The sound of Mr. Donner’s whistle split the air, but belatedly, as if he’d been reluctant to interrupt good theater, to bring an end to just punishment. But the whistle was ignored; Matt’s crime of creating mismatched teams was too great. Somebody shouted out, “Pile on!” Another body slammed on top of them, and one more after that, and then—
Crrackkk!
It was an incredible, heart-stopping sound, like a gunshot. If Matt hadn’t been buried under so many bodies, he expected he would have heard it echo off the school’s brick walls.
There was a moment of nothingness, of no sensation, while the other boys reacted to the sound.
And then—
And then pain, incredible pain, indescribable pain.
The agony coursed through Matt’s body, starting in his leg, shooting up his spine, assaulting his brain.
The other boys, sensing something was deeply wrong, began to climb off. As their weight shifted on top of Matt, fresh, fiery pain sliced through him.
At last, Spalding got up. Matt looked up and saw an expression on the bully’s face he’d never seen before: a look of fear, of horror. Spalding was staring at Matt’s right leg.
Matt swung his head down to have a look himself, and—
For a moment, he thought he was going to vomit. The sight was horrifying, unnatural.
Matt’s right thigh was bent in the middle, twisted in a hideous way. He reached down and hiked up his gym shorts as far as they would go, so he could see—
God, no.
His thighbone—his femur, as he’d gladly have told Mr. Pope—was clearly broken. The bone was pushed up toward the surface, pressing against the skin, as if any second now it would burst out, a skeletal eruption.
Matt stared at it a few seconds more, then looked up. Mr. Donner had arrived by now, panting slightly, and Matt saw him looming above. “Don’t move, Matt,” he said. “Don’t move.”
Matt enjoyed the look on the teacher’s face—one of incredible unease; there would be an inquiry, of course. Donner would be in the hot seat. And the faces of the other boys were equally satisfying: eyes wide in fear or revulsion, mouths hanging loosely open.
Matt opened his own mouth.
And a sound emerged—but not the sound the other boys might have expected. Not a scream, not a wail of pain, not the sound of crying.
No. As Matt looked down at his twisted leg again, he began to laugh, a throaty sound, starting as a bizarre chuckle and then growing louder and more raucous.
He looked back up at the other boys—his teammates, his tormentors—and he continued to laugh.
Some of the boys were backing slowly away now, their faces showing their confusion, their wariness. The damaged leg was bad enough, but this inappropriate laughter was just too darned creepy. They’d always known Sinclair was a little weird, but they’d never have said he was crazy…
They don’t get it, thought Matt. They don’t get it at all. He’d snapped his leg playing football! How cool was that! It was a badge of honor. People would talk about it for years: Matt Sinclair, the guy whose leg got broken on the—yes, he knew the word; it came to him—on the gridiron.
And there was more—wonderfully more. Matt’s brother Alf had broken his leg once, falling off a ladder; Matt knew what was going to happen. He’d have to wear a cast for weeks, or even months. Yes, that would be uncomfortable; yes, it would be awkward. But he welcomed it, because it meant that, at least for a while, he would be excused from the horrors of phys. ed.
That reprieve would be great—but things would be fine after the cast was removed, too. For when he eventually came back to gym class, Matthew Sinclair, football hero, knew he would never be picked last again.