Back Again
A Short Story
This story has a companion chapter over at The Junction.
We were back again in the same locker room we once ruled as teenagers. For a moment, it felt as if nothing had changed. Adrenaline pumped through my veins. A rumble of noise from beyond the dark cinder block walls reminded me of the stomp stomp clap that had cheered us on to every hometown victory. I took a deep breath. The lighting flickered. Faded black and gold banners hung from the ceiling, and the familiar odor of wet socks, mold, and bleach still lingered. There wasn’t anyone else in the room, only Marcus and me.
We had shed blood here more times than I wanted to count. Our sweat and tears formed puddles on this stained old floor. Beneath the bench where I sat was a whole galaxy of multicolored bubble gum. They’d hardened over the years to become as smooth as marbles. The janitor, Good Game Gilbert, was a superstitious man. He believed removing even one piece might snap our winning streak. After he retired, the others followed suit, allowing this secret tradition to take hold.
Most of the pieces, I admit, belonged to me. I used to sit there and chew on a huge wad of Doublemint until my jaw hurt, nervous and barely holding back the rising bile of vomit. It was something that happened before every single game.
Marcus paced back and forth, stroking his chin, like a detective processing a hunch. He picked up the habit sophomore year. Back in junior high, he kneeled before the porcelain god to whom we all, at one point or another, prayed.
They treated us like kings here. In turn, we behaved like spoiled princes. Our coming of age was a premature victory lap. It was all too easy at eighteen to take everything for granted. We expected sneaker deals, fame, and championship trophies for the rest of our lives.
They had invited us back nearly twenty years later as a couple of so-called heroes to tell our stories to the impatient crowd. To them, our story would always begin at Glenhurst High when in truth it began some years earlier on a playground and ended with our fists.
We were both born in the shadow of St. Louis, on the east side of the Mississippi River. Since the late 1960s, however, it’s been an area of violence, crime, and urban blight — a seedy waterfront of riverboat casinos, strip clubs, and liquor stores.
From there, the suburbs expand in all directions, having gradually transformed from ranch-style houses, countryside farms, and corn fields into McMansions, banks, and strip malls. Throw a rock in the river and follow the ripples and you’ll witness the path of white flight after the manufacturing jobs disappeared. This is where Marcus and I grew up, a mere stone’s throw away from poverty, in the Metro East area.
The traces of puberty started to appear with a mixture of alarm and pride. Sprouts of underarm hair and the crackle of a deepening voice were only the precursors to a growing awareness of the opposite sex.
I spent the summer between fifth and sixth grade tagging around with and uselessly pining after Heather, the new girl in town. I found her cute in her spunky tomboy sort of way. When she smiled you could see her perfectly crooked teeth and blue-banded braces. For whatever reason, I lacked the courage to ask her out. Once the school year started, she started to ignore me and gravitated towards the popular crowd. My heart didn’t break, however, until I saw her French kissing Marcus in the arcade of the Skate Corral. He had his hat turned backward, the fashion for the time, looking like the luckiest and coolest kid alive.
Marcus and I had been in the same class since kindergarten, along with several others. We grew up blind to the fact that his skin color was different from ours. It wasn’t until another kid arrived, a few shades darker than Marcus, that I experienced my first taste of racism. At lunch one of our friends joked, “I have this theory,” he said, in a cautious, quiet voice.
“You know how we all poop black?” He bent forward and we all leaned in, complicit in the conspiracy. “Do you think he shits white?”
Although we had celebrated more than a few McDonald’s birthday parties together, Marcus and I weren’t very close. Neither one of us had stayed the night at the other’s house. Sometimes, we played together at school but rarely saw each other outside of class.
I remember the day when the bad blood between us first surfaced. By sixth grade, we lived for sports and recess. It was our freedom from social studies, math problems, and grammar quizzes. But if it rained or snowed the pent-up energy and frustration of our pubescence had nowhere to boil over. The hall monitor always dropped by unannounced. Without saying a word, everyone became quiet…at least until she walked away.
Innocence is an odd concept behind the colorful mask of childhood. There’s this ever-present disconnect between being young and wanting to feel old and being old and feeling like you’re still young. I was a good kid, for the most part, never having detention more than a few times per year, often the side-effect of being a show-off and class clown. But I did possess a hidden temper.
The rain that day came down in sheets, splattering against the window panes. We were crammed inside our small square classroom. There were twenty-five kids with twenty-five chairs, usually arranged in five by five rows. The walls were decorated with diluted pastel watercolors, glossy pictures of zoo animals, and a large book club poster inundated with tiny gold star stickers.
The class divided into different activities to pass the time after lunch. Some played board games or cards. Others entertained themselves with arts and crafts, stashed away comic books, or gossip. A few of us boys had decided to initiate a game of tag. I was “it.”
I hated this name. My so-called friends circled around me and pointed, saying in mocking tones, “You’re it! You’re it!” I had to catch someone, anyone to be free.
The overcrowded room was a mess. Desks were bunched together, which put me at a disadvantage since they prevented any prolonged bursts of speed. My arms weren’t long enough. I was surrounded, and yet everyone remained just beyond my reach.
After some deft maneuvering around several obstacles in my path, I locked onto Marcus as my closest target. He dashed by the entrance of our classroom, past the coat hooks, galoshes, and umbrellas, and I stretched after him, shouting so loud my voice cracked, “Get back here you little fuck!”
Mrs. Schneider, the Special Ed teacher, stood there at the doorway with her hands on her hips.
“Mr. Washburn!” she shrieked. “Step into the hallway, this instant!”
A sound went up from everyone’s mouth, a rising, “Ummmm!” that usually preceded those fatal words, “I’m telling!”
She sent me to Dr. Kefalas’s office. I sat on my hands and rocked back and forth in the cold metal chair by the secretary’s desk, hoping to receive no more than a week of detention for my transgression. That’s what Mrs. Schneider had initially prescribed, but Dr. Kefalas was the new principal in town and rumored to be strict.
“You can go in now,” Ms. Hawley, the soon-to-be-retired secretary, said. I stood and rapped on the door twice.
“Enter!”
The office was cramped and stank of menthol cigarettes. A window had been cracked open and a small portable fan rotated on the desk in spite of the weather.
“Mr. Washburn, sit down.” Her voice was iced coffee. I immediately began to plead my case.
“It was an accident,” I swore, placing my hand over my heart. “I meant to say ‘fart,’ honest to God.”
She tapped her long nails on the metal desk.
“I’ve just gotten off the phone with your mother,” she told me. Her lips pulled back like a puma.
My stomach churned. I thought I was gonna be sick. A thousand other cuss words sprang to mind, but the only word that escaped my mouth was a whimpering, “What?”
Her mouth widened further, twisting into a fake smile of pearly white teeth. My hands balled into fists of rage. I wanted to punch her face so bad, leaving her mouth a ruin of broken glass.
“We have agreed upon your punishment. You will be suspended for two days.”
I was stunned. She had given me a death sentence. My life was over. What else could I say?
I held back a sniffle, muttered thank you, and trudged back to class. Mr. Hoffman continued the science lesson as if I’d been there all along, but everyone turned to me and stared. I slunk into my chair and caught a glimpse of Marcus, who covered his mouth and snickered.
I knew deep down that the blame rested squarely on my shoulders, but just beneath the surface of shame, I boiled with self-righteous anger. Marcus was so smug I thought, and got away with everything. Didn’t he deserve detention too? Seething while seated at my graffiti-covered desk, I began to cultivate a grudge against him.
My mom waited for me across the street from school. The day had cleared, but a storm still raged behind her eyes.
“Hi,” I said in an attempt at cheerfulness.
Her mouth puckered and she sucked in on her bottom lip, trying to decide what to say. I waited while my heart filled with dread.
“You’re grounded to your room for two weeks.” Her voice smoldered. “No sports, no friends, and no TV.”
“Mom!”
“Do you want three?”
I winced, even though she would have never raised a hand to hit me.
“Be thankful your father is away on business, Jason.” She shook her head and I lowered mine to the still damp ground. “Because I, for one, am very disappointed in you.”
She turned and I followed behind. We walked the rest of the way home in silence.
Thank you for reading! I’m back again after an extended absence. This story is the first chapter of a novel I started eons ago. I’ve been having second thoughts lately about various creative choices and am considering wiping the slate clean to start anew. What do you think?
