TW: mentions of self harm

Man, fuck debate club. While we’re at it, fuck the SATs, and the Common Application, whatever the hell a “brag sheet” is, and all the other nuts and bolts that go into applying to college. And you know, fuck my guidance counselor Ms. Stevens, for telling me I needed to do an extracurricular to “spice up my application”. 

Get this straight, I didn’t choose debate. Well, technically I did, but my other options were either the ensemble in this year’s production of Matilda or a spot on junior varsity color guard, so cut me some slack. Maybe it’s a little cult-y, and the faculty advisor is the head of the English department and simultaneously the bane of my existence, but I was pretty confident in my abilities meet twice a week and argue about school uniforms or whatever. Beats flag twirling any day. 

So, one quick email exchange with Mr. Lester later, and I’m on the team. The shit I got from my friends was relentless. 

“Dude, no fucking way you’re joining debate club.” 

“I heard they have sleepovers and shit.” 

“Mr. Moe-Lester definitely hooks up with Lucy Vanderwall whenever they go to tournaments.” 

Alright, yes, my friends are dicks, but dicks with a point, if we’re being fair. Also dicks with good grades and sports and extracurriculars who don’t need to join a club to add meat to their bare-bones applications. 

Tuesday after school, I make my way down to Lester’s classroom. I’m three minutes late, but the rest of the team is already there, fawning around Mr. Lester’s desk, chattering away. I clear my throat, and the room falls silent immediately. Five pairs of eyes lock with mine. 

Mr. Lester, of course. He’s trying to grow a beard, but it’s not working out for him. It looks weird, like his chin sprouted a couple of hairs before giving up altogether, with scattered wisps across down his jawline and across his chin. There’s David Clark, the Mormon™, crossing his arms over his chest. My buddy Scott spread a rumor last year that his dad had six wives. Pretty funny shit. There’s Andrew Dougherty, who was homeschooled up to sophomore year never quite assimilated into public school. River Mason, whose name is fucking River, so that about sums it up. And finally, Lucy Vanderwall, who looks like a nice cross between an anorexic young Anne Hathaway and Linda Belcher, large red glasses nearly hanging off her nose. 

Mr. Lester breaks the silence. 

“Ah, Shane. Welcome! We’re happy to have you here.” 

“Yeah,” I say. “Hi, guys.” 

“Hi Shane,” Andrew nearly whispers. I give him a nod and what I hoped was a friendly smile. The rest of the team doesn’t comment, until Mr. Lester claps his hands together and grins. 

“Alright, folks, let’s take a seat! Want to start today’s meeting today with a quick review of our holy trinity.” Lester dramatically places a hand to his ear and beckons his audience. “Can we remind Shane what they are?” 

“Logos, ethos, pathos.” The answer is in unison, a chorus of almost robotic voices. I lock eyes for a moment with Lucy Vanderwall, who immediately looks back up at the chalkboard. 

Okay, holy trinity, kind of weird but I went to Church a few times so this should be fine. 

I let my mind wander through Lester’s explanations, resisting the urge to check my phone under my thigh or let my eyes rest too long. Suddenly, Lester’s snapping his fingers in front of me, and I flinch, head snapping up from where it was nearly lulling on my chest. The rest of the group breaks into a quiet laughter, exchanging looks over each other as I gather my bearings. I find Mr. Lester’s face, smiling softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. His breath smells like tuna. 

“I asked you, Shane,” he says, placing a hand on my desk, “if you were in the mood for a little friendly debate? It’s sort of, um…” Lester sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. “A little fun initiation. We just haven’t had a new member in, well…” 

“Since River joined last year,” David jumps in. 

“Since River joined last year,” Mr. Lester parrots. “C’mon, Shane, give it a try.” 

“Uh, alright, I guess,” I stammer. The debate club gives me a smatter of applause, as Lester gestures for me to rise to my feet, leading me to the front of the classroom. This is weird. And bad. But it’s not as bad as doing a fucking Irish jig on stage in a scholboy’s uniform, or waving around a ribbon in front of the entire football field. That’s what I keep telling myself as I shuffle to the front of the room and shove my hands in my pockets. 

“Alright,” Mr. Lester says, clapping his hands together. Christ, he does that a lot. 

“Alright, so our debate for today -- should Shane cut off his pinky toe, or carve my name into his thigh?” 

“I’m sorry,” I sputter, “what?” 

Lucy’s immediately waving her hand in the air. “Ooh, ooh, Mr. Lester, can I argue for the thigh?” 

Lester beams at her. “So eager!” he teases. “Get on up here, Luce.” 

I would have been very creeped out by the flirtation in Lester’s voice if I was not already reeling from his previous statement. “Wait wait wait,” I say, putting my hands in the air, “I’m not really following, what are we debating?” 

Lucy gives me a smile as she stands on the other side of the chalkboard. Lester steps back, sits in the desk that I was in moments before. 

“You’re arguing for the toe removal, Shane. Why it would be better to amputate your toe than to carve my name into your leg.” 

David snickers. “He got the shitty side,” he whispers to River, who tries and fails to hold back his chuckles. 

“While some may not understand its importance due to its small size,” Lucy starts, “the pinky toe is actually extremely valuable in a person’s dexterity. It --” 

“Okay, um, I think I’m out,” I say, but as I turn towards the door, Andrew, David, and River assemble like a fucking SWAT team, positioning themselves in front of the exit. As I reach to nudge David aside, he shoves me, hard, so hard that I stumble into the desk behind me. 

Lucy sounds bored. “Can I continue, please?” 

“David, fucking move,” I say. I can feel the panic rising in my throat. I don’t know if this is some sick hazing or weird fucking tradition or some fucked up joke or what, but all of the sudden dancing in the ensemble sounds a whole lot more appealing. I shake my head wildly and barrel towards the door, when something sharp pricks me in the forearm. I cry out and step back, watching red drops of blood spill from the new puncture wound right below my elbow. When I look back up, the first thing I see is the slick red stain on River’s blade, and my breath catches in my throat. 

River adjusts his grip around the knife. “Don’t do anything stupid, Shane. Go fight your side.” 

I turn back towards Lester and Lucy. “Is this a prank? This isn’t really fucking funny. I need -- you need to --” 

“Can I shoot him yet?” David intervenes. I pale, spinning around to face him. 

“David!” Lester admonishes. “No one is getting shot, Jesus Christ.” 

“As long as you participate, Shane,” he adds on after a moment. “Your partner is waiting. I’d suggest you come finish what we started.” 

Lucy’s tapping her foot impatiently, and Lester gives her the go ahead to continue.

“As I was saying,” she drawls, giving me a look of heavy discontent, “the pinky toe is extremely valuable. It is nearly essential in both balance and propulsion. Without it, walking would be much more difficult, and Shane would have trouble staying balanced. It would be in his best interest to instead choose the cutting, as while there would be a scar, there would be no permanent damage to his mobility.” 

Lester nods at her approvingly. “Shane? Rebuttal?” 

“A… a what?” My mouth goes dry, and I keep sneaking glances back to the guarded door. 

“Rebuttal,” Lestrer repeats. “Counterargument? Why Lucy’s wrong.” 

My heart is pounding so fast I can feel it in my head. I swallow hard. 

“Uh, well, I could, like, bleed out?” 

“Unlikely,” Lucy chirps, and I want to punch this bitch in the face. “As long as the cut isn’t too deep and first aid is administered, the chances of bleeding to death are slim to none.” 

“Yeah, well,” I turn to her. “Having Lester’s fucking name on my leg is really fucking weird and borderline pedophilia, so how about that for a rebuttal?” 

“When you use pathos, Shane,” Lester interrupts, “you still need to maintain an air of composure.” 

“An air of -- no, screw this shit, I’m leaving.” 

I turn for the door once more, but River’s pointing that knife at me again, and David flashes a glint of something metal from his waistband. I turn back to Lester and Lucy, the latter giving me a look of utter disapproval, like she didn’t have the chance to finish all of her points about the benefits of keeping your pinky toe. 

“All done, Shane?” Lester asks softly. 

“Yes. Yes, I’m all done. Can I leave now?” 

Lester smacks his hands together, and this time it makes me flinch. 

“Well, that was an enthralling, albeit, short debate,” Lester says. “I think we can agree Lucy is the winner here, right?” 

A smattering of applause from the group. “Yeah, Luce,” River cheers, maneuvering to tuck the knife in his pocket so he can clap. 

“Awesome, congrats, can I leave now?” I want to move towards the door again, but the glint in David’s waistband holds me back. David’s smiling. He knows I’m looking at it. 

River steps towards me, and I freeze, eyes tracking the knife as he slips it from his pocket. He does something I don’t expect. 

River hands me the knife. 

“Alright, Shane,” Lester says. “I think we can about wrap this up. My name is pretty easy, right? L-E-S --"

“Oh no,” I say, shaking my head frantically. “Oh, no, fuck no. I’m not actually --” 

“Be grateful,” Lucy says, smiling widely. “At least you keep your toe. Andrew lost his last semester.” 

Andrew sheepishly shrugs and shows his hands in surrender as David playfully elbows him in the ribs. 

“No, no I’m not… I’m not doing that, I --” 

“Shane,” David says, “I got, like, dinner with my grandma in half an hour, we gotta wrap this up.” 

“No--” 

“Christ, Shane,” Lester barks. It makes me jump, the knife nearly falling out of my hand. “I’ve been trying very hard to stay patient with you, but you’re testing me. Do it, now.” He gestures to David, who now pulls the gun from his waist, toying with it. Lester sighs. 

“I assure you, the alternative is much worse.” 

“I can’t,” I yell, “I won’t!” 

And all of the sudden, Lester’s grabs me by the shoulder and all but shoves me to the floor. The knife falls out of my hand and hits the floor with a clatter. The debate team moves like a well-oiled machine. River scoops the knife off the floor. David looms above my head, the barrel of the gun pointed right between my eyes. I try to scream, and Andrew shoves something in my mouth, something that tastes like sweat and grime, and moves to pin down my legs, as Lester nearly puts his full body weight on my shoulders, pinning me to the floor. Lucy just watches, pushing her blood-red glasses up her nose as if to get a better look. 

River hikes up my basketball shorts, and then there is the pain. 

My screams are muffled into the gag. Andrew is strong, holding me down into place as River sloppily cuts. Each letter is worse than the last, and the sting is so strong I can feel my own pulse. Finally, after the downward stroke of R, River is done, rocking back on his heels. 

“Don’t scream,” Andrew says, letting go of my leg. He slowly removes the gag from my mouth, and Lester unpeels himself from my torso, helping me to sit up. I feel something cold on the nape of my neck, and can hear David’s heavy breath behind me. That Mormon fucker. 

I stare down at my bleeding leg, blood still bubbling to the surface. It’s upside down, but there’s no mistaking it. In jagged, snagged letters, carved into my thigh -- 

LESTER. 

I don’t realize I’m crying until Lucy appears beside me, gently wiping my tears with a tissue. 

“Don’t cry, Shane,” she says. Her voice sounds marginally more gentle than it did during the debate minutes before. “The first time is always the worst.” 

I nearly choke on my words. “The first --” 

Lucy rolls up her sleeves, and I gasp. Her arms are absolutely mottled with scars. Circular cigarette burns, names and numbers carved with different tools, in different handwriting. Her finger runs over a particularly deep set of scars on her bicep, raised and puckered.

LESTER. 

She giggles at my open mouthed, appalled expression. “You haven’t even seen my feet.” 

David calls out above me. “Hey, Mr. Lester, mind if I leave? I do gotta make dinner with my Grandma, she’ll yell at me if I’m late.” Lester must have given him a nod of approval, because I no longer feel the cold metal on my neck, and David’s breath grows softer, the door slamming shut behind him. 

Lucy rolls back down her sleeves as someone presses a towel to my bleeding leg. I catch my reflection in her glasses, new tears and snot running down my face. 

“This is how we do it, Shane. We set real stakes.” 

I can only stare at her as she blots under my eyes.

“It’s why we always win.”