From the Depths – Novella Three - 1. Initiation: Suffering & Chapter 1: First Day of School

 

 

Novella Three

From the Depths

 

 

 

 

"When we do evil,

we and our victims

are equally bewildered."

W. H. Auden

 

 

 

 

 

by

AC Benus

 

 

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Initiation: Suffering

 

The kid being taunted takes a step back from the bully's puffed-out chest. With open palms raised, he tells us plainly, "I don't want no trouble."

Around where we stand, the spring day blooms cold and overcast. Gray skies loom above, and there is nothing but the smell of April mud on the air. Next to us, the seesaws creak mildly in the three-in-the-afternoon breeze. Most of the boys of the 6^th grade are watching this scene unfold before our eyes like grounded statues.

Suddenly Stevie strikes out of the crowd. His words and flashing hands fly around the bully to get at the thirteen-year-old boy in retreat. Stevie shouts: "Go to public school! There they don’t care about unkempt, uncombed, clodhoppers with shit under their nails! And that's all that you are."

Klay, the instigator with the thrown-out chest, slyly picks up Stevie's theme like a dibbled basketball passed to him. "Yeah. Or, you could just crawl back into the muck pile from which you came." His aggressive posture, with arms and hips kicked back, continues to advance on the peaceful farm boy. "How 'bout that? Hmm?! Can you even manage to do that for us, dummy!"

The boy under assault stops his retreat. His knuckles flex white-hot, and all of his upper body shudders rigid in anger.

"You," he tells the bully in slow, hair-raising intensity, "are an asshole, Klay. And if you think I won't beat your ass to a pulp, you are wrong."

For a moment, Klay just grins. Then he takes a half-step back, and makes the elaborate motions of pulling his coat sleeves up to his elbows. He slaps his thighs. He kicks a foot back, and bends his knees. His whole cocky body and demeanor looks like a rooster, or a bighorn ram, pawing the earth for an all-out brawl.

The bigger and older boy is not intimidated. "Shove off!" his low timbre booms and reverbs on the metal post of the seesaws. "I don’t want to hurt you, but there's nothing stoppin' me."

Just at the wrong time, to the wrong place, ten-year-old Nino strides up to his older brother's side. The farm boy guides him to stand behind him, and 'wait.'

This bit of protection turns out to be the trigger to Klay's ultimate meanness, for instead of charging the boy with 10 to 15 pounds on him, he casually walks over to me. He drapes his arm around my back and grips my shoulder from behind. As he guides my steps to where he had just stood, he tells me low; confidentially; threateningly: "Now's your chance to prove to the rest of us, that you're no fairy – like him."

My motions come to a stop. Klay's arm lifts off of me like a weight, and in that momentary freedom, an unstoppable rage builds itself from the scraps of my broken psyche. Now it is going to come out one way or the other, for all this crap has taken its toll, and someone needs to bear the brunt of it instead of me for a change.

I turn on the big farm boy, and there is no way to halt it; my self-loathing must make him finally hate me too, for his own sake as well as mine.

The words come spitting out of my mouth in slow motion: "You dumb, stupid, son of a bitch. Why don’t you just disappear – that'd be best for all of us! Can't you see that, you idiot..?"

He is stunned. He grabs his little brother by the ears, covers them in shock. And those farm-boy hands of his – honest, injured, scabbed and healing – those hands of my former best friend, they tremble.

He pulls Nino into his side as the boys behind me howl with laughter and stupid praise for me, like "You tell him, Simon!" and "Way to go, Simon!" Their pitiless triumph makes my victim's sheltering hug of the one person he most loves in this world all the more formidable – but his eyes, they never leave mine.

Into them, he pleads with earth-shattering softness: "Why..?"

I'm not prepared to so easily read in their blue quality, which all the sky above us is denied, the force of how much my betrayal hurts him.

And now I don’t know how this all happened; how our friendship went so wrong – for that first day of school seems a million painful years ago – but then, I realize I do know exactly when it started. It was what I did to him on the day of Carnival at our school – but it was me that did it to him, so why is he the one being punished for my actions?

Why is he the one meant to suffer?

 

 

 

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Chapter 1: First Day of School

 

The smell of wax burned my nose. The plate-glass shine of the entry hall reminded me of ice, and instilled a desire to get down to my socks and slide across it.

Other smells assaulted too – Lysol, brown and drawn from a bucket to swab down every surface, and chalk dust, biting and acrid – yes, after three months of freedom, it was time to go back to school. Yuk.

My mom had just dropped me off at the front door, so I had to walk down this seldom-used front hall of Saint Lazarus Parish Catholic School. I was alone, for this space was like many peoples' living rooms – rarely used, except by company. Ahead of me was 30-feet of floor and the all glass wall of the teachers' office and break room. Also up there, and to the right, was our school's statue of Mary, the one with the dark hair and sadly downcast eyes. She was there to watch over us kids.

Before the teachers' room was the main corridor, and here was life and noise and eye-blurring motion.

Kids screeched with both their sneakers and voices as they ran into classmates not seen over the summer vacation. They bounced off of each other like bumper cars, then grabbed and latched on to drag buddies to see their new classrooms.

As I passed through this intermediate space, the weight of my book bag slipped on my shoulder, and I noticed the big announcement board. On it were pinned giant block letters in red: "Welcome Back!," and all I could think was, 'How many days till Christmas break..?'

The floor really was polished, and reminded me that I often saw our young janitor standing behind his big gleaming buffer. He would gently guide it side to side, and I knew I wanted to try my hand at it too; if he'd ever let me.

I joined the tumult at the 'T' intersection. The way our school was set up, turning right would take you down past grades 1 through 4, then through a breezeway to the extension with cafeteria, gym and library. Turning left, as I now did, would lead you to the 'upper classes,' and out to the paved play yard.

The heat increased in this active corridor, and reminded me just how hard it was to be indoors at the end of August!

Paxton was standing in the doorway to the teacher's office. He had his back to me, but I knew it was him because of his gunmetal jumpsuit, and his ashen moptop hair. He had his left hand on his hip; right hand raised and locked near the top of the frame. As I got close, he turned his head, and gave me a slight nod and smile.

"Hey Paxton," I called out.

As I continued, walking past the principal's door, I wondered how old our janitor was, exactly. I think he was about eighteen now. His mom, Mrs. Day, worked in the cafeteria, and he quit high school and started working here too. I liked his mom; she made the best peach cobbler!

And then I stopped. There it was. My new classroom – the 6^th grade – and a new teacher, but I didn’t know who.

I went in, and the particular biting smell of the aerosol chalkboard cleaner hit me. This board was green and not a speck of dust was anywhere on its surface. The whole long line of windows was open, but the hot and sticky feel of the room was already oppressive – it carried that aerosol smell to every corner.

My classmates stood around in small groups, the largest of which was a collection of most of the boys of my class. They gathered in the corner near the window, and I nodded and re-shouldered my bag as I went to them. Klay was sitting on the bookshelf built into the sill. He had his typical 'What are you lookin at?!' smirk on his face, which was always pinched and sneering to begin with.

Stevie's boomed to me: "Simon! Glad to see you. Did you have a nice summer?"

"Yes, Stevie. And you?"

"Good, but I'm sad it's over."

"Ain't that the truth!"

Klay broke in. "Well, well – if it isn't little Simon Says." He turned his sneer on another boy. "Hey! Dylan – "

"What..?" Dylan puzzled.

"What do you call a mocking bird in jail?"

"Dunno."

"Simon says: 'Me, Me, Me.'"

I snorted: "That don’t even make sense."

Klay aped me. "That don't…even…" He rocked his head side-to-side, and frowned. "Make…sense…"

I sighed. "Jump off a bridge, Klay. Or better yet – let me push you."

Klay was about to mimic me again, but the other boys supported me by howling with laughter.

Stevie grabbed my arm in a handshake as I turned to go. "Let's catch up later. Ok, bud?"

"Sure," I told him.

I walked down the aisle by the windows and bookshelves towards the back of the room where the lockers were. I glanced out at the new view, and right outside this new classroom were the line of seesaws.

At the end I scanned the putty-colored series of doors to see which locker was mine. A blond kid was already sitting at the desk in the back row in the corner opposite the windows. I thought, 'There must be some mistake.'

I found my locker. Each one had a construction paper cutout of a balloon with a name on it. I saw the desks had the same cutouts on them.

I opened my locker and crouched down. I pulled out my 2 pencils, a pen, and my new binder with tabs and loose-leaf paper. I stowed the rest, and dumped my bag in the bottom.

As I was doing this, I heard the distinctive voice of Jodie talking about something interesting. She was a nice girl, never played mind games, and had this air of sophistication that made me like her a lot.

I stood up, closed my locker and went to Gina and Jodie. Gina was a girl with freckles, glasses, and shoulder-length brown hair. Today she had it in matched pigtails, and even from 8 feet away, her elastic barrettes looked like gumdrops stuck in her hair. Jodie was really pretty, she had long silky hair the color of wheat that went down to her chest, but today it was tied into a ponytail. She saw me coming, and offered a slight smile – but kept talking as I joined them.

"So," Jodie relayed suspensefully. "They're in the hospital, and he's suppose to be dead – Hey Simon."

"Happy First Day, girls!"

"Same to you," Gina said nicely, but in a way to get me to shut up. "What then?" She craved Jodie's story.

"Then, the intern and nurse go off to a room together, and they're 'doing it' – "

"What are you girls talking about?"

"Shush!" Gina exclaimed.

"Halloween II," Jodie quickly informed me, then want on. "So, they're in this room, making love, when Jason sneaks in and stabs the guy right in the back!"

"Oh, Cool!" Gina cried out with raised eyebrows.

"I'll catch you guys later."

Jodie's hand came up in tacit acknowledgement of my parting; her soft and large green eyes lifted to smile at me, but she continued to chat with her friend.

I turned my attention to the desks. I knew one of them had my name on it. I started searching by scanning the back row – and there it was: 'Simon,' a blue balloon on the desk next to the one with the only kid in the whole room who was already sitting.

I lifted the lid of my desk, set in my binder, and perched my pencils and pen on the interior ledge at the front. As I let the surface slowly close, I sat, and glanced at Dustin Day.

He was a big kid. I estimated he had about 15 to 20 pounds on me, was about 3-inches taller, and had the build of a boy with a work-built physique – big arms and hands, copious chest, strong tummy, and legs and feet meant to tote.

He seemed to be a Nordic type, as his skin was very fair, but showed no sign of being burned by the sun. His clothes were sturdy: new jeans stiff as cardboard, and a white short sleeve button-down shirt with a little gray stripe in it. There was something nearby him; a scent that was familiar and not at all unpleasant, a smell like I had smelled on my own skin after a day of being out in the sun and fresh air. And speaking of the sun, his hair was really blond – sort of the color of a summer day – and he wore it fairly short-clipped and plain. It looked like his parents cut it at home.

Dustin was so nervous. He wrung his hands and barely seemed to notice that I had sat down next to him. He had farm-boy hands, beaten with various wounds and little tracks of pink flesh under the picked-off and unsightly scabs.

I leaned towards him, and said kinda low, "Seventh grade is across the hall – "

"I know." All his fidget was instantly gone. His intense blue eyes at first looked like he wanted to pound me, but somehow they quickly shifted, and then looked like they were going to cry.

The sound of the first bell of the new school year almost made me jump. Now, all the kids of the 6^th grade bolted for their seats, and we watched the clock tick by its slow seconds.

It became deathly quiet, and then a young woman came into the room and closed the door. Maybe it was my imagination, but at that moment, the room seemed to get 10 degrees hotter.

This teacher was new to Saint Lazarus, no one knew anything about her, so all I could see was she was about twenty-five years old – and a little bit chunky.

Without saying a word, she picked up a piece of pink chalk and wrote on the virginally clean board 'Miss Skalicky.'

I leaned towards Dustin again, keeping my eyes forward, and whispered, "Miss Skalicky's got a big ass."

Dustin inhaled sharply, like he was about to bust out laughing, and when I dared to look, I could see his baby blues smiling back at me.

The teach snapped her chalk down as a warning. She walked before her desk, folded her arms and told us, "It will take some time for me to get to know everybody. So, I want each of you to come up, one-by-one, and introduce yourself to me, and to the whole class – but first – I want us all to welcome a new student."

She made a broad-brush sweep to our back corner, and every eye turned on him. It looked to me like Dustin Day was about to pass out.

"Now," Miss Skalicky continued, "I would like you to come up here." Her hand beckoned to him.

Dustin rose; he went to stand next to her. He blushed when she draped her arm around the back of his shoulder.

She explained, "You all may recognize Dustin from the class ahead of you, but he needs to catch up, so he's your classmate now."

Dustin blinked and scanned the room like it was a pit of vipers – and indeed, as I glanced over, Klay was suppressing laughter and smacking Dylan on the arm, as if to say 'Can you believe it?!'

Our new teacher finished up, "So let's welcome him, everybody! 'Welcome, Dustin!' – the whole class now."

We chirped in near-unison "Welcome Dustin," although from some of the boys the greeting sounded taunting. I felt bad for the kid.

Dustin returned to his desk avoiding eye contact with me, but as he slid into his seat, I said under my breath, "That was rough. Just be glad she didn't try and sit on you."

Dustin plopped down in his seat like he'd lost muscle control, and laughed. In that openness, this Nordic boy was completely different, and somehow I wanted to see him let loose more often.

The commotion drew Miss Skalicky's attention. She boomed to our back corner: "Well, since you have something to share, why don’t you go next."

For a second, I gestured at myself.

She nodded, and with a sneer, pointed to the patch of floor right next to her.

Walking up there, I could hear most of the class chuckle.

I stood next to her, facing the room. She smelled funny – flowery. Her hand landed on my shoulder.

"Well, who are you?" she asked, grinning.

I started to singsong, "I'm Simon. I live in Judas Tree, and I like history class, social studies, reading – and I hate math."

"You're Simon?" She was not smiling anymore.

"Yes," I said slowly.

"I've been warned about you."

I held her almost too-serious gaze, but perceived there was nearly a gasp from the class.

"You have?" I asked.

"Yes – warned that you are the class clown."

I could feel my cheeks splitting into an ear-to-ear grin. The class erupted into giddy laughter.

While that was still ringing around the room, Miss Skalicky bent down and whispered into my ear, "The principal wants to see you. Go now."

I blinked a few times to ask if that was some kind of joke, but her hand was gesturing towards the door.

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

In the hall, all was quiet; the classroom doors were closed. I was moving back towards the 'T' intersection, and as I passed the shut 8^th grade door, I glanced on tiptoes to see Miss Hill lead the class – she moved this year from grades four to eight. Now beyond that door, I could see the sad-cast Madonna of our school head-on.

I stopped at the open principal's door. I knocked on the frame.

"Come in," a female voice called to me.

I walked down a short hall with a door off to a restroom. As I got nearer, Sister Jodie looked up from her papers.

She slowly rose. "Sit, Simon."

She edged past me and punished the floor with her hard nun shoes. I sat and listened to her outer door close. I glanced around the room. Besides 'the usual' – a wooden crucifix with a dried and braided palm frond draped over the top – there was a small Beatles poster: Yellow Submarine, whatever that was.

Her shoes were coming back. She said, "Well, this won't take long Simon." She sat, interlaced her fingers, and leaned across the desk towards me.

'Beatles,' I thought. 'Yeah, she likes to sing that song in church; the Lonely People song.'

Under her simple blue habit with the white headband, her youthful color and her brass-rimmed granny glasses, she reminded me of the guitar-playing nun in that movie with Elvis. Yes! Sister Jodie was a Hippie nun. I liked her as a music and religion teacher, and I was not afraid of her.

Suddenly she looked ill, blinking a few times behind the sheen of her lenses. "I just needed…wanted to say, that – well – Sister Tatiana is not teaching 5^th grade this year."

"Is she all right? What grade – "

"She is not at Saint Lazarus, and I do not expect that she will be teaching again – anymore, that is. There are other places in the Church where she can use her gifts."

"Ok." Now I was confused.

"I'm sorry Simon."

"About what..?"

"About…the way she, that is, the way that she talked to you, and treated you. She…she is 'old school.' Do you know what I mean by that?"

"Ummm, you mean she is very traditional?"

"I mean, that the way she was taught to handle situations and students is considered very old fashioned today, and I am sorry if she…if she…frightened you, or said that you were somehow anything less than a good little Catholic boy."

"Ok."

"Well." She looked far from relieved, "If you feel – "

"But I do have a question."

Sister Jodie swallowed hard. "Yes."

"With tradition and stuff, why are most nuns called 'Cornelia,' and 'Tatiana,' or 'Sister Leviticus,' when you are called Sister Jodie?"

"Oh." I guess that threw her for a loop. "In the old days, when a girl or a young woman, took her final vows, the order would give her a new name. It was a sign that she had given up all ties to her old life and family. It was acceptance of the rule and discipline of her new life as part of the convent. When I took my vows, Simon, about seven years ago, I was allowed to keep my real name."

"But 'Sister Jodie' sounds so modern, so, hip…" I wanted to laugh, but managed to get out, "So, non-religious."

She surprised me with her own laugh. She leaned back and the glint from her lenses momentarily glazed the ceiling. "Oh, but it is. It's from the bible!"

"It is?"

"Yes. Jodie is the female form of Judah."

"Oh. Ok. Now I know."

All of a sudden she slowly drew out, "Now, do you have anything you want to tell me about Sister Tatiana?"

A flash of Ralph went through my brain. I lifted my lower jaw; lowered my eyes to my hands. "No," I said.

She didn't believe me, I could tell, but she told me matter of fact, "Then you may return to your class."

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

Far ahead of me in the lunch line, I watched Dustin pick up his tray and head to the little counter and refrigerator where we had to buy our milk.

Suddenly the smells hit me, and there was a bright spot after all to this first day of school.

The line shuffled and I could pick up a tray and wrapped silverware, then a box of raisins.

My eyes followed Dustin as he sat apart; at the head of the 6^th grade table. His hand took his pint of chocolate milk and shook it. His gaze very intently searched the 4^th graders' table, then I remembered Dustin had a brother.

I could step up to the edge of the serving window now, and the aromas came full force. I could already jump the savory menu and smell the peach cobbler made by Paxton's mom, but for now I pointed with gusto to the zucchini and tomatoes; then the meatloaf; and then, there she is. I saw Mrs. Day's big diamond ring sparkling as bright as her smile for me. Compliments go a long way, and she knew I loved to praise her cobbler.

"Thank you," I told her practically singing, then I picked up my tray and went to get my milk – a half-pint of plain milk. Chocolate, yuk; strawberry, are you kidding me?!

I looked for a spot with my boys, and saw Stevie wave me over to a spot next to him. I guess now we could catch up. As I went to him, I searched for and found where Dustin was again. He had picked up and sat alone with Nino, his brother, who was three years younger than him, and a little bit slow. That's right, now I remembered always seeing Dustin and Nino together out of school; Dustin is his brother's protector.

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

The back of the school was left natural, and there were acres to explore. A small creek ran close on the side of the gym before disappearing into a culvert under the school and winding through town. Funny, I never really considered where this little creek went to. I guess it meandered out to the sunlight again on the other side of town and found the river a few miles away to the east.

I sat alone after lunch. The grassy slopes of the creek's embankment provided a perfect leaning surface to lay out with hands behind my head, and contemplate the clouds. But today, I had a stick.

Above and to my side, I could hear kids playing all around me. They always seemed to clot into two kinds: organized groups to play basketball or softball, and the screechers who ran around like pinballs. They jumped from slide to swing to seesaw, and formed little pairs or trios for the short time they needed a partner. I ignored all that noise.

I wanted some quiet, and the chance to enjoy the last of summer's marvels. I loved to be out in the breeze and to see, smell, hear – and maybe on the roof of my mouth – to even savor the taste the rushing water. Over cobblestones the current was rippled and still-looking, and my stick could interrupt these to show me just how much life coursed beneath the show of silence.

I was down by the water's edge. I poked here and there at the mucky grass by the creek's margin and hoped to see a salamander slither, or a frog jump out.

Instead I found another of my interests. I dropped the stick and fell to my knees. I braced myself on my left hand and stuck my right index finger out. I placed it by a blade of grass, and a furry caterpillar walked onto my digit.

Caterpillars are wild. They come in many different colors and heft. Some have candy-orange folds where they contract and move along like living accordions. Some are smaller and are a sort of faded coffee-color, but they all tickle as they walk along my finger, or on the back of my hand.

I carefully sat down on the bank and looked at my new lunch-break companion. He had really long whiskers sticking up from the undulating folds of his body, and his color was like a lemon with white dots here and there.

"Hey," came a friendly greeting.

"Hey." I looked up and saw Dustin moving down-slope. He had hands shoved deep in his stiff jean pockets.

"What ya doing?" he asked.

"Look," I said, delicately raising my hand.

"Cool." Dustin sat on my left and folded his legs Indian-style.

I told him, "I love the feel of how his 'legs' grip and inch along as they bristle their 'hair.'"

"Are there any bullfrogs around?" Dustin asked.

"Didn't see any."

My new classmate lifted his right hand up to my view and used a finger on his other hand to point. "See that?" He was indicating a small swelling of flesh on his thumb.

"Yeah."

"I got that wart after a bullfrog peed while I was holding him."

"Really?" I was kinda amazed.

"Yeah, so be careful," he added.

"Ok. I will."

I reached and touched his right hand to keep it up. "Here," I said. "Feel." I put our fingers side-by-side, and the caterpillar walked onto his index finger.

Dustin started to smile. "It tickles."

"Exactly."

I watched his blue eyes focus a moment on the moving creature. He seemed a different person than the one in class this morning. Now he was so open and relaxed.

I asked him, "So Dustin, how old are you? I'm twelve."

"Thirteen."

"Cool."

He started regarding me with as much interest as the insect. "You don’t…" he hesitated a bit. "Like to play ball, or anything?"

I told him bluntly, "I prefer being in Nature; besides we're forced to play that stuff in P.E. class."

"Yeah." He kinda chuckled, "I hate dodge ball."

"Me too! And some of those boys just 'aim to maim,' if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. So what are the boys in your class like?"

"Our class." I gently reminded him, then had to watch his smile fade. "Well," I thought about it. "Stevie is cool. I like him a lot; I like all of them, but sometimes…"

"Klay?"

"Yeah, sometimes I don’t get him. He does stuff, or says stuff, that seems mean-spirited. He'd probably smash that little caterpillar."

Dustin shifted hands so the little guy could walk on his other index finger. He started humming something. It was a pretty familiar song from a couple years back.

His head started bobbing side to side; his eyes sparkled, and he started to sing soft and rhythmically.

 

"Someone, oh someone…can anyone find me someone…find me someone..."

 

Dustin Day was cool, and he was really nice. I started to like him.

"This furry guy," he sang out. "Will have to start building his chrysalis soon."

"His what?"

"His cocoon – but it's properly called a 'chrysalis.'"

"How do you know?"

"Just, learned it, I guess."

"I wonder if it's hard to become a butterfly?"

Dustin said without thought, "Dunno." But then added with a down-cast gaze, "Building your own cocoon is like a transition. A sort of safe hiding place where you can hibernate – but imagine – after all that, if you survive the long cruel winter, then you get to be reborn as a winged creature. Then you can fly over all your troubles, and be free. After that, you can go anywhere your heart wants to take you."

He put the caterpillar in the grass. The two of us leaned backed on elbows.

I asked him, "Why'd they hold you back? I can tell you're smart."

Dustin shrugged, and some of his sun smell came out to me. He said, "I just don’t seem to care anymore."

The light from the south put a halo around his blond hair.

"Are you sad?"

"Sometimes."

"Now..?"

He shook his head: "Uh-uh. Not now."

"Well, that's good."

"Hey!" He suddenly brightened. "My cousin Paxton is the janitor, and he's got his own car – "

"I know," I interrupted. "A Nissan 'Z-ee!'"

"Yeah, and he takes us places – he's real nice. You ever spend any time down by the Kaskaskia River?"

"Uh-uh."

"Well, our farm is close down that way, and it's fun and peaceful to swim, and hang out. If you like this creek, I know you'll love it down there."

"Cool."

"So, before it gets too cold, ask you folks, and we'll go down there one day after school."

"Heck yeah!"

So I was right. There was something really nice about Dustin Day. I liked it when he smiled, and somehow, I guess he made me smile in return.

"You know," I said. "I'm no Einstein, but if you wanna go over schoolwork – have questions, or anything – I can help you get 'caught up.'"

He grinned all lopsided. "Well, I'm not too bad in math, so maybe we can help each other."

His half-sad smile made me ask, "Do you think it's painful to build your own 'chrysalis?'"

"Dunno." He looked to the water and told me as his smile faded, "But, I bet it's painful to come out of."

The first bell rang. Lunch was over. We both stood up, and brushed off the seat of our pants.

"Well," I chimed in. "Back to the sweatbox, and looking at Miss Skalicky's big ass."

Dustin let a hearty laugh rip. His voice was deep and full when he was cutting loose. He started walking up-slope, and I felt kind of frozen – like I guess the ripples of water feel. I wanted to show the outside world I was all movement within, but I felt so much energy, I was held in place by it.

"Wait!" I called out.

Dustin stopped and turned around. I jogged up to his side.

"I like you, Dustin Day. You wanna be friends?"

"Yeah, Simon. That would be nice."

"Shake on it." I grabbed his arm to make him raise it. Holding his crystal gaze, I lifted my palm and spat into it. He did the same. And we laughed as our slather got squashed in our meeting hands.