Chapter 3: Shock and Awe

It didn’t take long for all the guys to start calling me Rubber Chicken. It didn’t matter that I was the leading us through the state football championships, or that I was dating the hottest girl in school. To the guys, I was Rubber Chicken.

One Saturday Courtney came over to watch TV while my parents were away at the lake. We were one of the few families in the neighborhood that had cable, so it was kind of a big deal. Courtney was wearing cutoffs and a Journey tank top with no bra on underneath. I put on the Dodgers game while she did aerobics. The movement of her sleek, creamy white legs was hypnotic as she did bicycles on the floor, her blonde hair spread out like a golden halo around her head. I couldn’t even concentrate on the TV, I just heard the laugh track in the background. When she started doing toe touches, I could see the firm roundness of her bust bouncing under the flimsy tank top. At that point I couldn’t even hear the TV. Then I was face to face with her eyes, deep blue and innocent, like the all-American cheerleader that she was. She laughed as she went to get a glass of water.

Then things took a turn I wasn’t prepared for.

Courtney came back into the room and started checking out my weights. “Greg,” she said, “I think I want to start lifting weights. Will you teach me how?”

“Teach you how to lift weights?” I asked. I was shocked.

“I know it’s not, like, rocket science or anything, but I’m sure there’s a right way and a wrong way to do it.”

I didn’t like the idea. I saw female bodybuilders in my weightlifting magazines, and I thought they were gross. Courtney did lots of flips and jumps as a cheerleader, and she was already muscular enough as far as I was concerned. “Why do you want to start lifting weights?” I asked. “I don’t think it’s going to help your cheering. Besides, girls with muscles are gross.”

“Jane Fonda says that women can be strong and sexy,” Courtney said.

“Who cares what Jane Fonda says? Guys decide what sexy is.” Courtney frowned. She had been getting into that feminist junk recently, and hated when I talked like that. I decided to change the subject. “So what brought this on?” I asked.

Courtney bounced over to the couch and plopped down beside me. “So you know how I’m working in Dr. Clayton’s office on weekends?”

“Yeah...”

“Because totally I want to be a physical therapist?”

“Yeah...”

“Well on Wednesday, we went to a gymnastics class at the Olympic camp in Brownsville, you know the one on the way to the lake?”

“Yeah...”

“I guess Dr. Clayton goes out there every month or so, because gymnastics is a really high impact sport, and the girls get hurt sometimes.”

“Yeah...”

“And I went along this time, because Dr. Clayton totally supports me and says I’m a big help.”

“Yeah...”

“And there was this girl there ... Oh my God Greg. She is awesome!” Courtney had a faraway look in her eyes now. “She’s tiny, but she has these incredible muscles. She can do the most amazing moves, and her coach says she never gets hurt or loses her balance. She was like a superhero or something. Her biceps bulge like rocks under her gymnastics suit, and her legs are just ... I can’t even describe them. They’re just perfect.” Courtney’s eyes were fluttering as went on, fluttering like when she rubs my muscles after I work out, and gets horny.

My heart sank. I knew who Courtney was talking about. “I get it,” I said weakly.

“You should have seen her Greg. You could see her abs through her suit, Greg. That’s how cut she was. She was doing moves that I swear aren’t possible. She had a funny name, though. Becky Winkleman? Becky Dinkleberg?”

“Becky Finklestein,” I squeaked.

“Do you know her?” Courtney asked eagerly.

“We’ve met.”

“Have you seen her muscles? Isn’t she incredible?”

I sat there for a few more minutes and listened to Courtney rave about Becky Finklestein, then I went upstairs to make a frozen pizza. From the basement I could hear my weights clanking.

I was starting to get tired of Becky Finklestein.

I had wrestling practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays. That was good because needed to blow off steam. Courtney started lifting weights, and that made me mad. It was like she didn’t care that I didn’t want her to lift. But Courtney was a great girlfriend for the most part, and she was still smoking hot, so I let it slide. She even came along with me to wrestling practice sometimes. Normally she just sat on the bleachers and did her homework, but it was open tryouts, so she wanted to watch me dominate a couple opponents. That sort of thing got her all hot and bothered.

We did some warming up, and then went right to sparring. I threw my first two opponents around like they were nothing. My new weightlifting regimen was paying off. I felt like I was getting stronger every day. I was talking to Coach Flaherty about improving my sprawls when I heard a familiar voice behind me. “I’m here to twy out for the wrestling team,” it squeaked.

Coach Flaherty chuckled at the sight of the little redheaded girl in the pink sweatsuit and athletic goggles, but I wasn’t laughing. “Sweetheart, this wrestling program is only for students of Polk Junior High School,” he said. “And only for boys.”

“I am a student of Polk Junior High,” Becky insisted, pulling out a PJHS ID card. “I skipped ahead to the 7th grade this year. And you have to let girls twy out for sports teams because this state adopted the pwovisions of Title IX of the Education Amendments Act of 1972.”

Coach Flaherty shrugged. I guess Becky knew her stuff. “Fair enough, Rebecca” he said. “But you need a signed permission slip from your parents, and we have a minimum weight requirement of 80 pounds.”

Becky pulled a folded piece of paper from her sweatsuit. “Here’s my permission swip. I can probably eat a bunch and lift weights if I want to weigh 80 pounds,” she said cautiously. “I have to make the team first, though, right?”

“We might want to talk to the PTA about this,” Coach Flaherty said. “It’s nothing personal Rebecca, but other parents might not approve...”

The coach and I looked at each other. It was pretty obvious that neither of us wanted Becky Finklestein to try out for the wrestling team. But my reasons were different from his. Not everybody in the gym was against Becky though.

“Hi Becky!” Courtney sang, running up and inserting herself into the conversation.

“They don’t want me to twy out for the wrestling team, Courtney,” Becky pouted.

“That’s not fair, Coach Flaherty,” Courtney said. “Becky goes to this school now and you can’t exclude her just because she’s a girl. That’s against the law.”

“Yeah!” Becky added, putting her hands on her hips and sticking her chin out.

“Well now hold on,” Coach Flaherty said. “I have no problem with girls playing sports, but if she gets hurt in here, that permission slip isn’t going to save my job.

“I won’t get hurt,” Becky insisted. “I’m really stwong. Ask Rubber Chicken.”

With that, Becky turned and smacked me in the ribs. In the exact same place that she kept hitting me during karate lessons. I felt a rush of anger.

“She is totally strong Coach Flaherty,” Courtney said.

The coach sighed. “Alright, fine. Everybody has to wrestle five people, best of 3 falls. Then the seven highest scores make the team.”

“I want to wrestle Rubber Chicken,” Becky volunteered, smacking me in the ribs again.

I was starting to get mad.

“You know, I think that’s a good idea,” coach said. He winked at me. “Greg made the all-state team last year. You wrestle Greg here and you’ll figure out pretty quick if you want to stick around or not.”

A few second later, we were set up on a mat. A small crowd was forming while we waited for Assistant Coach Bowles to blow the whistle. I started in the down position. Becky was so small she could barely get her arm around my side. She put one hand against my ribs and the other above my elbow. Her hands felt tiny, but her arms seemed kind of ... big. “You’re fat,” she said.

“I’m not fat, I’m bulking up.”

“Then why are your arms still skinny?”

“Shut up, Becky.”

“You shut up, Gweg.”

“I shouldn’t even be wrestling you,” I spat. “Wrestling has weight classes for a reason. You should be wrestling one of the lighter guys.”

“You have to wait until after I beat you to make excuses,” she giggled.

“You’re not going to beat me,” I said. “Wrestling is about power, technical skill and reflexes. You have to know how to wrestle.”

“What is there to know?” Becky laughed. “You just thwow people around.”

“To do that you have to know how to wrestle,” I barked. I was starting to get angry.

Then the whistle blew.

I went to grab Becky’s wrist, but by the time my hand got there, it was gone. She was too fast. Then I felt her arms wrapping around my ribs. And in a split second I was flying backward. Then I landed shoulders-first on the mat. It had taken Becky about a half a second to grab me around my midsection and suplex me. It took her even less time to squeeze me into a cradle pin. Her arms were so short that she had to crush me into a ball to close them around me. And that’s just what she did. I couldn’t break her grip no matter how hard I pressed against her. Becky giggled as I strained, her small doll-like hands locked firmly together. Her freckled face was right up against mine, with a bitchy little smirk spread across it. “You don’t have to know how to wrestle if you’re stwong,” she taunted. “And I’m really stwong. Really really stwong. Really really really stwong.”