Some kids were cursed enough to have their lockers located in this torture chamber. Tobias “Tubby” D., my best friend, was one of them.

Before I reached the Trophy Cave, I knew the identity of the assailant. A steady SMACK, SMACK was booming through the hall—the patented sound of Steve Jorgensen-Warner. Steve dribbled a basketball wherever he went. Classes, the cafeteria, the restrooms, the parking lot. Some teachers, coaches mostly, even let him bounce the ball in class to help him concentrate on schoolwork while other students ground their teeth in silent irritation.

Steve, obviously, was not just another student. Yes, he was captain of the basketball squad. And yes, he was the star running back of the football team. That still doesn’t give you a complete picture. He was handsome in the oddest way. His eyes were too small and his nose piggish; he had a ridiculous amount of hair and a couple of teeth that looked like fangs. Yet somehow in combination these features were sort of mesmerizing. His unnatural muscular bulk and odd way of speaking—crisply, politely, as if he were a foreign student who had learned English in a class—completed the strange package. There was nobody else like Steve Jorgensen-Warner. What the teachers didn’t know is that there was also nobody crueler.

A crowd had gathered. I hopped to my tiptoes and saw Tub on his knees, his freckled face beet red, gasping for air around a left-arm half nelson. With his right hand Steve continued with the basketball, simultaneously carrying on an easygoing conversation with one of his teammates. I pushed to the front of the crowd. A runner of spit was hanging from Tub’s bottom lip and he clawed at Steve’s bicep.

“Air,” Tub gasped. “Need…air…for breathing.…”

Steve apologized to his friend for having to pause their pleasant chat and turned his attention back to the overweight sophomore writhing in his grip. Warped fun house reflections of Tub’s face were caught in each burnished bronze plaque, championship cup, and framed photo of young adults lined up in identical jerseys, each of them happier and healthier than my wheezing best friend.

SMACK, SMACK. SMACK, SMACK.

Steve’s fanged smile never touched his eyes.

“You know the deal, Tubby. Five bucks a day. I regret if this wasn’t clear.”

“You were…unbelievably…clear.…”

“Five bucks is a real bargain. I challenge you to find a better deal anywhere.”

“Gave you…all I had…yesterday.…”

“Well, if that’s true, then why aren’t you apologizing?”

“Trachea…crushed…words…difficult…”

“Sorry is such a little word. Why don’t you just say it?”

“Sorry…”

“That sounds halfway genuine, Tubby. Apology accepted. Just have that five bucks by the end of the day and we’ll forgo any further nastiness. Until next time, of course.”

I would have given anything to be the kind of kid who barged from the crowd to push Steve away from my friend. But that fantasy would just get both of us killed. In fact, I began to go in the opposite direction, but it was against the tide of pressing kids and my feet got tangled. I sprawled backward, to my horror, and fell down inside the circle of torture.