The sun hung in a clear blue sky like a picture in a freshly painted room. A small town of roughly 524 people lived below it, just over a mile from a cliff facing Reya River. The town was surrounded by an abundance of pine trees in every direction, except for the one road that led in one side and out the other. Someone decided that the amount of pine trees was justification enough to name the town after them. It is for this reason, amongst others, that the people from it would never have kind words for whoever founded the town. People who weren’t born and raised in it only encountered it upon passing through to get to somewhere else, hoping they would never have to see the white sign pegged in at both ends of the main road that read ‘Municipality of Small Pine’. Mostly, those who left would be on their way to Berkton, a city with buildings proportionally larger in both size and opportunity when compared to that of Small Pine. Each of the buildings in Small Pine were either a shabby looking townhouse, or a family-owned shop of some kind that started with a name and ended with what they were selling. Not a lot of the buildings reached higher than two floors, and even less looked like they wanted to. A few cars puttered around the streets in the afternoon, even less than usual. Small Pine rarely had busy traffic, since most of those who grew old enough to save up and buy a car had already left for somewhere else. Most of the sidewalks were empty, aside from a few town drunks and people running errands. One of the buildings was a school, across the street from Martha’s Meats. The school was wittingly named ‘Small Pine Middle School’ and was made up of layered brick. The outer walls, which at one point were a dark red, were now orange. Through one of the windows, there was a boy with messy blonde hair standing in one of the classrooms.
“I realized there’s no way in hell someone can make a story without a Disney quote! Then, my mom tried to hug me,” Jack said, a look of disgust on his face. “Then, my dad came home and told me to write a story about myself so here I am,” Jack stood in front of the blackboard, his hands shaking slightly while he read from the half-crumpled piece of paper. “I am Jack, and good job to whoever writes stories,” he shrugged, tilting his head as he looked up at the class, “but I sure can’t make one myself.”
Laughs began to echo through the classroom from all but two of Jack’s classmates: Phil, who was slouched over his desk in the corner of the classroom, drool leaking from his mouth, and Blair, who was crossing his arms quietly, scowling at Jack.
“Very good Jack,” a voice came from behind a long wooden desk closest to the blackboard, “perhaps you could leave out the ‘hell’ next time?”
“Thanks Mrs. Richy, will do,” said Jack as he walked back to his desk.
“Mrs. Richards is just fine Jack, thank you.”
Mrs. Richards was tall with pin-straight black hair. She always wore a brightly colored dress for all her classes, and often felt a breath of fresh air to Jack. She was by-far the kindest grade 8 teacher at Small Pine middle school, as most other teachers would act much more rashly on a student using ‘hell’ in one of their assignments. She knew Jack was capable of plenty, but that scolding him would be repetitious, so she tried her best to talk to him rather than at him. Jack always appreciated this since he never found enjoyment in the conventions of early education. In fact, Jack was notorious for arguing with his previous teachers, resulting in the not-so-coincidental occurrence of Jack being placed in Mrs. Richard’s class.
The blackboard was surrounded by three yellow walls, but most of wall facing outside had long grids made of glass. On a sunny day, the light shining through the windows would make the small amount of visible yellow glow in a way that made it almost feel cozy. The desks were set up in three rows. The tops were made of wood with a plastic-like coating, most of them scratched and scribbled on by previous students. Metal legs extended from underneath the wood. The dark green paint had flaked off over time, giving way to spots of rust that ran along from the bottom of each leg to the top. The chairs were all the same degraded metal as the desks and were very obviously not designed to be comfortable.
“Alright, who is next?” asked Mrs. Richards.
A loud bell started to ring. High pitched noises screeched through the room as every student sprang from their desks almost instantly, quickly heading for the door.
“You’re lucky this time,” said Mrs. Richards, “if you haven’t presented today, you will tomorrow, I know which ones you are.” Mrs. Richards eyed her students as they walked out, only receiving giggles in return.
When the children funneled out, Phil slowly picked his head up. Brown hair flowed to the left side of his head as he wiped the drool from his face. Phil was short and rounder than most 13-year-olds, and thought about as slowly as he walked, but he was Jack’s closest friend ever since either of them could remember. As he lugged out of the room and through the doorway, he was met with an eager looking Jack that followed him. As they walked down the halls, loud clangs and the sounds of rummaging backpacks leapt from one side to the other. The movements of lockers were always more frantic at the end of a school day, some even ran, and body checked others in an attempt to be the first to leave.
“How was it, Phil?” asked Jack.
Phil yawned. “How was what?”
“My story you dope.”
“Oh, sorry Jack, I must’ve dozed off again.”
“Dozed off!?” Jack lightly smacked the back of Phil’s head, his hair recoiling back.
“Ow jeez Jack relax,” whimpered Phil, rubbing his head, “I bet it was great.”
“If you sleep through my presentation ever again, I’ll kick your ass.” Jack curled his hands into fists and swung into the air with tiny jabs, as if fighting an invisible punching bag.
“Yea, yea,” Phil said, dismissing Jack with one hand and slapping his belly with the other, “and I’ll sit on you. You can’t kick it when it’s pinning you down butt wipe.”
The two boys looked at each other with angry expressions, before breaking into laughter on approach to their lockers.
As they exited the school, almost all the other children had already taken their chance to leave. Jack and Phil walked down the path that wrapped around an old and rusty play structure, then past the fence that enclosed them during recess.
“I bet you did hug her,” the voice came from behind Jack and Phil as they stepped onto the sidewalk. It was loud and preachy; the sound of it felt like getting poked in the ear.
When they turned around, a boy stood glaring at them, hands against his hips. He had short dark-brown hair that was gelled to flow up to a small point above middle of his head. He wore a white polo shirt, buttoned up to his collar, with an emblem depicting a shield and lions on either side, the only word large enough to see under it was ‘club’.
“What do you want, Blair?” said Jack.
“I bet you did hug your mom,” mocked Blair, “I bet you lied and you’re a big fat mama’s boy.”
“I am not!” Jack yelled.
“Mama’s boy! Mama’s boy!” chanted Blair.
“Leave him alone,” Phil interjected, stepping between Jack and Blair, “why don’t you go ride on that shiny bike daddy bought you?” Phil pointed to the green bike laying against the fence behind Blair. It had much more paint and much less rust than any of the metal inside the school, and Blair took plenty of opportunities to point it out. Blair’s eyebrows pointed downwards towards Phil.
Jack grabbed Phil’s arm, turning him so they faced each other. “It’s alright Phil, he just wants us to be pissed off. He’s not worth it.”
Phil looked to Jack, who was eerily calm, and nodded towards him before they both began to walk away from Blair.
“Not worth it?” Blair snapped, “I’m worth more than both of you combined!”
The boys continued walking.
“It’s not like tubby would have done anything anyways,” said Blair.
Phil turned around, now walking backwards, flipping Blair off with his right hand and slapping his belly with his left before turning back, Jack giggling.
“I wouldn’t be a mama’s boy if my mom was a druggy,” Blair screeched.
Jack halted.
He remained still for a few seconds. The word was like a steel wall he just walked straight into. His stomach tossed and turned into nauseating knots that grew more numerous by the second.
“Jackie, c’mon man,” Phil pleaded, “you said it yourself, he ain’t worth it.”
Jack put his hand up to Phil, a warning for him to stay put, before slowly turning around. He began walking towards Blair, who seemed gleeful at the reaction his comment created.
“What did you just call her?” Jack’s pace sped up. He felt like his insides were on fire. He thought flames were about to begin spewing from his body at any moment.
“Oh, you don’t like that your mommy is a druggie, do ya Jack?” Blair giggled.
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Jack approached him, stopping his march only a couple feet away from Blair, who smelt like a gallon of cologne and turf blended together. The cocktail of artificial scents wafted into Jack’s nostrils, and was immediately pushed out by quick, heavy breaths. The two boys stood glaring at each other. The only noise came from Mary’s Meats across the street; chopping thuds from the butcher’s cleaver rang out through a propped-open door. Jack, however, heard nothing but his own pulse thumping like a bass drum. His hands curled into fists. Jack’s arm swung up and was almost immediately stopped by a slap from Blair’s hand. Before he could swing with his other fist, pain seized into his left gut, causing the knots in his stomach to multiply. As Blair’s right fist receded, he used his left to push Jack to the ground and began to laugh.
“My dad can afford karate lessons,” he bragged, returning his hands to his hips, “unlike a poor druggy.”
Phil remained back where Jack left him, worry overcoming his face. Jack planted his foot onto the ground, and slowly pushed himself upwards. His head began throbbing, the word ‘druggy’ collided with every edge of his mind in a cascade of violent ricochets. The top corner of Jack’s lip curled and began trembling, like a wolf before snapping their jaws on an unsuspecting prey. He bent his head slightly downward, just enough to allow his gaze to travel underneath his eyebrows and pierce Blair’s eyes. The light blue iris that moments ago pooled in Jack’s eyes was now being engulfed by his pupils. He curled his fist so tightly that his nails began digging into the top of his palms, red puddles forming under them. “Call her that one more time.”
“Your mom is a dru-”
Suddenly, Jack’s fist rocketed towards Blair. He noticed Blair’s fist attempting to swing upwards to block, but something seemed off; it wasn’t moving the same as it was the first time. It was slower. Jack’s knuckles swung over Blair’s left arm and connected with his nose, causing his head to fling backwards as he fell to the ground.
Blair laid on the ground in shock. He lifted himself up and scrambled towards his bike, grappling with it as a steady stream of blood flowed out of it. “My dad will make you pay for this!” He yelled as he rode away, one hand gripped the handlebars, the other cradled his crimson nostrils.
Jack stood without a response, staring at him riding away.
“Holy shit that was awesome,” yelled Phil as he ran over. “I bet you broke his nose, Jack!”
“Yea, I hope so.”
“You were like a superhero. I barely even saw your arm swing.
Jack stared at his hands, “I guess I was pretty fast.”
Phil’s eyes drifted to Jack’s bloody palm. “Oh, jeez Jack! Are you alright?”
“Better than that asshole’s nose, that’s for sure,” Jack smirked.
The two boys walked off, Phil jumping around Jack, praising him for his punch against their rival.
They approached Jack’s house, walking up the small driveway that split into two paths made of stone; the left, which went to the backyard that faced the outer rim of the forest, and the right, which wrapped towards the door to the house. One window on the second floor - the window of his parent’s room - was on the face of the house, the blinds concealing it. They walked along the path to the door, stepping from one oddly shaped stone to the next. Upon entering his home, there was a small closet to the right, filled with a multitude of jackets. A pile of ragged sports equipment, next to some winter hats and gloves sat in boxes underneath. Against the left wall of the entryway, the boys took their shoes off and laid them on a black rubber matt. White tiles made a grid along the floor for a short time before the entryway opened up to both the living room and the kitchen. There were hardwood floors along the living room to the left. A couch that was evidently torn and sewed a few times over sat in front of a moderately sized television. The kitchen had the same tiling as the entryway on both its floors and its walls. The walls, however, had a bright orange flower painted on every few tiles, creating a pattern behind all the appliances. An island countertop stood in the middle of the kitchen. Instead of being made of real marble, the top was made of a plastic that looked like it which laid overtop fibreboard.
“Mom?” Jack yelled through the house.
There was no answer.
“Guess it’s just you and me, Jackie.”
“Race you down,” said Jack, already halfway down the hallway.
“Hey, no fair, Jack.” Phil chased him.
As Jack ran to the front of the kitchen, Phil stopped behind him, “Jack, wait!” he yelled.
Jack ended his stride, turning to his companion.
“Your hand,” Phil said sombrely, pointing a shaking finger towards Jack’s right hand as his lips began to curve into a frown.
Jack looked down, his hand still gouged from the pressure of his nails. A trail of blood droplets spread across the tile floor, like berries on a snowy path. As the adrenaline from his encounter with Blair dissolved, a searing pain shot through his knuckles and resonated from his palm. Jack covered his wounds, which felt and looked like warm tomato soup. The boys panicked into the kitchen.
“Paper towel?” asked Phil.
“Yea, toss it here.”
Phil pulled the paper towel off the silver holder sitting along the counter of the island, fumbling it onto the ground when he turned to throw it.
“Hurry up Phil, this shit hurts,” Jack winced.
“Jeez Jack, I’m sorry, I got slippery hands when I’m nervous,” stammered Phil as he dove for the paper towel, scooped it from the ground, and tossed it at Jack.
Jack lifted his left hand, barely gripping onto the paper towel before rotating it frantically around the cuts. “Now get the wipes,” he yelled.
“What wipes!?” Phil ran to the opposite side of the island, his hands swinging from drawer to drawer, nothing. He began swinging cabinet doors open, knocking everything in them over.
“In the pantry,” Jack’s head jerked from side to side, pointing to a door beside the kitchen with the top of his head, “the wet wipes.”
Phil quickly snapped his head and took a step to his left.
WACK!
His head recoiled off a cabinet door he opened a moment ago.
“Ow, crap,” groaned Phil. He took a second to try and get mad at someone for leaving the door open, but quickly realized it was his own doing, “god damn wood.” As he regained composure, Phil rubbed the middle of his forehead where a small bump began to form. He ran over to the pantry door and swung it open. There was a large shelf topped with various flavours of cereal, chips, and cooking ingredients which stood a few metres in front of him. To the left of the doorway stood a smaller shelf with spray bottles containing oddly colored chemicals, paper towels, rubber gloves, and two plastic containers filled with small white sheets laying in a pool of clear liquid. Phil grabbed the wet wipes and spun around, opening the plastic container and rummaging his fingers through. Liquid flung out of the top, spattering along the door as well as the hardwood floor. He ran to Jack, grabbed the hand that was now adorned with makeshift bandage wrap, and began frantically wiping the blood off
The cleaning solution penetrated the paper towel surrounding Jack’s hand, making it sting even more, like nails being hammered into it. “Ah Phil stop, I didn’t mean for me, you big dummy!” Jack yanked his hand away from Phil, blood and the liquid from the wipes dropped on the floor.
“I was only trying to help.” Phil’s body deflated like a popped balloon.
“Yea well, you made it worse.” Jack ran over to the kitchen sink, tore off the bloody cocoon around his hand, and put cold water over his palms.
“Why didn’t we think of doing that first?” asked Phil.
Jack’s eyes snapped back to him. The gaze felt like it was piercing straight through Phil, who let out a small whimper. After a few seconds, Jack swung his head back, scratching at the dried blood along his fingers. Phil remained silent, his eyes leaking a couple tiny droplets which he swiftly rubbed away. Jack dried his hands with more paper towel before using the rest of the roll for a second wrapping. He walked over to Phil, grabbed fresh wipes from the container still in his hands, kneeled along the tiles, and began wiping away the red dots. “My mom is gonna kill me if I stain this stuff Phil. I don’t know if these are made of gold or what, but last time I did I was grounded for a whole week.”
Although Phil didn’t appreciate it, he knew that Jack’s anger came from an unspoken truth between them; making a friend mad is one thing, making a parent mad is another, and the latter is much worse. Friends can make space between each other, space that’s necessary to cool off. Finding space from the people one lives with – especially those who are the reason they exist in the first place – is an excruciatingly difficult task. Phil pondered this notion before he grabbed a wipe, sat down beside Jack, and began sliding it along the floor. As minutes passed, both Jack and Phil felt they would remain silent until they were done cleaning. They were both upset in their own ways but didn’t know how to express it without telling the other off. The blood, sweat, and chemicals made the room smell like a factory for sheet metal. As the last of the stains washed away, the two boys sat against the wall to the entryway. Jack could hear Phil wheezing to his left, trying his best to slow his breathing while sizing the bump on his forehead. Jack looked at his hand, the mass of paper towel around it had turned dark orange, some parts brown, making it look as if his arm were freshly mummified. He looked back at Phil, who was staring at the floor, the crease of his mouth sloped downward, eyebrows pushed over the top of his eyelids keeping them half-shut. It was only now that Jack realized the streaks on Phil’s face were both connected to his forehead and his eyes. He laid his left hand on Phil’s shoulder. They locked eyes, each trading an apologetic smirk.
“I was just trying to he-”
“I know,” a smile crept up Jack’s face, his arm starting to pat Phil’s shoulder, “thanks Phil.”
Phil’s eyes widened to normal, a large smile propped up round rosy cheeks. Jack burst out laughing so hard he rolled onto his right shoulder with his hands crossed over his stomach. “What’s so funny?” asked Phil, confused.
“God damn wood?” giggled Jack.
“Oh, shut up.”
Jack sat back up and pushed Phil over. Phil started chuckling along the floor, his belly reciprocating in and out along the tiles. As their laughs reverberated throughout the entire first floor of the house, tears began to form around their eyes. Phil sat up, wiping the sweat and tears from his face, wheezing to catch his breath once again.
“Race you down,” said Phil as he pushed Jack over, hopping up and beginning to jog.
Jack quickly picked himself back up and ran after Phil. They headed towards a light brown staircase on the left of the hallway just past the end of the living room. It was worn, but still had all the pegs that stood in between the banister and the base below. The left half of the staircase led upwards, to Jack’s and his parent’s rooms, whereas the right went down towards the basement. Jack caught up to Phil halfway past the living room, but he began using his backside and arms to take up the sides of the hallway. As Phil turned the corner to run down the stairs, Jack compressed his body together and sped under Phil’s shoulder, knocking his arm out of the way to trample down the steps.
The basement floors were made of a glazed concrete, the walls surrounding it an off-white box without any windows. A small television sat on a side table against the wall perpendicular to the staircase, and cords stretched from the back of it to a small black box with two controllers sitting on top.
“Want to play?” Jack inquired.
“Do you even need to-” Phil bent down and planted his hands onto his knees, panting fiercely. He held his pointer finger up; a slight laugh pushed air out through Jack’s nose. “Even need to ask?” finished Phil. The two boys sat down in front of the television on folding lawn chairs that Jayce used for Jack’s baseball games when he was younger. They were grimy from use, but had no tears in the fabric, despite Phil testing their limits regularly. They each grabbed a controller, sat down, and poised to play. The fixtures on the walls provided a dim light over the two boys who were smacking their fingers against the buttons. Lights flashed and swiveled on the screen in front of them, reacting in accordance with their hand movements. A loud noise came from the first floor, heavy thuds rolling through the ceiling above them.
“Mom?” said Jack.
“It’s me,” Jayce’s voice travelled down the staircase.
“Oh, hey dad,” Jack said, confused, “you’re home early?”
As the silence washed over their ears, the boys paused their game and looked towards the staircase.
“I just had a talk with Blair’s father,” A stern tone took over Jayce’s voice. It felt as though his words were strangling the boy’s ears, “get up here, now.”