Chapter 11: Troubled Girls

Some of my bruises were healed by Friday. I knew Courtney would be at Shelly Kramer’s birthday party, so I snuck over to talk to Vic O’Neal. He offered me a beer as we went down into the basement to watch the Twins and Royals. “You gotta stop getting’ hit by cars, kid,” he said, his booming voice echoing through the basement.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Vic. It wasn’t a car. It was Courtney.”

“Courtney? My Courtney?”

Vic had a good laugh about that, but I looked him in the eyes. I wanted him to know how sincere I was. “She’s messed up, Vic,” I said. “She’s messed up in the head and you have to help me get to her before she does something seriously crazy.”

It took some convincing, but eventually Vic started to come around. After all, why would I lie about getting beaten nearly to death by a teenaged girl? He sat quietly and drank his bear as he thought. “When I got back from the lake this week, I came down here to put up the luggage and drop off the laundry. Someone had moved the weights around. At first I thought it was you. But there was five hundred pounds on the bench press. Who in this house pumps iron like that?”

I knew who. It was Becky Finklestein. And she didn’t even need to use her arms. If I closed my eyes I could still see her bouncing the straining barbell on her pectoral shelf like a feather. “The police can take care of Becky, Vic. We just have to worry about Courtney.”

Vic finished his beer, and crushed the can in his massive fist. “Okay kid, what’s yer plan?” he grumbled.

On Saturday I was starting to feel a little better. At least I could breathe without my ribs hurting. I got a call from Vic at noon. “Courtney just left,” he told me dryly. “She said she was mentoring a troubled girl as part of an after school program.”

I waited a few minutes, then I called the police, and then I went to pick Vic up in his car. When we got to PJHS, the O’Neal’s station wagon was parked right out front. It was the only car there. The front doors were normally unlocked on weekends for track practice. Today was no exception. We were quiet as we snuck in the doors and down the hallway toward the weight room. We could hear voices. I motioned for Vic to wait while I snuck a peak through the door. He wasn’t a quiet guy. Through the crack in the door I could see Becky, wearing her pink spandex workout clothes, bulging with sweat-slick muscles that erupted with power every time she moved even though she was just cleaning her glasses. Courtney was at her feet, crying. “I’m so sorry, Becky,” she sobbed. “It was wrong of me to put you in that position.”

I motioned for Vic. I could hear him gasp when he saw Becky. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “She’s like a tank. A tiny pink tank.”

Vic didn’t know the half of it. You could stop tanks. But Becky was unstoppable. Invincible. She put her glasses back on and stretched her massive quads as Courtney continued to apologize. “All my life I’ve hated how it feels when men try to objectify me as some kind of sex doll. And I did the same thing to you. It was wrong and I’m sorry.”

Becky looked confused. She wasn’t emotionally mature enough for this sort of discussion, and I could tell she was getting uncomfortable. And so was Vic. I could hear his gigantic feet shifting behind me. “Gee Courtney, I guess I didn’t understand everything you have going on in your head.” Becky said.

Courtney continued, drying her eyes and starting to laugh. “It’s just that ... You’re perfect, Becky. You’re everything I wanted to be at your age. And you can change the world.”

“Gee Courtney, I don’t know...”

“Becky men have been abusing, mutilating and humiliating women for thousands of years. Just because they’re bigger and stronger.”

“You sound like my mom.”

“But you can change that, Becky! That’s why I get so excited around you. You can make the world a better place for me and Gloria, and all the other women in the world. You can be our role model, our teacher, and our champion. You can bring the men to their knees! They’re crude and stupid and they need to be broken!”

“Boys are dumb!” Becky agreed, smiling. “I hate boys and I hate their stupid wules.”

Courtney sat up, cross-legged gazing admiringly at the ten year old behemoth. “Becky, I’ve been measuring you. I think you’re the strongest person in the world. And probably the fastest. And I know you’re the most muscular.”

Becky beamed with pride. “Supergiiiiiiirl,” she sang and curled her arms into a double biceps pose that made both Vic and I gasp in disbelief. Her arms looked even bigger than now than they did last week, and even more developed. Every cut and striation was perfect, every bulge stood out in sharp definition. Courtney was visibly agitated. “Becky, may I ... may I touch your muscles.”

“I guess,” Becky said.

Courtney slowly draped her hands over Becky’s bulging biceps, panting audibly and closing her eyes. Then she lay her head against the rippling mounds of Becky’s pecs. She was smiling and crying at the same time, mascara running down her face.

Vic had seen enough. He kicked open the doors to the weight room. “Courtney Denise O’Neal you let that girl go this instant,” he yelled.

Courtney’s smile turned to a scowl, but she didn’t move. “No,” she said coldly. “Besides, Becky isn’t a girl, she’s a goddess.”

“Yeah, a goddess!” Becky said, pointing her tiny left foot and making her thigh and calf harden in slabs of muscular power and erupt with striations. She squeezed her little fists, and her arms swelled up even bigger, spreading Courtney’s fingers with the massive peaks of her biceps. Courtney moaned. “I’m the biggest and the stwongest!” Becky declared.