You've still got Blake and his friends in the back of your mind, so as you like the sounds of using an "outdoorsy" club. Even if none of those assholes is in one of those clubs, they are probably filled with guys who could be useful for getting back at those cocksuckers.
"Well, let's look at their pages," Sydney says when you mutely point at the list. "They're probably going to be really heavy on guys," she says, "so we'll have to look for girls separately. But— Here." She turns the screen toward you. It shows a picture of a bunch of guys with fishing rods, grinning at the camera. You only recognize a handful of them, and of that handful you can only put a name to one of them—Justin Roth—and even he you don't know that well. Over the picture it says "Anglers' Club," and Mr. Hagerman—one of the young, handsome English teachers—is listed as the adviser. You grunt. None of them look like very impressive physical specimens who could go toe-to-toe with O'Brien or Kirkham and their friends.
Although you have the dim impression that you've seen Roth and Kirkham hanging out together.
"Who else?" you ask Sydney.
"You're the one who's been going to Westside for three years already," she retorts, but with a roll of the eyes takes back her phone and resumes scrolling and tapping.
The next page she shows you is the Caveman's Club, which is much closer to what you were envisioning. Big, meaty guys, three of them at least wrestlers: Laurent Delacroix, Alec Brown, and Chris Ratliff. Coach Porter—one of the brawny coaches—is in charge of it, which is fitting.
"There's also the Ironman Club," Sydney says as she takes the phone back, "though I think the Cavemen do a lot more outdoors stuff, like extreme camping." (She doesn't explain what "extreme camping" is.) "These guys," she says when she turns the phone back toward you, "seem more like all-around fitness." They are a more lithe bunch; the only one you can put a name too, though, is Jason Lynch. He'd be a good one to have under your thumb, though, for he's got a reputation for being a total, psychopathic douchebag.
"The one I want to try out, though," Sydney says as she takes the phone back, "is the Aeronautical Society. Can you imagine doing it in a hot-air balloon?"
The picture is so vivid that you almost don't hear her next words over the rushing blood that roars in your ears: "It's got a better boy-girl balance, too."
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