by Bryan Bliss
“Why do you freak out when you see people at the skate park?”
It hurt Claire, because he already knew the answer. And Dark saw it immediately, his face softening. Everything about the way he was confronting Claire changed.
“Aren’t there things that just make you feel better?”
Claire nodded, but the truth was, there weren’t many things that made her feel better.
At first, it was running—moving to Minnesota. Getting as far away as possible and never looking back, no matter how much it hurt. And once they were in Minnesota, it was hiding under the covers, on their couch—blaming the cold—as they watched old movies, until that no longer worked and they turned to the demon-freak speed of skating.
But none of it was permanent. None of it ever truly stamped out the dread that snuck back into her veins, snaking through her entire body until she was once again unable to forget why they were doing any of it.
“So, it works?” she finally asked. “You feel better?”
He shrugged, and in the immediate silence, Claire thought she’d unwittingly stepped out of bounds. Instead, Dark stared at the closed notebook on his lap, trying to find the words.
“I don’t know. And, like, do you think I want to be like this? Do you think I don’t know what people say—what they think? I’ve been called every name you can think because of it. Freak. Psycho.”
“Dark.”
Dark laughed.
“Well, yes, actually. Did they tell you what it stands for?”
“No. I just assumed it was in reference to, you know.”
She motioned to his hair and then down his body.
“Wow. I feel so attacked right now.”
Before Claire could apologize, Dark waved it away and said, “They used to call me the Lord of Darkness. Fucking Satan! And these are my friends!”
He was laughing, but Claire could tell there was more to the story—more to the way he attempted to keep her next question at bay with the laughter. He gave her a guarded look and shrugged.
“So, I guess I’m just Dark,” he said. “Forever.”
Chapter Nine
ON THE WAY HOME, DERRICK COULDN’T CONTAIN HIS excitement. Even before he was skating full-time, he’d come home from a session, or one of the early promotional tours, and it would be as if he was bouncing on the clouds. So, she hadn’t seen him this way in years. And she sat there, trying to hide her smile—why?—as he told her about the event, even though she’d been sitting on the lip watching with Dark, God, and Leg.
“When I hit that impossible, and everybody lost their mind?”
He smiled even bigger, cherishing the moment, which had admittedly been pretty amazing. Leg nearly had fallen into the bowl, drawing both Mark-O’s and the announcer’s ire.
Afterward they all stood around talking, laughing—normal.
When Dark had finally closed his notebook and agreed to watch Derrick, he seemed fine, as if they’d cleared the air and now had an understanding. But when they got to the lip, she noticed the way God and Leg seemed to relax. How they constantly seemed to flank Dark, almost by instinct, always keeping tabs on him. And they snuck looks at the notebook, too. They tensed up when his usually monotone words suddenly turned aggressive.
Whatever had happened with Dark had made an impact on God and Leg. It was the sort of thing you saw in movies, a life-changing experience that binds a group of friends together in a way that is stronger than steel. Leg, God, and Dark had that. And they obviously cared about one another, even if it meant hiding something big.
“Claire . . .”
They were at a stoplight and Derrick was watching her. “Yeah, sorry.”
“I asked if you were hungry. We could stop at the taco place. Or maybe that Greek spot over on Snelling. What do you think?”
She wasn’t hungry. Her stomach was already full of birds, fluttering around—occasionally jumping into her throat suddenly and making her want to cry out from the surprise of it. But instead she said, “Up to you,” and Derrick made a quick left turn toward takeout.
Claire was running and the hallways were filled with smoke. She heard the popcorn (pop-pop-pop) and it rattled her teeth, like biting down on tinfoil or touching a low-grade live wire.
She ran.
She ducked.
She listened as people she barely knew screamed and tripped over one another, some of them struggling to get up—some of them already on the ground.
Her foot slipped on the newly polished floors. Or maybe it was the blood. She slipped again, trying to turn a corner that would’ve been a straight shot to the doors that—even though she couldn’t see them now—she would later learn had already been chained shut.
She climbed under the stairs first, barely making it underneath before Eleanor was next to her, shaking and crying. Both of them listening as the popcorn went off even louder.
Pop-pop-pop.
And when she started screaming, she wasn’t sure if it was happening then, now, or in some in-between place she’d never be able to escape.
Claire woke up to the sound of laughter—a whole room of it. And when she stumbled into the living room, she was greeted by the smell of pancakes.
“Claire!” Leg had two whole pancakes on a fork, and he lifted them toward her in greeting. “Your brother is the shit. You know this, right?”
Dark and God were also at the bar that looked into the kitchen, both of them too busy eating to acknowledge her beyond a quick wave.
“Hungry?” Derrick asked, holding up a tall stack of pancakes. When she nodded, he dumped three onto a plate and handed it to her. She sat down next to the boys at the bar, her head still foggy.
She hadn’t slept more than a few hours and, while the pancakes would help, all she wanted to do was go back to bed. But Leg wasn’t having it. He pushed in between her and God and looked her directly in the eye.
“Are you ready for today to be the greatest day of your life?”
Before she could respond, he held up his phone—too close to her face, honestly—and then cussed when the video didn’t auto-play. He hit the small triangle button on his screen and then held the phone for Claire once again.
A jaunty acoustic guitar kicked off the video, quickly followed by some sort of Celtic-sounding instrument, and finally a fiddle. In the background a castle rose from the darkness and suddenly there was a picture of Dr. Palmer’s head—quickly joined by a man who was presumably her husband—and together they began trying to knock the castle down. When it fell, the debris spelled out, “Storming the Castle.”
Claire turned to God for an explanation and he motioned back to the video, which now showed Dr. Palmer smiling and wearing what looked like a homemade tunic with STC emblazoned across the chest. She looked absolutely giddy.
“Storm Mob, time to get hyped!”
The camera swung nauseatingly to the left and at first, it looked like she was aiming it at the legs of a picnic table before the video began to expand to show . . .
“The trebuchet. Is. FINISHED.”
Dr. Palmer and her husband cheered, putting the camera down and jumping into the foreground of the video to break down possibly the Most Awkward Dance Ever. At least, according to Leg, who was already howling with laughter.
“Shut up and let her watch it,” God said, smiling.
She went back to the video and saw Dr. Palmer holding an apple. “We could fire this . . .”
A buzzer sounded, followed by a studio audience–recorded “NO!”
Her husband lifted up an orange, “Or maybe this . . .”
The buzzer. The studio audience.
And then Dr. Palmer lifted up an oversized teddy bear with a gigantic red ribbon tied around his neck. “Or maybe we could launch Mr. Poofy Pants!” The camera cut to a close up of Mr. Poofy Pants, who admittedly looked unmoved by the possibility.
“Just kidding. We’d never hurt Mr. Poofy Pants.”
“But Storm Mob!” Her husband again. “You know we didn’t
build an actual trebuchet without the intention of launching something proper. Martin Luther King Jr. Park in Minneapolis. Today. Two p.m.
“Kids and families welcome. But we reserve the right to launch any small farm animals that are brought to the scene.”
The video cut to both of their faces in a freeze-frame, ending with the sound of a goat bleating.
“Get ready,” Leg said, shoving the phone into his pocket. “Because we’re not missing this.”
They took the bus to Minneapolis, hopping off at the entrance to Martin Luther King Jr. Park, a fairly standard-looking park, save the giant trebuchet that had been wheeled into the center of the baseball field.
“Jesus, look at it.” Leg was absolutely giddy.
It was twenty feet tall, easy, and built with an expert craftsmanship that Claire didn’t anticipate. The video didn’t do the actual device justice. Even from a distance, it was both impressive and a bit intimidating.
“There’s no way that thing is legal,” God said. “Like, it can’t possibly be legal to own a fucking catapult.”
“Trebuchet,” Leg said. “Show some damn respect.”
“Okay, whatever. But that thing could literally kill somebody.”
“You’d have to really aim,” Dark said.
Leg and God gave him a look and then fell apart laughing.
“What? It’s a siege weapon. Not like she’s going to launch an offensive against Central, as much as that sounds appealing.”
Claire looked at God and Leg, who didn’t visibly react to what sounded like a threat. Dark caught Claire’s eye momentarily and then started talking to God.
“Are we going down there? Or are you too scared to get close to the ‘scary’ weapon?”
Leg didn’t wait for a response. He yelled out, “STORM MOB!” and charged down the hill, holding his skateboard above his head—ready for battle.
When they finally caught up to Leg, he was running around the trebuchet, asking questions, and generally acting like a toddler on a trip to the fire department. Dr. Palmer didn’t seem thrilled to see them, even if Leg kept saying they were all devoted members of the Storm Mob, but when she saw Claire, she smiled broadly.
“I think it’s cool that you showed up,” her husband said, holding out his hand. “I’m Greg, Wendy’s husband.”
“Well, we’re big fans of you and Wendy, Greg.” Dr. Palmer stared at Leg and he held up his hands in defeat. “I meant Dr. Palmer. Big fans.”
Dr. Palmer considered all of them for a second before she said, “I’m going to answer the question that I know is coming: No, Francis, we will not use the trebuchet to shoot you across the park.”
“Your name is Francis?” Claire asked, finding the information amusing for some reason. It wasn’t a particularly strange name, but it was just the context—Leg’s unfaltering swagger—that made her think his real name was something like Hawk or Jersey.
“We don’t speak of Francis,” Leg said. “And actually, all I want is to be in the video. Come on Dr. Palmer. You’ll increase my social standing by, like, a hundred percent.”
“Doubtful” is all Dr. Palmer said.
Over the next thirty minutes, a crowd began to form around the trebuchet. Some were passersby, but most seemed to be dedicated fans of the YouTube channel. Leg, God, and Dark got a huge kick out of the fact that Dr. Palmer had this not-so-secret celebrity life.
Claire thought it was interesting, if not cute, that Dr. Palmer was willing to be so public with her interests. There was no shame, no embarrassment, just pure passion for the things that she found interesting. And while Claire intellectually understood it, she knew enough about her fellow high school students to want to pull Dr. Palmer to the side and be like, Are you sure you should be doing this?
But even in person, she was enthusiastic—an entertainer, working the gathered crowd until suddenly the camera was out and they were going live.
“Hey there, Storm Mob,” Dr. Palmer said. “We’re live at MLK Jr. Park in Minneapolis getting ready to test out the trebuchet. Can I get a What-What!”
God looked at Dark and then Claire and they all had to cough and choke back the laughter. Not that anybody noticed. They were all too busy giving Dr. Palmer a hearty What-WHAT!
“And I want to introduce a special guest to the livestream—one of my students.”
Dr. Palmer paused here, as if steeling herself.
“Francis Custerman.”
Another What-WHAT! from the crowd.
This time Claire couldn’t hold back her laughter. Whether it was the live audience, the hundreds watching along from home, or finally somebody calling him on his bullshit, Leg looked absolutely stricken. He stood there, holding the watermelon they planned to launch—unable to close his mouth as Dr. Palmer introduced him.
She paused, quickly determining that he was not up for the cameo, and went to continue when Leg started talking.
“Hey there, Storm Mob, this is Leg—don’t call me Francis—and I want to take this opportunity—”
Dr. Palmer tried to stop him, but he was already in front of her, addressing the Storm Mob in its entirety.
“—to ask for some help. I’m looking for a date to prom. One more date and I letter in prom. You might be thinking, Why does a good-looking guy like Leg need help from the Storm Mo—”
Greg came from the side and politely moved him off camera, but not before the crowd gave him another enthusiastic What-WHAT! for the effort. Dr. Palmer continued, unaffected by the improvisation.
“Thanks for the help, Francis. Now, who’s ready to launch this watermelon?”
The crowd was still losing its shit when Leg came up next to Claire and said, “Nailed it.”
“You’re going to end up with a forty-year-old medieval weapons enthusiast as your date,” God said.
“I’m not picky. Equal opportunity. As long as she shows up and I get my damn martini glass.”
“She’ll probably show up in a suit of armor,” Claire said.
At first God just stared at her and then he and Dark started laughing.
“Claire!” God said. “Coming alive!”
She laughed, too, thinking about the way she used to crack on her friends—how she would have to be careful, to figure out who could take the cuts, because when she felt comfortable with someone, it was open season. Nothing was sacred. And she expected nothing less from them in return.
Sometimes she wondered if her friends in North Carolina—Eleanor, the rest of them—were still fractured, too. She had mostly given up on social media, the pain of seeing all of them was too much. What would she post? How would she react when one of them said they missed her or asked when they were coming back from the Great North?
If the rest of her body and mind were broken, it was all a reminder that her heart, to some extent, had been spared. And she couldn’t stand the idea of having to engage with all of them in that way. To make them real, living people once again and not figments of some imaginary past life.
And so, as God and Dark—and eventually Leg—laughed, she wondered if maybe this was the first real step toward who she was before.
“Okay, Storm Mob—enough with the talking. Let’s chuck this thing!”
Greg went over to the trebuchet and began working the giant winch, slowly bringing the arm closer to the ground with every turn. As it descended, the crowd began to cheer louder and louder. And when Dr. Palmer ceremoniously raised the watermelon above her head, they nearly lost their mind. Claire couldn’t even hear what she was saying, could only see her fingers giving a countdown—three, two, one—before she pulled the lever and in a slow, loping motion, the trebuchet began to fire.
At first Claire wondered if it wasn’t working. The physics of the way it was rising seemed off, as if somebody had forgotten to attach a key piece. Still, the crowd was focused and all in, the only sound being the cars on the interstate in the distance.
And then in one sudden movement, the arm shot forward, whipping the watermelon
into the air so high that, at first, Claire could barely see it.
The watermelon kept rising, kept barreling forward. Past the park. Over the neighboring houses. And finally, above and across the interstate.
“Oh, fuck,” Dr. Palmer said. And then remembering that she was still live, that students were present, she turned to the camera and said, “Sorry, Storm Mob. But that was just . . .”
“Shocking,” Leg said to Claire.
In the distance, the sound of honking horns. And a few minutes after that, the first siren could be heard in the distance, slowly getting louder and louder.
“I’m out,” Leg said, grabbing his skateboard and taking off without a second notice. Pretty soon God was dragging Claire across the park, both of them laughing hysterically as Dark attempted to keep up with them.
The last thing they heard was the Storm Mob giving Dr. Palmer one final What-WHAT! before they disappeared around the corner.
Chapter Ten
CLAIRE FELT ELECTRIC ON THE BUS BACK TO ST. PAUL, watching Leg turn around in the seat next to her so he could face God and Dark, all of them laughing and speculating on whether they’d ever see Dr. Palmer again.
“How can you explain something like that to the police?” God asked. “I mean, who builds a trebuchet and attacks Saturday afternoon traffic? Plus, how did she even get it there?”
“Probably towed it behind her Subaru,” Leg said. “You know she drives a Subaru.”
The bus dropped them only a few blocks from Dark’s apartment, so they walked over there because Dark’s grandmother had promised cookies or something that was baked, warm, and filled with sugar. When they opened the door, however, they were met with the sickeningly sweet smell of alcohol.
Dark stopped immediately and turned around, trying to push them out the door before his grandmother called out, “Peter? Is that you?”
Dark sighed and closed his eyes. “Yeah, Grandma. I just came to—”
Before Claire knew what was happening, a metal pan was crashing at their feet. Dark’s grandmother—dressed only in a robe, cigarette hanging from her mouth—was livid.