The Last Martin

by Jonathan Friesen

  Soon, Poole’s summer cabin is stocked. I smile. It’s a start.

  I stare at a blank sheet and feel the wind on my face. I’m exhausted from my work. With Mom coming home soon, Poole’s outdoor bench will be the perfect place to spend the day and prepare the next installment of The White Knight.

  I lie on the bench and listen to trains. What would it be like to live here? To wait three years for your mom to come?

  Now he’s at school helping me out. Definitely worth more than boots and a lasagna.

  I spend hours wondering what he’ll say when he sees his boxcar thank-you. I think myself to sleep, and I’m still thinking when I wake.

  I stretch and sit up and grab my tablet off the ground.

  “Poole will break zee ice.” I yawn and crack my knuckles. “Martin, zee half-dead love machine, will swoop in with the real continuation of her favorite story.” I grab a pencil from behind my ear and blow on the tip.

  Oh, Martin, your story and my pictures go so well together! It’s like we were made for each other.

  “Okay let’s see. Where were we …”

  Sadly, the White Knight laid hold of the shaft, raised it to heaven, and …

  Crash!

  Shards of clear stone, like daggers of light, exploded into the air. Creatures shrieked and dove for safety, but for many it was too late. Light shattered their armor and they lay in gnarled heaps against dungeon walls.

  But not the jackal. Foam dripped from his mouth as he padded among the carnage.

  The White Knight backed away, glancing from the wild dog to his stunned adversary.

  The Black Knight slowly brought his hand to his chest and touched the gaping wound. Black blood oozed onto his fingers.

  He fell to his knees. “Tas,” he hissed. “Finish him.”

  The jackal’s eyes gleamed as he limped toward his fallen master. He reached him and licked the blood off his chest. “I hate knights. White or Black.”

  The Black Knight reached up and grasped Tas by the neck. “I will not be destroyed by a dog!”

  Tas crumpled in a furry heap beside his master, and the Black Knight released his grip, collapsing breathless onto his back.

  “The prophecy is strong. It has bought you time, young knight.” He coughed. “But unless you finish me now, I will be back. And I will claim what is mine.” The Black Knight closed his eyes. “Look for me in the heat of summer.”

  The heat of summer. We’re almost there.

  The White Knight reached into the rubble and took hold of Alia’s hand. He gently lifted her to his side and pulled her close. Her eyes sparkled.

  “Behind you!” she screamed.

  Tas leaped toward the knight, his jaws clamping around his forearm.

  Crack!

  “Off, foul beast!” The White Knight pried open its mouth and flung him against the wall. Tas yelped and scampered out of the dungeon.

  “Your arm.” Alia gently rubbed her fingers over the wound. “It’s broken.”

  “It will heal.” The knight smiled. “We are together!”

  I set down my pencil. My arm aches from squeezing it so tightly. I rub my forearm and wrist and peek at my watch.

  “The time!” I throw down the pencil, slam shut my pad, and bound off the bench. School’s out.

  I race toward the bus stop, slip behind my pole, and wait. The bus appears and Poole is the first one out. He does another backflip and waves as the bus pulls away. Kids hang halfway out windows and wave back.

  “See ya tomorrow, Poole!”

  “Do another flip!”

  Must’ve gone well. Wait, where’s Charley? “Well?” I rush up to him. “What did you say about me? What did she say? Did she seem … interested?” I rub my hands together. “You know, did she ask lots of Martiny questions?” I circle him like a yappy terrier. “Say something! You always blab, and now you’ve gone mute? Speak!”

  “Uh, how was your day?” he asks. “Poole!”

  “Oh, right. Our talk. It’s a little tough to recall.” He turns sober. “I’m thinkin’ I should go back tomorrow.” I scratch my head. “So you didn’t talk much.” “Not enough. I mean, not enough to do a thorough job.”

  I grab his arm. “But you did talk?” He nods.

  “A sentence? A minute? What?” “Pretty much all fourth and fifth hours. She is something. I think another day and we’d know each other pretty well.”

  “You’d what?” I squint. “Why are my clothes spotted purple?”

  He pulls away. “Probably best to leave that detail alone for now.”

  Minutes of silence drive me crazy. We reach my backyard and Poole sighs. “Okay, particulars about today,” he says. “First off, what’s The Treatment?”

  My eyes widen. “Why?”

  “I went to gym and started to open your locker. Number 120.”

  “Stop.” I exhale hard. “That’s Will’s locker.”

  “Found that out. I’m good with names, not great with numbers. So I turn the lock and the door swings open. Must not have been latched. I put on your uniform.”

  I shake my head. “Will’s uniform.”

  “Right. Will comes in and gets pretty mad, but I tell him the truth. You told me to do it. Seems like first thing tomorrow you need to report to phys ed for your Treatment. Halden said this isn’t the first one you’ve earned.”

  I tongue the inside of my cheek. “Dead. Officially dead.”

  “Then there’s the matter of a small prune fight at lunch. A rather … sizable lunch lady escorted me to the office and the principal wanted to see my schedule, but when I dug for it, your note slipped out and —”

  “Oh … What did you tell him?”

  “The truth. That I was acting under your orders. That you were sunning, with sunblock, on my bench. He gave us both tickets for some after-school event. Tomorrow, we need to report to reflection, no wait, intention or demention or —”

  “Detention.” I let my head fall back.

  “Yeah! That’s it. Go there tomorrow. Here.” He digs in his pocket and hands me the slip. “I guess your folks need to sign your ticket. I’ll get Frank to sign mine.”

  My mouth hangs open. I’ve never had detention.

  “Oh, and Charley. There’s a small matter with him, but you guys will patch it up. That’s most of the big things, I think.”

  I yank Poole by the shirt and pull him to the boxcar. “In. I want my clothes. You will never go to my school again. Are we clear?”

  “But I told Julia —”

  “Never!”

  He shrugs, and soon purple clothes fly out the boxcar mouth. “This is the way you thank your friend —”

  Silence.

  Poole appears in the opening, drop-jawed and standing in his boxers.

  “Okay, the microwave latch is tricky,” I say.

  “What did you do?” Poole peeks back into the car.

  I frown. “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s just that I haven’t uh … It’s been a long time since …” Poole scratches his head, turns, and leaps. I hear the beanbag chair crunch.

  “Love it. Love it.” He laughs. “If you ever need another favor, I’m your guy.”

  I nod and stare at my detention slip. I don’t think so.

  Dad comes home late from the wars. “It was quite a reenactment today.” His eyes gleam and he drops his weapon on the floor. “I forgot it wasn’t real. I mean, there I was, 1820, arrows flying overhead. Son, there’s nothing like it.”

  I wince and kick at the carpet with my boot.

  “Now the tuna is missing. Tuna does not have legs!” Mom’s voice carries out from the kitchen. “The macaroni and cheese doesn’t either. Gavin, are you feeding the regiment again?”

  “Here,” I whisper.

  I peek at the kitchen and hand Dad my detention slip. He studies it, peeks at the kitchen as well, and whispers back, “You got in a prune fight?”

  “A what?” Mom hollers, and slams the fridge. “I assumed that purplage to be
the remnants of an art project gone awry. I had already composed a note to Mr. VanSickle. He bears responsibility for the toxic chemicals in those paints. But are you telling me that you … you were involved in prune hurling?”

  “No! Yes. Well, I was really whispering to Dad, not to you.”

  “Gavin!”

  “Your mother deserves to hear the story too.” He turns and cocks his head. From behind, I see his body shake. Then Dad breathes deeply, clears his throat, and looks back to me.

  “Martin the Prune Hurler.”

  He can’t hold it. He bursts out in a full belly laugh. “Get anybody good?”

  Mom slaps him with an oven mitt. “If this isn’t proof our son’s degenerate behavior … Oh, Martin. What’s happening to you? You will have an appointment with Dr. Stanker this week.”

  I stare at Dad. He tousles my hair. “Oh, now. Just seems like a kid letting loose a little steam.”

  He steps back and folds his arms and looks into me. It’s a strange look. Not a proud look. A maybe look. A hopeful look. Least that’s how it appeared.

  “Do we have a purple pen?” He waves the slip in front of my face. “I’ll proudly sign this bugger.”

  Mom storms back into the kitchen. Dad offers a thinking face.

  “I didn’t hit anybody,” I say.

  “That’s okay. There’s always next year.”

  No, there’s not.

  CHAPTER 10

  I FORGOT TO BE THANKFUL.

  I know Poole didn’t exactly fulfill his side of the bargain, but I promised. So I stand at my locker and think. Minutes away from The Treatment I think, what in the world do I have to be thankful for?

  “I’m thankful that I’m in school and Poole’s not.”

  “Makes two of us, Boyle.”

  I swing around and stare, nose to hanging whistle, at Mr. Halden.

  “Poole’s quite a piece of work.” He hikes his pants and puffs out his chest. “I just talked with Ms. Jensen. You’re spending homeroom with me.”

  He spins, and I follow. We weave between horrid comments.

  “Oooh. Martin’s toast.”

  “Treatment day.”

  We reach the locker room, go inside, and Halden faces me — his jaw tight and twitchy and terrible.

  “Boyle. Since I’ve known you — I’ll be honest — you’ve been a piece of milk toast. A doormat of a boy.”

  I bite my lip. “I’ve been a nice doormat. You know, the kind that reads ‘Welcome Home'? Doormats are useful and prevent filth from entering …” I peek and hope for a smile. Nothing.

  “But you defied me with your uniform, you ran out of class, you stole Will’s property, and you sent a boy brimming with disrespect to disrupt my well-trained troops. Fact is, you’re changing. And I don’t like it.”

  “I’ve been wanting to change my whole life. You really think I —”

  “Your father is a military man.” Halden folds his arms. “He understands the importance of a chain of command, and you’ve reached the end of my chain.”

  I don’t understand what he wants or where he’s going. I ease down on a bench.

  “Up, soldier!”

  I jump to my feet.

  “Boyle! On my whistle, march that-a-way.”

  “Toward the shower room?”

  He says nothing. Moments later, Halden’s whistle tweets.

  I double-time it out of the locker area and approach the showers. Halden strolls through the room, turning each knob until water streams full force from every showerhead. Through the steam, on the far side of the room, he leans against the wall, meaty arms folded.

  “Ever played Red Light, Green Light, Boyle?”

  “Uh, yeah?”

  “Discipline. It’s what runs a school. It’s what you lack. It’s what The Treatment is designed to provide.”

  He blasts his whistle. It echoes shrilly and painfully off concrete walls. “I call this attitude-corrector Hot Shower, Cold Shower. On my whistle, you jump under the first shower head. It’s hot. Then on my next whistle, you jump to the next. It’s cold.”

  “My clothes will get soaked —”

  “On my command, you will work your way across the room, and I don’t think we’ll need to employ The Treatment twice.”

  “Aren’t there maybe some twisted abuse issues involved —”

  Tweet.

  I leap under the first shower. “Ah!” It’s not hot. It’s volcano hot. I wriggle and twist and —

  “Cold shower!”

  I stagger beneath the next showerhead, shirt suctioned to my skin. Ice cold.

  “C-cold!”

  “Hot shower!”

  I stumble through the room of death, my skin alternately burning and freezing. I reach the far end, slump against the cool wall, and stare down at screaming skin — crimsony, raisiny mottled skin.

  “Boyle, I don’t imagine I’ll be dealing with more disrespect.”

  I shake my head and whisper, “Can I leave?”

  He nods. “Hop to. Your dry outfit is on the bench.”

  I slosh back into the locker room. Halden is nowhere to be seen. But the outfit lights up the room. Bright yellow pants and a neon pink shirt.

  Oh no.

  The bell rings. Kids will be here soon — I have no choice. I slip gingerly into the shirt and pants and stare at the full-length mirror.

  “A dandelion on the bottom and a flamingo on the top.” I shake my head. “I’m a Dandingo.”

  I mope toward the hallway door. The pain. It’s worse than Poole’s pummeling — every move I make rubs my skin and sets it on fire. Sure, I could tell Creaker, but who would believe it?

  I breathe deeply. “All hail the Dandingo!” I push out of the locker room into passing time.

  And a circle of kids.

  Including Julia.

  Will steps up. “Well?” He stares at my clothes. “What happened to you? What’s The Treatment?”

  The hall hushes and I glance around. Julia’s gaze drops mine. “Uh. It’s tough.”

  “But what did he do to ya?” Will presses, and others chorus behind him. Then I see it. They aren’t sneering or laughing. They’re in awe. I’ve been through the ultimate torment and lived to tell. For the first time in my life I have something everyone else wants.

  Gather round the Dandingo!

  “At first when it starts, that’s the worst. It builds and builds and inside you want to scream because outside you want to scream, but Halden’s a madman, and you know if you show weakness, he’ll break you and you’ll turn into a puddle, a blob of jello, so you keep going and going and show no emotion, you know, resist giving him any satisfaction. And after you’ve taken all the pain, all the torment he has to offer, you look your torturer in the eye because you survived The Treatment.”

  “Whoa!” Will gives me a friendly slap on the back, and nearly knocks my skin off. “Intense.” He steps back. “What’s with the clothes?”

  I freeze. “Oh. That was a calculated move. I woke up thinking, there’s no way I’m going to hide today. I need to wear clothes that say, ‘Here I am, Halden, come get me, if you dare.'” The lie doesn’t sit well, and my stomach turns.

  The bell rings, and my circle of admirers scatter like mice. But their words linger.

  “Way to go, Martin!”

  “Tell me more at lunch. I’ll save you a place.”

  “See ya third hour.”

  What just happened? Five minutes with a psychotic phys ed teacher and I’m a hero. Julia!

  She leans back against a distant wall, hugging her books. In front of her, Charley pleads. From the look on Julia’s face, she isn’t buying it.

  I turn and march to algebra.

  “It wasn’t me!” Charley’s voice screeches, and I glance over my shoulder. Julia shoots the Dandingo a look, and even though she’s way down the hall, her eyes warm me more than The Treatment. I smile and pick up my step.

  CHAPTER 11

  SHE LOVES ME. SHE CAN’T KEEP HER EYES OFF ME. Yeah, ye
ah!”

  The Dandingo spins and poses in the boys’ lavatory. Treatment or not, this is officially the best day of my life.

  “Martin Boyle, please report to the principal’s office. Martin Boyle …”

  I stop spinning, take a deep breath, and trudge toward my doom. Halden’s a crackpot, even Mom thinks so. But Principal Creaker? He’s different. The old man can make life forever bad.

  I open the office door and freeze. Julia sits in the plastic chair.

  “Hey, Martin.”

  The moment has come. Gentlemen, we have contact. It’s my turn. It’s my moment. Thirteen years of life spent planning the next words that will soar from my mouth.

  “Uh-ee.” It’s a croaky, stuck sound — very donkeyish. As if the word started out, got jammed in my throat, then blasted out high and girly. It’s quite possibly the most ridiculous sound ever made.

  Julia laughs. “Do that again.”

  “Julia? Martin?” Ms. Corbitt clears her throat. “Principal Creaker will see you now.”

  Julia whispers, “This is where it gets ugly.”

  I frown and follow her into The Room.

  “Close the door, Martin.”

  I pull it shut. The click is loud and permanent as bone. Suddenly my ears ring, the room tilts, and my vision blurs. I lean into the doorframe, feel its cold against my cheek. It’s happening more and more, something scary and sickly.

  “No tree hugging, Martin. Sit down, both of you.” Principal Creaker removes his spectacles, leans back, and massages his divots. “There can be no confusion as to why you are here.”

  Julia stares straight ahead. I run my hand through my hair.

  “I don’t know why I’m here.”

  “Ah, yes.” Creaker leans back. “You weren’t here yesterday.”

  I slump. “Okay. I skipped school. It makes sense that you’d be angry about that, but if you could let me break the news to Mom, it would save my life and I promise — “

  “If only that were all it was. Martin, do you know how many people went home purple yesterday?”