Pressure - By Jeff Strand Page 0,1

great water balloons.”

“C’mon, guys,” I protested. “Let me steal something else. Anything else.”

Paul nodded. “Okay, steal a box of Maxi Pads.”

“No way.”

“Rubbers or Maxi Pads. Your choice.”

If I’d still lived in Dayton, Ohio, I wouldn’t so much as stolen a soggy straw wrapper for the privilege of hanging out with kids like Paul and Marty. They were both gargantuan nerds who’d somehow convinced themselves that they belonged to the tough-guy crowd. The first time I ever saw Marty, he was sucking on his inhaler after an unsuccessful attempt to rough up a ten-year-old for his lunch money. Paul’s mom still cut the crusts off his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and included a daily note expressing her motherly love, though he always made a big show of crumpling it up and throwing it into the garbage.

But Trimble, Arizona, population 6000, was not an easy place for a newcomer. The children all knew each other, and had known each other their entire lives. The cliques were firmly in place. There was no room for a skinny, introverted, completely non-athletic kid with an ugly purple birthmark covering his chin. I’d sat by myself at lunch for three full weeks, hoping somebody would take pity on me, but the other kids seemed perfectly content to go on pretending that I either didn’t exist or carried a communicable disease, perhaps one with an oozing flesh motif.

So when Paul and Marty asked me to go on a bike ride one day after school, I enthusiastically agreed.

“Chicken!” said Paul. “Chick-chick-chick-chicken!” He tucked his hands under his armpits and began making what he apparently thought were chicken noises.

“You sound like a duck,” Marty told him.

“I do not.”

“Then you sound like a retarded chicken.”

“I do not.”

“Okay, you sound like a special chicken.”

“What does that mean?” Paul asked.

“A retarded chicken.”

“Kiss my ass.”

My fervent hope was that this conversation would continue until it was time for us to go home for dinner, but unfortunately “kiss my ass” turned out to be its natural conclusion. “Do it, Alex,” said Paul. “Otherwise you don’t get to be in the club.”

“I don’t even want to be in the club.”

“Yeah, right.”

Yeah, right. “Are you sure he’s half blind?”

“He probably won’t even look up,” Marty insisted. “We steal stuff from him all the time.”

My stomach was churning and I could feel a headache coming on, but I nodded, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and silently walked toward the drugstore. This was stupid. This was so stupid. This was truly, deeply, incredibly, astoundingly, jaw-droppingly stupid.

But I was going to do it.

A bell tinkled as I pushed open the door. Mr. Greystein looked up from his Christian Living magazine and frowned. From the way Paul and Marty had been talking, I’d expected some shriveled geezer in his nineties, but Mr. Greystein didn’t look any older than fifty.

The drugstore was small and poorly lit; not much more than three aisles and a cooler. Behind Mr. Greyste in was a display of cigarettes. “Leave it at the counter,” he said.

“What?”

“Your backpack. Leave it at the counter.”

I walked over and placed my backpack on the counter. Since the backpack was to be the vessel through which my dastardly crime would be committed, this wasn’t a good development.

Mr. Greystein glared at me for a moment longer, and then returned his attention to his magazine. I walked over and pretended to look over the candy selection.

The boxes of condoms were on a rack right next to the front counter. Even if I’d had my backpack, they’d be nearly impossible to swipe. How could I possibly do this? Why was I even willing to try?

My stomach had gone from the churning sensation to outright pain, and the headache was throbbing with full force. I read the nutrition information on a Snickers bar while I tried to decide what to do.

Just leave. Who cared what Marty and Paul thought? Maybe if I bought them each a candy bar, they’d let me join the club anyway; after all…

Then I realized something that should have been obvious from the beginning. I didn’t need to steal the condoms. I could just buy them. Marty and Paul would never know that they weren’t stolen merchandise. I could be a liar instead of a thief.

Of course, not having researched prophylactic purchasing restrictions, I wasn’t sure if it was legal for a twelve-year-old to buy them. This wasn’t like alcohol or cigarettes, was it?

Quickly, before I lost my nerve, I returned to the register. I grabbed a random box