Sometimes his very existence seemed to defy the laws of physics. Even three dimensional objects made of colorless glass present discernible images. But for all the notice taken of his presence, Rick Connors may as well have been invisible.

He materialized briefly to the members of the class when he first arrived in fifth period American Literature, one afternoon, with a swollen, cut lip and blood-stained white shirt -the inside corner of the pocket torn free. Once this condition became commonplace, however, he once again seemed to disappear. That is, he disappeared to everyone but those in his fourth period gym class. There he was visible in much the same way as a punching bag or tackling dummy is visible.

The school bully, an upper-classman named Don Hamilton, had adopted Rick as his personal sparring partner. He was a natural for the task. He never returned a punch. He never even ducked. Nearly every day, Rick bruised Don's fists with his face. It was excruciatingly painful, but Rick was afraid to fight back. So, he kept taking the beatings.

Of course, it had occurred to Rick that he may not suffer much greater injury by returning the punishment, but the fear was too deeply entrenched to allow any action. The truth he admitted to himself was far more painful than the beatings. Rick Connors was a coward.

One day, the gym class was outdoors playing softball. Rick was at the bottom of the batting order, as usual, and Hamilton 'the Horrible' decided he needed some exercise.

Hamilton's second punch had knocked Rick off-balance and he reached out with his left hand to stop his fall. The hand came back half filled with dust which he let fly into the face of his assailant. Surprised at himself, he followed with a clenched right fist, backed up by his full weight, into the once tight-set jaw of the tormentor. There was a sharp crack as Hamilton's teeth crashed together, and he dropped to his right knee. A rivulet of crimson fluid ran to his chin from the left corner of his mouth.

A collective gasp rose from the benches as if the awed spectators anticipated nothing short of an execution of the upstart challenger. Don Hamilton got to his feet, wiped his chin and looked at the blood on his hand -this time his own. His brow was furrowed, as if in thought. He looked at the faces on the bench, then he looked at Rick. A nearly malevolent grin played at the corners of his blood-smeared mouth. And, then, to the astonishment of everyone present, including himself, Don Hamilton burst into nearly uncontrollable laughter. When the wave had subsided, he stared at Rick. And, in a thunderous voice, he said, "It's about God damned time!"

The knuckles of Rick's right hand were skinned and he thought he had broken his thumb. He cursed himself, in his pain, for never having learned how to make a fist properly. Fortunately, he never had to hit anyone again. Word got around. And Rick became the most visible person in the whole school.

But Rick concealed a deep inferiority complex, and he still believed himself a coward. Even though his classmates did see him much differently now. What had changed? He had struck someone out of desperation. He had done nothing to earn respect. If anything, he had descended to the level of bullies, using violence. Cowards use violence.

This school year was nearly at an end. Soon, his classmates would be the upper-classmen. It was clear that an attitude change was due, but how to accomplish the metamorphosis was not yet so clear. Openly confident people are seldom challenged. Rick knew he would have to project this image, or, eventually, he would probably be forced to resort to violence again.

There had to be a way.