Jed Wolf

Dexter Melon’s farts smelled like Vermont hayfields, and I’d rather sit behind him than other Brunswick boys. I marveled at his blue eyes, long legs, high waist, and even the rubber bands that held an extra foot of cracked belt his mother said he’d grow into. Our classmates called him a flower girl, which Dexter didn’t seem to mind, and though he wore thick glasses, couldn’t drink milk, and had a lisp, his courage at soccer practice was admirable. When tormented for his blond eyebrows, Dexter would whinny, “I’m not an Albino. I’m a Palomino!” Then he’d rear up, slap his ass, and gallop down the sidelines holding imaginary reins, neighing. Coaches learned not to force boys like Dexter to actually play sports, which would have made serious practice impossible.

Pierre Flynn inhabited his own world too, holding an invisible steering wheel and pretending he was a car. His mother was French, and Pierre was stoic like Dexter and equally quick on his feet. Whether receiving catcalls or being chased, Pierre remained as calm as a Mona Lisa on a museum wall. “Puet, puet,” he’d beep, zipping around bigger boys as if he were touring Paris. Though Pierre wasn’t exactly a show-off, I marveled at how he smirked while enduring wedgies and how deftly he tucked his stretched-out underwear back in his pants as if it were all a game.

Goons waited in bathrooms for boys like him, Dexter, and Cory Connor, who’d bite a dull pencil in half to wield a sharp object in each hand. Cory was rumored to have let his boa constrictor loose in his house to kill his crazy mother. His boney ass, transparent skin, and gleaming golden mop of hair caused a stir the day he arrived. Though the Beatles had landed, Brunswick boys hadn’t, and they were merciless. He lived in a neighborhood adjacent to ours and rode in our carpool until too many complained about his farts, which smelled unhealthy. The last time I saw Cory, his locks had been cut, and the uneven mousy chops that remained evoked a struggle. Though visibly throbbing veins in his forehead reduced some taunting, it wasn’t long before one of his pencils made a fullback bleed, and Cory Connor was expelled.

I didn’t dare pretend I wasn’t human, but I wanted hair like Cory’s and sapphire eyes like Dexter’s before witnessing the trouble they’d caused. Even though I was glad I blended in, I didn’t need attention as much as I wanted to feel proud of something about myself. The only sport-related thing I was any good at was running, which I’d learned from being raised around a girl with horses and escaping her older brother. I’d had feathers before Brunswick, and paws, galloped like an Arabian at home, and jumped with the grace of a Thoroughbred.

I longed to join Dexter, Pierre, and Cory during soccer practice but knew better. I’d studied greyhounds and could arrive at a soccer ball way before anyone else. Dribbling only slowed me down, and with little interest in passing, I’d kick the ball far ahead so Dexter and his herd of boney, beeping misfits could race alongside me on the sidelines. Dexter’s effortless speed might’ve qualified him for track if it wasn’t for his nickering and prancing forearms, which made me fall to the ground in hysterics. Luckily, my teammates didn’t stop to kick me as they stampeded after the stupid ball, too focused on their own glory to notice my fits of giggling.