Gym Candy (13 page)

Peter frowned. "Like you start growing breasts."

I felt my head jerk back as if I'd been slapped.

He put his hands up to reassure me. "I know it sounds creepy, but really, it's good. A side effect like that keeps you from abusing the stuff. As soon as you see it starting to happen, you stop taking the D-bol. I'll give you some pills that clean out the bad things. You'll lose some strength, but once your system is cleaned out, you go right back on the D-bol."

"And you have the other stuff, the stuff that keeps me from looking look like a girl?"

"It's called Nolvadex. And Mick, I would never give you the D-bol without having the Nolvadex ready for when you need it. Never."

I looked in his eyes, and I knew he was telling the truth. I picked up one of the pills and rolled it around in my fingertips. "How long before I'll see changes?"

"Four or five days. The first thing you'll notice is you'll be able to work out longer and lift more. There are other cool things, too. You got some sore muscle or pain in your back, you take these, and it'll be gone."

I thought how close I was. I wouldn't need much to win my job back from Dave Kane. "But for sure I'd be stronger by August?"

He nodded. "Mick, you do the D-bol and you keep
lifting weights and eating right—you do
all
those things and you will definitely be stronger by August." He paused. "So what do you say? You ready?"

I fingered the pills on the table. "I'm ready."

Peter went to the sink, poured me a glass of water, and slid it to me. "Your body puts out testosterone during the night, so you take D-bol in the morning. Start with four pills a day. Later you might go to six, but we'll see about that."

I put two of the pills in my mouth, took a big gulp of water, and swallowed them down. Then I picked up the other two and did the same. He handed me the plastic bottle and I slipped it into my duffel.

"Two more things," he said. "Being on steroids is like being on a roller coaster. Sometimes, you'll get a kind of screw-the-world feeling. You feel secretly strong and confident, like Tobey Maguire just before he transforms into Spider-Man. It's actually kind of cool so long as you don't let it blow up into full-force 'roid rage—and it won't if you don't let it."

"What's the other thing?" I asked.

"The other thing isn't cool at all. Sometimes steroids can turn the whole world into a black hole. I'm talking serious, dangerous depression. Watch out for that, too. I want this stuff to help you, Mick, not mess you up."

The D-bol kicked in Thursday. I was doing my usual sets of squats. I'd reached the last ones, the ones that always burned like a hot iron, and I breezed through them. I was able to do one more complete set before the fire came. I went over to the free weights and did some presses, and it was the same thing. After that I did calf raises and dead lifts and hit the cable machine for rows. I was looking around for something else to do when Peter came over. "It kicked in," I said softly. "I'm sure it did."

"Pretty awesome, isn't it? You're on the train now. You'll be surprised how fast it moves. " He paused. "Go home, Mick. Eat. Sleep. When you come tomorrow I'll have a whole new workout schedule for you."

I drove home, rap music blasting. I was on such a high that I reached for my cell phone to call Drew and tell him before it hit me that I couldn't tell Drew or anyone on the team anything, ever.

***

The next day, I spotted Peter by one of the elliptical machines, showing an older guy how it worked. I was anxious to talk to him, but Peter stayed with the old
guy for twenty minutes before he finally came over. "Let's go in the back," he said.

Once we were sitting down, he pulled out three typed pages and laid them down in front of me. "This is your program from now on."

The days of the week were written across the top of each page. Underneath were the focus muscle groups. And underneath that he'd listed the specific lifts I was to do along with the reps. Monday and Thursday were for my back and my legs. Tuesday and Friday it was my chest and my shoulders and my arms. Wednesday and Saturday he had me working everything.

I couldn't believe how detailed it all was and how many reps he expected me to do. "How come you didn't give me anything like this before?" I asked.

"You weren't taking D-bol before. You couldn't have done it."

I had nothing against Russ Diver. In fact, I've always liked the guy; everybody liked the guy. He was completely harmless, the class clown, the jolly fat guy. But as the final weeks of the school year wound down, I found myself disliking him. Whenever I saw him, a
physical revulsion would come over me, a revulsion that seemed to grow and grow.

On the second to last day of school, I was walking down the hall when Diver came around the corner, laughing his big fat-guy laugh and not looking where he was going. He smacked right into me, knocking my backpack out of my hand and sending my stuff flying all over the place.

"Dumb me," he yelped, slapping himself on the forehead, an idiotic smile on his face.

He was reaching down to pick up my books. Instead of letting him do it, I lost it, like a volcano that erupts without warning. I grabbed Diver by the shoulder and pinned him against a locker. The smile was gone from his face; fear was written in his eyes. "Let me go, Mick," he said. "Let me go."

The whole time I held him, I knew I was acting crazy. I wanted to stop, but then Diver started crying, and that made me even more crazy-mad. I yanked him away from the locker and then slammed him back into it, the metal clanging from the force. That was when somebody grabbed me from behind. I spun around, fists clenched.

It was Drew. "Easy, Mick." His hand gripped my forearm. I tried to pull away, but Drew held tight. "Don't do
anything stupid." His voice was quiet, but his eyes were intense.

For ten seconds he held my arm, and then I felt the anger subside.

"Get out of here, Russ," Drew said, looking over my shoulder. Instantly Diver disappeared down the hall. Drew looked around at the other kids who were still gawking. "The rest of you, get out of here, too." Slowly, they moved off, looking back over their shoulders at me. Finally Drew let go of my arm.

"What was that all about?"

"He knocked my stuff onto the ground," I said. "Besides, he annoys me." As I spoke I knew how stupid I was sounding.

Drew groaned. "Get real, Mick. Russ didn't mean anything. You hit him and you'll get suspended from school, which means a suspension from the team. You trying to give your position to Dave Kane? Besides, hitting Russ Diver? That's not you."

Drew crouched down and started gathering up my books. I watched for a while, knowing he was one hundred percent right, before I got down and helped him.

"Thanks," I said, once my junk was shoved in and the backpack was zipped shut.

"I owed you," Drew said. "I still do."

That was the first time the 'roid rage came over me, but once that edgy feeling came, it never entirely left. Most of the time it was no big deal—like having a tiny rock in my shoe that I couldn't get rid of. But every once in a while, it was as if I were a downed electrical wire after a huge storm. In those moments, if somebody nudged me, even a little, I could feel the bolts of electricity raging through me. I had to be very, very careful to keep myself from tumbling over the edge.

That was the bad thing about the D-bol; the good thing was simple—it worked. While I'd been on the supplements and the protein drink, I'd gained a pound every three or four weeks. With the D-bol, I was gaining nearly a pound a week, and I was setting personal bests almost every day.

I didn't mess around with the team's summer workouts. Instead, first thing in the morning I'd drive across the Ballard Bridge to Seattle Pacific University. I'd run on their rubberized track, three miles for endurance and then interval work for strength. After that I'd go to Popeye's, take my D-bols, and do my lifting. I could almost feel my muscles growing every day, my stamina
increasing. Once you start getting bigger, you just want to keep getting bigger. Peter had said it felt like being on a train, but there were days when I felt like I
was
the train.

My workouts were so intense that by noon I'd have exhausted myself. I'd come home, eat lunch, and then start working on my dad's summer project—painting the house. I started with sanding and scraping the peeling paint. Everything took four times longer than I figured. Most days I worked five hours, but that was okay. The D-bol was expensive, so I needed to earn as much money as I could.

My mom would come home around six-thirty. She'd make me dinner, and then I'd go upstairs and play video games or watch TV. After about a week, she asked me where Drew was. "He's around," I said.

"How come I don't see him?"

I shrugged. "He hangs out with DeShawn mainly."

"I thought the three of you hung out together."

"Mom, I'm busy. I run, I do my lifting; Dad has me painting. I don't have time to hang out."

Her eyebrows knitted. "It's summer. You're sixteen. I want to see you having fun."

"I'm doing exactly what I want to do," I said. "Everything's fine."

That's what I said, but lots of nights I'd start playing Halo or some other video game and ten minutes later I'd turn it off. Then I'd lie back and wonder what Drew was doing. A couple of times I thought of calling him, but I knew he'd ask me how things were going at Pop-eye's. I didn't want to talk about that.

A little before school had let out, I started getting the zits. For a while there were just a few, and I wasn't sure it was the D-bol causing them. But then more and more appeared, mainly on my back and chest. I kept a shirt on, always—even when it was hot—and after a while in the bathroom I used only the night-light so I wouldn't have to see them. I could have lived with the zits for a long time, but then something grosser happened. It was the first day of July, about six weeks after I'd started with the D-bol. I took a shower and as I dried myself off, I noticed that my nipples looked puffy and thick. Maybe I was imagining things, but the next day they looked worse.

I sucked up my courage and told Peter. "That's good," he said, putting his arm around my shoulder and walking me toward a corner of the gym. "Your telling me right away, I mean. I've known guys who hide it, hoping it will go away on its own. It doesn't."

"So what do I do?"

"Wait here," he said.

A couple of minutes later he came back with a small brown bag. Inside was a vial of pills.

"I told you I'd never leave you hanging, didn't I? You
stop
taking the D-bol and you take these instead. They'll clean you out."

"For how long?"

"Hard to say. Two weeks, maybe less. Everybody's different. Once your body gets back to normal, you can take the D-bol again."

"But if I don't take D-bol for two weeks, won't I slip back?"

He looked at me sideways. "Yeah, you will. I told you that up front. That's how D-bol is. Two steps forward, one step back."

"I can't step back now," I said, suddenly feeling desperate. "Football tryouts are in August. I've got to keep going forward."

"You've got no choice, Mick. Your body is screaming
Stop.
"

I stared at him—he was rock solid. "How come you
don't have zits? How come you never lose muscle?"

"I've got zits," he said. "Not on my face, but on my back and chest."

"But you don't ever cut back on your workouts, do you?"

He bobbed his head this way and that. "No. Not really."

"So how come you can keep going and I can't?" He shrugged. "I take different stuff from you."

"What stuff?"

"I take a combination of drugs. It's called doing a stack."

"Why can't I do a stack?"

"Because you wouldn't want to use the things I'm using."

"Why not?"

"Because you've got to inject yourself."

I stared at him. "You mean with a needle, like heroin?"

"With a needle, but not like heroin."

"You shoot up?"

"I give myself injections, but I don't do it to get high, and I'm not addicted to anything, so I wouldn't call it shooting up."

I nodded toward the gym. "The serious bodybuilders, do they shoot up, too?"

"Some do, some don't."

I shook my head back and forth. "I'm not sticking a needle in my arm. No way."

Peter threw his arms out. "Nobody's asking you to do injections. I knew you wouldn't want to, which is why I never brought it up. But just for you to know, you don't stick a needle in your arm—you stick it in your butt."

"I don't care where you stick it. I'm not doing it."

"I hear you, Mick. I hear you loud and clear. No injections." He took a deep breath. "Look. I've got other people I've got to work with. Take some time off. Get away from the gym. Don't come back until your system is cleaned out. Then we'll get you going on the D-bol again and you won't feel so bad about all this."

Once I left Popeye's, I walked along the Fremont Cut. It was a hot day; sailboats were moving through the cut toward Puget Sound. I sat down on a bench by the bridge and looked out.

My mind was going a million times faster than the traffic on the bridge. I could feel the rage coming—only this time it wasn't directed at Russ Diver or anybody
else. My rage was aimed squarely at me. The zits, the puffy nipples—they were betraying me. I hated my body, hated what it was doing. When I needed it to be strong, it had gone weak.
Two steps forward, one step back.
That sounds okay until the day comes when it's time to step back, and you find out it isn't okay.

Bells started clanging and the Fremont drawbridge slowly rose, allowing sailboats through. Traffic backed up; gulls wheeled in the sky. A huge sailboat glided past. The bridge slowly came down again. I walked back to the Jeep and drove home.

At home, my dad took me into the yard and showed me how to work a power washer he'd rented. I climbed a ladder and washed the second story, water spraying everywhere, drenching me. After lunch I cleaned the ground floor, finishing at two-thirty. I would have to let the siding dry for four days before I could paint. The whole day—the whole week—stretched out in front of me. And it was right then, almost as if by a miracle, that my cell phone rang.