by John Marco
When he returned to class a while later, he kept thinking about how much the paddle would hurt. The rest of the day went slowly, and Greg didn’t answer any questions—even when the teacher asked him directly. School finally got out, and Bobby blocked his way at the door, then let him pass. The older boy stuck out a foot and said, “Enjoy your trip,” as he pushed Greg from behind. “See you next fall.”
Greg fell, but then sprang off the floor and scurried away. Eli ran with him and said, “I told you to keep your mouth shut.” Chastised by his friend and feeling quite embarrassed, Greg ran home and managed to avoid the bullies who were still unchaining their bikes from the rack. He locked the front door of his house. The brown house was old, but it was close to the school.
Mom was lying on the couch in the dark living room. Greg hated the dark. “Hi, Mom.”
She turned her head a little but didn’t turn to face him. “How was school?”
“Fine.” He tried to sound convincing but failed miserably. He wondered how long it would be before Principal Melker talked to Dad and he told Mom.
“What happened?” Mom rolled over.
Greg held in the tears. “Nothing.”
She sighed and turned away from him, just as she had for most of the past two months. Greg went to the back porch, wanting to get away from Mom. He rolled his bike off the back porch and went into the backyard. As soon as it was ready, he would get out of there and ride around the town, though he was afraid of who he might meet. He sprayed the chain with lubricant, holding down the red button of the blue and yellow can and coating the moving parts.
He heard Dad come home a few minutes later and talk to Mom. Her voice carried out the window, and he heard her upset tone. His father walked into the backyard soon after that. “Greg, Mrs. Melker talked to me.”
“It wasn’t my fault.” Greg pleaded with his eyes.
“I know, but could you please not embarrass me? It was my first day on the job.” Dad shook his head. “I’m sure this Bobby kid had it coming, but you yelled a bad word in front of the principal. My boss.”
The shame felt like cold needles against Greg’s skin. “Sorry, Dad.”
“Just don’t do it again.” His father stomped away and shut the back door harder than he needed to.
Greg went to the back gate and shook it as hard as he could. It wasn’t fair that they had moved there, and it wasn’t fair that all his friends were gone. It wasn’t fair that he was short or that he got sent to the principal’s office when it was Bobby who was bad. He went into the old garage that smelled of motor oil, dust, and cats. He found a stained cardboard box by Dad’s camping supplies and smashed it with a three-foot long wooden rod he found laying around. Then he went outside to hit something else.
Eli stood outside the gate in the alley. “Greg, you want to go monster scouting?”
“Where?” Greg lifted his wooden sword, his rage starting to lessen. Monster scouting sounded fun.
“There.” Eli pointed to the field next to the house and beyond the white propane tank that smelled a little like rotten eggs.
“Okay, let’s go.” Greg climbed over the back fence and followed Eli into the field. They searched through tumbleweeds, piles of dirt and rocks that had been dumped there, pretending they were hunters after big game.
“Giant scorpion!” Eli yelled and attacked a dead tumbleweed.
“We’re surrounded!” Greg hacked at the bushes. Pieces of dry tumbleweed flew in the air as his sword chopped them up, one after another. Eli and Greg made a pile of the dead monsters, but there were too many of them. One stung Greg on the hand. He pulled the stinger out of his finger and sucked out the poison.
“Run! We have to tell the king about the monsters!” Eli led the way back toward the safety of the alley, and Greg—being the stronger warrior—covered their retreat. Both boys climbed over the fence into the yard. They hid by the garage, under an awning, squatting in the soft sand.
“Look at that anthill.” Eli pointed to a mound where huge red ants crawled around, disappearing inside the ground by the big propane tank in the weed-choked yard.
“Greg, come in for supper.” Dad called out from the back porch.
“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Greg asked.
“I better not.” Eli climbed over the fence. “See you tomorrow.”
Later that night after supper, Greg’s dad tucked him into bed. “Did you say your prayers?”
“Yep.” Greg glanced at the picture of Jesus and the wooden crucifix on his wall.
“Who were you playing with in the back yard today?”
“My friend, Elijah. He’s in my class.”
His father gave him a questioning glance and stood up to leave.
“Dad, will you leave that light on?”
“But you’ve got your night-lights.” He gestured to the two dragon-shaped night-lights along the walls of the room.
Greg frowned. The house was way too dark and scary to turn out the big lamp.
“Okay, good night.” Dad left the light on and shut the door. Greg put his stuffed brown and white dog, Measels, by his pillow and tried to go to sleep. He couldn’t. He got up and turned on the bright overhead light, gathered a few more stuffed animals onto his bed and went to sleep.
The next day at school, after lunch and before class started, Greg overheard Bobby talking to some of the younger students. “There was a huge anthill in the desert by my house.”
“Yuck, I hate bugs.” A girl named Stacy made a disgusted face.
“The ants ain’t there now.” Bobby stood by Stacy’s desk, her full attention focused on him. “I got some oil spray and matches and burned a whole big nest of them. I made a flamethrower. It was awesome. I killed every last one of them, even the queen ant.”
“Cool.” Stacy grinned.
Bobby pretended he was pushing the button on a spray can while holding up a match. He made flamethrower noises—aiming the flame right at Greg’s head.
After school, Greg knelt in front of the anthill in his backyard by the propane tank. He had a book of matches and the can of oil spray. If Bobby could do it, so could he.
Eli knelt with him, worry on his face.
“I know, I know,” Greg said, “but these ants might get into the house. It’s better if I get rid of them now. Mom hates ants.”
“This isn’t a good idea,” Eli frowned, “you know it’s not.”
“Let’s just see if this’ll work.” Greg lit the first match, and the wind blew it out. He held the second one up and then pushed the button on the spray can. The liquid streamed out the little red tube stuck into the push-button and instantly caught fire. A burst of flame engulfed the ants, turning them into shriveled little balls.
Greg rocked back, amazed at what he’d just done and lit another match. The ants had been moving slowly, but now they sped over the dirt and dozens poured out of their hole to defend their colony. Greg roasted them with a long blast of fire. Ants crawled out and he kept burning them. The grass at the base of the propane tank started to burn.
Eli pleaded, “You have to stop, please. This is dangerous.”
“Just one more time.” Greg burned the winged ants that had come out and backed away. He heard the backdoor open and turned to see his scowling father marching toward him. Dad stomped out the fire and kicked dirt over the burned areas.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Dad snatched the can out of Greg’s hand and banged on the huge metal capsule. “The tank could have exploded if there was a leak. You know that.”
Greg could only look at his feet, totally embarrassed and feeling stupid for playing with the matches. What was wrong with him?
“Who taught you to do that?” Dad asked. “And don’t say your friend Elijah.”
“No, Eli told me not to—”
“Greg, stop it.” Dad wagged finger at him. “There’s no Elijah in your class. I checked. There’s no Eli in the whole school and don’t be mentioning that name in front of your mother. She�
��s got enough problems right now.”
What was Dad talking about? Eli was so in his class. He was his only friend. Without, Eli, he had no one.
Mom came out the back door. “What’s going on?”
Dad explained what he’d caught Greg doing.
Mom put her hands on her hips, and Greg withered under her double-laser-beam glare. “Go to your room. Now!” She pointed to the house.
Greg went and listened to his parents arguing on the back porch. He was in big trouble this time. It wasn’t as if he’d accidentally broken a lamp. He had intentionally played with matches. Near the propane tank. How stupid was that? Why hadn’t he listened to Eli?
Mom and Dad’s angry voices became louder and louder, though he couldn’t make out all of their words. The words he did hear scared him to death. He heard “divorce” many times, and they mentioned a lawyer in Vegas and who would get custody. They kept arguing, and Greg guessed it was only a matter of time before they told him they were separating. Mom was leaving Beatty, and Greg would have to stay with Dad. The whole town probably heard them shouting.
As the arguing continued, Greg’s heart beat faster. He paced around his small room, glancing at the window and wanting to climb out of it. With every passing moment he became more and more worried. This could be it. What if neither of them wanted him? What if they sent him away? He knew they didn’t want him around.
Greg’s parents stopped talking. He froze, afraid they had made a decision. They were coming to tell him they were divorcing. It was all his fault. If he’d been a better kid, it would have been okay. But if he wasn’t there to be told, then maybe they would stay together. There was only one thing to do. He had to run away. Hide somewhere. Greg darted toward the open window, removed the screen, and scrambled over the sill. He dropped into the small space between the wall and the fence, then crept into the backyard, making sure his parents had left the back porch. Greg grabbed his bike and walked it out of the yard, then jumped on it and sped down the alley.
“Greg!” His father shouted after him.
He raced downhill, toward the river, crossing the highway and speeding through a neighborhood of decrepit old houses interspersed with mobile homes. He kept trying to think of a way to make his parents love him again. He had to think of a way to keep them together. If he was smart, he could do it. There had to be a way.
A big black dog ran out into the street and barked ferociously at him. Greg pedaled hard and fast, the slavering dog on his heels. It chased him past an intersection before finally leaving him alone. He kept going fast until he ran out of breath, then coasted down a dirt road that led across the knee-deep Amargosa River. It flowed down the center of a gravel-strewn ravine. The water was barely five or six feet wide, though the banks of the riverbed were ten times that far apart. He stopped and stared into the shallow water. Tadpoles swam around, and slimy green algae floated on the surface.
Greg wasn’t sure what to do and glanced up at the tall mountain and rocky hills looming before him. He didn’t want to go back into town, which was not far from the riverbank, and he couldn’t go home. He sat by the stream, watching it flow by and wondering what made it smell funny. Dad would know. He wished Dad were there and remembered when they’d gone fishing in the Ruby Mountains. Trout tasted like mud, but it was fun catching them. He wondered if they would ever go fishing together again.
A flash of movement toward town made him stand up. Boys on bicycles rolled down the road toward him. It was Bobby and his friends. Greg jumped on his bike and pedaled across a dirt and rock bridge built over two culvert pipes. He went up the hill on the other side and glanced back. The town boys were coming after him. Greg pedaled hard and went up the road that snaked into the hills. His legs burned with exertion as the road kept winding uphill.
“We’re coming, Chicken Boy!” Bobby taunted and stood tall on his pedals.
Greg took a fork in the road, hoping to lose his pursuers. It led him up a very steep hill, and he had to walk his bike after the incline became impossible. The road wound around the hill, then leveled out at the mouth of a boarded up mineshaft that went straight back into the rock. The ground in front of the shaft was a huge pile of rocks mixed with white clay from the mountain. It was very steep on all sides, and Greg didn’t see a way to go except for straight down. He thought about hiding in the mine entrance, but his bike wouldn’t fit past the boards. Plus, it was dark in there. Really dark. The longer he looked into the blackness the more he felt a primal fear take over.
Bobby and his four friends came around the bend huffing and puffing as they walked their bikes up the road. Greg was trapped. There was nowhere to go.
“What’re you running from, Rotten Egg Boy?” Bobby asked. “You still a little chicken?”
Greg shook his head.
“Come on, you’re chicken.” Bobby pulled his bike up onto its back wheel, menacing Greg with his spinning front wheel.
“Am not.” Greg thrust out his chin.
Eli walked up behind the other boys, following them like a lost dog. Seeing his friend there made Greg feel better, despite what Dad had said. Eli was in his class. Wasn’t he? Doubt crept into Greg’s mind as Bobby and the others didn’t seem to notice when Eli came up beside them.
“What should we do with him?” Bobby asked.
“Toss him off the mountain?” Flat-top suggested.
Greg glanced over the edge. It was a long way down to the river. Bobby wheeled his bike forward, pressing Greg toward the drop. The tall third grader pushed his bike into Greg’s, forcing him to back up. A rock skittered down and clattered below. Greg couldn’t go back another step. The other boys blocked the road with their bikes. He had nowhere to go but off the cliff.
“Let’s give him a chance to prove he’s not a chicken,” Bobby said, glancing at the tunnel. “We’ve all touched the back wall in there.” Bobby pointed into the mine. “If he can do that, he ain’t no chicken.”
The thought of going into the mine without light made Greg forget how to breathe or speak. His hands trembled. He could see only a few paces inside, then the utter blackness took over.
Bobby and another kid grabbed him and hustled him toward the entrance.
“Now get in there. I dare you.” Bobby pushed him against the graffiti stained boards.
“How far back . . . is the wall?” Greg’s heart beat a hundred miles an hour.
“That’s what you have to tell us, runt,” Bobby said. “Walk back in the dark and touch the wall. Tell us how many steps it took you, and we’ll know you went back there.”
Eli shook his head vigorously.
“What are looking at?” Bobby pushed Greg against the boarded-up mine shaft, not paying any attention to Eli.
Fear contorted Greg’s face as he stared into the tunnel.
“Egg Boy is chicken. Egg Boy is chicken,” Bobby starting singing. “What’s wrong, Chicken Boy, are you afraid of the dark like some little girl?”
“I am not.” Greg scowled and Eli nodded in support.
“He won’t go in there, Bobby,” Flat-top said, “he’s a chicken.”
“Egg Boy is chicken. Egg Boy is chicken,” they all started singing. Bobby picked up a pebble and threw it. Greg turned and the rock hit him in the lower back.
“Stop it!” Greg shouted as a painful welt formed.
Bobby picked up another stone. Eli stepped beside Greg, but the kids didn’t turn their hateful stares away from Greg.
“Then go in there.” Bobby cocked his arm, holding the sharp rock like a baseball pitcher.
Chest heaving, Greg breathed in and out of nose, turning the fear to anger. He slipped past the boards, scraping his leg on some jagged wood. The town boys seemed shocked that he went inside.
“No,” Eli said, “don’t go back there. It’s too dangerous.”
Greg heard his friend’s warning, but this was his chance. Maybe they would leave him alone after this. He looked at the gang of kids. “I’ll go back there, but then you all be
tter leave me alone.”
They laughed and Bobby threw the rock. It bounced off the old wood. “Sure, we’ll leave you alone,” Bobby said, “but you won’t go back there. You’re too chicken.”
“Yeah, watch me.” Greg flipped them off and turned to face the darkness. The first four steps were easy, as the late afternoon sun came through and illuminated the floor of the rocky tunnel.
The fifth step would be horrible. A wall of pitch black stood in front of Greg.
“He’s going in!” One of the younger kids said.
“He’ll chicken out,” Bobby said, “just wait.”
Eli came behind him. “Don’t go. It’s not safe. You don’t have to prove anything to them. They haven’t been in here. They don’t know how far back this goes.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Greg said fighting the fear that made his whole body seem heavy. “Go away, Eli. You’re not real anyway.”
There, he said it. Dad was right. He didn’t have any friends in this hick town. He was alone. No one liked him, and they wouldn’t—unless he showed them he wasn’t afraid.
Greg took the next step into the darkness. He didn’t care if he got eaten by bats or killed by some miner’s ghost. His parents would rather have him lost forever in some hole in the ground anyway.
Greg’s foot found the rocky floor. He took another—six steps total.
“You know this is stupid,” Eli said from behind.
“Leave me alone.”
“Just stop this and go home,” Eli pleaded.
“They won’t let me leave,” Greg whispered and took another step. “Mom and Dad don’t want me at home anyway. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Will you listen to me for once?”
“Why?” Greg turned after his eighth step, but even if Eli was real, he couldn’t see him in the darkness.
“Because you know you should.”
Nine steps, and the darkness was so thick he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face as he groped for the back wall. He found nothing as he reached forward. Greg tried not to stumble on some debris on the floor.