by David Estes
“Screw you,” I say, moving back to the left to try to get past. I refuse to let him goad me into a fight. One of his goons pushes me back.
Someone in the crowd yells, “Fight!”
“Leave him the hell alone,” a familiar voice says. Crap. I glance over where Xavier has just emerged to stand beside me. His pudgy face is pulled into a frown.
“Xave, I’m fine,” I hiss. “Get out of here.” When he looks up at me with those fiercely loyal brown eyes of his, I know he’s not going anywhere. When did he get so much smaller than me? While I’ve grown up, he’s grown out, his plump belly making him as big a target of bullies as me.
“Oooh, has your fat boyfriend come to save you?” Todd taunts.
Although a few chuckles dance through the crowd, I see plenty of kids shaking their heads, not amused by Todd in the least. And yet none of them step forward to help. I don’t blame them. Why make yourself a target when staying under the radar is so much easier?
Xave doesn’t understand the meaning of “flying under the radar.”
“At least Rhett’s ancestors didn’t swing from trees,” Xave says, not backing down. He rummages through his bag and finds a banana, which he tosses over Todd’s head. “Fetch!”
There are a lot of laughs from the crowd, which only seems to infuriate Todd, his eyebrows pinching together. “You’ll pay for that, homo,” he says, stepping forward.
He swings at Xave’s head, but I step in front of him, taking the punch in the chest. It hurts like hell, but I stand my ground, ushering Xave, who’s trying to get around me, further back. The next punch catches me in the face and twists my head around, blood exploding from my nose.
The four huge guys surround us, all smiles and wisecracks.
“Bring it, losers,” Xave says as they close in. Sometimes I wish my best friend was a little more scared of pain.
I tense up, ready to take the worst beating I’ve had since my second foster father, Big Hank, used to regularly use Xave and me as punching bags, when a flat, hard voice says, “I’d stop while you’re ahead, Todd.”
Todd stops mid-punch, whirling to glare at the girl who would dare threaten him. Soft brown skin. Intriguing brown eyes, flashing with anger. Glasses that give her a trendy, intelligent look. Her hands are on her hips, a look of utter contempt screwing up her otherwise pretty features.
Not again, I think. Beth. She wasn’t supposed to make it to watch practice today, her duties as editor of the school newspaper consuming her afternoon.
“I won’t hit a girl,” Todd says.
“How chivalrous,” Beth says.
“But you’re awfully tempting,” Todd says.
“Like a guppy to a shark.”
“So why don’t you get out of here so we can finish with these two?” Todd says.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Beth says, a somewhat vicious smile forming on her pink lips. “Why don’t you go back to what you do best—throwing a ball—and we’ll pretend this never happened.”
Silence. I can tell Todd’s confused, his face switching between laughing and frowning. Evidently he doesn’t know what to make of the spitfire standing before him. I’m equally dumbfounded, wondering how the hell Beth is planning to get Todd to back down. But there’s one thing I know about Beth: She always has a plan.
“And why should I do that?” Todd asks.
Beth motions for him to come closer. He stands stock-still, then shrugs and saunters over to her. The kids in the crowd are whispering to each other, their hands over their mouths. Our little scene is better entertainment than reality TV.
When Todd gets close to her, she motions him even closer, toward her mouth. The tall quarterback has to bend to get to her level. She whispers something in his ear and he stiffens, pulling back. His eyes are wide and white for a moment, and then he sneers, “C’mon, boys. These losers aren’t even worth our time.”
Although the other players don’t look like they want to leave, one by one they follow their leader as he jogs back onto the field.
“Break it up! There’s nothing to see here!” Beth shouts, motioning for the audience to go back to whatever they were doing before.
“Wow!” Xave says, watching the crowd dissipate. “That was incredible. I didn’t even have to get all bloody and bruised, like I usually do when I defend Rhett.”
I cringe, hating how I always feel when my friends have to come to my rescue.
Like a big wimp.
“Those idiots deserve more than a free pass,” Beth mutters, but flashes a real smile. “A swift kick in the groin would’ve been more satisfying.”
“Ooh,” Xave groans. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“Sorry,” I say, feeling about half my six-foot, four-inch height.
“About what?” Beth says, wrapping an arm around my waist.
“Involving you guys in my problems yet again.”
“We involved ourselves,” Xave says, beaming. “It’s part of our job description. Personally it’s not my favorite part of the job, but I’m pretty used to it by now. Like, remember when Big Hank came home drunk and decided you needed ‘toughening up’?”
“Not this story again,” I say, wishing Xave had a shorter memory.
“Oh, have I told this one before?” Xave says, raising his eyebrows theatrically. “Let’s just say that I took the licks for you. It’s the only time I’ve had two black eyes and a bloody nose all at the same time.”
I chew my lip, remembering that night. After all, it was only eight short years earlier that Xave and I met when we were both sent to live with Big Hank and his wife, Cindi. For almost a year it was a nightly ritual for him to come home drunk, driving a beat-up pickup proudly flying a Confederate flag, unleashing a barrage of obscenities at Cindi, who would spew all sorts of vile threats right back.
Big Hank would stomp up the steps and, with his alcohol-breath hitting us in a nauseating blast, he’d pick one of us and then proceed to “beat the black out of us,” as he liked to say. On more than one occasion, Xave, who was bigger than me back then, would volunteer to take the beating for me. I cried most of those nights, listening to Xave’s screams.
Two days after the final beating Xave took from Big Hank, Cindi shot and killed her husband when he tried to touch her.
Xave, who was still recovering in the hospital from his “bad bike accident,” and I were split up and moved to different foster homes.
Neither of them was as bad as staying with Big Hank and Cindi. But neither of them was much better either.
“Ooh, wait, I’ve got one,” Beth says, raising a finger in the air.
“Not you, too,” I say. “You know, you two would make really good bullies. You’ve mastered the art of ganging up.”
Ignoring me, Beth says, “Remember how we met?” Ugh. Why can’t we be a normal couple with a cute story of how we got together? Like someone knocks her books out of her arms and I pick them up. Or she sees me catch a game-winning touchdown pass and interviews me for a school article. No such luck.
“No,” I lie.
“Then let me remind you. Much like today, you and Xave were surrounded by thugs.”
“I was throwing punches like a tornado,” Xave says, chiming in.
“None of them connecting,” I mutter.
“And Rhett was just standing there letting his face get tenderized,” Xave continues.
“I shouted, ‘Cops!’ and the bullies and crowd took off running,” Beth concludes.
“See,” I say, “if not for my knack for attracting attention, we might not even know each other.”
“I still don’t get why you don’t stand up for yourself,” Beth says.
“Rhett wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Xave says. “It’s just not in him.”
“What should we do after practice?” I say, changing the subject.
“You’re a freaking giant, Rhett,” Beth says, continuing on as if I hadn’t spoken.
“A real Big Foot…” Xave adds.
> “I barely come up to your waist,” Beth says.
“…with fists the size of meat cleavers,” Xave says.
I throw my hands up. “Okay, okay, I get it. I should be doing the hitting, not getting hit. I should be book blogger turned Superman, right? Defender of the weak, protector of the bullied. Look, I just don’t like violence. The thought of hitting someone’s”—I make a face—“nose or chin or cheek grosses me out.” Even talking about violence is making me queasy. I can’t help it—I’ve always been this way. When the other boys were wrestling and playing “Cops and Robbers” I was more interested in books, happy to get lost in someone else’s adventure.
“Then aim for their stomachs,” Beth says.
“Or their kidneys,” Xave says, waggling his eyebrows encouragingly. “Or if you want to act like a little girl, a good shot to the nuts will drop ’em like the sacks of feces that they are.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. None of those options are any more appealing to me. “Pass,” I say.
“You’re hopeless,” Beth says, but from her smile and the way she squeezes my waist, I can tell she won’t hold it against me. “Well, I’d love to stay and talk strategies for inflicting pain on jerks like Todd Logue, but I’ve got to run. Our issue spotlighting the inequality of Salem’s Return won’t get written and edited by itself.”
She gives me a quick peck on the lips and skates away, adjusting her glasses when they slip down her nose.
“Hey, Beth!” I say, stopping her.
“Yeah?”
“What did you say to Todd?”
Smiling, she strolls back over and stands on her tiptoes to whisper in my ear. “I told him I had a source that told me he used to wet the bed, and that I’d run the story in next week’s newspaper if he didn’t leave you alone.”
I snort out a laugh. “Whoever told you that about Todd has a death wish,” I say.
“I made it up,” she says.
“But…how’d you know it would work?”
She offers a sly grin. “Because bullies like Todd are always overcompensating for their own insecurities,” she says.
Shaking my head, I grab my helmet off the ground, reacting to Coach Bronson’s whistle. After kissing Beth on the cheek, I run onto the field.
“What? No smooch for me?” Xave calls after me. He has a knack for embarrassing me in front of my teammates, as if they need any more reason to make fun of me.
Beth hoots and hollers and claps. “Superstar!” she shouts.
My face warming, I turn and look at the bleachers so I won’t have to see the rest of the players—whose stares I can feel on the back of my neck—but Beth and Xavier are already huddled over his tablet, immersed in homework or a funny video or my latest blog, which they never fail to give me a hard time about.
A burst of energy plumes in my chest as I watch them. My embarrassment vanishes like a ship in the Bermuda Triangle. Beth and Xave and me. Inseparable.
Chapter Two
“How’s the Salem’s Return issue coming?” I say to Beth when she and Xave meet me to walk home.
Beth frowns. “The more research we do, the more the whole thing stinks,” she says.
“Like Rhett’s football cleats?” Xave says.
“Worse,” she says. “Do you know how it all started?”
Of course. Everyone does. A woman who could breathe fire. A circus performer. But not just her—there were three of them. Sisters, calling themselves The Pyros. Only it wasn’t just that they could breathe fire, but that they could seemingly create it from thin air. Snap their fingers and a flame would appear. Of course, it was all just an illusion. Magic isn’t real. However, the Pyros were so good that people started to think they were real witches. A couple of religious groups accused them of being devil-worshippers. Of course, it didn’t help that a national media organization had a slow news week and grabbed onto the story, broadcasting snippets from the sermons condemning the witches. Like every other snowball that gets a big push down a hill, the story got bigger and bigger, until the story became an issue, and the issue became a problem.
Enter the politicians, who only made things worse. Because of the potential for panic, a law was signed preventing “real” magic from being performed—whatever that meant. The media coined it Salem’s Return. I can still remember the first trial. My mom was obsessed with it. She said it would redefine the type of country we’d be for the next century, that it was the most important event since the Civil War. When the Pyros were sentenced to burn, she wouldn’t leave the house for three days. Said we’d become monsters.
According to the judge, death by burning was justified because of the unique circumstances surrounding the guilty. They were witches. Burning them was “the only way to destroy their evil.” Of course it didn’t help that when they tried to burn the sisters, they supposedly wouldn’t burn.
“Yeah,” I say. “But the whole thing was a trick. Someone wanted to incite fear so they made it look like the so-called witches wouldn’t burn.”
“They showed it live on TV,” Xave says.
“Yeah, so they could prove to the world that the sisters were REAL witches,” Beth says. “I think it was all staged. Another illusion, just like the tricks the Pyros did with fire. Whatever the case, it worked. When they couldn’t burn them, they—”
“Drowned them,” I say. I remember my mother’s face after it happened. After months of protesting she looked defeated. She didn’t say a word that day. Since then they’ve used burning as the primary method of execution, with drowning used only if burning doesn’t work.
“Sometimes the government makes me want to move to Switzerland,” Xave says.
“Why Switzerland?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Mostly the chocolate and the cheese,” Xave says, not missing a beat.
“That was a decade ago,” Beth says, bringing the conversation back to her favorite topic. “The fires haven’t stopped burning since.” Although there have been many groups protesting the anti-witch laws, in which my mom is a proud member, their efforts have been unsuccessful. More than a hundred witches have been executed so far, although it’s hard to keep count with the death toll rising by the month. The executions barely even get any news coverage anymore; they’re as normal as car accidents in L.A. and murders in Detroit.
“No one even cares about the death count anymore,” I point out.
“That’s where the conspiracy gets a little interesting and a lot disturbing,” Beth says. “There are all kinds of theories out there, most of which contradict each other, but one thing everyone seems to agree on is that the reported witch death count is but a fraction of reality.”
“You mean, like, it’s closer to two hundred witches?” Xave asks, huddling closer to Beth’s side as we walk.
“No,” Beth says. “Try a thousand.”
My mouth drops open. “A thousand?”
“And that’s on the low end of the estimates. Some sites say they have sources that peg the number of executions at more than five thousand witches.”
“But that’s…” The word I want to say leaves a bad taste in my mouth as it rolls around on my tongue.
“Genocide,” Beth says, reading my mind.
“It makes the Salem Witch Trials look like a child’s birthday party and lethal injection appear as boring and humane as giving a child a timeout,” Xave says.
“It’s just not right, and that’s what I’m going to say in the newspaper,” Beth says.
With at least half the students’ parents likely in support of the anti-witch laws, her article will mean even more bullying for the three of us. But that’s Beth—she’ll never back down from something she believes in. And that’s just the way I like her.
“We’re behind you all the way,” I say.
~~~
When I get home, I leave my dirty cleats on the front porch and push through the door. My mom is folding laundry on our beat-up brown couch in front of the TV.
“Hi, Mom,”
I say, the word not even sticking in the back of my throat the way it used to.
“Hey, Rhett,” she says, her gaze fixed on a news program. “How was practice?”
“Not terrible,” I say.
“How’s Xave?”
“He’s Xave,” I say.
“How’s Beth?” She pulls her stare from the TV for just long enough to waggle her eyebrows. Yep, she’s the closest thing to a real mom I’ve had in a long time.
“She’s great,” I say.
“There’s fruit on the table if you’re hungry,” she calls after me as I head to the kitchen. I dump my sports duffel and backpack on a couple of chairs and grab a banana, peeling it as I move back into the TV room.
There’s a rattle of footsteps scurrying down the stairs as Hurricane Jasmine approaches from upstairs. “Rhett!” my seven-year-old foster sister cries. “I thought you’d been kidnapped.” She throws her arms around me and I almost drop the banana.
“Um, why?” I ask.
“The witches,” Jasmine says, looking up, her chocolaty skin vibrant in the late-afternoon light.
“Jaz, I already told you,” my mother says, turning to face us with a swirl of blond hair. “The witches aren’t dangerous. They’re not even real witches. They’re just people, like you or me. They’re not the ones to blame for all of this. We’re to blame. Our fear and hate.” Finally I realize what my mom’s watching on TV—what had her so engrossed.
“A curfew?” I say, reading the headline at the bottom of the screen. A newswoman is jabbering on about how the witch threat level has just been raised. How there are more of them than we first thought when Salem’s Return began years earlier.
“The witches are starting to fight back,” Jaz says, her voice no more than a whisper. “They say no one should be out after dark.”
“Seriously?” I say in disbelief.
“Seriously,” my mom says. “It’s utterly ridiculous. The whole country’s gone half-crazy.”
“More like full crazy,” I say, slipping my cell phone out of my pocket when it rings.
