Your Bruise

Jeremy thought nothing of it when Matt Beasle was the first in his class to receive his bruise. It was an event for him and his fellow third graders to revel in, but no one seemed to be worried about their own bruising.

Jeremy remembered feeling this the day Matt peeled off his shirt in the locker room at the request of the other boys. It was beautiful. From the top of his right shoulder blade down to the small of his back, the bruise was a delicate blend of purples, blues, with an occasional red creeping up where the blood vessels had burst. The tissue had risen off his skin in pockets and bubbles, and the light from the locker room's fluorescent bulbs made it shine like a trophy. Matt stood on top of a bench with his back to the boys, his arms up above his head in a Herculean pose.

"How'd you get it?" asked one of the boys, just to hear the story again.

"It was an accident," explained Matt, grinning over his good shoulder. "My dad was fixing part of our roof, and I was playing outside. He must not have done a good job with those whatchacallems . . . shingles? Anyway, a whole pack fell off and landed right on me. They say if the pressure had been a little greater, it could've burst my lung."

"Did it hurt?" asked the boy.

"Kind of."

"Didn't you cry?" asked Jeremy.

"Hell, no! I'm not a baby!"

"You are so lucky!" said the first boy.

"I know."

Luck turned into fate for most of Jeremy's classmates over the next few years. Everyone started to get their own bruises, and Jeremy watched with anticipation every time. There was a desire, a need to achieve the same thing Matt had, accident or not.

Some would happen on family vacations or at summer camps, like Anthony Fries who was tripped on a lakeside swim dock and developed a tight, swollen patch of discoloration high up his left arm. Most kids got them at home, and a few got them right there at school. Typical bruises were visible during the day—black eyes and swollen jaws, small mushroom caps of purple sprouting up the forearms. Some kids, like Colin Brie who lived on Jeremy's block, took it in the legs despite how hard it was for them to walk afterwards. Your parents made the choice. During those years, there wasn't one bruise Jeremy didn't gush over at some point. He knew everyone's story, everyone's bruise. Jeremy became an encyclopedia, almost an authority on bruises.

The problem was that Jeremy himself was a late bloomer. He was small, unathletic, and unagressive. Qualities such as these didn't help you prepare for your bruise. Year after year, Jeremy's parents would look down at him and say, "Just another year to fill out, toughen up . . . that's all you need." Every year their argument became less and less convincing. They started to become protective of their son, never leaving him alone to fend for himself.

It became clear to Jeremy that his parents would never touch him, and, worst of all, Jeremy wouldn't dare bruise himself. Children would bother him on the playground, taunt him. "Just do it! Jump off the top of the slides! Pick a fight, even! We'll give it to you!" All Jeremy would say was "No."

Instead, he waited. He waited and watched and studied to make his bruise perfect, and the longer this went on, the less his parents and classmates would believe he'd ever be ready. Before long, his authority diminished from that of a judge to that of a misfit, obsessive and strange.

By seventh grade, most of the class had been separated into teams based on their grades, activities, and, most importantly, their bruise. Upkeep became a major hygiene concern for most. Up and down the hallways, you'd see kids throwing themselves into lockers or...