MAKE US TOUGH

    Frankie Newton straddled his bike and stared down at the makeshift ramp that stood in the street about five yards
away. The boys had thrown it together with two cinder blocks and a piece of treated plywood. It had taken Frankie all
afternoon to find the nerve to attempt this stunt, but I knew it was George Millard and not courage that pushed him on.

“Come on,” George said. “I ain’t got all day.”

George was twice our age, and where our bodies were stringy and frail, his was bulging with muscles. His biceps and
forearms boasted a tapestry of snakes, daggers and skulls. And we knew those arms well because he beat on us daily.
He had us convinced that it was the only way to manhood. And we wanted to be men, so he handed down the
punishment with a tight fist and sadistic glee.

“Quit it George,” Frankie said. “It hurts.”

Thick fingers pulled at the little hairs on the back of Frankie’s neck lifting the small boy off his heels.

“Quit it. Stop.”

George let go and said, “Then do it, you little wuss. ”

“It’s too high,” Frankie said. “I can’t.”

“Shit,” George said as he marched toward the ramp. The white tank top that he wore accentuated his simian physique.
Sitting there, watching the way he moved, I hoped that one day I would look like him. I wanted to push other boys to the
ground and crush soda cans against my forehead.

“Here,” George said as he removed one cinder block from the ramp. It was considerably lower. “Even my grandma could
jump this shit now.”

Frankie stared at the ramp and then looked to us for advice. I told him to go ahead because it was barely higher than
the curb.

“Do it without wrecking,” George said. “And I’ll never pick on you again.”

“I’ll do it,” said Little Tommy raising his hand. He was the youngest of us all. There was a purple bruise the size of silver
dollar on his thigh where George had punched him a few days ago.

“Not you, cry baby,” George said. “Only Frankie.”

Frankie’s cheeks were flushed and his lower lip was puffed out over his chin. I could tell that he didn’t trust the older boy.

“If I do it,” Frankie said. “You won’t hit me no more?”

George held out his hand to shake. “Long as you don’t wreck fuck face.”

Frankie reluctantly shook his hand, but when he tried to pull it away, George tightened his grip.

“Let go. It hurts.”

George laughed as he watched the boy massage his fingers. That will teach him I thought. I never shook hands with him
after that first time he practically crushed my fingers together.

“Just hit it straight on, Frankie,” I said. “Right up the middle.”

“And keep your eyes open this time,” Joey added.

The jump wasn’t much of a feat, but Frankie had some serious bad luck when it came to doing stunts. I didn’t blame him
for being scared, especially after what happened last summer when he attempted to ride his bike down into the lime
stone pit. That was the first time I ever saw one of my friends get taken away in an ambulance.

Frankie pedaled further down the street to get a good start. The boys followed and lined up behind him. I stayed back
and watched as George went over to adjust the plywood on the jump.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Nothing,” George said.

The boys cheered as Frankie took off. His skinny legs pumped the pedals with the intensity of two popsicle sticks. His
eyes were open, but squeezed tight as he braced for that uncertain moment when his tires left the ground.

“C’mon Frankie,” I said under my breath. “You can do it.”

His front tire hit the ramp perfectly in the center, but something went wrong. Something went terribly wrong and it
shouldn’t have, because he did everything right. He lined his tire up with the center of the ramp, he held his handlebars
straight, his body was up off the seat, and most importantly, his eyes were open. Yet something went wrong. The ramp
collapsed and his front tire plowed into that heavy cinderblock and Frankie went flying over the handlebars with his
hands out in front of him and his legs spread wide.

I turned my head right before he hit the ground because I couldn’t bear to see him get hurt again. Not after last summer,
the thought of all that blood pouring out of his forehead still makes my shoulders quiver.

When I looked back, I saw a malicious grin on George’s face. “You jerk,” I said. “You did that on purpose.”

George took a couple of quick steps toward me. I tried to back away, but he grabbed a handful of the tender skin
between my underarm and chest. His fingers dug into my flesh until the pain paralyzed me. I took a breath, but my lungs
seemed to choke on the air.

“You say anything,” George said. “I swear I’ll kill you. You hear me? I’ll fucking kill you for real.”

My skin burned and tears were thick in my eyes. I tried to hold them back, but the sight of Frankie rocking in the street
with his cheek to his knee caused those salty droplets to repel down my cheeks.

Everybody thought I was crying for Frankie. That I was crying because his elbow was scraped and his knee looked like
somebody had taken a cheese grader to it. But I was also crying because George had shown me a side of himself that I
never knew existed. It was a dark side that I would never forget.

“He’ll be all right,” George said. “Get him off the street before he gets run the fuck over.”

Joey and Little Tommy carried him to the shoulder and set him in the shade under a tree. After a while, George said he
had enough of our nonsense and left. The boys did their best to cheer Frankie up with jokes and similar stories of woe.
But when a smile failed to appear on his freckled face, Joey and Little Tommy became restless, and it wasn’t long before
they climbed onto their bikes and left.

I leaned back and stared up at the cloudless sky. The sun was bearing down on the treetops. The temperature had
dropped a little and for the first time that day I could feel a slight breeze in the air.

“It’s almost dinner time,” I said.

Frankie nodded his head and gave his wounds one last look. We rode in silence, and when it came time for us to part,
he stopped in the middle of the street and stared at the spokes of his front tire.

“I don’t understand it,” Frankie said. “Why do I always wreck?”

I wanted to tell him the truth. That George had rigged the ramp to collapse, but I was too scared. I swear I’ll kill you. You
hear me? I’ll kill you for real.

“It’s not your fault,” I said. “I think that board was warped.”

“I did it just like you said, right up the middle.”

“Maybe we should stay away from George?” I said.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Aren’t you tired of him hitting us?”

Frankie thought for a moment. “Won’t he get mad?”

“Probably.”

“He’ll really throw us a beating then.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He won’t like that at all.”

As I stared at the dried blood on Frankie’s shin, I was tempted to tell him that I had seen something in George’s eyes
when he grabbed me. But I was too afraid to say anything because I knew Frankie couldn’t keep a secret. Then George
would find out that I didn’t like him anymore. And then . . . I didn’t want to think about the and then part.

Frankie picked at a loose piece of handle grip as he thought it over. “George just wants to make us tough,” he said
finally.

“I guess so.”

“I pick on my little brother sometimes.”

I used the tip of my sneaker to spin one of my pedals back and forth. There had been plenty of times when I had hit on
my younger brother too. But what George was doing to us didn’t come from the same the place that spawned the
innocent rivalry between siblings. Play fighting between brothers, although aggressive, came from the heart. My dad
used to call them love taps. They never left bruises or scars, and they were always loaded with slight regret and
unquestionable affection. It was something that George obviously didn’t know anything about. He only knew about pain,
and in some strange way I felt sorry for him, but that never stopped the hate from seeping into my heart.

MAKE US TOUGH

BY RICHARD LIVSEY