EXCERPT FROM THE CONFESSIONAL

So of course, I do it: put on the whole gangsta attitude, swagger over to Bernie. He starts to rise–guess he’s thinking I’m going to take him on right there–but I just say, out of the corner of my mouth, “I’m gonna let you finish that nice little sandwich, Bernie, and that’s the last thing I’m gonna let you do.” It just pops out of my mouth, like a bad movie.

Outside to the basketball courts. Wait until he comes out.

There’s a crowd already. Greg takes a seat by Josh, who’s talking to Rafa. Jim Hill sneers at me, then gives me a thumbs up sign. Somebody laughs, somebody jeers. Everybody’s watching out of the corner of their eyes. I’m surprised nobody’s selling popcorn and those giant foam fingers.

What am I supposed to do while I wait? Meditate? Rouse the crowd to a fevered pitch of Coliseum-Gladiator-style excitement? Pray?

“No fighting dirty, pinche,” Bernie calls from the doorway before he even steps outside.

Like I’d go near his dirty balls.

I think for a minute about how there are rules for regular fights and rules for bigger fights, like war. Isn’t that weird? No matter how many people you kill, as long as you don’t mistreat your prisoners of war or target civilians, you can’t be tried for war crimes. You’re even considered honorable. It’s not a sin or anything.

“Get out here, you bitch,” I yell.

“I mean it,”he repeats. “No fighting dirty, you fuckin’ fag.”

He’s always calling me a fag. “You’re just jealous ‘cuz I’m so pretty,” I tell him. “I’d rather be a fuckin’ fag than a fuckin’ Fronchi,” I add before turning to the crowd and yelling, “Yo, what’s worse, a wetback or a homo?”

“¡Oye! ¡Bolillo!” Rafa calls back. “Why you gotta drag us into this? Eh, ese? We just wanna see the fight!”

Did he just call me Bolillo, white bread?

Just as I turn my head back towards Bernie, he spits a full frontal loogie. It drips down my nose and onto my lip. Can’t help gagging.

Crack! I throw the first punch, right across the jaw. His head whips around, I hit him so hard. Better not break the fucker’s neck.

He comes back with a weak punch and then brings his knee up to my nuts.

Unbelievable.

I block it. “Thought we weren’t fighting dirty, Bernie?” Grabbing him around his waist, I throw him down and his head klonks against the pavement. Dude! Isn’t he going to protect himself? Cool it, Mac. Pace yourself.

From his position on the ground, he starts kicking me right in the balls. Asshole!

That’s when something breaks in me and suddenly, I start kicking back and I don’t give a fuck anymore and he’s yelling something but I’m, I’m just kicking crack thump krrrk. I can’t even see him anymore, I don’t hear the crowd, I’m just aware of the rhythm beating inside my chest. Crack. Thump. Krrrk. Crack. Thump. Krrrk. Crack. Thump. Krrrk. Get him, Mac. Get him, Mac. Get him where it hurts.

Father Raymond is screaming like a wildebeest in my ear, shoving us apart. “MacKenzie Malone,” he yells, his index finger pressing on my windpipe until I feel like I’m going to puke. “Are you trying to send this boy to the hospital! Bernardo! Bernardo! Are you all-right? Speak to me! Child, are you all-right?”

Bernie’s crouched in a corner against the wall. I must’ve kicked him all the way across the court to the wall. Nobody’s saying a word, they’re just staring at me. I’ve been kicking and kicking, just kicking him over and over, and now he’s lying there, not saying anything, but I think he’s still breathing. Thank God.