500 Words

Peter had gotten trapped when someone pushed his jacket off of the bench and under the bleachers. He probably should have left the crappy blue corduroy thing down there for the mice to gnaw on, but jackets, as his mom was fond of saying, didn’t grow on trees. He had tried to imagine a jacket tree with a great deal of success, but it, like most things in his imagination, remained firmly entrenched in the ether. So down he went.

He wasn’t really trapped, making his way out wouldn’t be impossible. All that blocked his way were his classmates’ bodies and more importantly a screen of jeers. “Freak!” “Weirdo!” “Stupid fucker!” and other taunts pelted him like verbal garbage. That most of the assault came from girls, made it even more of a challenge. He’d been taught from a young age that a girl’s body was sacrosanct. You weren’t to touch them without permission and hitting them was right out. The insults really didn’t even hurt any more. Where once he would have felt shame or fear, there was now only annoyance and a rising anger. With each passing minute he came closer and closer to the breaking point. What that meant, he wasn’t quite sure. This time around though, he was saved by a whistle.

Coach Tim’s black plastic medallion chased the students off their seats. “Alright you slackers, get to your classes.” As the thundering herd obeyed the order, the only one they were likely to listen to all day, Peter could hear the coach’s final words intended for the middle aged man’s ears alone. “If you worked like you should you wouldn’t have such fat asses.”

Peter watched as Tim chuckled at his own doggerel. He could imagine the adult practicing that wit in his head, waiting for the right moment to unleash it. That thought instantly made Peter feel only half as pitiful as he had moments before. With some effort he climbed out of his wooden prison.

“Shelton? What the hell were you doin’ down there?” Tim pushed his ball cap back and scratched at thinning hair. “Never mind. You get on to class too.”

Peter wasted no time in doing as he was told. His English class had library time today, which meant he could indulge in the only freedom he knew, the kind that came between the covers of a book.

Eyes an unhealthy distance from the page, Peter was engrossed. A peculiar mix of body odor and a sort of sweetness announced someone’s presence before words were necessary. “Hey Donnie.” Peter said, not even bothering to look up.

Donnie, a typical Goth at least on the outside, flopped into the burnt orange chair across from his reclusive friend. Every stitch of his clothing was black, the only spot of color a smiley face button with a single eye in the middle of what would be its forehead. “Hey loser. You do realize that there is, at this moment, a ferocious dust kitten attacking your right kneecap?”

Peter looked and sure enough a clump of dust and who knew what else was firmly attached to his denim clad leg. He brushed it away and set the book in his lap, holding place with his forefinger. “Loser? Who are you to call me a loser?”

“Damn son, loser I may be, but at least I wasn’t hiding under the bleachers.” He crossed his legs and rested vinyl boots on the small table separating them. It was a clear violation of the library rules, but that was Donnie, dangerously edgy.

The book would have flown across the small reading room had not Peter possessed a near reverence for the written word. “Word travels fast, huh. Well it’s not like I have face to lose.”

“Cheer up son, cheer up. Things are always worse than they seem.” Donnie smiled, black lip stick making his teeth seem preternaturally white.

Donnie’s twisted logic often made Peter’s brain hurt. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

The question went unanswered while Donnie pulled a duct tape covered book from his messenger bag. He leafed through it appearing to be satisfied with what he found there. “When you begin to understand the universe, your place in it, and the despair that should cause the only way to go from there is up. ‘What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?’” He snapped his Bible shut and looked at his friend with soft eyes. “Son, I know your life sucks, embrace it.”

A short laugh barked from Peter before he could stop himself. “Thanks Donnie. I can always depend on you, even if I never understand you.” A loud shush came from the desk a few steps outside of this alcove. Mrs. Potters did not brook laughter in her domain.

“Yeah, yeah, look you’re coming over to my house this weekend and we’re gonna rock out ‘til dawn on some Guitar Hero, while drinking our fill of caffeinated beverages. It’ll make you feel like a new nerd.” His look said that resistance would not only be futile, but silly.

“I think that can be arranged. Mom’s working doubles all weekend so I think she’d argue that even my unhealthy ‘anti-social bevior’ with my incredibly weird friends is better than sitting at home alone.”

“Spanking it,” Donnie finished the thought.

Peter’s ears turned pink. “Yeah. So have you invited Gregory?” The third part of their triumvirate insisted on being called by his full name.

“If I didn’t, more the fool me. He’s bringing the Go Juice.” The made stereo faces at the thought of the taste. Neither of them liked the reddish brown goo, but its powers of legal stimulation were legendary. Without another word, ear buds went home and Donnie checked out of this world and into the bizarre inner realm of his imagination, fueled by a mix of music and spoken word compositions that were his own creations.

Peter shook his head, a bit envious that Donnie had probably already finished his book reports for the year, halfway through said year. Well if he was going to spend this weekend vegging there was reading to be done.