by J.T. Stoll
Pieter blankly gazed into 42,000,000 Google results on American civil war cause. Somewhere in there was a passing grade on his history report. He leaned back in his desk chair. Lengthy papers worked against his strategy to pass classes while expending minimal effort.
Vero had a group project; his sporty friends had sporty practices; even Neil had homework. So he’d come to Dad’s house, which should have been a distraction-free place to complete his paper. But there were no distraction-free places for writing a research paper. He at least hoped for some takeout Chinese, an old favorite for his busy, culinarily incompetent father.
At the bonfire, they’d agreed to train with their weapons. Sunday, they’d met at a trail just north of town, bushwhacked back off the trail, then created a clearing by downing trees with their soul armors. Neil stopped them, saying that deforestation would attract too much attention. They spent about an hour running, jumping, and fighting each other, somehow managing to avoid serious injury.
After that hour, one by one, their soul armors went dark, and they couldn’t reactive them for the rest of the day. Pieter went to bed early that night and still missed algebra the next morning. He spent the entire day groggy. Soul armor exhaustion went deeper than physical soreness: He had trouble thinking, trouble feeling. Croga stretched him in every way, like it was shaping some deep part of him: his soul, whatever that was. The following Saturday, they trained again; he lasted longer and slept less. Now it was Wednesday.
Pieter tabbed to Facebook and scrolled through a puppy in a soup bowl, commentary on the Middle East, and his friend Mike ranting, “I don’t care who caused the Civil War. America won. Please let me get back to my life.” Boredom permeated the air; the entire city seemed to breathe it. A link caught his eye: Medieval Burglars Spotted at SLO High. He clicked.
Someone saw the Medieval Burglars on the roof of SLO High, the older high school across town. The cops rushed to the scene, but the Medieval Burglars had vanished at the sound of sirens. A few students claimed to have seen them jump off the roof; police were skeptical of that claim.
Pieter stared at the ending period of the article and shivered. He had no clue what Jed and Dek had been up to for the last couple weeks, but apparently they had figured out that here in America, kids the age of Pieter and the others went to things called high schools. It wouldn’t take them long to find the right one.
One training session a week suddenly didn’t seem like much.
The click of the front door opening pulled him out of his thoughts. It seemed like his dad was home. However, a couple minutes later, something foul assaulted his nostrils. Rancid body odor? Unwashed clothes? Pieter feared the worst, shut his laptop, and stomped downstairs.
“Hey, Bro,” said a figure pulling a bag of nacho cheese Doritos from the pantry.
“Hey,” Pieter said.
A grimy hoodie covered Steve’s torso, and equally stained jeans covered his legs. He stood about an inch taller than Pieter, and matted hair hung down to his shoulders. A rough beard covered his face, and a tall camping backpack, its original color impossible to determine, rested on the linoleum floor. The stench nearly bowled Pieter over.
Steve tossed the Doritos bag on the tiled kitchen island and removed some chips with his blackened fingers.
“I thought we changed the locks.”
Steve laughed as he chewed. “Only helps if you bother to use them.”
“Point taken.”
Pieter gazed into his eyes. Normal, not dilated. No wonder Steve was hungry.
“So what’d you come here for?”
“Snacks. To say hi, see if I could stay a couple days. Cops raided our camp.”
Pieter could deal with this Steve. He could talk to this Steve. Despite the grime and the body odor tsunami, somewhere inside was the Steve he grew up with, the one some part of him still loved.
“You know Dad won’t let you.”
Steve shrugged. “Worth a try.”
“Where you been?”
“Here and there. Santa Cruz was nice. Went to San Fran awhile; the place is cold.”
It was good to see his brother. No, that was stupid. This was Steve! Sure, he was sober, now. Sure, they could have a conversation, now. But tomorrow? Hadn’t he learned anything about trusting this wreck?
“I hear the place is great when you’re not homeless.”
Crumbs fell out of Steve’s mouth as he spoke. “Aww, little Brother, still pampered by Mommy and Daddy. Better free like me than a slave like Dad.”
“Not sure I want either.”
“Keep your mind open.”
“That a code phrase for ‘smoke meth’? Doesn’t seem to have done wonders for your aroma.”
Steve shrugged, sending a little avalanche of chip crumbs onto the kitchen floor. “Don’t worry, your time’ll come, little Bro. Let’s share a camp someday.”
A whoosh of air signaled someone else coming in through the front door.
“What’s that smell?” shouted their dad.
He rounded the corner into the kitchen. Dad was tall like his sons, but older and heavier and with more lines on his face.
“Why am I not surprised?” Ice infused his voice. He threw a stack of school papers onto one of the counters. “Get out. Now.”
Steve opened his hands to his dad. “I don’t have a place to sleep. Can’t I just stay one night?”
The ice turned to fire. “Get out! Stay at the shelter if you can get sober for long enough!”
Steve looked at the ground. If he were high, he would have screamed and fought. But now? Hungry and weak? He picked up his pack and tracked a trail of dirt across the carpet toward the front door.
Steve stood in the doorway, facing them. “Bye, Dad.”
A long, shaking finger pointed outside. “Get out.”
His footsteps descended the walkway. Dad picked up the bag of chips. “He was eating these?”
“Yeah.”
The sound of crushing chips followed the bag into the trash can. “Why’d you let him in? You know better.”
“I didn’t,” Pieter replied. “He just walked in.”
“Next time, don’t forget to lock the door. And call the cops if he shows again.”
It was better this way. Pieter shook off that moment of weakness, the moment where he wanted Steve to stay the night.
“So, Dad, you… uh… craving orange chicken?”
His dad’s face softened. “Why not? I have a bunch of papers to grade. Maybe we can pick up some air freshener on the way.”
“No ‘maybe’ about the air freshener,” Pieter laughed. However, after it escaped his mouth, the joke tasted bitter.
10. Practice
