by Aaron Grunn
access to a car he walked it without any enhanced views.
John stopped to observe some ants. They were running around between a crack and around some crumbs of bread. He had an impulse to step on them all, then remembered that his mother had told him to never kill anything, never raise your hand or foot in anger. He watched them break apart the crumb, and he thought about getting a job soon. If his mom would let him. He walked by them.
John's heart jumped when he heard wheels screech. This was a quiet neighborhood. People usually didn't speed here. John turned his head. A car was speeding towards him. No it couldn't be, he thought. He felt his brain tell him to run. He felt his body freeze. And the car came for him, the wheels jumping the curve. John could now see Smitty in the front wheel, a group of other upperclassmen leaning out and yelling at him. The car skidded on the grass and came to a halt. Smitty and five of his friends, all large football players, jumped out of the car.
"Hey dork," Smitty said. He was drinking a can of soda and threw it at John's face.
John ducked and the can flew by him.
"Hey, he doesn't want your drink," one of the guys said. He had a sneer, thick jaw and close-set eyes.
"What's wrong? You don't wanna drink?" Smitty said.
John looked at him. There was no way Smitty had meant to offer that drink.
"I..."
"Well," Smitty said and stepped up to him, placing a finger on John's chest. "You think you're tough when Mr. Cox is around, but how about now, huh?"
John looked at the other guys; none of them had nice faces. Perhaps this was all a misunderstanding. "I wasn't being tough. I didn't say anything."
"Yeah you did," Smitty said and pushed John. "You said I was a punk."
"N... no..." John said. He was getting dizzy. It seemed like Smitty wanted to hurt him and there was no getting out of it. John'd always been picked on, but he was usually quiet, so people left him alone after making fun of him. He'd never been beaten. Now, however, he'd an inkling that he was going to experience just that. He hated high school, why couldn't he just stay home and read? He'd learn more that way.
"Please..." John said. "I... please..."
"Aww," another thick-necked blonde boy with aviators on said from behind Smitty. "I think he's gonna cry."
Everyone laughed.
"You gonna cry?" Smitty said. "You going to tell your mommy on us?"
"No... Please, I didn't say anything."
"Yeah right," the guy with the sunglasses said. "I saw him hitting on your girlfriend in class."
"I didn't hit on her," John blurted out, knowing they must have been talking about Jessica. Didn't they hear her and her friends laughing at him earlier?
Smitty stepped forward and grabbed John's curly hair. "You were trying to score with my girl?"
"N... no."
Smitty cocked his fist.
John looked around, but it seemed like there was no one around to help him. His mom had always told him not to fight, not even to defend himself. He closed his eyes.
The sting and punch took him out for a second, and he felt some of his hair being torn from their roots, then the ground smacking him on the ass. Pain shrieked through his body. It was then that he felt a surge unlike ever before. It was anger, and energy—like he was flying through the air. This feeling scared him even more than Smitty. He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could.
Then the feeling evaporated, and he looked up.
Everything was different, quiet. Smitty and his friends were no longer looking angry. Two of the boys were piled on top of each other on the grass with their jackets ripped, and bloodied faces staring at the sky. Another was on top of the dented car roof, groaning. Yet another was face down in the grass next to the car. The fifth one was lying half inside the car, half out, in the broken windshield. Smitty was in front of him, looking up and shaking his head. His face trickled with blood.
"No, don't," said Smitty.
John looked at Smitty, stunned. John then realized that his hand was cocked behind his head. He lowered it and stared at it. It felt like it wasn't his hand. And yet it'd blood all over it.
"No," Smitty said again.
John turned and ran back to his house as fast as he could. If his mom found out about this he was going to get into some serious trouble.
He got to his small apartment on a crumbling building at the edge of the neighborhood. It was like a different world here. You crossed a street and suddenly the beautiful lawns were gone and there were beer bottles broken on the ground and cigarette butts between.
He opened the door to his apartment and was glad to see that his mom hadn't come back. Not that she usually came back early, but sometimes she did and today he didn't need that. He washed his face and after he was sure he looked presentable, he cooked up dinner.
Cheese and macaroni. He loved it, and his mother never complained that she had food for her when she got back. He touched the lip that Smitty had cut with his punch. It'd healed up completely; he touched it again, and ran to look at the mirror. It was as if he'd never been punched. He had always been special, his mother always told him, but this was weird.
John decided that perhaps he hadn't been punched at all. He finished his homework and started to work on a few equations that he'd been hatching up.
"Hi sweetheart."
John ran out to the living room and hugged his mom.
"Hi mom. How was work?" He looked at her and smiled. He loved it when she arrived from work, and especially loved her face when she smiled.
"Great honey, how was school?"
"Nothing. I made some food for you."
"Oh honey." His mother smiled. "You are such an amazing kid. You know that?" She kissed him on the forehead.
John blushed; he loved it when he could make her happy. He wished that she would smile more, but she always seemed to be thinking thoughts that made her sad. Sometimes he'd catch her staring into the mirror, tracing her finger over a wrinkle, and sighing deeply. It hurt his heart to see that. He'd seen pictures of her when she was younger, always smiling, always looking young and pretty. There'd never been, however, any pictures of his father. And if he asked about him, she would shut down. John always wondered if it was his dad who made her sad.
They ate dinner with the television playing.
"How's that girl you're always talking about?" his mom asked.
"Mom. It's no one." John felt himself getting red.
"You should talk to her," his mother said, playfully tapping his shoulder.
"No mom," John said forcefully and stared at his plate.
"Well, that's what your mother thinks," she said and went back to eating.
John looked up, he didn't mean to be so mean. His mother was picking at her food. "I'm sorry mom, I didn't mean it." He touched her arm. "I don't know about the girl. I don't think she likes me, though."
His mother nodded. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"You should be more confident," she said.
John shrugged.
After they were done, John cleared the table and pulled out his books and started to study in the living room. His mother sat and read a book. John could feel her looking at him.
"What are you working on? You're always so into those numbers."
"It's an equation for data manipulation, mom," John said, and then kept quiet. Whenever he talked about these equations his mother would look at him like he was someone she once knew. And it wasn't in a good way.
A loud knock sounded on the door.
"Are you expecting anyone?" his mom asked.
"No," John said, turning back to his equations.
He heard his mother unlock the door and heard a man talking to her.
A pause ensued and John sensed tension drifting his way.
"John, honey, can you come here for a second, please?"
John felt a jolt in his chest. He knew when his mom sounded stressed.
John got up and came to the door. There was a policeman i
n front and Smitty was behind him.
The policemen looked at John, then Smitty.
"This him?"
Smitty was staring at the ground. He glanced up at John, then stared back down at the ground. "Yes."
"John," his mother spoke. "This young man says you beat him and his friends up. Is this true?"
John stared at Smitty. Why would he rat him out like this?
"Sorry mam, it's obvious that my son is trying to pull some joke," the policeman said then rapped Smitty on his head. "You mean to tell me this boy beat you and five of your friends from the football team up? Huh? He probably weighs one-twenty, max."
"One thirty five," John blurted out.
The policeman looked at him and smiled. "Of course," he said. He slapped Smitty on the head. "Get in the car. Now!"
Smitty turned and left.
"Sorry about that mam. And you too." He gave a half smile to John. "Take care."
John's mom closed the door and as John turned to go back to his books he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"John, what happened between you and that boy?"
"Nothing," John said, trying not to turn or to look at his mom. She always had this ability to drag the truth out of him. She would stare at him, and he would start to squirm.
"John, look at me."
John turned.
"What happened?" she asked.
"I... They... They started it."
"So you did do that. To that boy, and five of his friends?"
"They started it. They came at me and even when I said please they—"
"John!" his mom said, so loudly it seemed to startle even her. "What did I tell you about fighting?"
John looked down. His mother grabbed his arm. "Answer me, dammit!"
John jumped. He'd never heard his mother swear.
"Not to do it," he said.
"Not even to defend yourself,
