Lecture

• James Diaz, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2008

The unbroken silence of the twilit street was absolute.
Gavin’s perpetual sarcastic twinkle in his eye betrayed the intense fear he had of the boy walking eerily parallel to him. Though they were both of equal build, there was no mistaking the murderous intent in the other boy’s eye.
“Why am I noticing our equal builds,” thought Gavin, “When what I should be worrying about is how fast and how far he’ll be able to chase me when I start to run like hell?”
The boy opposite him wasn’t known for any particular violence, but Gavin wasn’t taking any chances with that unmistakable look in his eye. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all my years at school, it’s that practically anyone can beat you up when you stir them up enough,” thought Gavin. “Of course, the fact that I’m extraordinarily weak doesn’t help much either.”
Gavin thought back to the last time he’d been beaten up. Or maybe it was the second-last time – “Hell, I could fill a library with the number of times it’s happened.” It wasn’t the terrible, excruciating pain of being left on the pavement per se, but the inevitable lecture he’d get from his father that really scared him.

“HOW many TIMES do I HAVE to SAY this, Gavin?” his father had yelled, towering over Gavin’s chair while pacing, looking surprisingly like an interrogator. Over the years, Gavin had noticed, and been very intrigued by, how his father would accentuate every second or third word of these lectures. “I am SICK and TIRED of REPEATING myself, young man. How LONG will it TAKE before you REALISE that your STUPID antics are so DAMN stupid? You’d THINK that after being BEATEN UP so many times, you’d have learned your LESSON!” Gavin had been, as always, nodding absent-mindedly, though he was intrigued by the fact that his father had just gone seven words without accentuating something. “There’s only SO LONG a joke stays FUNNY, Gavin, and the second it’s NOT, as you DAMN well know, you’re ON the ground…”

When his father brought out the “On the ground” line, with its intriguingly accentuated “on”, Gavin knew he would soon resort to flinging insults at his son about his weediness and how he could “at least toughen the HELL up if you’re going to get BEATEN UP so often” It was the point Gavin usually tuned out completely, and actually wondered why he went so far with his jokes, when he usually knew full well when the breaking point was.

The fear welling up inside him, he began staring at the boy next to him, no doubt one of the hordes of kids tired of his constant sarcastic insults. Stretching his legs in anticipation, he threw an insult, almost automatically, concerning the boy’s constant need for teachers’ validation.

As he ran, the other boy predictably in tow, he realised why he wouldn’t ever ‘learn his lesson’, or ‘toughen up’.

He loved everything about what he did.