The tree house was legendary, at least in Toby and Frankie’s mind. It’s where they spent most of their time (when they weren’t playing basketball or the Xbox, that is). Toby and his dad had built it three years ago. It had taken them months, working mostly on weekends, to finish the job, his mother standing by the back door shouting: “You be careful up there, Toby,” and “Don’t let him fall, David.” They built the tree house about fifteen feet off the ground, in the V of a massive elm tree, and it was big enough for five people to sleep in. Not that Toby’s mother would ever let anyone sleep up there.
“Hey, I just remembered,” Frankie said. “There’s a new rumor going around about Mr. Joseph. I heard from Paul Rodriguez that the old freak keeps live chickens in his shed and every full moon he bites one of their heads off. And tonight is supposed to be a full moon—and it’s Friday the 13th, so it’s a double whammy.”
“Paul Rodriguez is full of shit,” Toby scoffed. “How would he know that?”
“Well, apparently, Paul’s dad knows someone who works with a woman who one day overheard Mr. Joseph telling Mrs. Stein that he had to buy frozen chickens that day because there weren’t any live ones left in his chicken coop. Or something like that.”
Toby resisted the urge to peek over his shoulder at Mr. Joseph’s house for fear that if he did, he would see the old man sitting by his window, munching on a live chicken. With a sudden bad taste in his mouth, Toby threw what little there was left of the Pop-Tart to the ground. “Yeah, well, I don’t believe it. No one bites the heads off chickens. That’s disgusting.”
“Just because you choose not to believe it,” Frankie said, “doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
“Believe what you want. I think Paul’s full of shit.”
They crossed over Bracher Road and continued along Pineview. Up ahead, other seventh and eighth graders were heading off to their final day of school (the elementary school was way over the other side of town, and there was no high school in Belford; instead, a total of five communities in the area combined to form Holt Middle School and Holt High School, the former located in Belford, the latter in Polksville, the second biggest town in the group, with a population of around 2,500). Toby’s heart-rate quickened when he saw Gloria Mayfour in the group closest to him and Frankie—only a block away. Gloria was, in Toby’s eyes, the prettiest girl he had ever seen, prettier even than her older sister. She haunted Toby’s dreams, day and night; those sparkling emerald eyes, smooth tanned skin, hair like golden silk, and for a fourteen-year-old, she had one hell of a mature body.
Of course, Toby had never actually talked to Gloria, other than a few brief exchanges over the years. He simply didn’t have the guts. He and Frankie often talked about Gloria, mostly crude, adolescent male talk, but sometimes, mostly late at night during a sleepover, when they had stopped all the fooling around and were both in a more serious, reflective mood, they would talk about what they would say to her if either of them had the courage to talk to her.
But until he turned those late-night chats into reality, he had to be content with admiring Gloria Mayfour from afar.
“Hey dorks. Drooling over Gorgeous Gloria I see.”
Such a harsh, irritating voice could only belong to Warrick Coleman.
Frankie rolled his eyes at Toby.
Toby grinned and said, “Hey, Warrick.”
“I would sure like to stick it to Gloria,” Warrick said, forcing his skinny body between Toby and Frankie.
“You wouldn’t even know where to stick it,” Frankie said.
“Wrong Tubby. It just so happens I’ve done it before.”
Toby cackled, blurted, “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” and immediately regretted doing so; wondered why he had even thought of the saying in the first place. He hadn’t used that juvenile taunt since the fifth grade. And to make matters worse, it seemed Gloria and her friends had heard. They turned around and stared at Toby before turning back, giggling.
Toby’s face burned with embarrassment.
“Nice one, Fairchild,” Warrick laughed. “Way to make an idiot of yourself.”
“Stick a knife up your hole, Warrick,” Toby grumbled.
“Now now, lover boy. You’re gonna have to control that temper of yours if you want to impress Gloria.”
“Well at least Toby doesn’t lie about having done it,” Frankie said in Toby’s defense. “You’re so full of shit, Warrick.”
“Well of course I’ve done it.”
Frankie huffed. “As if. Who with?”
“With some girl you don’t know. She doesn’t go to our school. She’s a friend of the family.”
“Yeah, right,” Frankie said. “What was her name?”
“Patricia,” Warrick said. “Yeah, Patricia. Real hottie. Titties as big as balloons.”
Frankie laughed and again said, “You’re so full of shit.”
Toby barely cracked a smile. He was still fuming over his embarrassing outburst—and it was all because of Warrick and his stupid lies.
You’re the one who blurted it out, he reminded himself.
Toby glanced at Warrick, at his stringy hair that looked in need of a wash, face spotted with pimples and ears too big for his angular face.
Though he was a pest most of the time and had all the tact of a sledgehammer (he was crude even by fourteen-year-old boys’ standards), Toby felt kind of sorry for this unkempt beanpole of a kid. Even though most of the kids enjoyed his goofiness and penchant for exaggerated stories, he had no real friends. Toby saw Warrick not as Holt Middle School’s answer to John Belushi, but as a lonely kid, someone who felt the need to make up stories about himself and others, no matter how absurd, just so people would notice him. And he was certainly successful in that department. One time after school, in front of a hundred or so curious onlookers, Warrick attempted to eat a whole carton of raw eggs. He claimed that doing so would make him super strong, like Rocky Balboa. Warrick had downed half a dozen eggs before throwing up. Annoyed that all his super powers were gone, Warrick vowed to finish the rest, but one of the kids dared him to eat his vomit instead. Warrick probably would’ve accepted the dare and gone through with it if Mr. Hoshire, the science teacher, hadn’t come and broken up the whole thing. Toby heard later that Warrick got pounded by his father that night—not for the stupid stunt, but for taking the carton of eggs without asking.
“So have you?”
Toby was pulled from his thoughts when he realized Warrick was talking to him. “Huh?”
“I said, have you ever stuck it to a girl before?”
Toby hesitated, unsure of what to say, for fear of looking like a fool.
They turned right into Dorsett Street, the final leg on their journey to school.
“Come on Fairchild, be honest. Tubby here reckons he once touched a chick’s beaver.”
Toby frowned. “You have not. That’s crap.”
Frankie shrugged. “I have too.”
Toby knew it was a bald faced lie. Frankie was just trying to make himself look good in front of Warrick. Because in school, reputation was everything, and word spread like a forest fire around Holt Middle School, which would then ignite throughout the town, and Warrick was the spark.
“Well, then what did your hand smell like afterwards?” Toby said, curious to hear Frankie’s answer.
Frankie didn’t answer straightaway. “Fish,” he said.
“Ha!” Warrick laughed. “You’re the one who’s full of shit, Wilmont.”
Toby turned to Warrick. “You can talk. I bet you never did it with... what was her name? Patricia?”
“Did so,” Warrick said.
“Okay, what did it feel like?”
Warrick pinched his face—he did the same thing in math class when asked to solve a calculus problem. “Mushy. It felt all warm and mushy,” he finally answered.
“What was Patricia made of, mashed potatoes?” Toby said.
Toby and Frankie laughed, despite the look of indignity on Warrick’s face. When
the laughter died a natural death, Toby looked at Warrick and said, “Hey, relax. We weren’t laughing with you; we were laughing at you.”
Frankie chuckled.
“Yeah, well, I don’t care what you guys think. I did do it with her.” A grin split Warrick’s face. “Hey, did you guys hear the latest about Mr. Joseph?”
“You mean about the chickens?” Frankie said.
“Yeah. Disgusting, huh? Bites their heads clean off. Bet you he drinks their blood, too. A regular Dracula. And he probably sticks it to ‘em, you know, after they’re dead.”
Toby groaned. “Trust you to think of that.”
Warrick grinned again, bigger this time, revealing uneven rows of horribly-stained teeth. “Well, I’ve gotta run. I’m teaching Mikey Porter how to fart Happy Birthday before school starts. See you dorks in class. Be on the lookout for big guys in hockey masks. And don’t think I’ve forgotten, Fairchild.”
“Forgotten what?”
“You still haven’t told us how far you’ve gotten with a girl. Last day of school. Hell yeah!”
Without exchanging goodbyes, Warrick left, jogging off down Dorsett Street.
“What an asshole,” Frankie said.
“I can’t believe you said you have touched a girl’s beaver.”
“What else was I supposed to say? Tell the truth and say I haven’t even kissed a girl? Yeah, I bet Warrick would have a real good time with that.”
“Warrick’s going to be at me about it now. He won’t rest until I’ve answered him.”
“Just lie and say you’ve felt some girl’s tits. No big deal.”
Toby shrugged and watched as Warrick bounded towards school, which was now visible in the distance.
When Warrick caught up with Gloria and her friends, he stopped.
Most of the time, Toby didn’t think much of Warrick and his antics, but he had to admit, he did admire Warrick’s fearlessness at being able to waltz up to anyone—guy or girl—and talk to them. Toby was even a little jealous of Warrick in this regard.
Watching Warrick, Toby wondered what he was saying to the girls. Were they talking about Mr. Joseph? School? Him?
Christ I hope not. Nerves started pecking at Toby’s gut.
It wasn’t long before cries of disgust rang out from the group of girls. Warrick cackled and then continued on his way.
“What a weirdo,” Frankie said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he sticks it to chickens.”
“Yeah,” Toby said, gazing at Gloria up ahead, wondering what she thought of him now after this morning’s episode. “Wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”
And they neared the final obstacle that stood between them and three months of freedom.
The bell rang. Every student started gathering their books and papers together with breakneck speed, like the bell was the starter’s gun and all the kids were runners.
“I hope everyone has a great vacation,” Miss Wilson, their eighth grade English teacher, hollered over the racket.
Sure will, Toby thought as he stood, flung his bag over one shoulder and waited for Frankie. “Hurry up, Frankie.”
“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses.”
Up ahead, Miss Wilson had moved over by the door and was saying goodbye to each student as they left the classroom, giving most of the girls hugs.
Once Frankie was ready, he and Toby headed for the door, where freedom awaited them: three glorious months of lazy summer days; of sleep-ins, sleepovers, playing baseball till the sun faded and they could no longer see the ball, and staying up late watching monster movies.
At the door, they shuffled past Miss Wilson, who had a smile on her young, pretty face, though Toby noticed that her eyes were a little teary.
“Have a great summer, boys.”
“You too, Miss Wilson,” Toby said, admiring her tall, slender body, and taking one last whiff of her perfume—which was fresh, honey-sweet, like a flower in spring.
“Yeah, thanks for being such a cool teacher,” Frankie said, and together they stepped out into the hall. “Free at last!” Frankie exclaimed.
“Thanks for being such a cool teacher?” Toby said, smiling at Frankie.
“What? She is cool. She’s easily the best teacher at this crummy place.”
Along with a bunch of other kids, they swarmed out of the squat red-brick building, their home away from home for the past two years, and once outside, made their way across the front lawn.
“I wonder if we’ll get a teacher as nice as her in high school,” Toby said as they left the school grounds and headed up Dorsett Road, the afternoon sun forcing Toby to squint.
“What makes you think you’re graduating from middle school?” Frankie said and he stopped to pick up a stick from the pavement. He continued walking, tapping the stick on the concrete, occasionally striking at the leaves of low-hanging branches.
“Because, I’m a genius. I have my doubts about you, though. You ain’t smart enough for high school.”
“It’s you’re not smart enough.”
Whack! Brown and yellow leaves were knocked from their perch and fluttered to the ground.
“No shit, Sherlock. I was just testing ya. Here, give me the stick.”
Frankie shook his head. “Uh-uh. This stick has special powers. No one but me can use it. I’m the stick master.”
“You jerk-off,” Toby said and he lunged for the stick.
Frankie snatched it away before Toby was able to grab it. “Too slow,” Frankie said, grinning.
“I’ll sock you in the stomach if you don’t give it to me.”
“Ha! You couldn’t hurt me even if you tried.”
With more swiftness and cunning, Toby again grabbed for the stick. This time he managed to yank it out of Frankie’s grasp. “Too slow,” Toby taunted, waving the stick above his head like a trophy. “Too slow.”
“Big deal,” Frankie huffed. “I didn’t even want the stupid thing.”
Toby continued where Frankie left off, swinging the stick at any leaves unlucky enough to be within reach.
As they walked, the afternoon sun pressing down on them like a giant’s foot, Toby’s mind drifted to Gloria, as it had done all day. The few classes he’d had with her were an adolescent boy’s worst nightmare—a case of too much of a good thing. He found himself constantly staring at her, dreaming about what it would be like to kiss her, to touch her, to talk to her, glances that sometimes spilled over into longing gazes. He feared getting caught—either by a teacher, another student or, God forbid, by Gloria herself—but he couldn’t help it. She was the headlights, he the poor defenseless deer.
It was during 4th period math when the inevitable happened.
He had been staring at Gloria, imagining them kissing, an erection pushing against his jeans, when Gloria turned and looked at him. He froze, unable to look away. His heart started thumping; his mind screamed, Look away! Dammit, look away! But rather than laughing at him like she and her friends had done this morning, or frowning in disgust, Gloria had just smiled the sweetest smile, then turned back to the front. That was the first time Gloria had smiled at him (well, the first time since the second grade when Toby had given her his last Strawberry Twizzler during lunch, but that didn’t really count), and it caused his head to spin. He wondered—did she like him? Could it be possible?
It was Gloria’s smile, and what it meant, that Toby was reflecting on when they came up to the intersection of Dorsett and Main.
“I’m hungry,” Frankie said. “Let’s stop off at Barb’s.”
“Yeah, let’s stop off at Barb’s for a change,” Toby quipped.
Frankie always wanted to stop off at Barb’s on their way home from school. Toby wondered why he even bothered mentioning it anymore.
But as they turned left and headed down Main Street, which led into the heart of Belford, Toby had a sudden hankering for a Butterfinger and can of Coke, so maybe stopping off at Barb’s wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Barb’s Convenience Store
was located on the corner of Main and Belford. It had been owned and run by Barbara Stein and her husband, Alex, for thirty years—from its opening in 1967 until 1997, during which time it was known as Stein’s Corner Store. Then, in early 1998, Alex Stein had dropped dead of a massive heart attack.
Toby had been four years old at the time, so he only had vague recollections of going to Mr. Stein’s funeral. Two things he specifically remembered were: lots of crying, mostly from Mrs. Stein, and he and tubby little Frankie Wilmont conducting a covert farting contest (well, maybe Pastor Wakefield knew—Toby recalled the Reverend glancing briefly at the two boys during his prayer, but otherwise, no one, including their parents, seemed to know). In hindsight, it was a horribly disrespectful thing to have done, but death meant about as much to a four-year-old as the theory of evolution. Toby had won the contest, but how the winner was decided, neither boy could remember.
After the death of her husband, Barbara Stein decided to keep the business going, but she changed the name—too many memories associated with the old one, Toby supposed. Mrs. Stein was a strong-minded woman, with a burly body to match, but her touch was as soft as a kitten’s fur. Toby and Frankie loved going to her store, because most of the time she would give the boys free candy. The only time he disliked being in there was when Mr. Joseph was working. Though fortunately, he usually worked weekdays, while they were at school, never weekends, so Toby and the other kids hardly had to see him in there stacking the shelves or lazily pricing stock.
By the time they reached the intersection of Main and Belford—the only two roads that ran all the way through the town, Belford going east/west, Main north/south—Toby had thrown the stick away and was aching to taste the sweet chocolate bar and sugary soft drink.
It was a typical Friday afternoon in Belford, with more people on foot than in cars; those who did prefer to drive cruised through town at a leisurely pace. Toby had spent his whole life in Belford, and though he hoped to one day break free and move to a bigger, more exciting city, like Cleveland or New York, his mother never failed to remind him how clean and safe the town was. The streets were tidy, the lawns well maintained, crime was practically nonexistent, and the sky was the color God intended it to be. Toby took his mom at her word, and as he and Frankie crossed over onto the other side of Main, he took a moment to admire his town’s simple beauty.
The Awakening Page 2
