Read My Private Pectus for Free Online Page B

concrete walls. Some boys run over, grab Cuppas by his arms and pin him to the spot. The P gets stuck in. Cuppas writhes as the towel goes back and forth. Everyone's laughing, absolutely cacking themselves.
    â€˜Hit his boobs!’ someone is yelling. ‘Go for his pink bits!’
    Cuppas squirms, twists one hand free and feebly tries to pull on his shirt, but each time he tries, The P strikes at his tits. There are hoots of laughter. Cuppas swears and starts to sob.
    My back's still hurting so I don't mind seeing him cop it. I edge closer to the action, but as I near the group, an arm grabs me and drags me in. It's Steve, The P's best mate.
    â€˜You want a go, Sticks?’ he yells above the laughter.
    I'm not so sure, but everyone is nodding. Someone else pushes me even closer.
    â€˜Yeah, c'mon, Sticks,’ The P says in between swings. ‘Give him something back for that elbow!’
    â€˜Yeah, c'mon Sticks. Stick it to him!’ another guy yells.
    The P shoves the towel into my palm. I look at Cuppas, and think about the pain in my back. Then a chant starts: ‘Sticks! Sticks! Sticks!’
    Maybe just one crack.
    Cuppas screws his face at me as I grip the towel. ‘You're a poofter, Sticks,’ he says and spits on me. His saliva runs down the side of my neck. My body goes tense. Then he says, ‘You faggot.’
    I go berserk. Holding the towel with both hands, I don't care where I get him. I go for his legs, his stomach, his boobs, his face. As the yelling gets louder, I go harder and Cuppas starts bawling and screaming. The cracking towel splits the air, the sound reverberates. He writhes. The boys struggle to hold him back. Then I start laughing and tormenting him. ‘Where next, Cuppas, where next?’ And I line up pieces of flesh that haven't been hit. I get his neck, his cheek, his chest. But as I raise my hand slowly, ready to strike his left tit, my arm is almost pulled out of its socket.
    â€˜Get off him, Jack!’ a voice roars. I turn and drop the towel. It's Dad.
    â€˜Stand back!’ he thunders in his best military voice. ‘All of you!’ Everyone scuttles, except for me and Cuppas.
    Dad looks at Cuppas, whose lips are still quivering. ‘What's your name?’ he says.
    â€˜Daryl,’ he sobs.
    â€˜Sit down, Daryl.’
    Cuppas sits, red-eyed. He rocks from side to side, examining the welts on the back of his legs, touching them, checking his fingers for blood.
    Dad stands, his jaw thrust forward. I can see the white around his pupils. He sneers at me. ‘One hundred,’ he says.
    I roll my eyes. This is pathetic. ‘Dad—’
    â€˜One hundred!’ Spit flies.
    I crouch, then drop to my hands and knees on the wet, muddy concrete.
    â€˜Stretch out your legs,’ he says.
    I lock my knees, my body straight like a broomstick. I bend my arms.
    â€˜Lower,’ he says.
    I keep going until my nose is about a centimetre above the floor.
    â€˜Keep going.’
    It dips into the water full of dirt and toe-jam.
    â€˜One,’ Dad says.
    I do another.
    â€˜Two.’ This time a few voices join in. By the time I get to ten the whole team is in chorus, getting louder with each count.
    â€˜Twenty!’
    So far it's easy. I do twenty all the time in my bedroom.
    â€˜Thirty!’
    Still going good. I'll prove him something.
    â€˜Forty.’
    I grin when my nose dips into the mud again.
    â€˜Forty-five.’
    But this time I struggle. Panting above the mud, my arms sting, my stomach sags.
    â€˜Straight back!’ Dad commands.
    I grit my teeth and push up again, watching his shoes out of the corner of my eye.
    â€˜Daryl,’ I hear him say. ‘Come here.’
    I do another as Cuppas stands beside me.
    â€˜Place a hand between his shoulderblades. That's it,’ Dad says.
    It feels like another fifty kilos on my back. I groan and do two more.
    â€˜Forty-nine.’
    But it's only a spattering of