Peaked

It’s the first weekend in November, which means it’s high school wrestling season. The gym at Ben Franklin High School is packed with students, parents, and at least one former student. On the highest spot in the bleachers, tucked away from the green and white-bedecked competitors, is Quinn Fleetwood. He pulls his high school letterman jacket around himself tighter; it’s feeling a little chilly with the windows open.

His eyes are fixed on the far left mat, where a spindly Falcon twists under the grip of his more muscular competitor. He twirls, spins, and flops his way into position to sweep the other boy off his feet and end the match. The gym erupts in cheers.

“I coulda done it quicker,” Quinn grumbles.

“Quinn?” he hears, causing him to turn his head and see a muscular older man walk up the bleachers.

“Coach Jens!” Quinn shouts, standing up to greet his old wrestling coach.

Jens Plotgerät grins and pulls Quinn into a hug. As large and muscular as Quinn is, he is still dwarfed by his coach. “Hallo, my boy!” the old German man says. “Why are you here…again?”

“Oh, no reason,” Quinn says, looking down at his feet. “Just seeing how the team is doing. Shouldn’t you be down there, uh, coaching?”

“Oh these jungen coach themselves,” he says. “I’m here to yell and lift trophies.” Jens points at the skinny wrestler who just won his match. “That one there? He’s only freshman, but he has a chance to be our second best wrestler in history.”

Quinn grins. “Aw, coach, that’s so nice of you to ackno…”

“Yes, no one will be better than Connor, but Brian there may come close!” Jens notices Quinn’s crestfallen expression and claps him on the back. “Don’t pout, my boy. As we always say in Germany, first is worst, second is best, but third gets the women with the biggest breasts.”

“You always say that?”

“I’ve said it at least once.” Jens looks back down at the action and sighs. “It’s special, though, isn’t it? This sport, this dance we do on canvases. I know you are a professional now, but there’s something about this place that feels so pure. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Quinn says after a moment, once again pulling his jacket tighter around himself. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well, I’m glad you came out, Quinn. I always appreciated you as a wrestler, and you were one of the few who didn’t make fun of my daughter for her thick German accent.”

“That was a German accent? I just thought she had a cold all four years of high school.”

Coach Jens laughs, then claps Quinn on the shoulder before making his way down to the canvas again. After another few minutes the meet concludes. Quinn walks down and sees Brian, the freshman who drew such praise from his coach. “Good win,” Quinn mutters.

“Thanks,” says Brian, then looks at Quinn’s jacket. “Oh, you used to go here?”

Quinn starts to answer, but another voice answers first. “Yeah, but he’s here all the time,” says Mike Dalon, a senior. “He was in my brother’s class. He wrestles in a national company but for some reason he’s always visiting.”

“Oh,” Brian says, then shrugs. “Are things not going well?”

“What?” Quinn spits. “Things are going great! I beat a man in a Lawnmower mask, and I even got a Universal Title shot. Kind of. The champion gave me a shot, but it was more like a submission hold. I was close.”

Mike laughs. “Yeah, things are going great. Come on, Bri.” The two high school students start to walk away, but not before Mike tells his friend, “It’s pretty sad, isn’t it? He can’t let go of his childhood. I bet he went trick or treating for Halloween this weekend.”

“Yeah, it is sad. Hopefully he finds something else in his life to focus on.”

“Who cares?” answers Mike as they walk out of earshot.

Quinn watches them go, then balls up his fists. He knows what he has to do.

***

Connor Nackedy sits in the break room at Gray’s Academy, eating mashed sweet potato before a thick envelope drops right on top of his meal. “What the hell?” he asks, turning to look at who threw it.

“Open it!” Quinn shouts.

Connor sighs and grabs the envelope, running his hand along the gold and green embossing. “Fancy envelope.”

“My dad has great stationery. Now open it!”

Connor gingerly attempts to lift the seal, a wax F, from the envelope. Quinn watches for approximately 1.8 seconds before his impatience gets the best of him and he snatches the envelope from Connor, ripping the envelope to pieces which fall to the floor. “Here!” he says, shoving the card into Connor’s face.

“You’re invited,” Connor reads, “to the Ben Franklin High School fo…” Connor stops and looks up at Quinn, confused. “High school reunion? But we only graduated 4 years ago.”

“Exactly!” Quinn says, opening his arms wide. “Five years, ten years, twenty? Lame. You go to high school for four years. The reunions should be in four year increments too! And since high school was the best part in all of our lives…”

“Winning the Belmont was the best part of my life.”

“...we should be celebrating it. So I invited all of our class.”

Connor scans the invitation again. “It’s going to be at a bar?”

“Not just any bar. The biggest bar in the New Orleans area! I booked it so that we have enough room for all of our class. It was only one PRIME paycheck, so not too bad.”

Connor’s eyes go wide. “Not too bad? That’s…” he starts before thinking better of it. “How many people have RSVP’d?”

“None yet, but that’s because I just started handing out invitations. I also blasted our Facebook page with the evite, so I’m sure they’ll start rolling in soon.”

“What’ll start rolling in?” asks Kris Roswell, who enters the break room with Satan Jones behind.

“I’m organizing a four year high school reunion, and it’s going to be the best night ever.”

“My high school sucked, but I’m glad yours didn’t,” Kris says as he goes to the fridge. “Everyone on the football team and everyone in the school acted like I wasn’t an athlete because I was just the kicker.”

“I’m pretty sure every high school does that,” Connor says. “People don’t like kickers.”

“People don’t like you,” Kris says, putting a frozen burrito on the floor and kicking it at Connor’s head (it flies wide right).

“Hey, this bowl of Halloween candy wasn’t here last week,” Satan says, moving aside a Reeses cup and grabbing an Almond Joy because he’s a monster. “Does someone here have a kid who did some trick or treating?”

“Yeah, I think,” Quinn says, shifting his eyes. “Anyway, I’ll see you at the reunion, Connor. It’ll be great. I wonder how much hotter all the girls have gotten.”

“I have a boyfriend,” Connor says with a sigh.

“I know, and he’s invited too, but I think you’ll need to lift his wheelchair up the steps. They have a ramp but it has been blocked with cardboard cutouts of Zion Williamson for like five years. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go check my PRIME email to see who I’m facing on the next show.”

“Oh, I can tell you that,” answers Kris. “I got the email a few minutes ago.”

“Why did you get the email?”

Satan laughs. “Your daddy didn’t tell you? Me and Kicker here got hired to PRIME as a tag team.”

“Oh.” Quinn frowns, then realizes he should try to appear happy, then realizes that no one would believe him if he lied, so he just shrugs. “So, who am I facing?”

“Jared Sykes.”

Quinn’s eyes go wide. “Oh, shit! I got to go train!” Quinn runs out of the break room, then dashes back in to shovel a handful of Halloween candy in his pockets before darting towards the gym floor.

***

Less than an hour later, Chet Fleetwood sits in a folding chair by the gym floor, watching Quinn go through drills with Ian Nackedy. He doesn’t clap, or cheer, or give scathing critiques designed to pierce the frail egotistic facade his son carries with him like a suit of armor. He merely sits, watching his son flail in the ring.

After a moment, Foster Nackedy walks over and sits next to Chet. “You’re being uncharacteristically stoic, and it makes me uneasy.”

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Chet asks, looking at Quinn.

“Quinn? No. Of course not. He’s not going to be okay. He isn’t okay now. He probably has never been okay. He’s a high school bully who was coddled by his father to the point that the real world is now using him as a placemat, smearing its muddy boots all over him every chance they get. And you’ve known that for a long time but your narcissistic tendencies allow you to ignore that in favor of snarky quips and insensitive jokes.” Foster smiles. “I should be a psychologist.”

“Probably, because you’re a shitty wrestling coach and friend.”

“We aren’t friends.”

Chet sighs. “I don’t know. I’ve done my best to be supportive of Quinn’s wrestling career, but he was supposed to be the next legacy lawyer. To finally be the reason we got to drop the Harper name from Fleetwood, Fleetwood, Harper and Fleetwood.”

Foster raises an eyebrow. “But even in your obliviousness you can’t ignore how bad he is.”

“And I’ve tried!” Chet shouts, causing Quinn to look over his shoulder at him. “You’re doing great, my cherub!” As Quinn goes back into his routine, Chet says, “He’s so lousy. He won against a guy who actually drinks gasoline. And now he’s going to face one of the literal best wrestlers ever? Clearly Lindsay Troy has decided to be the one person in power to take a stand against the casual sexual harassment I dabble in from time to time.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I have no idea,” he says. “It’s a tough line, you know? Because I want to let him go on his little weird and wacky trips and be independent, but he’s also crashing and burning out there. He’s about to turn 21, you know? I figured he’d be flying out of the nest by now without this much supervision needed.”

Foster nods. “I wonder how much of it is the fact that you still call him cherub and enable him and make sure he’s never had to do anything hard in his entire life.”

Chet thinks for a moment. “I blame the schools.”

“Well, we are fiftieth in the nation,” Foster grumbled, “but my son is on the Dean’s list at Tulane, so maybe your kid just sucks.” He watches Ian Nackedy sigh and explain a concept to Quinn again. “Anyway, I’m no dad of the year, but I do know that you’ve got to be consistent. Either be that supportive overly protective dad, or give him the space to make mistakes. Doing both is only hurting you both.”

Foster walks away, leaving Chet alone with his thoughts. In the ring, Quinn successfully slams Ian to the mat, then looks to his dad for approval. Chet thinks long and hard about the appropriate way to respond.

“Good job, my angel.” As Quinn continues, Chet nods to himself. “Angel is an adult version of a cherub. It’s better.”

***

A few days later, Quinn is hard at work preparing for what will undoubtedly be the biggest challenge of his wrestling career.

He’s in a secondhand electronics shop buying DVDs.

“Oooh, Suicide Squad!” he shouts, adding it to a stack so large he is using his chin to keep it in place. “No one can tell stories like the DC Universe Filmmakers!”

Carrying his bounty to the register with care, he reaches the front and plops the DVDs down on the counter, where they scatter every which way. “Oh, shit, my bad.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the woman working the counter says in a thick accent, then sees who is in front of her. “Quinn?”

“Do you have a cold?” he asks, then realizes. “Wait…Greta? Greta Plotgerät?”

“Yes, it’s me! How are you?”

Quinn digs in his pocket for his wallet. “I’m gonna be great when I can get all these DVDs back home. How are things for you? Do you work here?”

Greta stares at him for a moment before nodding. “Yes.”

“Cool. Seems like a great place to work. All these video games, all these DVDs…”

“It’s fine, I guess,” she says, sorting through all of the DVDs. She looks at one and holds it up. “Did you mean to pick this one up? All the rest are superhero movies and this is a video of some wrestler’s highlights.”

“Oh, yeah, I meant to get that. His name is Jared Sykes. I’m facing him at the next show, so I wanted to watch some film.” Quinn laughs. “Honestly he fits in with the rest of the movies, because he’s always thought of himself as a hero.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. He calls himself the Dragon Slayer and thinks he’s the only one who can take out the big villains in our sport.Talk about a messiah complex. He was retired, right? And then this guy’s ego got so big that he just had to come back and…”

“That’ll be $141.17.”

Quinn stops. “Oh, yeah, okay.” He interacts with the card reader, then looks up at Greta. “So, I don’t know if you’re on Facebook or whatever, but I sent out a bunch of invites for the huge party I’m throwing. Ben Franklin Four Year Reunion.”

“I saw that,” Greta says, busying herself with bagging the DVDs.

“You coming?”

Greta sighs. “I know you really liked high school, Quinn, but…I didn’t. Everyone was mean. I don’t even want to go to the real reunion when it happens next year. Talking to people I don’t like, pretending to care what everyone is doing now, listening to people lie to say how well they’re doing now…why would I want to do that one year earlier?”

“But…but your dad said there’s something special about that place. Don’t you agree?”

“He’s talking about a sport, Quinn. A building. I’m talking about an institution. Not everyone had the best time at high school. Sorry, but I do not think I will go. I hope you have a good time, though.” She hands him the bag of DVDs, which causes him to nearly drop it due to its weight. “Here, enjoy your hero movies.”

“Yeah…thanks.” Quinn leaves the store and shivers under the breeze, wishing he was wearing his letterman jacket to protect him.

***

It’s the night of the big reunion. Quinn Fleetwood, wearing a suit the color of Eddie Cross’s eyes, emerges from the event room of the bar and nervously looks at the empty space. “Has anyone showed up yet?” he asks the bartender.

“Yes, actually. A woman came in a few minutes ago. She was dressed up and told me to deliver this card to you, then left.”

“What?” Quinn walks over and grabs the card, which has a message on it in pink ink.

Ew, Quinn, I literally don't know why you'd think I'd ever attend some event of yours. I don't even know why I'm wasting my favorite pen's ink on you. You're a sleezy little shitgoblin, no one wants to be your friend, and you wear so much cologne that you're considered a walking biohazard. Joop Homme is a terrible choice, why would you ever?! I hope JARRY!!!!! tramples you and we never have to see you or your dad's stupid face ever again.

Okay byeeeeeeeeeee!

Quinn blinks a few times, sniffs his shoulder, then mutters, “Coulda just checked the no box.” He trudges back to the event room and stares at the decorations: pictures of him and other students from high school, streamers of green and white, a big poster with a QR code that links to a change.org petition to move reunions to four year increments, and a piñata of an Eagle with the word “FALCON” scrawled across it.

He walks to one of the tables and drops his head onto it, letting his arms hang limp by his side. He stays that way for at least thirty minutes. Finally, he hears the shuffling of feet and picks his head up excitedly, then frowns and drops it back down when he sees who it is. “You didn’t go to my high school,” he mutters.

“No, but we are your friends,” Kris Roswell responds, pulling out a chair and sitting down next to Quinn.

“Are we?” asks Satan Jones.

“We’re at least coworkers who don’t hate you,” Kris offers.

“I guess that’s good enough,” Quinn says, his voice muffled by the table.

Kris kicks back his drink (with his hand, I should clarify), then scoots his chair closer to Quinn and puts his arm around him. “So tell us what this is really all about. Why put all this effort into some random party?”

Quinn finally lifts his head. He looks at Kris, from his face to the hand that is on his shoulder. “I peaked in high school.”

Neither Satan nor Kris respond. Quinn heaves a heavy sigh, then looks at a picture on the wall, realizing for the first time he’s the only one smiling in the picture. “I loved high school. I was bigger than everyone else, and at least the sixth most handsome guy in our senior class…but I talked to a woman from my class today and she acted like high school was the worst thing ever. And that’s crazy, because if high school was so bad…why is it so much better than my life now?”

“Your life’s not so b…” Kris starts, but Satan shakes his head.

“Let him cook.”

“Everyone hates me. I get boos for just showing up on screen. A few weeks ago when Nate Colton and Cecilworth Fartington beat me up, people laughed and cheered. And now everyone’s going to laugh again when Jared Sykes beats me up.” Quinn walks over to the wall and pulls one picture down, then another until the wall is bare. When he is done, he is breathing heavily. “Even my dad thinks I’m a failure.”

Quinn continues his destructive act, knocking down pictures and overturning chairs and tables. He goes over to the definitely-not-an-eagle piñata and pushes it, then grabs a steel chair and begins hitting it until it smashes, sending small items everywhere. One lands at Kris’s foot, and he picks it up.

“Why did you stuff the piñata with eggs?”

“They’re not real eggs. They’re Easter Eggs that have superlatives in them.”

Kris opens the egg and smiles. “Oh, nice, I’m Most Likely to Succeed!”

“See? I don’t even get that at my own reunion party!” Quinn slumps on the floor next to the scattered eggs. “So yeah, I overcompensated. Just trying to feel that feeling again from when I wasn’t a laughing stock. Is that so wrong?”

“No, man.” Kris walks over and sits down next to him. “Sometimes you get so focused on past glory that you don’t pay attention to what’s going on around you. But everyone does it. Hell, what do you think Jared Sykes is doing right now?”

“What do you mean?”

Kris picks up another egg and tosses it to his foot, then kicks it back into his hand. “He retired last year, right? Closed this chapter on his life. Went to focus on his wife and kid. Except he’s back, and why?”

“He’s compelled by anti-communism?”

“Maybe it’s that,” Kris answers. “Or maybe he was changing a diaper at 3 AM and thought, ‘is this all there really is?’ Maybe he was scrolling through his phone and saw his friend Coral Avalon winning another match and looked over at the closet and thought, ‘laundry basket’s getting pretty full.’ Maybe he realized that after dedicating half of his life to this business, it’s more a part of him than he wanted to admit, and now he’s back chasing former glory.”

“Well maybe I should beat him so bad that he realizes dirty diapers is the better alternative,” Quinn says, smiling.

“That’s the spirit!” Kris says, clapping. “Let’s go get some more drinks and practice wrestling moves on those Zion Williamson cardboard cutouts.And tomorrow you get back in the gym and get ready for Sykes. Focus on your life in PRIME. Focus on the stuff that matters.”

“And what is the stuff that matters?” Quinn asks, standing up and walking with Kris back towards the bar.

“Us,” Kris says, putting an arm on Quinn’s shoulders again. Satan walks on the other side and holds up an egg for Quinn.

“Open it.”

Quinn opens the egg and smiles. “Most likely to host a podcast. I can live with that.”