Lie Like a Dog

by Richard Diedrichs

pinned to his sides, Armstrong’s hold tightening like steel bands around a barrel. The next thing Sandy knew, he was falling with Armstrong, and rolling on the dirt. Before he could get a sense of exactly where he was, Armstrong was on top of him. Armstrong pressed his whole body on top of Sandy. Sandy felt crushed. He tried to move his head, to find light, air, to see if he had hope of escape. He could not move a muscle. He was jammed.

  “Now everyone sees you’re lying,” Armstrong whispered, from somewhere above. “Go ahead and say it, `I’m a liar.’”

  Sandy was so squashed, he could not find the strength to speak. Even if he wanted to, he could not make the proclamation that Armstrong demanded. The weight pressed on him. He wondered if he would die there, flattened into panicked ants and fossilized turd. Sandy heard feet shuffle near his head.

  A voice said, “Off, Armstrong, or I’ll cave your face in.”

  Sandy saw light invade and felt the weight lift off his body. He felt so buoyant, he kept his palms on the dirt to keep from floating into space. As he got to his feet, he saw Ricky Nyland, standing in front of Armstrong. If Armstrong was the biggest kid in the neighborhood, Nyland was the toughest. He was supposed to be the toughest kid in school, although Sandy had never seen him fight. For reasons Sandy couldn’t understand, Nyland was always friendly to him. While other kids feared and ran from Nyland, Sandy hung around to talk to him whenever he saw him.

  As Nyland and a couple of his buddies loomed behind Armstrong, Sandy stood chest to chest with the bully. Sandy pushed Armstrong. Armstrong grabbed Sandy’s forearms to hold him off. Sandy had no idea how the faceoff would end. They had nowhere to go with it. Sandy would never end it with a punch and Armstrong was now fighting four, including the toughest kid in school. Sandy felt tired. He couldn’t remember why he was standing there, surrounded by about a dozen kids, jeering and calling for Armstrong’s blood. He wanted a way out. He looked around for his brother but didn’t see him.

  Sandy heard his name, called from a distance. “Sanford! Sanford!” He looked toward his house and saw his mother standing on the driveway, waving her arms. Chris stood next to her.

  Sandy dropped his hands, looked at Armstrong and Nyland, and said, “I have to go. Sorry.” He walked away and left the crowd hooting and yelling behind him.

  When Sandy reached his mother, she put out her arms and hugged him. “You okay?” she said. Sandy pushed against her, feeling shaky and nauseated.

  As the three of them stood on the driveway, Jackie Armstrong walked by, heading around the corner, toward his house. He watched them as he sidled past, with a slight limp, his face red, his right eye swollen shut.

  Sandy knew he didn’t hurt Armstrong. He barely touched him.

  “God, can we put an end to this?” Sandy’s mother said, shaking her head.

  Sandy pulled up and waited, as she turned toward the house. “End to what?” he said. “He started the fight.”

  “Who you are?” his mother said, going through the front door.

  “Should we tell her?” Chris said, hanging at Sandy’s hip.

  “Keep quiet, Chris,” Sandy snarled.

  “Keep quiet, Chris,” his brother sang, like a snarky parrot.