Beatty & The Beast

ELEVEN: Where the Beast Strikes Back

Some days later, still late January

Coach Proppato's hernia must have been acting up again, because he was in a spectacular mood, Keefe thought as he made his way up the bleachers for the bajillionth time.

The coach had decided that the event of fifth period physical education would be sprinting up and down the rickety wooden gymnasium bleachers for the entire class period. Though VHS's bleachers were not as tall or involved as ones in bigger schools, they still felt like Everest when one had to run up and down them for an entire fifty minute period.

If Coach Proppato had any hopes of getting onto Keefe's list of All-Time Awesomely Cool People, he was going to be sorely disappointed. Even Oscar had referred to him as "Captain Butt-Wipe of Bad Mood Island," and he kept that name reserved for only the highest offenders.

When class was finally over, the boys were so disgustingly sweaty they all took showers, something that didn't happen often because, well, it was weird to take a shower at school.

Since there were only three shower stalls in the locker room, Keefe had to wait his turn. And since he had a peculiar and compulsive fear of showering in the locker room, Keefe had to wait until every one of his classmates were well out of the showering area. Once it was clear, he quickly went through the motions, not only because he was running out of time before the bell rang but also because he was getting the heebie-jeebies from the whole public shower idea. Something he'd have to get over come fall, he thought sadly, when he'd probably end up in a dorm with communal showers.

"Remember to buy flip flops," he mumbled, adding to his mental list of what to buy for college. Then he tried not to think about what his bare feet could possibly be contracting from the aged tile floor at this particular moment.

He sped out of the shower and noticed the locker room was quiet. The other guys must have moved back into the gym to await their dismissal. He went to the bench where he had left his gym clothes and found nothing. Just a plain old bench. No clothes in sight.

Keefe gave a sigh, tightening the towel around his waist. "We're doing that today, huh?"

He made his way from the showers to the locker area, ignoring the stale smell of sweat and urine that was typical of the place.

"Osco, you rascal," he called, his voice echoing off the cement and filling the empty room. "I don't think we have time for this. The bell's going to ring any second."

Oscar didn't make a peep.

"Osco, I'm going to start believing those 'Oscar has a crush on Keefe' suspicions I've been having lately," Keefe chirped as he looked around the corner of their lockers only to find no trace of Oscar. He let out another sigh.

Perhaps Oscar had just been a pal and taken his gym clothes back to his locker – to await their future laundering – before he returned to the gymnasium. Keefe felt a tiny pang of guilt. Here he was, thinking the worst of his buddy, and for all he knew he had done a nice gesture.

Possible, but doubtful, Keefe mused. He probably wouldn't see his gym clothes for a week or so, which meant he'd have to borrow some and really tick off Coach Proppato, which was always fun. Keefe grinned. At least he had his normal clothes.

He stepped up to the locker, tightening the towel around his waist when it slipped a little, and began spinning the combination into the lock. This was another reason why he didn't like taking a shower at school: practical jokes were prevalent and usually left you wandering around in a towel. He finished the combination and lifted the tab, opening the locker and halting the minute his eyes fell on the contents.