Bobby - 8/25/1998, 10:20 a.m..

Bobby had considered faking sick—or skipping school—but where would he go all day?

Anything but this.

But he couldn’t miss school every day. He’d have to face it, eventually.

It was the second day of the school year, and of P.E. class. The teacher had informed them the day before—showers would be required going forward.

“Bring a towel from home,” Coach Reynolds had said. He was both the physical education teacher and coach of the football team.

This morning, he’d had them running throughout the entire class. Laps, as if they were players on his team.

By the time he blew his whistle, Bobby collapsed supine on the floor, gasping for breath. He wasn’t the only one.

“UP!” Coach Reynolds barked. “Keep moving until your breathing returns to normal.”

Bobby and the others crawled to their feet, reluctantly. He held his hands on top of his head as he walked the perimeter of the gymnasium, taking deep breaths.

“Everyone hit the showers,” Coach said, blowing his whistle.

Only day two. He loved blowing that whistle.

Bobby lingered well past the point of catching his breath. The other boys had streamed into their locker room, and most of the girls into theirs. He noticed two girls lingering, too. That made it worse.

He watched Coach Reynolds through the window to his office—still standing—look up from his desk and move toward the door as he noticed the three of them still in the gym.

Bobby quickly ducked inside.

The locker room smelled of chlorine and disinfectant that could never mask the odor of generations of teenage boys’ sweat.

He kept his eyes on the floor as he found an empty locker in the last row—the quietest. One other boy stood at the far end, already drying off. Otherwise, the row was empty.

He heard laughter and jostling from one row over as he sat on the bench to remove his shoes.

He moved slowly, hoping the showers would empty.

“That’s my locker.”

Bobby had been bent over, removing his left shoe, when the voice came from his right side. As he lifted his gaze, a flaccid penis at eye level stared back at him—inches from his face.

He jumped and slid down the bench reflexively, catching the casual gaze of his classmate, drying his hair, everything hanging out. This boy had no modesty. No shame.

He opened the locker next to Bobby’s, slipped on his underwear, and was dressed and gone by the time Bobby had removed his socks.

He wrapped his towel around his waist, looked around and—seeing nobody—pulled his shorts and underwear down.

The rowdiness in the next row had evaporated. The space had grown quiet.

Bobby crossed the cold tile toward the showers, glancing down the empty rows.

The shower area was one big communal space with multiple showerheads, offering no privacy. He glanced around and hung his towel on a hook before ducking under the water—only briefly enough to get his hair wet and rinse under his armpits.

“You’re gonna be late.”

Coach Reynolds stood there, watching him.

Bobby turned off the water and dashed for his towel.

The alarm—signaling the next period—startled him. He was late.

Worth it.

But he couldn’t be late every day.