by Greg Logsted
Mrs. Owens’s head snaps upward. She seems very surprised by his answer. “Are you honestly trying to tell me this was just a simple case of roughhousing?”
“Roughhousing? Is that what you call it? We just call it ‘bench wars.’”
Mrs. Owens’s lips get really tight. I can see the anger in her eyes. I wonder if Pogo Stick and the other guys can see it too. “So you’re telling me that Cody Saron had nothing to do with this, that he didn’t beat you boys up?”
“Why would he beat us up? Never mind that, how would he beat us up? Like he said, there’s seven of us. Is he some kind of superhero?”
Mrs. Owens looks around the room. “Is that right? Are you all telling me you got hurt playing something called bench wars?
Everyone nods their heads.
“I don’t buy it. Mr. Dinatelli doesn’t buy it and anyone who even glances at your injuries isn’t going to buy it. Now, who’s going to step forward and tell me what really happened?”
The room remains quiet. I glance around. Everyone avoids eye contact with me. Mrs. Casey is nervously playing with her stethoscope.
Mrs. Owens lets out a lungful of air. It’s like she’s been holding her breath. “If that’s your story, let me remind you that we don’t permit that kind of reckless behavior in our school. Two weeks detention for the lot of you.”
I glare at Pogo Stick until I get his attention, then point my chin at Frank, urging him to do the right thing.
“Mrs. Owens, Frank wasn’t part of the game. He was just getting dressed. We were playing three against three.”
She considers this new information. “Frank.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You should have stepped forward. I think you know what I’m talking about. Three days detention for you.”
“But I didn’t do anything!”
“Do you want to make it four days?”
“No, ma’am.”
She turns and walks out the door. Just like that, she’s gone. I thought for sure I was going to be kicked out of school. I didn’t even get detention. I can’t believe it.
I walk over to Pogo Stick and hold out my hand. At first he just looks at it, then he reaches up and gives it a little slap.
I look over at Mrs. Casey. She’s at her desk filling out some paperwork. I lower my voice so she can’t hear me. “Thank you.”
He smiles. “No problem, but it’s gonna cost you.”
“What?”
“We want you to teach us how to fight like that.”
I nod my head and smile back at him. “No problem.”
MATADORS
The wind is whipping around our hair and my ears are cold. We really should have worn hats. We’re standing at the edge of a ski trail high in the French Alps. My dad’s dressed in his red ski jacket and I have on my thick sweater and black vest. He lifts up his sunglasses; there’s that gleam in his eye.
“What do you say, son, want to give it a try?”
The run looks more like the side of a cliff than a trail.
I shout over the wind, “This American guy I met at the ski hut called this run DMD, for Dead Man’s Drop.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying you don’t want to give it a try?”
“I didn’t say that.” I glance down the trail again. It’s steeper than anything I’ve ever skied before. “Just saying that I’m…”
I don’t complete the sentence because my dad suddenly launches himself onto the trail. I watch him expertly plant his pole, swing his body around, and hop; plant his pole, swing his body around, and hop. He keeps planting, swinging, and hopping his way down the side of the steep mountain. He’s the matador and the mountain’s the bull.
My skis are hanging over the lip of the run. I watch my dad and study his line. If I don’t make a mistake, if I don’t slip or catch an edge, I can do this. If something goes wrong, I will get hurt. There’s no doubt about it: I’ll get hurt badly.
I plant my poles, focus on my line, and force myself to remain clear-headed. Once I start, that’s it—there’s no turning back. My heart is pounding; my muscles twitch in anticipation. I take a deep breath, drive all the negative thoughts away, and push off.
Crack.
My eyes spring open wide. I grab the knife from under my pillow. What was that sound?
I’m lying in bed. I glance over at the digital clock. It’s glowing 2:35.
I heard something; I know I did. For five days now, I’ve been able to sleep without doing my little nightly recon missions through the woods. I’ve managed to convince myself that I was being overly cautious and maybe just plain paranoid. But this is different, this is real, there definitely was a sound outside.
I slip out of my bed, quickly dress in the dark, and grab the small leather bag I’ve hidden in the closet. It contains my stash of homemade weapons: eight sharp metal spikes with tail feathers, a powerful slingshot, and nunchucks. My dad would be proud. I assembled everything exactly like he taught me, using stuff I found in the garage.
There’s a window in the laundry room that’s covered outside by a large, thick bush. A while ago I trimmed away some of the branches close to the house so I could slither through it and crawl unnoticed into the woods.
It’s been less than six minutes since I heard the sound and now I’m wide awake and moving silently from tree to tree. It’s a pitch-black, new-moon night and I know I’m not alone. There’s something wrong, a little too much noise for just the wind. I move in the quiet catlike manner my dad taught me.
I’m scared and I exhale the fear, then try to slurp it up like soup. Fear can be like fuel, it can keep you moving and focused. I feel more alive than I have in weeks. I’ve stepped out of the domestic world and back into the wild. I understand the rules here; they’re simple and easy to follow. You’re either the hunter or the prey.
The air is crisp and cool; my breath fogs slightly as it leaves my mouth, everything is damp with dew.
I sense that I’m missing something. It’s a tugging sensation, like a forgotten anchor left dragging under the boat. My dad always told me to trust my gut. He said it can pick up information that your brain’s taken in but hasn’t been able to digest yet.
I take off my belt and use it to quietly haul myself up a tree, into that safe envelope of space between the earth and the dark sky. I wrap my arms and legs around a large, thick branch and disappear. I need a moment to try to piece together what’s going on.
Just a few hours ago I was safe and warm with Jenny, watching an old tape of her and my mother playing soccer when they were kids. Now here I am in the woods, hanging from a tree.
I let the minutes pass. My eyes adjust to the darkness. I decide that I’m comfortable enough. I’ll wait here and let whoever’s out there come to me. I study the darkness, looking for shapes or changes, listening to every sound.
I struggle to see what I feel.
The problem with this kind of heightened awareness is that after a while you start to see shapes and movement where there isn’t any. There’s a shadow that looks like it’s moving in my direction. It has to be my imagination because it’s moving way too fast. If a person was moving that fast they’d be making a ton of noise.
I slowly remove my slingshot and load it with one of the spikes. I aim it at the quickly approaching shadow; still reluctant to believe it’s a person. I start to breathe harder. It’s moving too fast, noiselessly heading toward me like it’s walking on air.
It’s within striking distance of my spike. It’s definitely a person; I can make out the arms, the legs, and the chest. He’s a large, bulky man dressed completely in black, wearing a ski mask and carrying a high-powered rifle with a scope. I pull back the slingshot even farther and keep it aimed at his chest.
He stops, crouches down to the ground, and creeps over to the tree line. His hands are moving back and forth, searching through the dirt and leaves. After a few minutes he reaches under a bush and finds something. It looks like a small metal box. He slips it
into his pocket and inches his way back into the thicker woods.
He stands and starts moving again, still heading in my direction. How does he move so quickly without making a sound? I know I’m securely hidden up here but there’s still that element of doubt and fear. What if I’m not as invisible as I think I am?
Can he hear my breathing, the pounding of my heart? He’s almost directly below me.
Snap.
He doesn’t move, just freezes, then he squats down low and readies his rifle. I heard it too, that noise, the breaking of a branch or a twig, maybe forty feet away in the thick underbrush.
The man in black sweeps the woods behind us with what appears to be a SIG 550 assault rifle, looking through its large scope. Is it a night-vision scope? I can’t tell, but I think so. There’s definitely a silencer screwed onto the end of the barrel, which I wasn’t sure you could do. It certainly is a very nasty weapon. I wish I had one.
My arm is starting to get tired from holding back the spike in the slingshot. It’s starting to shake and my fingers are cramping. I will away the pain and keep focused on my target.
Just when I’m at the point where I don’t think I can hold back the slingshot any longer, the man in black stands and starts to quickly move again in that silent manner of his. He glides effortlessly away; I watch his dark form until it’s soaked up into the shadows of the night.
I ease off the slingshot and rest my whole body against the thick branch. My arm feels like it’s burning, my fingers are numb and I’m covered in sweat.
Who was that guy? And what is he doing out here? Is he going to the cottage? Is Jenny in danger?
I get the feeling that if he wanted to get into our cottage he would have been there by now. He moves too smoothly, too professionally; it would take a small army to stop him from his objective. If it was the cottage, he would have struck hard and fast.
I sense movement again but not from the direction the man in black disappeared into. I turn and look toward the place where I first saw him. I study the surrounding darkness, looking for shapes and patterns. Yes, it looks like there’s someone there but he’s not moving as quickly as the last man. He’s quiet, moves well, but he doesn’t glide.
My arm is still tired but fear has given me a renewed sense of strength. I reload the spike and pull back on the slingshot’s cord. I study the advancing form. Maybe I’ve underestimated him. He’s also moving very quietly, but unlike the man in black he’s advancing using trees and rocks as continuous cover. I never really have a clear target.
Something about the way the form moves seems familiar. I struggle to get a good look at him. When he shifts between a rock and a bush close to me I spot the missing arm. It’s Andy.
I ease off the slingshot. I notice he’s carrying a pistol, a nice nine-millimeter Glock. I’ll have to ask him to show it to me later. Unfortunately, any thought I had of letting him know I’m here vanishes with that discovery. If I try to tip him off to my location there’s a really good chance I could be mistakenly shot.
Andy’s close to my tree; he stops and squats down where the man in black had stopped. He’s examining the dirt; I think he spotted something. Good job, Andy.
He moves over to my tree, leans against the trunk. If I wanted to, I could hang down and tap him on the shoulder. I imagine that would really freak him out. It would almost be worth the risk of getting shot, just to see his reaction.
He continues onward, over to another tree, then a bush, then behind and over a rock before being swallowed by the darkness.
I lie across my branch wondering if I should return to the ground and try to track the two men. I feel worn out and tired, my shirt’s soaked through with sweat. I squint at my watch. An hour—that should do it. I tell myself not to move for one hour. I’m not the matador my dad is.
THE SILENT SUIT
“Cody?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“It’s time for IDs.”
He hands me a passport. I open it up and glance at the picture.
“Who am I this time?”
Beep, beep, beep…
I swim up from the depths of sleep, grasping for the alarm clock. My hand fumbles around the night table like a blind spider.
How come I can’t find something so loud and so close?
I brush against it and almost knock it to the floor. I grab the clock as it hangs over the table by its cord.
My hands feel disconnected from my body and my eyes just don’t want to open. I struggle to find the little switch to turn off the alarm. I know it’s red but that only helps if you have your eyes open. Finally I find it and the alarm falls silent. I’ve conquered the alarm clock. There should be a special reward for this grand accomplishment, like maybe eight more hours of sleep.
My feet swing out of bed and onto the floor.
Other kids live normal lives, other kids spend all their time figuring out what to wear and how to act, but no, not me. I’ve gotta run around in the woods all night chasing people with assault rifles. I’ve gotta have cafés blow up around me. I’ve gotta hide in some small town like a fugitive.
I shuffle into the bathroom and look in the mirror. I’m covered in dirt and my arms and chest are all scratched up from hanging onto that stupid branch all night. Great, just great.
I take the world’s longest shower. Warm water cascades down my body. I feel like I could stay here all day. It’s also another excuse to keep my eyes closed.
Two lousy hours, that’s all the sleep I got last night. Oh, I guess you could add the couple hours before I woke up, but still it’s not enough.
What a crazy night…. Who was that guy? And what was he doing in the woods? And what was that little metal box? Should I tell Jenny about it? I’m not sure. Maybe I should talk to Andy first. I’m betting Jenny would call the police right away and I don’t think that would be a good thing. They’d ask a whole lot of questions, it’s their nature.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Cody? Are you okay in there?”
I yell over the water. “Yeah. Be out in a sec.”
“Better hurry. You’re going to be late.”
I dry off and head back to my room. I grab one of the outfits Albert picked out for me and quickly get changed. Wide pants and a huge white T-shirt with some guy’s name written across the front.
There’s a mirror behind my door. I stand in front of it and study my reflection. I feel like I’m playing a part in a movie. This just isn’t me. Who is this guy? I know this is what everyone else wears but I can’t get used to it. I’ve tried, I really have, and now I’m just too tired to care.
I open the closet and look at my suit.
Jenny’s cup of coffee stops midway between the kitchen table and her mouth. “Wow, Cody. That’s…what are you wearing?”
I look at my sleeves and adjust my tie. “Haven’t you ever seen a suit before?”
“Well, yeah, of course, but why are you wearing one today? Is there a class picture or something?”
“No, I just feel more comfortable wearing suits. It’s what I’m used to. I’m sick of trying to be someone I’m not. This is the real me.”
“Okay…but aren’t you worried the kids will give you a hard time?”
“Oh, I don’t care anymore. I don’t have time to figure out this whole clothes thing. A guy could spend hours just trying to pick out the right T-shirt.” I hold out my arms for her inspection. “Besides, it’s an Armani.”
“You’re going to wear an Armani to school? Aren’t you worried something will happen to it?”
“I’ve worn suits to worse places than a junior high school.”
I walk over to the stove. “Could I have some of these scrambled eggs?”
“Cody, I made them for both of us. Every morning I make you breakfast and every morning you ask if it’s okay for you to take some. You don’t have to ask. Just take, okay?”
She seems hurt. I’m not sure why. It wouldn’t be polite to take something without asking first.
<
br /> I pile some eggs onto my plate, grab a glass of orange juice, and sit next to her. I glare at the clock above the sink: You too? All the clocks in the house are conspiring against me today. I can’t possibly be this late. I was hoping to catch Andy before heading to the bus stop. I shovel eggs into my mouth and gulp down orange juice.
Jenny’s not eating. She’s just staring at me over her cup of coffee. I can feel her eyes burning into the side of my head.
I turn to her. “What?”
“I know you’re running late, but you look like you’ve entered a scrambled egg eating contest.”
“Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry. Just slow down a bit.”
“Okay.”
“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to talk to me in the mornings.”
I look up from my eggs. “I guess I’m not a big talker.”
“You were able to talk to me the other night. I think it helped both of us.”
Just the memory of telling her about the café brings it all rushing back. I can hear my dad yelling, “Go! Go! Go!” I put my fork down. I’m not hungry anymore.
My eyes itch. I rub them longer than I have to. I’m so tired. I don’t have the strength for one of these chitchat sinkholes. Couldn’t we have this conversation tomorrow?
She smiles one of those far-away smiles. “Remember when you were four and I caught up with you guys in Mexico City? You sure could talk up a storm back then.”
“Kind of, but not really.”
“You were so cute. You had this little puppet that you’d make me talk to. He was a hand puppet with a big sombrero. What was his name again? You used to call him…oh, I just can’t remember.”
“Mr. Pedro.”
She chuckles. “Yes! That’s it. Mr. Pedro! He was so adorable. Whatever happened to Mr. Pedro?”
I think about it for a moment. “Um, Dad put him in the exhaust pipe of some guy’s car.”