Gabriel Baskin

I put on my beekeeper fencing suit, a starchy white jacket with the pits stained yellow, and draw tight its protective thong, until I am snug. I pull my glove out of the bag and smell it: sour curd. The most concentrated sweat smell I’ve ever sniffed. I smell it every time I put it on, just to check and make sure it’s still revolting. Check. Over my head I pull my mask, a dome of stiff mesh wiring, to make sure my face doesn’t get stabbed way up. The protective bib that covers my gobble is green and blue, its conductive metal surface corroded with more sweat. I grab my sword and jump up the stairs to the killing floor.

Someone has popcorn chicken. I wonder if they’ll let me have a bite. Already there are a few pairs dueling. I see Smirking AJ across from Strange Jan: the home-school crew. Soon enough I will face them both, for AJ is my par-strength rival and Jan, though stronger, will usually deign kindly to fight me. Across the room, Gold Connor faces off against Chunky Dominic. Connor’s is our top boy, and his jacket is made of solid gold. He will go on to study finance at Boston University. I do not fence him often, because he always cuts me up so cleanly, like an old butcher, and I can tell that there are other things he’d rather be doing.

So I turn to Round Jerry, who’s shaped like Tweedledee but whose voice barks and face carries a serviceable moustache. I am not so afraid of Jerry. He has a limited strategic palette, and I am now quick enough to undercut his schemes. Every evening free-for-all begins with Jerry’s dispatch at my dry, fourteen-year-old hands. Polish Mark our fencing sensei watches from the door of his corner office. Watches Connor and leaves the rest of us alone. Jewish Ben judges my Jerry-bout. My strategy is to cede territory early and poke Jerry very quickly when he comes rolling towards me like a hairy bowling ball. It works often enough and Jewish Ben proclaims me victor. Then Ben swaps places with Jerry and thrashes me pitilessly.