Bonding

It all started when momma found Johnny in the bathroom surrounded by a group of Edgars. She started cussing up a storm. At first, it was directed at the Edgars—those Hispanic kids at the school with matching Edgar haircuts, a mix of a fade and a bowl cut—calling ’em bitches for trying to jump her boy, but she didn’t get really angry until she started yelling at Johnny. No son of hers was gonna let that shit happen. She called him every name under the sun, pushing him, poking his chest, telling him to get back in there and fight those boys. This scene went on for so long that teachers and students started poking their heads in the hallway, attracted by the spectacle of it all. Those Edgar boys started laughing until momma gave ’em a look that had ’em scared shitless. That’s the story I heard anyway.

Momma had a meeting with the principal, after which she didn’t come back to the school. She’d been helping in the special education department for a semester, following this boy in an electric wheelchair from class to class. His name was Charles. Some of the girls from the dance club she coordinated even filed a petition to bring her back, but it didn’t amount to anything. Even if it had, nothin’ woulda’ brought momma back to that school.

It was a brand-new charter school focusing on computer science and engineering. She was excited when they hired her, tellin’ us she could quit her job at the Chicken Express and maybe even move out of the trailer park. Get an actual apartment with a pool and a dog like we’d always talked about one day gettin’. I was so happy when momma told me she got the job because we got to go to the school. I’m great at coding, and the teachers at my old school told me I’m very talented. When I grow up, I’m gonna’ design video games or work for NASA. I haven’t decided yet.

My brothers weren’t as excited as I was. Johnny didn’t want to leave the school he was at ‘cause he didn’t want to be a freshman in a school where he didn’t know anyone. Tristan didn’t want to go there because he thought the work would be too hard. He wasn’t the smartest kid in eighth grade. Momma said they should be grateful for the opportunity. I went to help Tristan with his homework.

Momma bought our school uniforms with her credit card, and before we walked into school together on that first day, she told us, “Look out for each other.”

No one messed with us at first. It was a big school, and everybody was new. There were sixth graders like me up to ninth graders. We thought that was strange, but momma told us that was just how charter schools did it, so we trusted her. After a while, I made some friends. The sixth graders banded together, being the youngest in the building. We were all too worried about the older kids to be worried about each other.

Johnny wasn’t so lucky. They made fun of him, saying he walked a little funny and he talked a little funny, which I’d never noticed before. I just thought that was Johnny. Pretty soon they were calling him gay whenever they passed him in the hall or yelling a bad word whenever he spoke in class. The teachers didn’t do much to stop it. Then they found his Instagram and TikTok with all his dance videos, going viral in a bad sorta’ way. He couldn’t escape the bullying, but he never snitched. Momma always told us there was nothing worse than a snitch.

Tristan was quiet. It took people a long time to notice how much he was struggling with his schoolwork. When they found out how dumb he was, they were relentless. And I can call him dumb because I’m his brother. It comes from a place of love, and there was no love from these other kids. Only meanness. But he never snitched. No matter how many frustrated tears he shed over his homework, he never snitched.

It always seemed like it was this same group of boys, the Edgars. That’s what everybody in school called them. It was even how they referred to themselves. They were proud to be Edgars. Getting that haircut was like an initiation—an easy way to spot a friend in this big new place—and it seemed if you weren’t a friend, you were an enemy. If you were just a little bit different, they would find out and make sure you knew just how different you were.

They put notes on Johnny’s locker and commented on his pictures and videos, saying the most awful stuff. When the teacher returned a test, they would grab Tristan’s and laugh at how low the score was, holding it up so everyone could see.

Over winter break, the Edgars had a plan to torture Johnny. Every day they would post a new comment on his video or share it with some kid from another school who would chime in with a new wave of bullying. When he tried to put his account on private, the Edgars called him a pussy or a bitch on their page. They even started messaging Johnny’s friends from his old school, asking if he ever had any boyfriends and stuff like that. Johnny took a picture of him flipping off the camera with the words I FUCKING HATE EDGARS!! written across the photo, posted it to his story, and made his account public again. That was like lighting a fuse.

When we came back from break, the Edgars followed Johnny into the bathroom, and you know the rest of the story. Momma was angry with all of us whenever we got home. At Johnny for not handling those boys, and at Tristan and me for not looking out for Johnny. She cussed us up and down for a while before breaking down into tears. We had never seen her cry like that, so we hugged her hard.

Momma got her job back at the Chicken Express and told us that we’d have to go back to our old school, but we would finish out the week. Johnny and Tristan couldn’t have been happier, and I don’t blame them, I really don’t. All I wanted was for my brothers to be happy, for momma to be happy, and for me to be happy too. But that was another thing momma told me: you can’t make everyone happy. So, I stopped my crying and got ready for our last couple of days.

On Friday, momma dropped us off and looked at us with tears in her eyes before saying, “Handle your business.” We knew what she meant.

I missed the first fight. I was going to the bathroom during third period and saw both of my brothers in the office. Their uniforms were messed up. Tristan had a bloody nose, and they looked pissed. Some teacher was talking to ’em. It looked like he was trying to calm ‘em down.

I walked in and asked what happened. They told me they’d fought the Edgars, and my heart dropped. I missed my chance to make momma proud. Now I was gonna’ get cussed out, or even worse—a whoopin’.

Just then I turned around and saw the whole group being walked down the hallway past the office by a couple of teachers. The leader of the pack looked at me and flashed a big smile. I yelled, “YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!!” and ran out of the office. I heard my brothers yelling my name. I ran straight up to that boy as fast as I could, jumped in the air, and punched him right across his cheekbone—round two. My brothers were right there with me, and we were taking on the Edgars, outnumbered almost two to one. I took the smallest—this little boy named Romeo, who was actually pretty nice, but in this moment, I hated him. I kept swinging as hard as I could, landing some but missing a lot, clipping teachers, and the wall. Romeo fell, and I was on top of him—punching and punching. Sometimes his face, sometimes the hard floor. Then the leader boy kicked me in the side of the head, and I flew off. My ear hurt. I looked up to see Johnny grabbing the leader by the back of his shirt and ripping him to the ground. I scrambled to my feet and started kicking the leader boy in the head once, twice, three times while Johnny held him down. Then the vice principal grabbed me, and I was crying. I don’t know when it started. Everything was out of control. I screamed through the tears and the snot, “FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!” I watched my brothers fight those boys until they too were pulled off. The Edgars lay in a heap. We’d won.

We sat in the principal’s office, icing our sore spots until momma picked us up. She got us Dairy Queen and told us we had done the right thing; she was proud of us. Tristan called shotgun, and Johnny sat next to me in the back. As we drove home and the Dilly Bars melted down our bruised knuckles, I looked over at Johnny, who stared out the window. I expected him to give me a proud grin, but he looked the same as if momma were cussing him out.

“Johnny. We won,” I said, quiet enough that only he could hear. He looked at me, and even with everything that he’d been through over the last semester, I’d never seen him so heartbroken.

“And what did that accomplish?” he asked.

I felt my smile fade. All I wanted was to go to that school, and since that wasn’t an option, I could make my brothers proud. Now I got neither. The tears rushed to my eyes, made my head feel heavy, and filled me with shame. I looked down, trying to hide my hot tears, and admired the blurry floorboards riddled with trash. I felt Johnny’s arm drape across my shoulder as he pulled me into his side and placed his cheek gently on my head. He held me until momma yelled at us for getting Dilly Bar on the seat.