Quentin Vaughn said he would be my boyfriend if I could bust a board with my fist. He sat alone on the steps in front of the gym, leaning on his tuba case. None of his friends were there, so he let me talk to him.  He told me about those old kung fu movies his uncle let him watch. “These guys can bust boards with their heads and their fists like—” He punched his tuba case, and it wobbled. He caught it before it could land on the asphalt. “It’s cool.”

I asked him if he liked girls who could do that kind of thing, and he shrugged.

I asked him if he wanted a girlfriend who could bust a wooden board with her fist, and that’s when he said it.

Now, I had asked Quentin Vaughn to be my boyfriend every Friday since third grade, and he had said “no” for four years, even when he didn’t have a girlfriend. Sometimes, he could be really nice about it. I saved up jokes to tell him for those moments after school when we were alone, waiting for our parents. I could make him laugh the kind of laugh that sounds like a cough. One time, without any warning, he unpacked his tuba and played it. He filled his cheeks and blew into the mouthpiece, abusing the notes. I asked him to be my boyfriend then, even though it wasn’t a Friday, and he said, “I’m not that good.”

Sometimes, though, he was mean about it.  I’ve been ignored in homeroom. I’ve had spaghetti dumped over my head. I’ve been tripped. And I’ve been “Piggy” the whole time.

I knew he only said he would be my boyfriend now because he didn’t think I could do it. He didn’t realize I really could bust boards with my fist. In fact, I could bust boards with my head or my foot if I wanted, but I was especially good at doing it with my left hand. I’ve been able to bust wood for as long as I can remember. I didn’t have to practice, and I didn’t have to show off like some of the kids who took karate lessons and did demonstrations during assemblies. I only had to draw back my arm and wait for the hot sting of power to snake its way from my shoulder to my fingertips. I could destroy trees or walls, but I kept it a secret. It was enough for me to just know I could do it.

At least, it was enough until Quentin Vaughn said would let me be his girlfriend if I could bust a piece of wood with my fist.

He had band practice again the next afternoon. I brought a wooden board the size of a shelf from home. It didn’t fit in my locker, so I had to tuck it under my arm as I walked the halls.  I felt all that wood-busting power tingling in the back of my neck during class. My pencils snapped in two when I tried to write with them.

After the last bell, I raced through the halls, the board banging against my shins. I found him outside the gym, waiting, but not alone. There were friends with him. I didn’t care. Goosebumps sprouted on my left arm. I took a deep breath and announced, “I can bust this with my fist.”

His friends snickered, but I ignored them. I looked Quentin Vaughn in the eye as I offered him the board. “Someone has to hold this.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned his tuba case against the steps. He took the wood without touching my hands. “Okay, Piggy.”  He gripped the board with both hands and stretched his arms in front of him. “Do it.”

I didn’t have to concentrate or find my center or anything like that. It was easy. I curled my fingers into a fist and rolled my left shoulder. I noticed the flesh-colored bandage wrapped around Quentin’s index finger. The white-hot power rushed to my elbow, and I imagined shoving my knuckles through that board. The splinters would mingle with my blood, but my fist would keep going, slicing through Quentin Vaughn’s chest, cracking his ribcage, and exploding his heart. I took a step back when I felt the prickling in my fingers.

“It’s Penny,” I said. I took back my board and tucked it under my left arm.  I walked away from Quentin Vaughn and his tuba and his friends with that hot sting of wood-busting power pooling, then burning in the palm of my hand.

# # #

During the school year, Samantha N. Simpson teaches at a private high school in Massachusetts. (It can be strange.) Her fiction and nonfiction have appeared in The Kenyon Review, REAL, Prism Review, and Crazy Horse. She is currently at work on a novel about time travel and grand larceny.

Photo: Marija Zaric