Chapter 2: Working Out

DO YOU HAVE any idea how much work it takes and how long it takes to change from being a sixty-eight-pound weakling to a strongman? I didn’t get ‘all that.’ I mean, not right away. I got results, though. I felt stronger and I even grew a few inches in height. I didn’t get winded walking to school—even in winter. Gymnastics was hard work. Coach Dawson was so encouraging and so gentle in his ways that he soon became my best friend.

At first, either Mom or Dad accompanied me to every workout. I get it. They’d sit in the bleachers and read a report or surf online. They were putting their tender young boy in the hands of men who coached him and worked with him and made him their friend. We’d all been given a class in internet safety and knew the signs of grooming. Better than most adults who panicked over having a gay teacher or letting kids read a book about transvestites. That’s not grooming, parents. That’s just education. It’s not like going to church.

But Coach wasn’t like that. He never touched me inappropriately or made any lewd suggestions. He worked the same way with both boys and girls, and there were always several coaches in the gym. I even got instruction from a couple of the women coaches.

I started going to the gym every day after school, once Mom and Dad had decided it was safe. It was what made my day worthwhile. I still had a thing about not going into locker rooms or showering at the gym. I went home for that. I trusted the coaches, but I wasn’t sure about some of the guys who worked out there. Or some of the girls. I think a couple of the girls could have stuffed me in a locker without much problem.

Almost everything I did in that first month or two was getting me strong enough to do other things. I used the apparatuses to build strength, but you sure couldn’t call anything I did a ‘routine.’ I supported myself on the parallel bars and did dips and leg raises. I hung from the rings and did pull-ups. I turned somersaults on the mats, and did jumping jacks. I did push-ups, v-ups—a kind of sit-up where you raise both your shoulders and your legs until you can touch your toes above your head—hanging leg-lifts on a high bar, and pegboard exercises. Those take a while to learn and actually be able to do them.

I didn’t lift weights anymore. Coach told me that lifting tended to create the hypertrophy we were trying to avoid. He wanted me to stay flexible, so we did stretching exercises every day. I also jumped, and did backward and forward rolls. I really missed the gym on days I had off.

Nothing was automatic. Just exercising wasn’t enough. I was still skinny, even though I’d put on a little weight. Coach said that was just replacing fat with muscle. When I asked Mom for healthier meals, she looked at me and told me to get in the car. She took me to the grocery store and made me select the food I thought we should eat, then she stood over me in the kitchen to teach me how to prepare it. Before long, I was pretty good at half a dozen different meals and I took my turn in the cooking rotation.

Mikey wasn’t as enthused about that. Oh, she liked my cooking, but if I was cooking a couple of nights a week, she had to cook a couple of nights a week, too. I traded helping her in the kitchen with her helping me with my homework.

Oh! And did I ever start sleeping well! I used to stay up late at night playing on my computer. Then I’d be half-asleep through my morning classes. But by the end of seventh grade, I was zonking out as soon as I got in bed. Half the time, I didn’t even masturbate! And I got up early enough to do my morning exercise routine before school.

I took a test at the gym, and according to Coach Dawson, I’d achieved a Level 4 Junior Olympic rating. I didn’t know what it meant exactly, but it sounded impressive.

I don’t know if I actually had more confidence in school, but it didn’t bother me as much anymore. I still barely scraped by with the lowest possible passing grades. I still avoided every athlete I could identify in the halls, and there was a fair share of tough guys on the route home after school. The only time I got beat up, though, was when I stepped between a bunch of guys and my sister with her friends.

The guys didn’t appreciate it. I got slugged in the stomach and punched in the nose. Oh, I fought back, but I don’t think I landed any lucky punches before the school security guy came rushing up and broke it up. My mom wasn’t happy and would have spent all afternoon yelling at the principal if I hadn’t been bleeding and she needed to take me to the hospital. I was out of school for a week with cotton stuffed up my nose, and then had a metal bridge guarding my nose for a month while it healed. That sure helped my popularity at school—dipshit with a broken nose.

I still went to the gym every day to work out, and I didn’t see that particular group of toughs around school again. I noticed that a couple of my sister’s friends got boyfriends to join them as they walked home, and I was always included in the group. Not on purpose, I don’t think. I was just going to the same place Mikey was. They could scarcely tell her brother to bug off. Besides, the girls I’d taken a beating for at least tolerated my presence now, even though they didn’t really talk to me.

“You know, I’m impressed with your work and dedication,” Coach Dawson said that summer. I was afraid he was going to tell me I was abusing my gym privilege by hanging around all the time. That wasn’t it. “I think you could become a real gymnast if you wanted to work that hard at it. Think about your goals and let’s arrange a meeting with your parents to talk it over.”

A real gymnast. I immediately had a vision of myself hanging from the rings in the Olympics and wearing a gold medal. I talked to Mom and Dad and invited Coach over to dinner one weekend before school started in August. I cooked so he’d know I was following the diet, too.

“We know Paul is in better condition and we’re all eating better,” Mom said as we sat at the table. “What do you mean when you say upping his training?”

“As is usual, we’ve spent a good year in basic physical training,” Coach said. “Paul is stronger and he’s grown some. What’s your weight and height now, Paul?”

“Five feet and a hundred even,” I said proudly. My voice chose that moment to split on me and go in two different directions.

“And you’re maturing,” Coach nodded.

“Are you going to be a soprano or a bass?” Mikey teased. Everybody laughed and I just shrugged it off.

“By upping his training, I mean shifting from the Junior Olympics track we’ve been on and starting seriously to build routines on the apparatuses as a Junior Elite. Paul, you have good flexibility and reasonable strength. Now we want to put it to work. There are Junior Elite competitions this fall I think you should participate in.”

“Please, Mom?” I asked.

“Frankly, I never thought you would be interested in anything beyond playing Fortnite,” Mom sighed. She looked at Dad and he nodded.

“It’s good to see you develop a healthy interest,” he said. “You know eighth grade is a critical year before high school and isn’t going to be easy. We don’t want you to shirk your studies.”

“That said, I guess it’s okay to work out a more advanced training program,” Mom said.

Mikey gave me a high five.

I got Mom to buy me a regular uniform with the gym logo on it. Coach made sure I got one that fit and for the very first time, I went into the locker room to get dressed for my training. I changed into my spandex tank top and stretch pants. I stood admiring myself in the mirror. I wasn’t just a skinny guy anymore. I was wiry. I liked that term. You could see my arms weren’t just sticks. I wasn’t built with huge muscles, but I was doing okay.

I headed out to the gym to start my warmups. Coach had given me a complete routine he wanted me to do every day before we started really working. I headed to my usual mat and started stretching.

With the beginning of the school year, there was an influx of new kids in the gym. A lot of elementary school kids started with the beginning of the school year. So, the majority of those in the gym were young. That went for both boys and girls. I guessed most of the girls were between eight and eleven years old. I understood there were special classes for pre-teen girls who were self-conscious about their bodies and only women were in the gym during their training time. Most of the teenage girls worked out then, too, or assisted with the younger ones. I was always gone by then.

There were a few boys in the eight to twelve range, but as they got older, there were fewer and fewer who continued. Even at that, most of the kids were better than I was at almost everything. Then there were a few guys I only usually saw when they were working out early in the morning before school. High school guys who kept pretty much to themselves. The rest of the guys were above high school level, anywhere from college to Eric’s age.

Anyway, I was stretching and warming up when I saw the group of four or five girls, younger than my sister, watching me and whispering. Then they outright laughed. Nice. Real nice, little bitches. I could see the ridge of bra straps through their leotards. Training bras for girls who had nothing to train.

“Hey, partner,” Coach said. “Come over to the desk with me for a minute.” He motioned me around behind the front desk of the gym and grabbed a pair of scissors. “You missed a tag on your new uniform.” He efficiently clipped off the tag and handed it to me. I sighed and tossed it in the trash. Then I looked at him and we both snorted. “Let’s get started on the parallel bars,” he said.

Oh, well. Why would I care about what a bunch of ten-year-old girls think? I went to work and actually managed a couple of the moves coach had me try. It was the first time I managed a swing up to a handstand. It was a short handstand, but I made it. I was proud my arms could hold my body upright like that.

“Hey, dude!” one of the guys coming into the locker room said. Four of the high school gymnasts—senior elite, I was told—had followed me in. I tensed, ready to defend myself if I had to. “Nice handstand on the p-bars today,” he continued. “You’re coming along.”

“Keep up the good work,” said another. “Andy is going to be a senior next year and then we’ll be looking for a replacement for him on the team.”

“I see you work out every day, man,” the one identified as Andy said. “That’s what this sport is all about. Keep working every day. You’ll get this.”

“Thanks, guys,” I said. They went on to their own lockers and for the first time in my life, I felt like I was accepted.

I remember the first time I asked a girl on a date. I know, this is out of order again. I was fourteen and in ninth grade. It was damn near the last time I asked a girl out. I don’t think I heard anything in class all day because I was thinking about how to ask her out. It was the New Year, 2020, and I was determined that I was going to start remaking my image. I was nearly five-three now and I was pretty strong. I wasn’t going to be a wimpy little pissant. I caught up with Cathy at the end of the school day on Thursday.

“Um ... Hi, Cathy.”

“Hi?”

“Um ... Yeah ... uh ... Paul,” I said, pointing at myself. “From your English class.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I was wondering ... um ... if ... uh ... you might like to go to the game ... and uh ... the dance after with me ... um ... tomorrow night? I’d ... uh ... walk you home afterward.”