The Beginning and End of Everything

by Stevie J. Cole

  "My daddy."

  Connor scooted closer to me. He frowned when he pushed Ken’s arms above its head. "What do you do with dolls?"

  "Run them over with your monster truck.” Brandon leaned off the couch and reached for the Barbie in my hand, but I yanked it away. “Like Grand Theft Auto."

  A slight wrinkle formed on the ridge of Connor’s brow. "Grand Theft Auto?"

  “The video game?” With a roll of his eyes, Brandon rummaged through his ratty backpack for something, then trudged across the room and shoved a disc into the game console. He took the controllers and tossed one to Connor. "I got it from Uncle Darren's caravan. It's awesome!” Brandon’s attention narrowed on me. “Girls can't play.” Then he turned back to the TV.

  I focused on making Barbie’s hair silky smooth, pretending I didn't care that the boys didn’t include me. But I did. For whatever reason, since the first day I’d met Brandon, I wanted to mean something to him, even though he was terrible.

  A myriad of noises: gunshots and screams, sirens, and roaring engines, filled the room. "What do I do?" Connor sounded panicked, so I glanced at the screen. One of the players darted past a rundown building before whacking someone with a baseball bat.

  "Just…” Brandon jabbed at his controller. “Drive around and rob stuff—and kill people that get in your way."

  "Kill them? With what?"

  "Your gun. And—" Brandon yanked his controller to the left—“Your car."

  The game looked too chaotic. Most definitely for boys. And I happily went back to dressing my doll, although every few seconds, I would steal a glance at the TV.

  "Oh! Run over that hooker.” Brandon's fingers went crazy on the controller. “Run her over, Con! Get her!"

  Connor moved his player a few steps, then turned to look at Brandon. "What's a hooker?"

  A pan clattered in the kitchen.

  "Old Man McGinty said it's a lady in a short dress."

  Tires screeched on the TV, and a car crashed against a light post, coming to a stop beside a woman whom I had just learned was a hooker.

  “Aw, shit!”

  Mrs. Blaine rushed into the living room with a mixing spoon covered in whipped potatoes still in her hand. The color drained from her cheeks when she glanced at the TV. A hand covered her heart as she gasped. "What on God's blessed earth? Oh my…" She moved in front of the screen, blocking the image with her wide hips while she reached behind her to fiddle with the buttons.

  The screen went blank, and Brandon tossed his controller to the thick carpet. "Aw, Mrs. Blaine. I was about to kill me a hooker."

  “Give me strength, Father,” she mumbled while she crossed her chest. "Where did you get such filth?"

  Brandon’s gaze drifted from Mrs. Blaine to Connor, then back. He scratched his head, tangling his messy, brown hair even more. "Nicked it from Uncle Darren."

  “Stealing and hookers…” Mrs. Blaine’s nostrils flared as she shook her head. "I shall be talkin' to ya ma."

  "Aw, Mrs. Blaine. She'll smack my arse."

  "Someone needs to, boy,” she said on her way back to the kitchen.

  I smiled at Brandon. "Told you video games are bad for you."

  With a glare, he grabbed the brunette Barbie my mother had given me on my eighth birthday.

  “Be careful with her,” I said, but he was too busy trying to undress her to listen.

  "Does she have boobs?"

  The Velcro ripped, and the sparkly dress dropped to the floor. Brandon wrinkled his nose when he glanced down at the nude plastic. “Gross.”

  Enraged, I shoved to my feet. Brandon held the unclothed doll above his head, laughing as he waved it around.

  “Stop.” I jumped to grab the toy, but he dangled it out of reach.

  A wicked grin—one that warned something awful was brewing in Brandon’s head—tugged at the corner of his lips. Then he ripped off the doll’s head and tossed it to the floor. It bounced over the carpet before rolling to a stop beside my foot.

  A storm of emotions swirled inside me when I bent to retrieve the decapitated head. I stared at the doll’s bright smile, her pretty brown waves, remembering how soft my mother’s voice had been when she told me she thought the doll looked like me.

  Of course, I would have been angry had Brandon ripped the head off any of my other dolls, but I wouldn’t have been hurt. He’d just unknowingly destroyed the last present my mother had given me. Clenching my fists, I focused on how much I hated him to keep from crying.

  “I can fix it, Poppy,” Connor started, stepping to my side while Brandon doubled over in laughter.

  But what I wanted more than my doll fixed, at least at that moment, was retribution. I wanted Brandon O’Kieffe in trouble. In major, butt-spanking trouble.

  I gritted my teeth, sucking air deep into my lungs, then I belted out a scream so shrill it felt like sandpaper in my throat.

  Connor and Brandon’s hands flew to their ears. In point five seconds, Mrs. Blaine darted around the corner. “What’s going on now?” She knelt in front of me, placing her soft hands on my arms. "Poppy? What’s wrong?"

  "Brandon…" I sniffed back tears and forced my lip to quiver because that always worked on my father. "He tore off my doll's head, then threw it at me! Because he…" I gulped in air for dramatic effect, and then I let the tears fall. “He hates me!” I buried my face in Mrs. Blaine’s shoulder, inhaling the delicate scent of fabric softener.

  “He doesn’t hate you.” She hugged me tightly, swept my hair from my face, then kissed my forehead. On a jilted breath, she pushed to her feet and grabbed Brandon by the ear.

  Connor stood wide-eyed in the background while his mother marched a wincing Brandon right in front of me.

  “Give Poppy her doll back.”

  He held out the headless Barbie, glaring at me like he wished he could rip off my head instead.

  “And tell her you’re sorry.”

  “Aw, Mrs. Blaine, I was just playing. I didn’t—”

  She tugged harder on his ear to make her point. “Sorry, Brandon. Tell her you’re sorry.”

  “Ow.” His nostrils flared. “Sorry.”

  Shaking her head, she mumbled “heathen” on her way from the room.

  Connor scrubbed a hand through his hair and took the doll from my hands, while I glared at Brandon, hoping he felt my anger burn through his skin.

  "There." Connor gave a proud, ear-to-ear grin when he handed back the Barbie, her head turned the wrong way around and shoved to her shoulders.

  “Thanks.”

  An awkward silence settled over us while I pulled Barbie’s head back into place and smoothed out her hair. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Connor rock from his heels to his toes, hands clasped behind his back. Brandon was still in full self-pity mode on the couch. I hoped he would stay there and leave us alone for the rest of the day.

  "Want to go swing?" Connor asked.

  "Sure."

  Brandon immediately snapped, “No.”

  Connor shrugged and grabbed another cookie on our way to the backdoor. I couldn’t understand why Connor, who was always smiling and sweet, would choose to be best friends with a grouch like Brandon.

  Outside, a thick blanket of gray clouds covered the sky, making the day seem as dreary as I felt, and the chilly breeze didn’t help. Quietly, I followed Connor to the corner of the yard where he plopped down on the swing set, causing the rusted chains to creak. I took the swing next to him and grabbed the cold, metal links, using my shoe to draw a line through the patch of dirt when I took a seat.

  "Why are you even friends with him?"

  "Dunno. Just am."

  I picked up my feet to swing. "He's a butthole."

  "Yeah, sometimes. But he can be nice, too."

  I almost laughed at the thought of Brandon O’Kieffe being nice.

  Connor pushed back, trying to match my rhythm. "He doesn't like girls. He says they have cooties."

  That was the dumbest thing I had ever heard. If anyo
ne in the whole of Ireland had cooties, it was Brandon. Half of the time, he didn’t even look like he bathed. "I don't have cooties!”

  "I know." His sneakers scuffed the grass to slow down a bit, and a plume of dust flew up in front of us. "I like you, though.”

  "Well, you're nice. He's not." I glanced toward the house.

  Brandon stood at the screened door, watching us with a frown. He crossed his arms over his chest, and his unhappiness deepened. Sometimes, I wondered if he worried that I was stealing Connor. After all, Connor was the only kid that didn’t call Brandon a gypo or a pikey, the only boy who never made fun of Brandon’s clothes that were sometimes too small or riddled with holes. Sure, Brandon was mean, but everyone outside of Connor treated him terribly. I thought, maybe he expected me to be like them, too… Maybe that’s why he didn’t like me.

  On a hard huff, I dragged the toes of my shoes across the grass, slowing myself down to jump from the swing.

  A single dandelion had sprouted from one of the cracked paving stones, and I snatched it on my way to the porch. I knew that girls liked flowers, and maybe Brandon might think it was sissy. But really, a dandelion was a weed. Surely, a boy could appreciate a weed.

  Brandon backed away from the screen door when I opened it and handed him the weed.

  "I picked it for you. Thought it might make you happy.”

  My mother had always taught me that sometimes people just need someone to be nice to them. She thought kindness was the elixir for most pain. Naively, I truly believed that was all it was…

  4

  Brandon

  It had been three days since I’d ripped the head off Poppy’s dumb Barbie. That was the first time I understood what it meant to feel guilty. I checked my pocket to make sure the wilted dandelion was still there while I waited outside Connor’s.

  “Ma? I’m going out with Brandon.”

  "Be back for tea!" Mrs. Blaine shouted before the door banged shut behind him.

  “Wanna swing?” he asked.

  I headed through the gate at the front of his house. “Nah.”

  "Wanna go to the pikey camp?"

  "We're going into town."

  Behind me, I could hear the rattle of Connor fighting with the gate latch before he came jogging up beside me, already winded. "Town?”

  “Yeah. I gotta get something."

  The bus stop at the end of the road was empty. Connor frowned when I took a seat inside the little wooden shelter, tearing at one of the advertisements plastered to the wall. "You gotta pay to ride the bus.”

  I held up a fiver, and Connor’s eyes bulged. "Where'd you get that?"

  "Dad was asleep. So, I borrowed it."

  Connor smacked a hand to his forehead. I inhaled, preparing myself for a lecture on all the ways that stealing was a sin, but thankfully, the low hum of an engine interrupted him before he got past commandment number three. The bus sputtered to a stop in front of us, expelling a toxic cloud of exhaust that made me cough as the doors creaked open. I handed our fare to the driver, then we took seats at the back.

  Connor fidgeted in his seat the whole way into town, continuously mumbling about getting into trouble. By the time we stepped off the bus, I was ready to find a Milkybar and cram it down his throat to make him hush. That’s all that kid worried about, trouble—and food. And that’s all I seemed to stay in.

  The bus disappeared around the corner, and my attention went right to the bright red and yellow awning of Callaghan’s Toy Shoppe. It reminded me of a circus tent with its tiny flags waving in the breeze from the top of the canopy.

  Just before we reached the toy shop door, I held out my arm, and Connor’s plump chest bumped into it. The last thing I wanted to do was get him into trouble. I gave him a stern look while thumbing behind me. "You have to wait around the corner, okay?"

  "Why?" Connor frowned. "I want to come in and look at the new lightsaber."

  "No. You have to stay here. Wait around the corner from McDonald’s." I pointed to the half-lit golden arches a few stores down.

  "Fine." He rolled his eyes. Even at that early stage in our friendship, Connor had realized sometimes it was best not to ask questions. "But you owe me a Big Mac,” he mumbled and started down the sidewalk.

  The bell over the door tinkered when I stepped inside the shop. The older man behind the counter glanced up from his newspaper when I approached the Star Wars display spread out at the front of the store. My pulse raced when I picked up a box with Darth Vader wielding a lightsaber. I didn’t care about Darth Vader, but I had to look normal. A woman at the back of the store got his attention, and I watched from the corner of my eye as the man folded the paper, placed it on the counter, and disappeared around the corner. That was my chance. I took off down the aisles, stopping at the one where the shelves were stuffed full of obnoxious pink boxes. Blond Barbies. Brunette Barbies. Pageant Queen Barbie and Scuba Diver Barbie…

  I quickly glanced over the shiny packages, snatching one with a doll that had brown hair like Poppy's. I shoved it under my arm and walked back through the shop with my heart in my throat. When I neared the till, I took one good look around, then bolted straight out the door.

  "Hey!" a man shouted behind me. "Hey, kid. Stop!"

  I glanced over my shoulder at the hefty security guard weaving between people on the sidewalk. That made me kick up my run to a full-blown sprint. I zoomed around the corner, already shouting for Connor to run.

  His eyes went wide, and he started down the street with the speed of a sloth.

  "Run!" I shouted again. Catching up to him, I grabbed his arm and yanked him around a building and into an alley where we ducked behind a rusted Volvo.

  Connor sidled beside me and coughed. I slammed my hand over his mouth. "Do you want us to get caught?" I whispered.

  "Caught?” He panted for a second, swallowed, then shoved me, knocking me against the brick wall. “What did you do? Why are we running and hiding?"

  I proudly held up the crumpled Barbie box. "For Poppy." The guard rushed past, blowing his whistle.

  Groaning, he covered his face and dropped his chin to his chest. “My ma’s going to kill me when she finds out."

  His ma would never find out if he didn’t tell her, but knowing Connor, he would go home and confess his sins the second she offered him tea.

  I grabbed his hands and yanked them from his face, tossing them to his sides. "Don't tell, or I'll break all your video games."

  "You play them, too!"

  "I'll still do it.” I jerked my chin toward the street. "Come on. I think they're gone."

  My ma would have smacked me with her slipper if she’d found out I nicked that doll, but I had broken Poppy's Barbie and made her cry.

  I didn’t want her to be sad, even if she was a girl.

  When Connor went home for tea, I went to Poppy’s.

  Nerves churned my stomach when I knocked on the door, and when it swung open, I nearly lost my lunch. I had to crane my neck to stare up at Mr. Turner. His thick beard and impressive height made him look like a lumberjack, and suddenly, I was dwarfed.

  "Hey, Mr. Turner.” I swallowed nervously. “Can Poppy come out to play?"

  His gaze drifted to the box I had clutched in my hand, and a smile curled his lips. "Sure."

  I hid the unwrapped present behind my back when he turned to call for Poppy.

  Her pigtails bounced behind her when she skipped to the door. She grinned at her dad, and I wished she would grin at me like that. He ruffled her head when she stepped onto the porch.

  I swung the box back and forth behind my back. "I got you something," I said, then shoved the package into her arms, hoping I would get one of those smiles.

  She ran a finger over the white print, and when she looked up, she gave me a smile—one that was better than the one she’d given her Dad—then she hugged me. “Thank you.”

  My knees locked, and my arms went stiff at my sides while I fought the urge to shove her off.

  "Mayb
e you aren't a meanybutt." She giggled, clutching the present to her chest. "Where's Connor?"

  All of the warm, tingling feelings inside me turned to smoke. Then I did push her away. "I didn't get him a Big Mac, so he went home for tea."

  “Daddy's making spaghetti with the sauce out of the can. You want to stay for dinner?"

  I really liked spaghetti from the can, so I nodded. When Poppy turned to grab the door, one of the ribbons in her hair fell out, and I picked it up, tucking it into the same pocket as the dandelion for safekeeping. Nobody had ever given me anything before, apart from my ma when she knitted me a Christmas jumper every year. But it was different, and I valued that yellow weed as though it were worth more than gold. I don’t know why I took her ribbon, but maybe I just wanted something else from her. Something that wouldn’t shrivel up and die.

  The next day at school, Poppy smiled at me before she smiled at Connor, and pride filled my chest that I’d made her happy. It carried me through the morning until the door to the hallway opened.

  Halfway through the school day, the headteacher, Mr. Peterson, interrupted class. He apologized to Miss Brown before his beady eyes locked on me through thick, bottle-top glasses. “Brandon O’Kieffe, come with me, please.”

  I groaned under my breath before reluctantly following him into the hall.

  Being in the headteacher’s office was nothing new to me—it was just that I couldn’t figure out what I’d done this time. I hadn’t been sent to the corner once that day, but despite how hard I thought, I didn’t come up with anything even by the time we entered Peterson’s office.

  The sunshine-yellow walls and the tiled ceiling were almost as familiar to me as my own cupboard bedroom in the caravan. I wasn’t surprised to see my mum sitting in the chair on the other side of his desk when he led me through the doorway, the policeman, though—well, that was a shock. So much of one, I nearly shat my pants when I saw his fluorescent jacket and flat cap.

  “Sit, Brandon.” Peterson nodded toward the empty chair beside my ma, who wouldn’t even look at me as I took a seat—that’s when I knew it was bad. “This is PC Coombes.”