabbing seats. "For what you want to do?"

"Yeah," I explain as we take out place in the lunch line. "You've got to be able to act. Work a crowd. Play a character. And you don't always have a microphone. Especially at indie shows."

"I never realized there was so much involved," Mia says, reaching over to select a chicken salad, sealed in a plastic package.

"Yeah," I say absently, looking over my options. "Those salads alright?"

She shrugs. "Better than the greasy pizza boats."

"I can't eat that shit," I say, shaking my head. "I may need to start bringing a cold lunch."

The kid in front of us, a skinny blonde with glasses and a haircut that tells me he doesn't keep up with what's in style, turns around. "Lunch sucks," he informs me, pointing at his burnt grilled cheese and tater tots. "A lot of people just wait until they get home."

"Nice shirt," I tell him, nodding at the leopard print "Certified G" lettered onto his black t-shirt.

He flinches back for a moment, as if he is expecting me to make fun of him, before his eyes fix on the white on black skull, crossed rifles, and bullet logo I'm wearing. Then, cautiously, he returns my smile. "Bullet Club, huh," he says cautiously. "Who do you think was the best leader? Devitt, Omega, or Styles?"

"No question," I tell him. "Styles. Best wrestler in the world right now. I'm Ben." I reach out my hand, and after a short hesitation he shakes it.

"Josh," he tells me. "I haven't seen you before. Are you-"

And then someone elbows their way past him into line, and Josh's tray gets upended. "What the hell," he shouts as tater tots fly in every direction. Next to me, Mia jumps back as one bounces off her arm.

"Out of my way, faggot," sneers the guy who pushed him. I size him up in an instant, taking in the broad shoulders, the tight shirt over his muscles, the clipped short hair. This guy works out, but can he go?

When Josh gets an eyeful of who pushed past him, he lowers his eyes. "Sorry, Drew," he mumbles, and that's when I get angry.

I hand Mia my salad. "No, Josh, this guy bumped into you," I say, stepping forward.

"You don't owe him an apology. He owes you one."

"Fuck off," the jerk - Drew, I guess - tells me, without really looking in my direction.

"And then," I continue, "You can go to the end of the line, and wait just like everyone else." When he turns back toward me, I take a step into his personal space.

Now, he makes eye contact with me, and we square off. I've got him by a couple of inches in height, but he's broader. "You really wanna go with me, man," Drew says in a low voice.

"I'm not the guy who shoved a kid," I tell him, taking another step forward until our chests are practically touching. Everyone in the lunch line is looking at us at this point, waiting for something to start, and he notices it, breaking eye contact with me as he scans the crowd. Any second, one of the lunch ladies is going to clue in to what's happening and call a teacher over.

"What's your name," Drew asks me quietly.

"Ben. Ben Emmons."

"Drew Bishop," he practically snarls at me. "See you later, faggot."

Once he's gone, I look around and see that half a dozen kids have their phones out and were filming it. Guess that's why he backed down. "Sorry about that," I apologize to Mia as I take my salad back. Everyone begins putting their phones away. "You OK, Josh?"

"Yeah," the smaller guys says, smiling as he grabs new food and fills his tray. "Holy shit that was awesome. You were really ready to kick that guy's ass."

"Ben, you need to watch your back," Mia tells me, looking concerned. "Drew does all sorts of martial arts and boxing and stuff. He's beat up a bunch of guys over the past couple of years. You're in good shape, but he's really tough."

I shrug.

"He does MMA," Josh explains. "That's one of the reasons he gives me so much shit, actually. Says wrestling is fake, and for pussies." He shakes his head. "He's an asshole."

"Assholes only stop if you stand up to them," is all I say, and then we're paying at the checkout. Mia leads me over to the table where her friends are sitting - the girls she introduced me to earlier today, though I don't remember their names - and when Josh hesitates, I tell him, "Come on, man. You're the first person I've found here I can talk about Summerslam with."

"Ben, this is Becca again," Mia introduces me to a petite girl with chin length brown hair. "And this," she continues, indicating a curvy redhead in glasses, "Is Penny. I know I threw you at them during passing time, but I don't expect you to remember."

"Hi, again," I say, putting my salad down and reaching out a hand, shaking with each of the girls in turn. Lunch goes pretty quickly after that; I learn that Mia, Penny and Becca are all in the National Honor Society, and that Becca is in Student Government, as well. Josh, on the other hand, is taking just about every video production course the school offers, and gets credits for recording basketball games, pep rallies, and board of education meetings to broadcast on public television.

"I'm getting my application ready for NYU," Josh explains eagerly. "Best film school on the East Coast. Martin Scorsese went there." And with that, the conversation goes into what colleges everyone is applying for. I recognize a lot of the names; I'm sitting at a table with the kind of kids that break the grading curve, it seems. I hate this kind of conversation. I dread it.

"So where are you applying to, Ben," Becca asks, leaning forward with a grin to steal an uneaten tomato off my salad with her fork. That's definitely a girlfriend move; she's flirting with me.

"Yeah," Josh asks, turning toward me. "What are you into?"

There's a beat of silence, but I really can't avoid answering. "I'm not going to college," I say, looking down at my salad. "I'm going to be a professional wrestler."

I can almost hear the crickets chirping, and then Josh says, "Really? That's so cool. How do you even get started?"

I look back up, and while the girls - other than Mia, who's been chatting on and off with me about this all day - have something of the look of an opossum playing dead, Josh is already in 180%. "It's why I moved here, actually," I tell them, and this I know Mia hasn't heard before. "There's a wrestling school the next town over. Killer Kowalski opened it up, years ago. And in the meantime, I've been on the wrestling team all through high school. I lift. I'm taking the classes that seem like they might help - like the Theater class this morning."

"Who's Killer Kowalski," Penny asks Becca quietly.

"He was a wrestler back in the seventies," Josh gushes before I have to answer. "They say he ripped a guy's ear off once." Josh makes the Kowalski claw with his right hand.

"Eww," Mia says, making a face.

"I'm pretty sure that was an accident," I break in. "He's dead now, anyway, but the school's still around. Some major people have gone through it." Like Triple H, and Chyna. "So anyway, I moved in with my aunt and uncle here, and the plan is to finish high school while starting at the school. They wouldn't let me start until I was actually enrolled and showing up to classes, though," I admit. "My family was worried I was just going to drop out and start training full time, so this is like a compromise."

"You going to wrestle on our team," Josh asks.

"Yeah," I assure him, "I will. Season doesn't start until winter, though. I want to try to get a look at the weight room today. Think I can get permission from someone to go there during study hall?"

"If you were on the football team," Mia says, pushing the remains of her meal off to one side, "In a heartbeat. Those guys are in there constantly."

"No way," I say with a frown. "I'm not going to wreck my knee or my shoulder or whatever playing a sport that isn't what I'm going to do with my life. Maybe if I talk to the coach, though, he'll let me lift with them."

The bell rings, and we all begin to stand up. "Where to next," I ask Mia. "Anatomy," she responds as we all head over to dump our trash in the garbage. "We're in the same class this time, and after it's over I'll walk you to the gym."

"Great. See you around," I tell Josh, and to a lesser extent Penny and Becca, with a wave. I shift my backpack to sit more comfortably on one shoulder, and then let Mia lead me to the science wing. Once we find our class, we grab a couple of seats in the front row, which is a pleasant surprise. I'm grateful that Mia is showing me around, introducing me to a few people, and being so nice, but I know that doesn't necessarily mean that she has any desire to be my friend after today. Even if it does seem like she's been flirting. It'll be good to have someone I know in this science class, though, because I know it's going to be one of my most academically challenging classes.

As a result, I pay more attention while the teacher, Mr. Damore, goes through the syllabus, and I actually have a pen out to make notes about a few things. Unlike a lot of the other teachers, he also gets right to business: by the end of the class period, we've all signed out textbooks and have a reading assignment to complete for tomorrow.

"I'm really going to have to stay on top of that class," I admit to Mia as we come down the hallway which presumably leads to the gym. "I'm not a great student, and I can already tell that course is going to kick my ass."

"Good thing you sat next to a top notch study partner, then," Mia says with a bounce and a grin. "Here's the gym, but hold up before you go inside." She fishes her phone out of her bag. "Here, type in your number."

I take her phone, the opalescent case cool in my hands, and see that she's loaded up a new text message. After I put in my number, I hand it back to her.

"Good," Mia says. "I'll text you. Then if you have any questions about tonight's reading, you can let me know."

"Thank you," I tell her, holding up a hand to stop this smart, funny, beautiful girl from dashing off down the hall. "Really. You could have just picked me up and dropped me off today, and left it at that, but I really do appreciate this."

A faint blush tints Mia's tan cheeks, and she shrugs. "You're welcome. Anyway, I'm off to AP Biology. I'll talk to you later."

The gym smells familiar; other people might wrinkle their nose at it, but that lingering air of good, honest sweat tells me that whatever else is different at this school, in this town, in my life ahead, some things are predictable. I've long since covered the minimum requirements for High School Physical Education, but I want to use as much of my class time for working on my body as I can. Unfortunately, most of the electives I saw in the course catalog were things that really do me no good whatsoever, like Coaching, or things that aren't worth the risk of sustaining an injury, like Team Sports. When I was selecting courses, however, there was one class that jumped out at me: Adventure and Individual Sports.

Now, I see that about fifteen other students are gathered in the gym, a mix of boys and girls. Everyone who is here is in at least halfway decent shape, and there are two teachers milling around in exercise clothing: one male, one female. Once the bell rings, the male teacher - a middle aged man with graying hair who is, nonetheless, build like a brick shithouse - blows his whistle.

"Alright," he begins. "I am Mr. McCray, and this is Ms. Bouvier." He holds one hand out to motion to the female teacher, who looks to be in her early thirties, at the most, short, and fit like a runner, with long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. "Welcome," McCray continues, "To Adventure Sports. As this is the first day, we understand if you haven't brought clothing suitable for exercise, but tomorrow, you will bring your gym clothes, because we will be outside."

Ms. Bouvier steps forward. "Beginning tomorrow, we will be outside power walking and monitoring our heart rate. This," she holds up a small device, "Is a pedometer." And then she begins to go into detail about how to use the damn thing. Power walking. I try not to sigh too obviously. It doesn't seem like this class is going to be all that helpful, but it's better than sitting in a study hall or wasting my time with something I'll really never use. Plus, maybe this will help me get into the weight room.

As the final bell for the day rings, I step up and extend my hand first to Mr. McCray, then to Ms. Bouvier. "Hi," I begin as the other kids start to file pour out of the room. "My name's Ben Emmons, and I just transferred to this school. I was hoping to speak to someone about getting down to the weight room during my study hall, period five."

"I'll let you handle this," Ms. Bouvier says to McCray, and then she steps off to the side to talk to one of the other students, a blonde girl who's bouncing up and down, clearly waiting for her.

McCray looks me over, taking in my muscle mass, which is unusual for a high school kid, even a senior. Like I've said, I'm not as big as some of the football guys, but I still stick out when you put me in most classrooms. "I bet," he says after a second. "What's your game?"

"Wrestling," I answer. "In my last school, I ran track in the off season."

McCray nods. "I'll need to be sure you're safe, but I don't see a problem. Mostly who we get in there are the football and wrestling guys, anyway. I have to tell you, though, football's the big sport at this school; the wrestling team is kind of an afterthought."

I shake my head. "Yeah, I get that impression. I've known too many guys who hurt themselves in that game, though. I'm not going anywhere near it."

"Here's a pass to come during study hall tomorrow," McCray tells me, reaching into his back pocket and then scribbling on a pad of paper for a moment. "I'll check your form, make sure you know what you're doing, and if everything looks good I'll speak to your study hall teacher." After handing me the pass, the gym teacher reaches out to shake my hand. "Well, it's nice to meet you, and I look forward to seeing what you can do when wrestling season starts up."

"Thank you sir," I tell him with a smile, and then turn around to head out. Before I can quite make it to the door, however, the blonde I noticed talking to Ms. Bouvier comes dashing over, her white summer skirt floating up around her tanned thighs as she bounces up in front of me.

"Hi," she says with a dazzling smile. "I'm sorry, but did I just hear that you're a guy that lifts who isn't on the football team?"

"Yeah," I admit, checking my stride and coming to a halt so that I don't walk into her. "Hi, Ben Emmons." I offer her my hand, and she takes it. For just a moment, we make eye contact as a spark of electricity shoots up from where her fingers rest in my palm, and then its over as we both pull our hands back.

"Brianna," she says. "Look, if you don't do any sports in the fall, we could always use a strong guy on the cheer leading team. You know, for lifts, throws, that kind of thing."

"Thanks," I say, trying to keep my face neutral. "But..." I look for a polite way to turn her down without seeming like a jerk, but somehow I'm having a hard time coming up with anything. Maybe it's how smooth and tan her legs are, or the perky shape of her breasts under her shirt...

"Look, you don't have to make excuses," she snaps after a longer silence than I intended. "Whatever. I get it, guys don't do cheer leading. See you around," she spits out bitterly and then strides out the door. Shit, I realize, I fucked that up. Giving myself a shake, I head out to my car and make my way home. I keep an eye out for Alyssa, but I don't see her; I must have beat the buses back to our neighborhood by quite a bit.