Spaz

Charlie Halvorsen sat quietly in his chair, watching his teacher—Mrs. Marisol Reyes—as she wrote on the board. It was early fall, the second month of eighth grade, and the classroom still held the faint scent of new textbooks and floor wax. Sunlight filtered through half-open blinds, casting pale stripes across the rows of neatly arranged desks.

The room was quiet, save for the soft rubbing of dry erase marker and the occasional whisper of pages turning. Every student wore the same navy-blue blazer, white shirt, and gray slacks—pressed, regulated, clean. Ties were required, though a few hung a little loose already. Charlie's collar itched faintly, but he didn't move to adjust it.

Mrs. Reyes stood at the front, her figure outlined by the chalkboard light. She was in her thirties, Mexican-American, her features a blend of warmth and sharp angles. There was a fullness to her figure—soft, comfortable, just edging past what most would call curvy—but it suited her presence. Time had touched her gently, but clearly. The thirties had caught up to her.

Charlie, thirteen, had straight black hair—thick, with a slight wave at the ends, the kind of black that looked almost blue under strong light. It stayed just above his ears and across his forehead in uneven strands that he rarely bothered to style.

His eyes were a clear, sharp green—like glass held up to sunlight. Not bright, but defined, with flecks of gray near the center that gave them depth when you looked close.

He stood a little taller than most of the boys his age, with a lean frame and long limbs. His shoulders were beginning to square, and his arms held early lines of muscle through the forearms and upper biceps. His legs were firm from running—slim but steady under his uniform slacks.

His chest was flat, and his waist narrow. Across his torso, you could see the outline of small, boyish muscles—tight, lightly defined, especially when he moved. His collarbone showed cleanly beneath the shirt collar, and his neck was long and smooth, still more narrow than broad.

His hands were slightly big for his frame, and his fingers looked strong, the knuckles sometimes faintly red from clenching. His jaw was just starting to square out, the roundness in his face slowly giving way to a sharper outline. His brow had gained structure too, subtly pressing down over his eyes when he concentrated.

He still looked his age. But his features were starting to settle, and there was a quiet sharpness forming underneath.

Right now, though, he was focused on his breathing—slow, steady. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. He repeated the rhythm in his head, fingers drumming softly against his thigh. Breathe. Calm. Stay calm.

Brody—a large, pudgy boy with flushed cheeks and a mop of unkempt brown hair—sat two rows over. He was a bit bigger than everyone, both vertically and sideways, and his chair creaked faintly every time he shifted. He always seemed slightly out of place in the uniform, shirt pulling tight across his stomach, tie knotted too high.

Every few minutes, Charlie could hear it. A low whisper, just loud enough to catch.

"Spaz… spaz…"

Charlie's fingers twitched against his thigh. His jaw clenched.

Hit him.

The thought came fast, sharp, like a reflex. And oh, he wanted to. He could already feel the motion coiling in his shoulders, the weight shifting in his legs, like his body was preparing to move without permission.

But he didn't.

He caught himself—right there, in the space between breath and action. His posture never changed. He didn't turn, didn't rise. Just breathed. One long, controlled inhale. Hold. Exhale.

No.No, he wouldn't hit him.

He needed to breathe. Stay calm. He had promised.

Across the room, Brody muttered again, slumped lazily in his seat, not even bothering to look up.

"Spaz."

Charlie kept his eyes on the board, but the heat behind them had started to build.

As a small boy, Charlie had always been slightly ahead of the curve. He picked up reading a bit earlier than most, followed directions well, and asked a lot of questions—more curious than clever, but sharp enough to keep adults on their toes. He was a healthy, vibrant child—active, alert, and full of energy. His parents noticed it early and did their best to support him without pushing too hard. They praised him when he focused, gently redirected him when he didn't. His teachers marked him as bright, with potential.

But there was one small concern.

His anger.

Even in those early years, it came in quick, overwhelming flashes. He bit other children. Hit them. Got sent home more than once. Daycares returned him with incident reports and bags of his things more than his parents liked to admit. His name, circled in red ink, often showed up at the top of those notes. The details had faded over time, but the tension lingered—frustrated meetings, exchanged looks, too many quiet rides home with the radio turned low.

His parents tried everything—timeouts, sticker charts, soft voices, firmer tones. His mother cried once in the car after a long meeting. Charlie remembered the tight grip she had on the steering wheel, the way her shoulders stayed tense all the way home. He'd stared out the window, saying nothing, watching houses pass by in blur.

By the time he was eight, he'd been through more than one therapist. The offices all looked the same—soft lights, waiting rooms with puzzles and hand sanitizer, quiet people who smiled too much. The adults always asked him how he felt. He never knew what to say, and their smiles never changed when he said nothing.

Eventually, the public schools gave up. Too many incidents. Too many calls. Too many lines crossed. His parents didn't talk about it much, but Charlie could tell the private school came with a cost—tuition, uniforms, longer drives, the weight in their silences. They made it work.

They figured he needed more attention.

He had tried to explain it once. One moment he was fine… then something shifted. Like what he was feeling now.

He really wanted to hurt Brody.

Heat in his chest. Muscles tightening. Fingers curling just slightly.

Spaz.

It slipped in again—low, drawn out. Two rows over. A few kids snickered, covering their mouths behind books, folders tilted just enough to block Mrs. Reyes's view. Their shoulders bounced faintly with the effort to stay quiet.

At the front of the room, Mrs. Reyes was still writing on the dry-erase board. The marker squeaked in quick bursts. Purple ink, smooth lines. Her back never turned.

Silence him.

Oh, he wanted to bash Brody's head against the desk. Hard. Just once.

No, he thought, blinking fast. The pressure in his chest built like steam under a lid. His whole body was tight—jaw locked, fingers pressing into the underside of the desk. One leg bounced once, then stilled. Breath shallow. Controlled.

He had a sister when he was seven years old. His parents never left him alone with her… because they weren't sure he could tell. But she was the light in his world

He gotten counseling. So much of it. And the meds.

God, he fucking hated his meds.

They slowed everything down. His thoughts felt stuffed with cotton. His limbs, heavy.

He hadn't taken them in over a year.

The meds took everything. Even the anger. Even the good feelings. Just blank space where something should've been.

He hadn't had an incident in over a year.

He remembered crying until his chest hurt. In bed, under the blanket. His arms pulled in tight, face pressed into the mattress to muffle the sound. He couldn't stop. Every time he caught his breath, it broke loose again. He didn't even know what he was crying about anymore. Everything. Nothing. It just kept coming.

That night had followed one of the worst incidents. One that finally got him kicked out of public school. He didn't remember every detail—just the way the room felt too loud, the way his hands wouldn't stop shaking, the way everyone stared at him like something was wrong. And then... the office. The phone call. The quiet ride home.

His father looked disappointed. Silent. Still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled up, staring at the floor like it might answer for him. His mother was pale and worn, rubbing her forehead like her bones ached. They were both at their wits' end.

Why?Why did he have to be this way?

They adjusted his pills, of course. Talked about dosages. Regulation. Better timing.

He lay in bed that night and stared at the ceiling. Eyes dry now. The crying had stopped because there was nothing left to push out.

And it hit him—clear, simple, sharp.

What did crying do? What did feeling bad fix?

He decided to stop. To face it. All of it.

Face the anger. Not bury it. Not drug it out of reach. The pills never helped him fight it. They just dulled the edge until he couldn't feel anything at all. And when he couldn't feel it, he couldn't resist it. He was sure of that—even now.

Because if the anger had been left to grow under the surface, untouched, unnoticed, un-fought—

He would have lost it by now.

Spaz.

Brody had a cousin who went to public school with Charlie. And honestly—spaz was pretty accurate. That's what his cousin had told him, anyway. Brody had latched onto it immediately. Over the past month, tormenting Charlie had become his favorite game.

Charlie closed his eyes.

The private school only gave him one chance.

Stab him.

Charlie was holding a pencil. He didn't even remember picking it up. His fingers had curled tight around it, the point hovering just above the desk. He set it down slowly, the wood clicking faintly against the laminate. Then he sighed, a slow, steady breath through his teeth, as the anger moved through him like fire in his veins.

Ahhhhh, he screamed inside his own head.

Riiinggg.Saved by the bell.

Charlie grabbed his folder and backpack in one motion, already halfway to the door. Mrs. Reyes was saying something to the class, reminding them about an assignment—but he didn't hear it. Didn't care.

He had endured.

That was the last class of the day, and Charlie was heading to sports—soccer.

Getting into a sport had taken some effort. He'd begged his parents more than once—please, please, please—until they finally gave in.

They let him join a team.

But not football. No matter how many times he brought it up, how much he argued, that was never on the table.

And he knew why.

They didn't trust that kind of contact. Not with his history. Not with how things had gone before.

So he settled for soccer.

He signed up, got the gear, showed up. It wasn't what he wanted, but it was something. Running helped. Getting his energy out helped.

The walk to the field was familiar now. Around the gym, gravel under his shoes, cleats in the mesh bag hitting softly against his leg. The sun was still out. The air had that early fall sharpness—cooler in the shade, warm on the pavement.

One thing he had figured out—he could channel whatever the fuck was wrong with him into physical activity. It gave the feeling a place to go, something solid to press into.

At night, when the house was quiet and the lights were low, he'd get out of bed and drop to the floor. Pushups first. Slow, steady. Then up-downs until his legs burned. Sometimes squats, sometimes shadowboxing in the dark.

His palms would get slick against the floorboards. His breath loud in the stillness. He kept going until his arms shook and his shirt clung to his back.

Stewing was very bad for his anger. Very bad. It made his thoughts loop. Made everything feel worse.

But movement cleared space in his head. It didn't erase anything, but it gave the weight somewhere to go. Something real to carry.

Physical effort grounded him. It pulled the pressure out one breath at a time.