《Bulletproof》


 Prologue: Tyler

    Everything is much slower in the circle.


    It feels like time itself just stops and gives me the chance to finally see for the first time. It''s in these moments when I notice the things that can change the outcome of this fight from losing with a bloody nose to winning with a swollen eye.


    I prefer to go with the latter.


    I first see my opponent. He''s large¡ªbigger than me¡ªand has the stance of a bull. He''s ready to charge but isn''t adaptable enough to be able to veer off once his direction is decided. That''s an advantage. Next, I see how fast he''s breathing. Fast breaths could mean one of two things; he''s excited or he''s nervous. The Bull in front of me isn''t nervous though, not in the slightest. His lips are curled into a smug grin and his nostrils flare as he thinks he''s breathing in the air of victory.


    He looks at me¡ªa smaller boy, younger¡ªand thinks he has the win right in the palm of his hand already. The Bull thinks that his muscles are his advantage, his size is his strength and his intimidation will make me back away.


    He doesn''t know how wrong he really is.


    The chanting runs through me then. It''s like a praise. A calling. A promise. Everyone standing around the Bull and me, forming a circle, cheers, screams and yells for their decided winner. The shouts run through me and turn into adrenaline. It''s a rush, a burst of excitement and it''s the one thing that keeps me coming back every time, when I know I should finally walk away for good.


    They don''t yell my name though. No one yells it. No one knows it. Within these walls I am hidden, protected, unknown. That''s the way I need it to be¡ªthe way I like it. Within these walls I can do anything, say anything and be anything without it affecting me once I walk out the door.


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    I can''t tell yet if that''s a good thing or a bad thing. Living two different lives. Telling two different lies.


    At first this was a way for me to release anger. The anger that was pent up so deep within me that it was destroying and killing everything in its path. It wormed its way inside, feasting on my thoughts and hollowing out my chest.


    Fighting underground was the one way I could get out. And I glowed in it. At first, I was an idiot, thinking I could take down my opponent without any thought of training. I just ran at him, hands clenched into fists. I ended up on the ground with a broken nose and a throbbing hand. After that, I got smart.


    After that, time began to slow down seconds before the fight started. That is my advantage. I don''t have the build or muscle power compared to the older guys that walk in. I tried to become as big as them, but my age went against me. So, I use the things that they don''t think about using when their mind is running with their fists.


    I analyze them, pick out their faults, tamper with their insecurities and find their weak spot. Once I find that weak spot, I can take them down in seconds.


    Just like a bullet.


    That is what they call me. That''s the word they chant and call out when I enter the circle. Not my birth name. Not the name bleeding with my true nature. Bullet. The mask I hide behind and the identity that protects me.


    The Bull stands on the opposite side of the circle, rolling his shoulders back and forth to release the tension. His hands are wrapped up around the knuckles just like mine. The tips of my fingers tense from the cold air in the room that slowly begins to heat up from everyone''s body temperature. My bare chest moves up and down slowly as I take long, deep breaths.


    I feel people push at my back, cheering me on as I take one step forward, my feet hitting the concrete floor that separates me from the Bull. The larger man takes a step forward too and then there is only about six feet between us. I look up at him and he stares at me with an incredulous smile as if to ask me what the hell I''m doing here. As if to say, I''m a kid trying to live in a man''s world.


    And maybe I am.


    The chants get louder and the next second someone yells ''fight!'' and then the Bull is charging. I square my shoulders and do what I do best . . . become a bullet. And then I look right at his weak spot, aim and fire.

 1: Franny

    Mr Dalton is a mean, sadistic, rude little man who preys on the weak and feasts on the helpless.


    Of course, today is no exception.


    He drops the giant pile of pop quizzes on his desk with a loud thud that cuts through the noise of the rest of the students talking. I look up from my notebook where I had been drawing random circles and lines, coloring them in messily and wasting most of the ink in my pen.


    "Morning." Mr Dalton smiles cheerily. For such a happy man he really does punish his students unreasonably. "It''s one of those days again. Pop Quiz Thursday...on a Tuesday."


    "I''m pretty sure the only day we don''t have a pop quiz is Thursday," my friend, Tally, mutters from the seat beside me, twirling a strand of her ginger hair around a long finger.


    I squint a little at her choice of nail polish, noticing how the pink clashes completely with her bright ginger hair and pale green eyes.


    "I thought we made a unanimous decision about pink really not being your colour," I say in the nicest way possible.


    Tally glances at me from the corner of her eye as she slouches in her seat, knees up and pressed against the front of the desk. "I ran out of the red and you know that I barely have any nail polish, so I had to go raid my mom''s drawer otherwise I''d start biting my nails again."


    "How did that work out for you?" I ask.


    Tally raises her hands that are covered in bright pink polish and I wince. "My mom has an addiction to the colour pink. I should have seen it coming to be honest. I mean her closet is terrifying. Who knew there were so many shades of pink?"


    "You should write a book about it," I snicker. "Fifty Shades of Pink. The brand new erotica by Tally Archer. Which shade will they use today?"


    "You''re hilarious," Tally deadpans, as Mr Dalton comes closer to us, handing out the pop quizzes. "Honestly."


    "I try my best," I say, winking.


    Mr Dalton comes to a stop at our desks. The classroom is sectioned into rows, each with two desks clumped together as a pair. My desk is pressed up against the wall, under a World War II poster that keeps falling down onto my head and stabbing me in the eye. Tally''s desk is right beside mine and there''s only one row behind us.


    "Francesca." Mr Dalton hands me a pop quiz, "I hope you took my advice and started to study your notes every night. It will do you the world of good."


    "Of course I have," I say with a smile. "Every night. I''ve been right on it."


    "Well then this quiz will sure be a test of your studying abilities," he says and places the quiz down on my desk before walking off to hand the rest out.


    "Why did I say that?" I ask. "Now he probably expects me to be a genius."


    "I wouldn''t push it that far," Tally says.


    I narrow my eyes at the side of her head and sigh before flipping the paper over. I write my name, knowing it''s one thing that I will actually get right. I put the date too, just in case that gives me some sort of brownie points. I glance at the first question and I can''t help it when my forehead creases in confusion. I turn, poking Tally relentlessly in the arm.


    Her hand is moving quickly, scribbling down word after word and I just stare at her, dumbfounded. She stops and looks over at me with a mix of annoyance and confusion. "What?"


    "When did we learn this?" I ask.


    "Yesterday. This is literally all of yesterday''s notes. It''s a fill-in-the-blanks exercise. Just guess." Tally shrugs and begins to write again.


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    "I can''t just guess," I hiss. "Mr Dalton will know for sure that I''m stupid now."


    Tally snickers under her breath. "Franny, he''s always known you''re stupid."


    I glower at her. "Thank you for that touching moral support. Really. Couldn''t have done it without you."


    Tally doesn''t answer and I look back down at the quiz feeling the weight of my stupidity hit me full on. I flick my pen back and forth against the paper until the boy in front of me turns around and shoots me a glare. I slowly stop and place the pen down, holding my hands up to him.


    "Touchy," I mutter under my breath in the same second that Tally places her pen down and sighs happily. I glance over and see that her whole page, front and back, is filled out perfectly, with her name and the date in the top corner.


    I suddenly have the urge to pity myself.


    Tally moves her pen out of the way and slides the paper towards me slightly, letting it sit on the crack between our desks. I frown and look up at her questioningly, but she just smiles and looks pointedly over at Mr Dalton, who is by his desk, writing stuff down, paying no attention.


    ''Thank you'' I mouth to her and quickly pick my pen up, scribbling down the words that Tally wrote.


    A part of me realizes that I can''t go through school doing this. Eventually I''m going to have to actually study the work during the school year and not just the night before the final exam. But another part realizes that it''s just a pop quiz, and Mr Dalton doesn''t take them for marks anyway, so what real damage am I doing?


    I write down the last word on the first page and when I flip the paper over, I notice the classroom door opening slowly. The whole class looks up as someone enters. Someone appears at the entrance, backpack slung over one shoulder, wearing a black leather jacket with a blue, unbuttoned plaid shirt poking out at the rim that is hanging over a white shirt that just peeks out from beneath. The boy closes the door behind him and the familiar face of Tyler Madden stares back at Mr Dalton.


    His hair is dark - almost pure black - spiked on top, then tapered in the back. His skin is pale, but not white enough to make the pinkness of his lips become too bold.


    "Madden," Mr Dalton murmurs without looking up from his papers. "You''re late...again."


    The corners of Tyler''s lips curve up slightly. "Fashionably."


    "I''m sure," Mr Dalton says and reaches his hand out to pass Tyler a Pop Quiz. "You have five minutes to do the whole thing."


    Tyler rolls his eyes. He hikes his bag further up his shoulder, makes his way past Mr Dalton''s desk and up the aisle closest to my desk. He walks past Tally''s desk and heaves himself down onto the desk directly behind mine. People finally look away, and for a moment - it''s silent.


    Everybody knows Tyler even though he''s a touchy subject around most people. He used to be extremely popular, mostly because he was captain of the football team. He was also smart - hellishly smart - and most people made it their life''s goal to get him to tutor them. The fact he had the brains and the looks helped immensely.


    But then that stopped. It was like someone had snapped their fingers in Tyler''s face and the light had died. He was gone for a week and the next thing we know, he''s quit the football team and he walks into class late, with a broken nose, his face swollen and discolored from the injury.


    It''s safe to say that he was the talk of the entire school for weeks after that. Once his nose finally healed up, he began to get little bruises here and there that people noticed. A discoloration on his cheek, a swelling in his eye, a limp to his walk or scabbed-over cuts on his knuckles.


    That was last year when we were all juniors. Now we''re seniors and there''s less bruising. He barely comes to school with a limp and the most we see is a faint bruise on his cheek or his abdomen (that I accidentally once saw when he stretched and his shirt rose).


    A chair scrapes against the floor, cutting off my thoughts, and most of the class, including myself, look back to see Tyler hooking his foot under the chair beside his own, pulling it closer. The metal legs press down on the floor, making it squeal and screech in protest. I wince. Tyler finally lets the chair go and throws his feet up on top of it. He looks up and raises an eyebrow as if to say, what? But there''s this amusement in his face, this deep-seated amusement that makes me think that he knows exactly what he''s doing: he''s just trying to get a rise, make a reaction, play with people long enough, until they finally snap at him.


    It''s a cynical little game playing round and round in his head. I have the sudden wish to want to see into his head, know what possesses him to want to do that, to play with people and irritate them.


    I don''t realize I''ve been staring much longer than everyone else, until Tyler''s eyes glance over to mine and he catches me in his gaze. He looks at me as if it''s the first time he''s seen me, and his indifference towards anyone in the class makes me think that it actually is the first time he''s seeing me.


    And boy, does he look at me.


    His eyes narrow slightly, not hostile, but inquisitive. He notices me looking right back at him. He looks at me like he''s never seen anyone like me. But it doesn''t feel like he''s just looking at me, the outer body. It feels like he''s looking right through into me - as if he understands me. That sends a cold chill sweeping down my spine.


    I turn around and look down at my desk, my hands clenched against the sides of my chair. I decide that I don''t like the way Tyler looks at me. Not one bit.

 2: Tyler

    My abdomen feels sore and the fabric of my clothing brushing up against it every few seconds makes me flinch and the wound underneath hurts more. When I came home from the fight last night, I climbed up the long thick lines of ivy that reach my bedroom window. It''s risky and a bit of a strain to get to the rim of my window, but it''s the only way to get back inside without my parents knowing.


    They think I''ve stopped.


    They think running off and going into the underground fighting circuit was just a quick phase and that I''m now safe and clear of any other problems. They think that I''m now normal¡ªfixed. They don''t know that I keep going back, that a few nights a week I find myself within the confines of a human circle as another person stands opposite me, waiting to punch.


    Sometimes I want to scream at my parents. They think it''s easy. That you start fighting, lose your way a little and then get thrown on the right track and that''s it. No catch. But there''s always a catch. And right now, I''m living with that catch looming over me.


    The bell to go to second period had just gone and now people are everywhere, milling around the hallways, mingling around lockers. The sound of metal on metal grates my bones. I come out at the end of the hallway, standing by a large window that nearly reaches the entire length of the wall. I lean my arm on the railing and stare out at the little droplets of rain falling lightly to the ground, passing through the trees on their way.


    The front pocket of my jeans vibrates, and I flinch briefly before reaching down and snatching my phone out of my pocket. I press the main button and the screen lights up, showing a new text message from Ethan.


    I''m in the parking lot. We need to talk now.


    I look up, my eyes scouting through the cars parked in the school''s lot until I see him, leaning up against his motorbike. His phone is in his hand and he''s watching me from across the large expanse of the parking lot.


    I sigh as the second bell rings and the hallways become deserted. I''m about to slide my phone back into my pocket when another message comes through, from Ethan again.


    Now.


    I place the phone in my pocket and don''t look back at him as I shove my shoulder against the door to the stairwell, budging it open. I take the stairs quickly, my annoyance showing in my strides. I come out at the bottom and open the back door that leads directly to the parking lot. Little droplets of rain spit down on me as I walk across the terrain until I''m standing directly in front of Ethan.


    His blond hair is spiked up and his tall body is hunched in on itself a little. He''s wearing a dark brown shirt and light, denim jeans. He crosses his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow at me. Ethan is one year older, just out of high school and not doing anything worth a damn.


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    "You''re quitting," he says simply. It''s not a question or an accusation, just a plain observation.


    I look at him and let out the little breath I have been holding in. "Who told you?"


    "No one needed to tell me directly, Tyler," Ethan says with a little more bitterness in his voice this time, "everyone knows. Everyone''s talking about it."


    I shrug. "It''s not a bad thing."


    "How old did you tell them you were when you first started fighting, Ty?" Ethan asks.     "Huh? Did you say you were eighteen?"


    "Stop it, Ethan," I say. "Everything''s fine."


    "You can''t just leave," he says. "You know that. You can''t just stop fighting. Not with a boss like Carl constantly hovering over your back."


    "Is that what you came to tell me?" I ask. "You came to tell me what I already know?"


    Ethan sighs and runs a hand down the side of his face. "You''re a weak link now, Tyler. People know you want to get out of the circuit. In their eyes, you''re now weak and vulnerable and an easy target in a fight. So you need to make sure that you''re not what they see you as. You need to be strong. Stronger than usual."


    I look down, kicking my feet into the ground and watching little rocks trip their way across the surface.


    "Because now there''s nothing stopping them from tearing you apart," he says. "And they will."


    "Don''t you have any faith in me?" I ask with a little humorless chuckle. "I could easily tear them apart, too."


    Ethan just looks at me, his lips quirking up at the corners. He glances over to the football field. The sun is peeking down onto the field, warming skin, a respite from the rain earlier.


    "You''re always so confident, Madden." He shakes his head. "That could either make you or break you."


    "Well then let''s hope it makes me," I say. "That all you wanted to tell me? I''m kind of in the middle of school."


    Ethan laughs, which makes his shoulders shake a little as he turns around and grabs his black helmet from the top of his bike. "Since when did you give a crap about school?"


    I don''t answer and just take a step back as Ethan slides the helmet over his head, pushing his hair up until it is confined underneath the tight armor. He hooks his leg round the motorbike and sits down, starting up the engine. The bike is narrow, with skinny tires that have deep grooves running down them. It''s a sports bike, of course--bike racing has been Ethan''s main pastime since getting out of school.


    He''s trying to make a name for himself and slowly he''s getting there. He doesn''t see though how violent and dangerous it is. But then again if I even bother trying to tell him so, he would just call me a hypocrite. I fight in an underground fighting circuit that has definitely not been accepted by any sports board.


    I''m not in any place to tell Ethan what to do. We''re both in the same area when it comes to our less-than-safe hobbies.


    Ethan kicks the stand up and the bike is now solely in his hands as he balances it on the ground. He thinks for a second, hesitating for a bit. Before he drives away, he lifts his hands and pulls his helmet off. He looks at me, his eyes narrowing a little. "Be careful, yeah?"


    Ethan doesn''t usually show that he actually worries or gives a damn, so to hear those words takes me aback, but I nod anyway. "Yeah," I say dumbly. "You too."


    Ethan nods, slides his helmet back on and then he''s gone, driving away from the school and off down the main road. The sound of his bike carries down the street and I put my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket, sighing.


    The sun blinds me as I look out over at the football field. I walk over, my shoulders hunched as I look at everyone playing football. I recognize them immediately. It''s the boys I used to play with. The boys who were on my team, the boys who had my back no matter what.


    Now where is that?


    Shoved onto the ground and stomped on until it became a part of the dirt.