Longevity- the Wardens of Time

by Caleb Smith

  Longevity: The Wardens of Time

  Caleb Smith

  © Copyright Caleb Smith 2018

  © 2018 by Caleb Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  Excerpts from The Encyclopedia of Angels by Rosemary Ellen Guiley

  For my Mom and Dad

  Chapter 1

  Noah was feeling lonely again as his mother handed him a couple of crumpled up dollars and a stack of quarters from her disheveled purse.

  “I have to go, honey; I’m late. Have a good day at school.”

  She kissed her boy on top of his head and quickly sped out the door, leaving it half open for him to shut. Noah stared down at this cereal, watching the milk slowly soften his crispy flakes. He pushed his retreating glasses up with his forefinger and sat back in his chair, wondering if his life could get any worse. The truth was, he didn’t feel wanted; he knew his mother loved him, but she was rarely home after working three jobs to make ends meet. His father had died in an accident long before he could remember, leaving no kind of financial support behind for his struggling mother. And with each passing day, the notion of what might have been became a distant dream of the past, eventually forgotten in the pages of time.

  He poured his milk-battered mush in the sink and ran the water and garbage disposal. Grabbing his backpack and strapping up, he looked at a photo on the fridge. It had been taken at the beach the previous summer. He and his mother looked so happy. It caught his attention now because it was one of the last good days that he could remember.

  The walk to school took twenty minutes; he had figured out a few shortcuts through the neighbors’ yards. His route was safe and kept him off the street and out of vision of the cretins who terrorized him daily. He used to have a bike, but it was one of the first things he had lost when he moved to this new place. He had never really fit in anywhere due to his many school-jumping endeavors, but he couldn’t recall a place before now where he had been bullied and picked on so much.

  He and his mom moved around a lot, hopping from apartment to apartment. He understood things would be difficult for a boy like him, who had not much in common with anyone. But at least in the previous schools he had attended, his peers had merely ignored him. Now, however, as an undesirable adolescent in seventh grade, his middle school felt like a prison. Each day was like going into a war-infested jungle without a gun. He was small and scrawny and lacked the ability to protect himself. His one weapon consisted of his feet – he could run like the wind (when not burdened by a heavy backpack). On his way to school, he would tiptoe through the jungle, wary of setting off booby traps or stepping on landmines that would alert bullies to his position.

  There was a pack of them – four, sometimes five – and they rode their bikes down the middle of the streets as if they owned the town. They were bigger than he was, and they enjoyed destroying things, egging houses, flipping people off, and causing hate and discontent. They especially enjoyed shaking down smaller kids and taking whatever they saw fit for their use and consumption.

  Since arriving at this new school, Noah had eaten lunch only once, and that had been on the first day he arrived. Since then, he was greeted by the bullies every morning at the front door, or in the halls by his locker and in the bathrooms, and was forced to hand over his lunch money to avoid a beating. Because he forked his money over without protest, he usually was only spit upon. Naturally, he was late for his first class most days, as he had to wash the multi-colored, candy-stained loogies out of his clothes. His teacher would scold him for coming in late and would usually threaten to send him to the office if it happened again. One of the bullies was in his class and kept a close eye on him, threatening him to keep silent or face retaliation. The jerks reigned, he remained a trapped victim. It was his hell, his prison, and his punishment for looking and acting different, and he was either persecuted at every corner or ignored completely. He would often think, what on earth did I do to deserve this?

  He had no common interests with other boys his age. He didn’t care for sports and was not in any way athletic. He wasn’t artistic either. His only saving grace was his keen imagination and books. His books saved him, allowing him to travel to faraway places he had never before been, and within the pages, he could experience new adventures. Books were all he had until she came along.

  Chapter 2

  It was a sunny morning in April, the first day back from vacation. Noah had made it into homeroom without any major setbacks, save for the usual harassment: lunch theft and a soft slap in the face to make sure he would stay in line. But, today there was another newcomer.

  Mrs. Dean introduced the new girl as Wendy Sherman. Some of the class chuckled lightly – newcomers were circumspect. Noah glanced at her. She was a bit larger than the other girls and dressed like a boy, wearing a classic t-shirt and jeans. Her black hair was short, and she wore no makeup. She took the seat next to him at the back of the room where no one else would sit. She appeared angry, Noah thought, trying to eye her while keeping his head straight. She calmly spoke, “Stop checking me out, geek, or I’ll stab you with a pencil.”

  He looked at her nervously. She replied, “apology accepted.”

  Noah wasn’t sure what to make of her; instead, he focused his attention on Mrs. Dean and the social studies lesson. The boy had always done well with his studies, because while most everything else in his life seemed to be an uphill battle, academics came relatively easy to him.

  Midway through the lesson on the Louisiana Purchase, the new girl sitting next to Noah let out a groan of boredom under her breath.

  “I wish I could be home working with my dad.”

  Noah knew the comment was meant for him, but he kept his attention on the head of the class, holding his thoughts.

  “So, what did you say your name was?” she asked, abruptly.

  Half the class heard it, and one of the cretins gazed back with a straw, firing a spitball toward Noah. He ducked his head as Mrs. Dean looked up from her desk and asked if there was anything that he or Wendy would like to contribute to the lesson. The rotten half of the class chuckled, and then the bell rang for student break.

  The halls were flooded with adolescents grouped in easily identifiable cliques: preppies, punks, jocks, scholars, and outcasts. Noah was an outcast, and Wendy was clearly in the same group. But, she surely didn’t give a rat’s ass; she still walked through the halls as if she owned them, head held high. There were those in the popular crowd who gave her dirty looks as she strolled by in her uncanny swag. She just glared back, staring long enough to make the other girls look away first. Wendy Sherman could clean house with any one of the girls her age, and most of the boys, for that matter.

  She had been raised by her father and older brothers after her mother’s abandonment. Her mother had awakened one morning and walked into Wendy’s room, whispering in her ear while she thought her daughter had been sound asleep.

  “No matter what they say, I will always love you and have a place for you in my heart.”

  But then she had left, and she had not been heard from or seen since.

  Wendy had pretended she was asleep at the time
, but the words that morning had crippled her heart and she had been bereft. After that, she didn’t want to be like her mother. She didn’t want to be pretty.

  In the years that followed, she seemed to grow up quickly and became much closer to her loving father and brothers, who, in turn, had become her rocks. They were all that mattered from that day forward, and she was raised more like a boy than a girl.

  Her father, Earl, was a mechanic who worked on cars for a living, and the recent move to Mid-Town brought new beginnings for the family. Her oldest brother, Larry, had moved away to Alaska to work the pipeline, but her other brother Josh had stayed to learn the family trade. Earl had saved all his money and moved what was left of his family to Mid-Town to start anew, buying a junkyard with a house and a big barn garage on the site with car lifts already in place. It was a fair business deal from an old-timer who had been looking to retire and move to a warmer climate.

  Emmett Hersey had owned and operated Hersey’s Junkyard and auto repair for forty years and had made a pile of money over that time span doing it. He had been waiting for the right person to come along to make an offer. While refusing the offers of a buyout from competitors in the town, he answered his phone one day to find Earl on the other end. The conversation had been long and casual, as if the two had been friends for years. “Some people,” Emmett always said, “just understand each other.” It was not long after that conversation that Earl had driven down to meet Emmett in person to discuss a proper business deal that was ultimately signed, sealed, and delivered by a handshake sandwiched in spit. Two weeks later, Earl and his two younger children arrived to stay. Emmett Hersey was ever grateful for all that his business had provided, and he wished the same for Earl and his family.

  Josh, who had just graduated from high school, went to work with his father running the auto ranch, while Wendy arrived in a new hell of her own at Mid-Town Middle School. She had had friends at her old school and town, but they were very different than the glass Barbies that congregated in the new halls. At her previous school, kids appeared and acted the same and were, for the most part, sons and daughters of farmers or labor workers. She missed them all insatiably. There had been no fashion shows or displays of “Who’s Who?” – just respectful young kids who didn’t give a thought to what they wore to school, as long as the clothing was warm and comfortable. The days of her youth were slowly dwindling, and changes were evident. Sooner or later, she would become a woman in a house full of men. But for now, she was going to hold on to what time she had left as a kid by dressing and doing what she wanted. She would be double-damned if someone were going to try to take that away from her.

  Chapter 3

  On the day that Noah and Wendy first met, the morning had given way to math, reading, and science. They were all second nature to Noah, the small, black-haired, glasses-wearing book guru who spent most of his free time traveling among book pages. Noah had been going without lunch for the greater part of the year, and it had been more than seven months since the scum had first approached him and taken their first racket earnings. Though he had tried switching to bagged lunches, the situation was not abated because in the end, they had taken that, too. And, he was told that if he didn’t bring lunch money for them every day, then he would get a beating. So, he did. And every day, four dollars went to the bullies, while Noah went without eating. But with brains comes adaption, and he quickly learned to eat a big breakfast that would hold him over until he was able to get home. He survived his days with lukewarm water from the fountains of the corridors.

  When the lunch bell rang, Noah did what he knew best. He found a seat away from the general population of the entire seventh grade and buried his head in his latest read. This particular adventure had brought him out to sea in search of a lost island with hidden treasure. No one paid any attention to him, and that was the way he had grown to like it. Usually if attention was paid, it was negative. Just as he threw anchor to make way for the lost island in the trusty skiff, he felt a plop of good-sized weight land across from him at the lunch table. He dared not drop his book down in fear that it could have been Mike Nason or Joe Dwyer, the two most aggressive of the bullies. When after a minute nothing happened – no book was stripped from his hands, no spit flew at him, and no slaps struck his face – he was rather shocked. Slowly, Noah lowered his book down to the bridge of his nose and saw that it was the new girl sitting across from him. He quickly looked around to see if any of the other kids were looking his way or making funny faces at him, the coast was clear.

  She ate quietly and slowly as if unsure of what it was she was consuming. A glare of anger and frustration spilled over her face.

  “I didn’t know where else to sit,” she said.

  “It’s OK. I won’t bother you. I’ll just read my book.”

  “Suit yourself,” she replied. “It’s not as if I have any friends here, anyway.”

  Noah slowly looked up. “I know the feeling.”

  “So how long have you been going here?”

  Was this an actual conversation? Noah thought. It couldn’t be – just identification questions.

  “Um, since the beginning of the year.”

  “So where are all your friends?” she asked.

  “Well, since this is the longest conversation I have had with anyone my age all year, that there, could probably answer your question.”

  “Why is everyone so mean here?”

  “I don’t know, I just try to stay hidden and operate under the radar.” Then he looked two tables over to where the pack of bullies congregated and ate their lunch, courtesy of him. Wendy looked in the same direction and frowned.

  “So, those guys give you a hard time, do they?”

  “Something like that, but don’t say anything. I don’t want any problems.”

  “What do they do to you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it. Plus, I don’t even know you.”

  “I’m Wendy – Wendy Sherman.”

  “I know. You sat next to me in homeroom this morning. I’m Noah Thomas.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Noah Thomas. You’re like the first normal person I have met here.”

  “What do you mean, normal?” he asked.

  “I don’t know… someone who doesn’t judge, talks without an attitude, and seems to be kind and down-to-earth.”

  Was he just complimented? No, this couldn’t be happening, and if it were, he wasn’t ready for it. He swiftly closed his book, slid it into his book bag, and stood up. “I have to go now.” He made his way around the table toward the center of traffic where the waste buckets were. As soon as he passed the dreaded table, they immediately noticed him. One stuck his foot out, sending Noah down to the ground, knocking off his glasses. None of the three teachers watching the cafeteria saw what happened, but they were alerted to attention when the whole cafeteria went hysterical in laughter. One of the teachers walked over to see if Noah was all right and asked what happened. He slowly got up and retrieved his glasses, fixing them to his face before he replied.

  “I’m OK; I just tripped.”

  “Did somebody trip you?” she asked, a concerned look on her face.

  He peered over to the aggressors who were glaring at him, “No; I fell by mistake. It was my fault.” He lowered his head and felt like crying, but he choked back the tears. “I’m just clumsy, I guess,” he replied with his best smile unworthy of sale.

  “Well, OK. Try to be more careful. We don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” he said, walking out of the cafeteria as fast as he could with all eyes cast on him.

  He was embarrassed, ashamed, and frustrated all at once. He found the nearest bathroom and flew in, ramming through the swing-hinged door. He entered the nearest corner stall and dropped his book bag, as well as the toilet seat cover. His breathing had become hard to control as he sat down. Tears began to push their way out of his eyes. Soon he had great streams of sal
ty runoff rolling down his face, leaving soggy tracks. He wasn’t sure how much more abuse he could take; it had been going on all year, and he had not said a word to anyone about it, not even to his mother. He was tired of playing the victim; it was beginning to weigh on him heavily. He knew who he was and where he stood among his peers. He knew he was a nobody, a loser in a lot of eyes, and he could live with that. But what he couldn’t live with was the physical abuse and the public humiliation. He was tired of the bruises, tired of being spit on, and tired of being made to look like a nobody. He cried for the next few minutes, trying to keep as quiet as possible. The last thing he needed was for anyone to know where he was and what state he was in. By the time he had collected himself, the back-to-class bell had rung. It was time for afternoon classes to start, so he pulled himself together, wiped his face dry, and went back out into the general population.

  Chapter 4

  Back in homeroom where English was taught, he found his seat next to an already waiting Wendy Sherman. Some of the kids in the room chuckled, complimenting the boy on his misfortune.

  “Just get me through this day,” he whispered to himself.

  “What was that?” Wendy asked, listening with a hidden ear.

  “Ahh, nothing,” Noah replied, caught off guard.

  As Mrs. Dean started the lesson, Wendy whispered to Noah. “I’m sorry you got tripped in front of everyone in the cafeteria; I saw the whole thing.”

  Noah tried to play it off like it was no big deal. “Oh that; that was nothing – just an accident, that’s all.”

  “It looked pretty intentional to me,” she replied.

  “Wendy,” Mrs. Dean called out, “Do you have something to add?”