Do you want her to? I wrote back, handing the sticky note to Deedee, but he didn’t reply, partly because Mr. Stilton was making the rounds, polished shoes clicking against the floor, inspecting our handiwork. It didn’t matter, though. Deedee’s silence was answer enough. Sometimes the truth was hard to admit. My mother was the one who taught me that if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all, which goes a long way toward explaining why the house was so quiet in the last few years before Dad left.
Mr. Stilton stepped up behind me and looked at my sorry-looking sketch with its lopsided banana. “Nice work,” he said. Which is pretty much all he ever said, whether you were a junior Picasso or some kid who couldn’t even make a straight line.
Maybe his mom had told him the same thing once.
When we left art, Deedee got nudged. Hard enough that he winced and dropped his backpack, rubbing his shoulder where he was hit. Noah Kyle got him, leading with his shoulder, though he had to stoop a little to get a good shot.
There are other names for it. A bump. A check. A brush. At BMS we called it a nudge. When someone—usually someone bigger than you, or in Deedee’s case, always someone bigger—steps into your path and slams into you, catching you on the arm or the shoulder, preferably the one your backpack is slung across so that it gets knocked off. Better still if you’re holding something—a bottle of Gatorade, or a stack of books—something you can spill or scatter, to multiply the embarrassment factor, so that the rest of the students standing around you clap at your apparent clumsiness or even take pictures (before the Great Confiscation, anyways) as you bend down to gather your things.
Nudging is a fact of middle school life. It’s inevitable, like puberty and armpit stink and lame assemblies. You just learn to live with it. It’s better than getting tripped and probably a heckuva lot better than getting hit. I wouldn’t know about that—I had never gotten in a fight—but I’d been nudged a dozen times, maybe more. Some of them were by accident, other kids honestly not looking where they were going. Most of them weren’t.
Some kids you can see it coming. You can track the shift in trajectory, the other kid working the angle to guarantee impact. Sometimes they even smile at their friends before it happens. A premeditated shoulder slam. It’s not a big deal. It’s not like you’ve been shoved into a locker or had your head stuffed into the john. It’s marking territory. Good fences make good neighbors. You just pick up your books and move along. It’s not something you tell your parents about. It doesn’t bear a remark of any kind. It was just an accident. That’s what you tell yourself.
Sometimes they would mock-apologize, the girls more than the boys. Make a big production out of it—“Oh, I’m sooo sorry. Did you get in my way?” That was the real insult. They made it your fault you got nudged. Your fault for being invisible, for not stepping aside.
Wolf didn’t get nudged much, not that I saw, anyway. More often he got dirty looks or snide comments from the kids who sat behind us in class. Deedee was an easy target for nudging, though. His size was a big part of it. A stiff enough shoulder could actually send him spinning. And the drama. Watching his face contort, seeing his cheeks burn. I’m pretty sure some kids nudged him just to hear him say “Hey, man, knock it off,” in that nasally whine of his.
Fortunately, nobody ever nudged Deedee—or any of us—when Bench was around. But Bench wasn’t always around.
We stepped out into the hallway after art and headed toward the last period of the day when Deedee suddenly spun sideways, his backpack slipping off of his left shoulder, his math textbook tumbling out of it along with a bunch of papers. “Hey! Watch it!” he squealed.
Noah Kyle twisted his head, turned down his bottom lip. “Whoops. I didn’t see you down there.” Beside him, Jason Baker laughed. They were the usual suspects. Noah. Jason. Cameron Cole. A few others. Kids we’d been through the past two years with. Kids whose shoulders we were used to. Kids whose laughs we could identify with our eyes closed. Some of them had been nudging Deedee since elementary school. Though they certainly weren’t the only ones, they were at least the most reliable jerks in the school. Cameron once “accidentally” dumped his orange juice down my back in the sixth grade. And Jason seemed to be gunning for Wolf for over a year now, whispering things by his ear in class, flicking paper wads at his back, though in true Wolfish fashion he’d just shrug it off. Deedee was a different story.
I bent down and helped him gather his stuff. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Whatever,” he said, sniffing and stuffing his papers back into his math book. He looked down the hall, the opposite way of Noah and his friends, not wanting to look me in the face either. Then he stood up with a deep breath and reshouldered his pack. “C’mon,” he said.
Just a nudge. Though Deedee walked a little slower than before. And kept between me and the wall the rest of the way just in case. No doubt he was imagining a Balrog bursting through the tiled floor, picking up Noah Kyle and crushing him in its fiery fist.
Or maybe that was just me.
After the last bell I went to my locker to grab my books before meeting up with Bench and heading out to our bus. On days when he didn’t have practice—which weren’t many—we at least got to sit together on the way home.
When I got there I found another yellow square of paper stuck to the door. I figured it was from Deedee—some little quip or stupid drawing, maybe of Deedee skewering Noah on the tip of a sword. As I got closer, though, I realized the note wasn’t from him at all. It didn’t have a name, and I didn’t recognize the large, looping script, but I knew immediately who wrote it. I looked around to make sure nobody was watching, then peeled the note from the door, folding it twice and shoving it in my pocket.
Thanks for lunch, it said.
And beneath that was a drawing of a snowman.
I went to go find Bench.
THE FISH
THE DAY BENCH ALMOST GOT US ALL KILLED WAS THE DAY I KNEW we were inseparable, that he’d always have our backs.
It’s no exaggeration. I really did think we were about to die. Or at the very least, be beaten to sacks of bloody mush. I can still remember being called names while dodging through a playground full of little kids. I can still remember the look of terror on Deedee’s face, the same look he got when we made him watch Jaws for the first time. Can still remember the bigger of the two kids nearly chasing after me, then tripping, planting his face in the mulch.
But mostly I remember Bench telling me he’d pay me back.
It was this past summer, before eighth grade. Unseasonably cool enough that we all wore hoodies with our shorts. We were at Freedom Park, Branton’s most popular stretch of green, complete with a plastic playground and a field big enough to fly kites in. We’d met up because our parents collectively kicked us out. Bench was back from whatever athletic camp his parents had shipped him off to. Wolf had just returned from a music competition in Grand Rapids. Deedee was desperate to start a new Dungeons & Dragons campaign—there was talk of succubae—but the cloudless sky and our parents’ nagging forced us to the park instead. Wolf brought Capri Suns. Deedee brought leftover naan to munch on.
I brought the soccer ball.
None of us played soccer, unless you count my brief stint on the worst team in the 7–8-year-old division six years ago. But Deedee was literally incapable of catching a baseball, and we were tired of shooting hoops in Bench’s driveway. Deedee could run, at least, almost as fast as Bench, and if the ball happened to roll in front of his foot he had a better than fifty-fifty shot of kicking it.
Unfortunately he still didn’t have any aim. So when he shanked his first shot of the afternoon well to the right of the trees we were using as goals, it sailed into a group of high school kids, knocking over a can of Mountain Dew, making me wonder if we shouldn’t have taken Deedee bowling instead.
There were four of them sitting in a circle. Two guys, two girls, probably juniors or seniors. Wolf said they looked like they were his brother’s a
ge. Maybe his brother even knew them. Deedee’s shot bowled over the soda and the ball came to rest by one of the boys—a tall, blond kid with gelled-stiff hair and a too-tight shirt. He grabbed the ball and stood up to face us.
Deedee apologized, of course, though he was too far away for the kid to hear his mumbling. The three of us came and stood beside him. Wolf held his hands out, gesturing for the ball back.
The boy holding it looked at the girl in the grass beside him—a watch this glance if I ever saw one—then he twisted and gave my soccer ball a tremendous kick, smashing it clear the other direction, another fifty yards, easy. Payback, I guess. I started to go after it when I felt Bench’s hand on my arm, stopping me.
“Hey!” he called out.
The high school kids looked over at us. Bench took a couple steps toward them. “Hey!” he said again. “That’s our ball.”
“Then go and get it,” the boy who kicked it said. The girl sitting beside him brought a hand to her face, embarrassed, but the other two kids just smiled at each other.
Bench wasn’t smiling though. He had his game face on. The one he always wore despite never playing when it mattered. He was still walking, getting closer and closer. We followed, afraid to let Bench go by himself, but a step behind. “You’re the one that kicked it over there,” he said. “You go get it.”
The boy shook his head. “You’re lucky I didn’t cram it down your throat.” His friends stopped smiling. I suddenly felt a pain in my stomach. This wasn’t like getting nudged. These kids were a lot bigger than us. And strangers. In school there were rules. There were people watching. At least most of the time.
I wasn’t the only one concerned. Wolf leaned over, speaking softly. “Bench. It’s all right, man. Let’s just get the ball.”
Bench shook his head. “But that guy’s a jerk. It was an accident. Deedee didn’t mean to.”
“All right, he’s a jerk. The world’s full of ’em. Let’s just go get our ball and go.”
Wolf pulled on Bench’s arm. Bench resisted at first, but with the second tug his feet pulled loose and we dragged him across the field to where the soccer ball sat. I bent over and picked it up, all the while watching the two older boys watching me, part of me burning at giving them the satisfaction. Nothing worse than knowing you’re right and somebody else is wrong and still being on the losing end. “Let’s just go back to my house,” I said, suddenly wanting to be anywhere else.
I figured that was the end of it.
We started walking toward the playground where our bikes were racked, the swings and slides full of carefree kids, little ones who didn’t need a tribe yet because when you’re five, everybody’s a member. I kept stealing glances at the cluster of high schoolers off to our left now—the blond one had his back to us, but one of the girls was still looking our way. We’d have to pass by them, but not close. Not close enough to matter.
Bench reached over and grabbed the soccer ball from my hands.
“I owe you a ball,” he said.
“What?”
“Get ready to run,” he added.
Before any of us could say anything or reach out to stop him, Bench veered left, taking just enough steps to ensure his accuracy. Then he hurled the ball as hard as he could—one-handed, baseball-style, right on the mark. It rebounded off the back of the bigger boy’s head with enough force to nearly knock him over. I could actually hear it bounce off the kid’s skull. A strangely satisfying thump.
The next thing I heard was Bench’s voice, screaming, “Go! Go! Go!”
We tore through the grass, all four of us, Wolf, Deedee, and me out in front, Bench catching up quickly, waving us on like Indiana Jones fleeing from a pack of angry natives. One look behind me confirmed that both of the teenage boys were on their feet in pursuit, cursing at us, demanding that we get back here. My shoes skidded in the mulch as I ducked under slides and bridges, heading for the bike rack, thankful that none of us bothered to chain up. I glanced again just in time to see the one who’d kicked my ball go down, slipping to avoid running over a toddler, getting a mouthful of mulch. Bench was right beside me, grinning like an idiot. “Did you see that?” he said.
I didn’t have time to yell at him or tell him how stupid he was and how we were about to be murdered in the middle of a playground. Or what a great throw it was, and maybe he should try out for quarterback. Or to even ask him why he did it. But I didn’t need to ask him that. You make your tribe. You protect each other from the wolves. We hopped on our bikes and kicked off, careening into the street and pedaling as fast as we could from the two screaming teenagers swearing to hunt us down and kick our butts, though they weren’t that polite in their terminology.
We rode all the way back to my house without stopping and collapsed in the front yard, laughing and gasping for breath. Deedee made the moment appropriately geeky by saying “Feel the wrath of Garthrox the Barbarian!” Wolf ripped up a handful of grass and threw it at him, starting a grass war that would leave bare patches in the lawn, but I didn’t care. We’d just experienced the thrill of escaping annihilation. Bench was the hero, of course, but we were all in it together.
Afterward we lay on our backs, heads nearly touching, making a plus in the middle of the yard. Bench was lying to my right.
“I don’t believe you,” I said to him.
“Just glad I didn’t miss,” he said back.
“They had it coming,” Wolf said.
Bench smiled, sort of proud of himself, I guess. I never saw that soccer ball again. And Bench never got around to replacing it. But I knew from that moment on what we counted on him for.
It wasn’t until that next day, the Wednesday after the Great Confiscation, that the sticky notes became a thing. Not the fad that it would blossom into, or the monster that it would eventually become, but it was definitely a thing. It was just our thing.
It started with Bench this time, leaving dumb jokes on all three of our lockers. Mine was Why wouldn’t the man carry the grizzly on his back? The answer, found on the folded-over flap at the bottom: Because it was unbearable. The ones he left for Deedee and Wolf were even worse. But it was all right. I was glad to see that nothing had changed. Bench was still Bench. We were still us.
Then there was the note Deedee stuck to my backpack as we passed in the halls, showing a stick figure stabbing some other poor stick figure in his skinny stick back with a smaller stick—a gentle reminder that we had promised him we’d go dungeon diving this weekend. We always agreed to play reluctantly, made it out to be an act of kindness, us coming over to his house and nerding out with him. If we protested long enough, he’d make his mom stock up on Red Bulls and pizza rolls before we came. I think she was just happy her son had other kids to hang with. She’d probably buy us caviar if we asked. I confronted Deedee with the note and told him that Ceric the Elvish Rogue preferred Pringles with his demon slaying. He said he’d look into it.
There was also the sticky note from Wolf, folded into fourths and passed to me in English that morning while Mr. Sword was detailing the difference between tragedy and comedy. Apparently tragedy claimed that life was full of pain and suffering moving inexorably toward death, and comedy said life was ridiculous and people were pretty much fools who sometimes stumbled upon happy endings. They both sounded about right to me.
I took Wolf’s note and unfolded it in my lap.
Do you mind if she has lunch with us again?
I looked over and Wolf poked his chin at the door. Rose Holland hadn’t moved closer to us, even though there was still an empty seat beside me. Today she had on an oversize plaid button-down shirt, untucked, and the same dark blue jeans and black combat boots as the day before. It looked like maybe she’d raided her father’s closet for something to wear—and her father was a lumberjack. She’d waved to us when she came in, but hadn’t looked my way since.
I held Wolf’s note and stared.
“In a tragedy,” Mr. Sword continued, “the hero struggles against his inevitable
fate, so it is naturally a losing battle. But in a comedy, he is often the victim of chance or coincidence, so even in his folly he can still somehow do the right thing.”
Wolf raised his eyebrows at me.
I shrugged. I wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say. Either answer, yes or no, seemed like it could cause a problem. Wolf didn’t seem satisfied with my noncommittal shrug, but before he could write another sticky note, Mr. Sword swooped down on us, placing his hands on my desk.
“So how about it, Mr. Voss? Do you see yourself as the hero of a tragedy, or a comedy? Are you fated to let your pride lead to your inevitable destruction, or are you simply a fool being toyed with by forces beyond your control?”
I didn’t like either option, really. I glanced at Wolf and then back at Mr. Sword. “Um. I’m pretty sure I’m just part of the chorus,” I said.
Apparently it was a good answer, because Mr. Sword laughed and let me off the hook.
“And a good thing, too,” he said. “They are usually the only ones still standing at the end.” Mr. Sword went back to lecturing the class. Wolf let his question drop.
I tried not to watch the clock above the door.
Wolf’s question was answered three periods later when I walked with Bench to the cafeteria. I realized then why Wolf was even asking. He wasn’t seeking permission; he was just seeing how I felt about it. He’d already made up his mind.
There they were, Rose and Wolf sitting next to each other at the otherwise empty table, laughing like a couple of lunatics. Like old friends.
Beside me, Bench grunted out a “Really? Again?”
I got behind him in line and we snagged our spaghetti and weaved our way through the maze of tables. I sat down next to Deedee, who had snuck in while we were getting our food, forcing Bench to take the other empty seat—the one on Rose’s right. Her tray had one of those fruit-filled snack pies on it, along with three celery stalks and a carton of milk. I wondered how the celery fit in with her stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth diet. Maybe she had a secret jar of peanut butter in her pocket to dunk them in.
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