The Ravager of Souls spins his lock around his finger and snaps the door of his locker open. Shorts, grey shirt, white shoes. He dresses silently, avoids eye contact with the others who are also avoiding eye contact, slumps glumly out into the gym once he’s dressed. It’s a running day today, and everyone’s sick with the thought of it, except maybe for Carmack, who’s huge and runs a six minute mile for the track team. Carmack’s okay, though, he’s a good guy. If he likes running he at least keeps it to himself; his shoulders are a little bit straighter, that’s all, his body a little bit looser.
The Ravager of Souls mooches around the water fountain while the rest of the class trickles in. A couple of other people are already there, the boys in dark grey, the girls in dark green.
“I hate these days,” says Spaulding.
“Ah, don’t talk about it,” says Sept. “It’s not so bad.”
“Maybe not for you,” says the Ravager of Souls. “They don’t make the girls run.”
“Hey, I run as much as anybody. It’s only the raccoons that walk the whole time.” The raccoons are too tanned, wear too much mascara: raccoons. They don’t do anything. Sweat and muscles are unfeminine.
The Ravager of Souls shrugs. There’s a difference between running when you have to and running when you don’t, but at six thirty in the morning he’s not talkative enough to get into it. He’s sore and nauseous even before the whistle blows and thirty groaning lungs creak achingly to work.