Hark! The Herald Gypsies sing
Of saxo-horns and lover’s wings,
Tomorrow’s certain strife to bring,
The fantastique’s bells to ring.
They sing, sing, sing for you.
Oh I, too, would sing so true,
But I can’t sing
And you don’t want me to.
Yet those Herald Gypsies call to me
With that far-flung mystery;
That rich-worn fantasy,
And as I leave I turn back longingly
To see your tried and true complacency
Once more.
Goodbye beloved, goodbye.

“So, have you given any more thought to what you’d like to study in college?” his father asked. He sat across from Gene, a faded burgundy tie snug around his neck. Every morning his rough, dry hands tied a tie into a wide double-Windsor and tucked it neatly into one of his many tweed vests. Gene always felt under-dressed in the presence of his father, a bearded haberdasher of sorts. But his professorial standing qualified him for such attire. They were in a familiar bar and grill, an old favorite. The management had changed a few times – currently there were newly installed flat-screens above the bar for the baseball crowd – but it was still Robert’s and the Reubens were as good as ever. His father ordered a Corona and Gene a root beer.

“Um, well, I was thinking I might study piano. I mean, I know you’re an engineer, and grandpa was an engineer, and his dad was an engineer-”

“Piano, really?”

“I know it probably isn’t what you were expecting-”

“Gene…have I ever told you about your uncle?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. The one that died before I was born?”

“Right, my brother Barry. You remind me of him quite a bit.”

“I’ve only heard you and grandma talk about him sometimes. He was an artist right?”

“He certainly was. You don’t know how he died, do you?”

Gene shook his head. The waiter returned with their drinks and they ordered two Reubens with fries. His father continued:

“Well, I think you’re old enough now. You see, Barry was indeed a wonderful artist, ever since we were young. He couldn’t afford paint but he sketched constantly. One day at the dinner table – I think I was 18 and he 16 – Barry told our father what you just told me, that he wanted to pursue an art degree. Our father was…less than pleased. Not only did he refuse to pay for such an education, he forced Barry to enroll in the toughest science courses for the remainder of high school. He barely had time to draw, but he did anyway, sometimes staying up all night. I know because he often kept me up with his frenzied scratching, loud enough to come through the paper-thin wall between our rooms. Yet he still managed to pass all his classes, if only with Bs and Cs. This little war of sorts between the two of them lasted for two years.

“I went to the local university and moved out when I was 19, but from what I gathered things only got worse after I left. When it came time for him to apply for colleges, Barry knew our father wouldn’t support him, so he left as soon as he turned 18. Months later I received a postcard from San Francisco; he told me he was alright, working a lowly job at a pizzeria, and drawing more than ever. He also asked me to tell mother he was sorry and that he loved her. Our correspondence continued for a few years, but at some point it stopped. I figured he was focusing on his art, but months later we found out. Short on money, he’d resorted to selling drugs; I don’t know if he ever used them himself, I like to think he didn’t, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. It got him involved with the wrong kind of people though, and one of them pulled a knife on him. He bled out in his apartment, alone.”

“I’m so sorry dad…why are you telling me all this?”

“Well, Barry never would have admitted his financial troubles to our father, even to me. It would have been an admission of failure. But afterwards I went to his apartment to collect his things – his drawings were everywhere. They were scrawled, messy, desperate, but brilliant and nearly endless; he has been a featured artist in articles and galleries in San Francisco and elsewhere ever since. Remind me to show you his work when we get home.

“See, he hadn’t failed Gene, not in what he’d striven for, not in the slightest. But our father made him feel like he’d failed every day of his life, no matter how brilliant or numerous his drawings were. And after Barry died our mother – your grandma – never forgave your grandpa for doing that to him. I’m not sure my father ever got over it himself. You say you want to study piano? Gene, I think you’re smart enough that you could pursue absolutely anything you want, be it engineering, philosophy, med school, piano, or anything else you apply yourself to. Hell, I think you might even be smarter than me.”

“What? No way…I mean you have PhD.”

“Yes, but I had to work very hard and for a very long time to acquire it. You, however, are at the top of your class and got there with very little effort. If we were to take an IQ test right now, I believe you would score higher than me Gene, and I mean that. You’re a very bright young man, I see it everyday, and I want you to know I’m proud of you. I don’t want you to ever feel like you’ve failed me, no matter what you choose to study.”

Gene’s face grew hot and he smiled with embarrassment.

“Um, thanks dad.”

Their sandwiches had arrived some time ago and they’d yet to touch them. They now ate in silence. He was very hungry, but there was a pit in his stomach that failed to diminish with his hunger. He’d gotten the kind of blessing he’d sought from his father, more than that. But he’d also received an utter and infinite freedom, the quintessential American dream of unlimited possibilities, and it frightened him. You could pursue absolutely anything you want. It rang in his ears, crippled his conviction. Was he really committed to piano? Did he want that life of a starving artist, dying in his apartment alone? But no, he wouldn’t suffer that fate, not with his parents’ support and acceptance. But still…

It came to the end of their meal, and his father asked the waiter for the check.

“Are you okay Gene? You look distressed,” his father said as he pulled out his wallet.

“It’s just…this sounds crazy, but I’m suddenly unsure about it all, about piano. Maybe I’m still just a naïve kid, snatching at every whim that interests me. Don’t get me wrong, I really appreciate everything you told me. It’s just-” Gene swallowed hard. His father observed him closely.

“Are you scared of something?” he asked.

“Yeah, I guess. Like, what if I wake up in ten years and hate my life? What if I’ve got it all wrong?” His father sighed, removed his glasses, set them on the table, and rubbed his eyes. Gene felt guilty, like he was annoying him.

“Oh Gene, if I could calm that fear of yours, I would. The truth is- we all share in it, everyone. All I can say is that there’s no point in obsessing about the future. If you woke up tomorrow and could do anything in the world, what would you do?”  The waiter returned with the check and apologized for the wait. His father paid in cash and left a substantial tip. Gene took the time to think it over.

“Well?” his father asked again, putting on his coat. “That can be a rhetorical question, if you like.” They left the eatery and descended the steps toward the curb.

“I think, right now, I would play piano I guess. I-I’m not sure.”

 His father smiled behind the gray of his beard, the bristly hairs lambent and silvery in the evening light. “The good news is that you have the rest of your life to figure it out, and no one telling you otherwise.”     

At five o’clock in the morning the rain came to a stop, and Johnny came to wake them. He didn’t even bother asking who Thomas was, simply told them to tear down the shelter, make sure their fire was out, and return the campsite to how it was when they found it. When all the groups were finished, Johnny led them back to the main road, told them congrats – that they’d all earned the Wilderness Survival merit badge, and they were now free to walk back to their troop sites.

The three boys walked silently, their boots sinking in the mud and wet leaves. It was some time between 5:00 and 6:00 and the sun had just risen to give the cool air of the forest a unique freshness – a sharpness – it lacked at all other times of the day. It was indeed a cold, wet morning, the forest slowly dripping dry in the chill, but with the sun out it was rather pleasant and maybe it was sleep deprivation, or maybe the knowledge that today he’d finally be going home, but Gene felt on the cusp of something in that early light, with every greenish hue surrounding him bright and translucent.

“I. Cannot. Wait. To get some sleep,” Miguel declared as they came within sight of the tents. Thomas sighed in agreement. But despite his exhaustion, Gene was so enamored with this peculiar time of day that he thought he might just stay up and appreciate it. He would probably never fall asleep anyway. The other two continued on, eventually collapsing into their sleeping bags that were lined with a week’s worth of grime. But Gene, for whatever reason, was drawn once again to the infamous axe yard. The axes had long ago been taken, cleaned, and locked in the tool box, itself locked in the trailer. The log, though, still lay where it had rolled, at the edge of the rope perimeter. Gene at once sat on it, avoiding the dried blood, and listened to the subtle cacophony of the forest.

Silently, Austin appeared next to him and sat on his left.

“So…” he said after getting comfortable on the rough bark, “you two survived, eh? How does it feel?”

Gene, surprised to no longer be alone, thought for a second.

“Uh, I’m a little cold and damp; tired I guess. But I hadn’t really noticed till now. I-I’m okay.” His voice no longer had that wheezy, alien quality – it was quiet and smooth as air.

“Good to hear. To be honest, I really don’t know why Mr. Johnson signed you two up for Wilderness Survival. It’s typically older boys that take it; I didn’t until I was a third year. Most boys love it of course, making a shelter, fire, all that. I think he wanted to show you how much fun scouts can be, so that you’d both stick with it till the end.” Austin stared off into the forest as he spoke, chewing his lip between sentences. He was hunched over with his elbows supported by his knees, his hands rubbing together and cracking one another’s fingers.

“You know, I turned eighteen today. Yesterday was my last real day of leadership, of being a scout. I never thought it’d be like that…I know it’s not my fault of course, Tyler getting hurt. Even so, it happened under my leadership and I feel, responsible I guess. But it’s not like I’m done being a leader. No, no that’s just begun.” Gene glanced over at Austin but didn’t say anything. He got the impression he just needed to listen.

“Say, I’m gonna let you in on a secret, alright? I trust you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small old pipe, its dark cherry wood worn and dulled from wear. He also produced a packet of sweet smelling tobacco and a purple Bic lighter. Soon enough it was lit and he puffed on the end, suddenly looking much older. “I know I’m not being a very good role model right now, but after yesterday it seems like there are a lot worse things.” He puffed again. “It was my dad’s. He, uh, he died when I was about your age. I’ve carried it with me ever since; I usually just rub it, like a good luck charm. It’s rare that I actually smoke out of it, but it helps sometimes.” He took a long toke, the smoke billowing from his lips and over his face. Gene wondered what it helped with.

“You know, you’re gonna be a leader some day Gene. You may not think so now, but someday you’ll be the oldest in this troop and boys are going to look to you for something. Miguel too. Both of you will learn this role, probably better than I. You need patience, a lot of patience. I’ve always thought “patient” was missing from the Scout Law. You’re even gonna look back on these days with fondness, if you can believe it. You’ll really miss them when they’re gone.” He stopped, smiled to himself. “Well, maybe not yesterday. Don’t smoke, it’s bad for you. But you know that, yeah?” Gene nodded; there was another pause. Austin smoking softly and Gene searching the trees for a lark that was sweetly crooning.

“Oh!” Gene at last remembered in his sleep deprived stupor. “We found Thomas! He and Miguel just went to their tents to get some sleep.” Austin’s ringed eyes lit up as he fell back into his archetypical role.

“Really?! Oh man, thank god.” Quickly he cleaned out the remaining ashes from the pipe and returned it to his pocket. “His disappearing like that was almost as bad as Tyler. You know Mr. Johnson and I were up all night searching for him at nearby campsites? That’s why I’m up. I need to go tell him Thomas is back and alright; it okay if I leave you here?” He stood, one foot on the log, almost in the same spot as Tyler 24 hours earlier.

“Sure, it’s fine,” Gene replied quietly, “It’s just…”

“Yeah?”

“I wanna go home Austin.”

“Yeah. Me too buddy. Soon enough, soon enough.”

Thomas sat down so that the three of them formed a triangle around the fire. He still had on the gray hoodie he’d worn that morning, and Gene noticed there were some specks of blood on his jeans. His hair was no longer slicked and styled but flat and a little dirty. Glancing between them, Thomas shifted his gaze to the fire before taking off his glasses and performing the familiar motion of wiping them off on his sleeve.

“What-what are you doing here?” Gene said. “You know they’re looking for you back at camp?”

“Yeah, I figured as much. I, uh, I just needed to get away I guess. Not that there’s anywhere to get away to. But I was wandering around and I saw the fires from the road, so I thought it might be you guys. I guess I was right.”

“You know, you’re so stupid,” Miguel said quietly.

“What’d you say?” Thomas asked.

“I said you’re so stupid!” he repeated, loudly this time “All your showing off, and calling us names, and then going and-and making your best friend chop his frickin’ foot off! Well you know what?!…I’m a better scout then you’ll ever be.I’m just a kid and I’m already better. You see this fire? One match, dammit, one frickin’ match! And today I caught the biggest bass you’ve ever seen! At very least I didn’t go and hurt my friend, trying to show how cool I was by swinging a stupid axe in front of some kids!”

“Hey! You don’t think I know all of that!?” Thomas lashed back. “I really don’t need some snotty middle-schooler – who thinks he knows all there is to life because he built a fire and caught a fish – to tell me how terrible I am! I already feel worse than you could possibly label me, alright? My friend lost his fucking foot because we made a stupid mistake, and I have to live with that. So yeah, I get it, alright? This has been the worst day of my life, so just…just let me sit here with you, okay? Just let me sit here.” They both sat quietly and stared fiercely into the fire; this time the silence was not so comfortable. Ill-at-ease, Gene searched the sky. But what he found was a fiery streak across the heavens and thunder once more. The way to the stars had closed, and now, finally, the rain began to fall.

“Hey, should we get under the shelter?” Gene suggested.

“Are you crazy Chip? You heard it crack, it could come down any time,” Miguel retorted. Gene got up and went over to it, inspecting the log.

“I dunno, it seems sturdy to me.” But the decision was made for them as it began to downpour with such velocity that it stung their flesh. Reluctantly, the three boys abandoned the warmth of the fire and moved under the roomy shelter. There they huddled anxiously.

“You know, I’m sorry I call you names…” Thomas admitted to Miguel. “You too Gene. And you’re right; I do try to show off. But, it’s only- it’s only because I want you guys to look up to me, you know? The way I always looked up to Austin, and Max, and all the other older kids when I was your age. I was actually hoping to become Senior Patrol Leader after Austin, until today that is. It’s easy to forget how much we still have to learn…”

“I’m sorry too. I-I didn’t mean all of that,” said Miguel. “I was just, I dunno. That kind of thing shouldn’t happen.”

“But sometimes it just does,” Gene added.

“Thanks, I guess,” Thomas said. “You know what I’ve been telling myself all day? To keep from going insane?”

“What?” asked Miguel.

“That tomorrow we go home. What scares the hell out of me, though, is that going home doesn’t change anything. It won’t change any of this.”

“But, it does,” Gene said as they breathed in the woody smell of wet embers, “it’s kind of the only thing that can.” The three slept in the dirt at the base of the tree, leaning against one another - wet, exhausted, each dreaming of a home they hoped would return something to them, something they knew they had lost.

Gene ate his cobbler and had to agree it was deserving of the World-Famous title. He ate seconds and even thirds, since he hadn’t eaten much that day. He didn’t want to think about all that Mr. Johnson had said. Plus he knew he’d need it tonight; there was one last thing he and Miguel had to do.

The two newbies were signed up for the Wilderness Survival Merit Badge, the remaining requirement of which was to spend the last night of camp out in the woods in small groups. They each had to make a fire, build a shelter they could fit under, and simply survive until morning. All week they’d had class in order to learn how to make a lean-to, a fire with flint and steel, and even what plants were and were not edible. Fortunately, their class wouldn’t be going too far from the troop’s campsite. They were allowed to bring with them a small tarp or poncho, a food item, a flashlight, flint and steel, and an extra article of clothing; in addition each group of three was given two matches. Unfortunately, Miguel and Gene had been placed in different groups.

After dinner the boys checked in with Mr. Sykes to let them know they were leaving, and then departed toward the forge, where their class was designated to meet. There they found their classmates, giggling and shining flashlights at each other while waiting for their counselor to appear. At last he did, a bearded 20-year-old college kid named Johnny who owned more knives than one would ever need. He was generally apathetic about all things save hunting and, though the boys were unaware, drinking. But he knew how to build a lean-to.

They assembled into their groups of three and Johnny gave them the final briefing one more time. Afterwards, Miguel raised his hand:

“Say, is it allowed to combine two groups into one six-person super-group?”

“Uh, I don’t know if it’s technically allowed. But hell, I don’t care. The only condition is that you all have to fit under your shelter, yah?” Johnny said with a chuckle.

“Spff, no problem,” replied Miguel.

“Haha, alright kid. Anymore questions? No? Y’all sure? Alright, let’s mosey.”

The 20-something group left the forge and happily trekked along the main gravel road toward their campsite for the night. Taking a right off the main road, the path became thin and increasingly overgrown the farther they went in. Finally they reached a spot where the ground was beaten down and an abundance of kindling was strewn about. There were noticeable spots where the earth had been disturbed, turned over where a fire had once blackened it; obviously an area where countless groups of boys had survived for one exciting night exposed to the elements – then attempted to leave no trace of their stay come morning.

“Alright! Here we are,” Johnny turned and announced, “I’ll be staying in a tent over yonder; if you have any problems, let me know. Every year there’s some dingbat who tries to mess with me. If I catch y’all dinkin’ around, that’s it! No merit badge, ya hear?” The boys nodded in the darkness and muttered acquiescence. “Okay, get into your groups.”

Gene found the two boys he’d been assigned to. They were twins of 15 years, Isaiah and Quentin, and they bickered constantly. Miguel was with Jack, an incredibly tall 8^th grader, and Matthew, a pony-tailed 16-year-old who talked about skateboarding with any and everyone. Johnny came by each group to dole out the matches, and made sure no one was trying to sneak in contraband. Miguel extended his hand for the matches anxiously. Then Johnny was gone; the groups were left to disperse and lay claim to their territory. Miguel took the lead and brought Jack and Matt over to Gene’s group.

“Hey! You guys cool with combining groups then?” Miguel piped up immediately, as if it had already been discussed. Matt was already bored and turned aside to Jack in order to continue his explanation of how to do a kick-flip.

“Oh, uh, yeah. That’d be cool, right?” Gene asked the twins.

“Sure, why not?” said one of them, but the other turned to him: “What? Nah, that means we’ll have to make a shelter for SIX people!”

“So! That’s no problem, just gotta find a support log big enough; we can handle that!”

“Dude, I dunno…”

“Hey!” Miguel chimed in, “I see a huge one right over there, come on.” And with that the groups were merged without further debate. The log was indeed huge, tremendous in fact.

“That is way too big!” the disagreeable twin, Isaiah, said as they approached it. “How on earth are we gonna cut that down to size?”

“Oh, we could use the Norwegian tree-cutting technique,” Jack said, eager to get out of the kick-flip conversation. “Yeah, it’s real simple. You just find a tree with a forked trunk – like this one right here, fit the log in-between, and then leverage it between the two trunks until it breaks.”

“Looka that, you’re a frickin’ genius!” exclaimed Miguel. “C’mon, help me lift this thing and we’ll do just like he says.” Gene heard sounds all round them, and he figured the rest of the groups were toiling away somewhere in the twilight, just like them. Soon enough, they cracked the log to a perfect seven foot length, at which point they just wedged the end into the forked trunk to create their triangular leant-to. From there they just had to find enough sticks to teepee against it for walls, and, for an added touch, weave in boughs to fill in the gaps. When at last they were finished an hour or so later, they could all squeeze underneath it with ease, even lanky Jack.

“Alright! Told ya we could do it,” Miguel said smugly as he wiped sweat off his brow.
“If some of you want to go in and get some sleep, go right ahead, I can handle this fire nooo problem.” Gene, having just meticulously filled in the last gap in the woody wall with a small branch, got out of the others’ way as they squeezed inside the impressive shelter. There was still room for him, but he didn’t really know the guys and Matt was still rambling about some trick he invented, so he went over to Miguel who already had a pile of tinder ready.

“Here’s our group’s matches,” he said, offering the two prized possessions.

“Keep ‘em,” Miguel replied, pulling out one of his own. He struck it on a stone and the glare was so bright and Gene’s eyes were so accustomed to the darkness that he felt a little dizzy. Delicately, Miguel lit multiple places in the mound of tinder, and slowly, as if savoring the smoky flavor, the fire consumed it in a satisfying glow.

“Wow,” Gene whispered. He looked around. There were flickers here and there in the night, the other groups making similar discoveries. Miguel fed the insatiable flames, but as the two admired the peaceful warmth they heard a ghastly *crack*. They turned about and saw their fellow group members hurriedly crawling from the shelter, Matt in particular yelping in panic as Isaiah slew profanities at his brother Quentin.

“What’d ya do?!” Miguel cried. Isaiah then trotted over to him, his reproachful brother in tow.

“I KNEW something like that would happen. You can have your super-group shelter, okay kid? Cause it almost just killed us! We’re gonna go make our own, if you don’t mind.”

“Go on then, we’ll be better off!” Miguel spit back.

“But…it’s still standing?” Gene said with confusion.

“Yeah, well, that support log of yours obviously fractured and it’ll probably collapse any minute; I wouldn’t sleep in that thing if I were you. Let’s go Quentin. Spff, Super-group, give me a break…” and the twins walked off into the darkness. Jack lumbered up as well:

“Hey, sorry guys, I think Matt and I are gonna go make our own shelter too. It was a cool idea and all, but the thing was just way too big. You got a fire though, you’re better off than everybody else.”

“Well here, take some matches,” Gene offered.

“Thanks man, have a good night,” Jack said, and walked in another direction.

“Wait up!” called Matt as he struggled to keep with Jack’s gait, “I’m not done telling ya about my board!”

“Guess it’s just the two of us again, eh?” Miguel said with a smile. “I don’t really mind if you don’t. I was kinda hoping for it all along, ha-ha.” He put more sticks on the already sizable flames. Many of the fires around them had already gone out as the groups attempted to get some sleep. They sat like that for a while, a rare moment of comfortable silence. Gene looked up through the trees and saw there was a whole in the ripened clouds; he peered up through the hole at the starlit sky and felt like he was falling toward it. He stayed like that for as long as he could bear it.

“Hey, Chip? That you? Yap?”

“Who’s there!?” Miguel said, standing up. A figure looked out from behind some brush and walked toward the fire. The light breathed features into his face, but Gene didn’t recognize him at first. It seemed like so long ago that he’d seen such a figure.

“It’s me, Thomas.”

“Hey, how’s Tyler?!” Pauly the red-head blurted out as soon as he saw the weary leaders. They wore calm smiles but anyone could see the rings under their eyes.

“Tyler…will be alright. You boys continue preparing dinner; we’ll come over and have a troop-wide meeting while we eat, ya hear?” Mr. Johnson said slowly, his eyes detached and grim. Pauly just nodded and Austin swiftly gave him something to prepare. With such a small troop at camp this year, especially this day, Austin relinquished the duty roster and simply delegated duties spur of the moment. He did notice, however, the elusive Thomas emerging from his tent and walking hurriedly toward the leader’s camp.

Dinner on the last day was always the best: dense meat loaf cooked in a Dutch Oven over coals, grilled corn cobs, fresh sour dough bread the leaders had just brought in from town, and, to top it off, Mr. Johnson’s world-famous peach cobbler; at that point it would be the finest meal of their lives. Gene and Miguel washed their hands and helped prepare the meatloaf, chopping onions and mixing the ground meats.

“Yep, just like that Pauly – make sure the corn doesn’t burn. Think you can handle this? Of course you can; I’m gonna go talk with Mr. Johnson and I’ll be right back, okay? Cool, thanks.” Austin too jogged over to the leaders’ camp, disappearing behind their wall of tents.

Soon enough it was time to eat, Gene and Miguel having done an excellent job with the meatloaf. The troop ate the feast with unashamed fervor. The leaders too joined them as promised, but let the boys eat before commencing the informal meeting. Gene, usually a painfully slow eater, now pained from eating so quickly and swallowing his barely-chewed seconds. At last, Mr. Johnson stood at the head of the picnic table, bearded face aglow in the dull pallor of an ancient gas lantern. Mr. Allen was beside him, swaying slightly back and forth, mouth twitching between toothy grin and sickly gawp. Mr. Sykes stood at the other end of the table, arms crossed and completely stoic. Mr. Johnson raised his hand in the scout sign, waiting for the rest of the boy to follow his lead, before beginning:

“Attention everyone! Miguel in particular…Thank you.” All but the cooing of an owl obeyed the silence. He continued in a quiet, deliberate tone. “As I’m sure you’re well aware, Tyler had a grave accident this morning. Without going into further details, Mr. Sykes and I rushed him as quickly as we could to the hospital in town, where he went straight to the emergency room. Surgery was then performed on his ankle and foot while we waited all day for his parents to make the six hour drive from Milwaukee. I’m…I’m sorry to say they were unable to save his foot.” There was a tense pause as Pauly coughed on some corn.

“Tyler also informed me that… he won’t be returning to the troop. Of course, I told him we’re all here for him if he needs us, and that I was terribly sorry that this-this horrible accident occurred. I believe some of you will be going to school with Tyler in the Fall? It would be good of you to offer him your assistance during the school day if he needs it. I think it goes without saying that this kind of thing is not what scouts is about, and if any of you would like to talk, I, Mr. Sykes, or Mr. Allen are always more than willing. On a related note, I’ll be teaching a Totem Chip safety course at our next troop meeting, and from now on only one person will be allowed in the axe yard at a time. Accidents, unfortunately, happen. But we can help prevent them by learning responsible behavior. Well - *sigh* - I think that’s about it. I hope you all enjoyed this gorgeous, last day of camp otherwise.” Quickly, Austin walked to Mr. Johnson’s ear and informed him of something. His detached eyes suddenly grew alert. Then he bellowed: “Have any of you seen Thomas?”

The owl cooed softly. The boys looked at each other and all shook their heads in unanimity. Gene spoke up, “Wasn’t he in his tent?”

“Was,” Austin replied, “not anymore. Last time I saw him was a little while ago when he was talking to you, Mr. Johnson, about how Tyler was doing. After you told him the unfortunate news, I figured he went back to his tent, but I just checked to see if he was hungry – he hasn’t eaten all day – and he was nowhere to be found.”

“Oh dear. Okay,” Mr. Johnson said, “Austin and I will go inform the camp staff and check the surrounding campsites. I wouldn’t worry, I’m sure he’s probably just visiting one of his friends. But if ANY of you see him or know where he is, let us know immediately; we have our cell phones. But for now, well, I made my cobbler so you can all finish your dinner. Mr. Sykes is in charge. Come with me Austin.”  

And so, for Miguel and Gene at least, the feast continued until the dark grew darker.

And they were safe. The sun rested cheerful and lofty in a bed of cumulous clouds above the main attraction of the camp, Hardwood Lake, making it shine like liquid gold. A soft, southern breeze lapped waves onto the beach where volley ball was played, fishing lines were cast, and not a boat was left moored. In the surrounding woods, boys from all across the state gathered to learn everything from basket weaving to model rocketry. There were enormous forts of lashed towers, multiple forges for blacksmithing, ranges for rifle, shotgun, and archery, and, especially alluring, a trading post stacked with all kinds of sweets, slushies, and frozen treats. It wasn’t long before the two boys were completely caught up in the exhausting excitement, forgetting all about a morning that ought to have been like any other.

Since both were first-years in camp, Miguel and Gene were naturally taking all the same merit badges and sticking to Austin’s guidance about the buddy system. In the morning they had leather working, quickly followed by pioneering, then a round at the archery range. Lunch passed quickly with chicken soup and cold-cut sandwiches, such that the two boys barely talked to the rest of the troop before trotting off to the lake. Despite its brilliant and deceptive sheen the sun lent little warmth to the water, instead letting it cling to the chill of spring. When Gene had jumped in for the required swim test the first day, he wasn’t at all prepared to have the air squeezed from his lungs, his body shriveling and constricting for warmth in the murky depths. It didn’t matter how many times you jumped in, you were never prepared for it.

Its frigidity aside, Gene suffered, as many do, from a general anxiety about water. It’s not that he couldn’t swim; he managed to pass the swim test as soon as he regained his composure amidst the shivering. He simply didn’t like being wet: the exposure, the insecurity. So, most days he avoided the lake, knowing well that Miguel enjoyed the raucous jumping and splashing of the swim area. But with their fishing merit badge class requiring they catch three fish by the end of the week, there was no avoiding it. Both had passed the swimming test so they were allowed to take out a row boat; the others – kayaks and sailboats – were reserved for those who had taken or were currently taking those merit badges.

“Say, Miguel, why can’t we just fish on the shore? That way we, you know, won’t have to get our feet wet…” Gene attempted as they walked down the grassy hill towards the beach, fishing poles in hand and towels slung over their shoulders.

“C’mon Chip! Don’t you wanna get your feet wet? Boats are frickin’ cool. Well, maybe not those dingy row boats, but think about when we’ll be able to take out that beauty!” he said, pointing to the Eroica, queen of the camp’s fleet, its immense pearl-white sail billowing triumphantly like a broadened chest, cleaving the waves easily through the middle of the lake.

The boys procured one of the few remaining row boats and set out for deeper water. Miguel insisted on rowing, claiming he knew how, though it was obvious to Gene that he didn’t as they went in circles. Finally getting the hang of it, they reached what Miguel deemed to be a perfect spot for fishing and cast their lines. As they waited anxiously, Gene concluded that fishing taught you more about being patient than about fish. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the lulling silence.

“Say…Gene?” Miguel asked after a few minutes.

“Yeah?”

“Would you rather lose a hand or a foot?”

“I have to choose one?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess, foot. I don’t mind staying in one place.”

“Huh.”

“What about you?”

“Dunno. Hand maybe? Can’t decide.”

“Well, I-I guess be glad you don’t have to.” They both stared at their gossamer threads, hoping they would catch somewhere in the measureless depths.

They’d both caught a few Blue Gills each, but Miguel wouldn’t be satisfied until he got a Big One. Gene sat, waiting for Miguel’s boredom to get the best of him. But eventually Miguel’s line jerked downward and he, fighting it, brought up a gorgeous small mouth bass, smooth and sharp. Just as he pulled it up and beamed a toothy smile at Gene, the earth flashed and shook, causing Miguel to drop the flopping fish back into its world. Behind them, the thunder echoed across the lake from the South. The weather rock had lied. They looked up and saw the sky had quickly grown dark, pregnant with strife. The lake of gold was gone, as was the burly breeze; the Eroica’s sail hung limp and dumbstruck. Suddenly Gene felt very cold and realized he was surrounded on all sides by water, stranded in the middle of the lake.

“Miguel, we should head back,” he said quietly.

“Whoa, did you hear that!”

“Miguel–”

“Ha-ha, probably a lightening storm, eh? I wonder if we’re gonna have an evacuation?!”

“Miguel! We should head back, come on.”

“Alright, alright! Don’t wig out on me Chip.” He started rowing and they turned, slowly, back towards shore. 

Everyone in camp waited and waited, but the rain never came. All the leaders’ technology forecast the impending precipitation, but once again nature refused to be tamed. The clouds simply hung heavy, poised to consume them at a moment’s notice. Back at camp it was dinner time, although it felt much later due to the premature darkness overhead. Mr. Johnson and Mr. Sykes had finally returned, and they brought with them the stark reality of the morning that occurred so many ages ago.

Falling from where it was propped on the stump, the log began to roll forward. Tyler was mid-swing. As his footing slid out beneath him, he fell, ever so slowly, back and to the left – he fell, ever so slowly, towards Thomas and the stump.

The axe, still falling in his finger tips, inexorable, careened into the bony flesh of his ankle. He crumpled to the ground as the log, now covered in his blood, rolled right up to Miguel’s feet and Gene’s crisscrossed knees. Then there was silence, laden only with the far-off lake-breeze rustling tree tops with affection.

Then a scream, young and wretched. Tyler’s face was half in the dirt from the fall, and he dared not look at his foot: mangled, bloody, and dangling from where the axe nearly severed it. Thomas, face flushed and eyes wide in panic, dropped his axe and bolted toward the adult’s camp just as Austin appeared. He ran to Tyler’s side, talking to him low and motherly – the boy now whimpering softly. Unable to help it, Gene glanced again at the bloody stump of a foot, reddish mud congealing in the dirt surrounding it; he began to feel dizzy. The last thing he saw was Miguel, expressionless, the bloody log at his feet, gripping the rope so hard it would leave marks on his palms for days.

Gene awoke for the second time that day, lying on the ground with Austin, Miguel, and the others hovering around him. His legs were elevated and Austin was muttering something to them about how to treat someone for shock. Gene tried to sit up but was overcome again with dizziness.

“Hey Chip. You okay?” Miguel asked quietly, unusual for him.

“Y-yeah. Oh man. W-what happened to Tyler!?” Gene replied, alarm rising in his voice.

“He’s gone,” Miguel answered dazedly. “Mr. Johnson and Mr. Sykes swooped right in with a makeshift stretcher, got him in the van, and booked it outta here. That was just, like, five minutes ago.”

“How ya feelin’ champ? Better?” Austin interrupted.

“Yeah yeah, I’m fine.” He sat up, the dizziness fleeting, “I-I have a thing about blood…”

“I gotchya,” Austin said, “Try not to think about it. Tyler’s a strong guy, he’ll be fine,” Austin said, lips pursed, nodding a little too reassuringly. Seeing that Gene was alright, the rest of the boys disbursed to give him space. Austin helped him up and yelled to everyone as they were leaving to get their uniforms on for the daily flag-raising.

“Say, where’s Thomas?” Gene asked him.

“In his tent. He’s, uh, taking it kinda hard. I’m gonna go check on him actually. Take it easy for a while Chip,” Austin said and walked off. Gene had never seen him so grim and pale – and he’d never called him Chip till then.

“Hey Yap, did you see Tyler’s leg?” Gene asked him in almost a whisper.

Without looking at him, Miguel answered: “Yeah. Yeah I saw it.”

The boys did as they were instructed and silently congregated at the flag pole, just a stone’s throw from the axe yard whose earth was still blackened with blood. They were clad in their unwashed uniforms and scarlet neck kerchiefs, both of which were a few shades darker from a week of grit and musk. Normally, this would be the time that their Scout Master Mr. Johnson would tell them all about the fun they’d be having that day: Merit Badges, archery, sail boating, rock climbing, mountain biking, you name it.

But as they formed into their ranks – with Austin still pale and stern up front by the flag pole – they were instead addressed by their remaining Assistant Scout Master: Mr. Allen. He was a rotund, middle-aged man, with balding black-grey hair unkempt on either side of his head. There was a thick, matching mustache clinging to his upper lip, and it often failed to obscure a nervous half-grin that never left his face, no matter the situation.

“Well, a-hem. A-HEM. Well boys, we’ve had quite an unfortunate and, uh, unusual morning. But I’ve talked to Mr. Johnson on the phone and and…and he says Tyler should be alright.” Again with an excess of nodding. He bumbled on: “So, a-HEM, let this be a lesson to the rest of you not to fool around wi- And! and to take dangerous activities SERIOUSLY.” Saying it a little too loudly, Mr. Allen gasped a chuckle before shifting his eyes apologetically. Embarrassed for him, Gene looked away and scanned his dirty, shaken companions. A few who’d missed it were whispering to the others to figure it out. There were normally two patrols of five: his patrol, the Serpents, and also the Flaming Arrows. Of course Tyler, an Arrow, was missing from the line across from him, but he noticed his own line was similarly stunted – Thomas was missing from their ranks.

He heard mumbling and returned his attention forward. Austin seemed to be reminding Mr. Allen of something.

“Oh, of course! Should we turn our attention to the weather rock for today?” Mr. Allen stepped over to conduct his usual role for the flag-raising. Nearby, hanging from a string tied to a tripod of lashed poles, was the Weather Rock.

“Well, if I feel it, yep, it’s dry. Which means we’ll be rain-free for today! The, uh, rock isn’t swaying in the breeze at all, so it shouldn’t be too windy either. And, and it feels a little warm in the sun here, so it seems we’ll have a nice warm summer’s day.” The cheeky grin was as wide as ever, proud of the performance; he glanced at them, searching their glazed eyes for approval. But their thoughts were all far, far away from a rock’s good tidings. Mr. Allen receded from the silence, patting the sides of his thighs with sweaty palms.

Austin took over from there, first reminding the boys of their Merit Badge schedules, then a brief lecture on the buddy system, after which Gene raised his hand.

“Yes Gene, question?”

“Yeah, just uh, where’s Thomas?” Two of the boys from the other patrol whispered to each other.

“He’s in his tent. He needs a break for today,” Austin replied matter-of-factly. “Any more questions? Okay, time for the flag-raising then.”

To the boys on color guard duty, he called orders: “Color Guard, advance. Halt. Prepare to raise the colors. Raise the colors, Scout Hand Salute!” Gene lifted his hand, three fingers extended, to his forehead. He thought of Thomas raising his fingers gripped around the axe, halting them at the entrance to the axe yard. Once the flag was hoisted and secured, Austin gave the command to cease: “…Two!” The boys limply dropped their salutes like waxen statues melting in the heat. “Color Guard, return to ranks. Troop Dismissed. Have fun today everyone, and just as Mr. Allen said, be Safe.”

The boy awoke to the cold humidity, his side aching from the lumpy ground. What had aroused him, immediately and terribly, was the familiar sound of an old wooden spoon banging against an even older cooking pot. His waking mind swirled in the tumult of the pot banging away outside, relentless. It’s… Friday, he told himself. Tomorrow I go home. He looked over and saw that his tent mate, Miguel, was still sound-asleep. He knew from the past week – it’d begun to feel like an eternity – that the clanging would not cease until they riled themselves up and moving at once.

“Miguel. Miguel!” the boy vocalized, squeakier than he would have liked. His voice was grainy and phlegmy from the humidity, an altogether unpleasant, alien sound. Miguel nonplussed, the young boy sat up, rubbed his eyes, put on his glasses, and shivered feeling the brisk morning air the tent failed to protect him from. A face then appeared at the small, triangular window they’d left at the top of the tent’s entrance. It was of course Austin, their Senior Patrol Leader, smiling in the window:

“Up and at ‘em guys! Long day ahead of us. Mornin’ Gene! Miguel still breathin’?”

“Um…” Gene, now kneeling on top of his bright orange and currently damp -40 degree survival sleeping bag his mom bought him a week ago, leaned over and nudged Miguel’s sprawled mass. He kept nudging him. Finally, Miguel took a peek at the bright green reality of the tent’s roof. He sat up and looked at Austin’s wide-awake peppiness, not without animosity. At least the clanging had stopped, its progenitors hanging limply in Austin’s hands.

“Mornin’ buddy; glad you’ve decided to join us. Duty roster says you’re both on fire. But since you’re newbies I’ll have Thomas give you a hand. See ya outside in five.” His floating head disappeared, taking the infernal instruments with it.

“Shoot. What time is it?” Miguel croaked.

“Um, 6:00.”

“Ugh.” He then collapsed back into his filthy pillow. The entire side of his tent was filthy. “At least we’re on fire today. Helluva lot better than latrine duty.”

15 minutes later, the camp was bustling with the labored activity of eleven teenagers. The leaders’ camp was just 20 feet away, and a breeze wafted the smell of bacon and omelets – not just eggs, but pepper-onion-ham-and-cheese-filled omelets – right into the boys’ nostrils. The Scout Masters couldn’t have boasted more of their experience.

“Now, you guys just earned your Totem Chip and Fireman Chit, right?” Thomas asked the two 11-year-olds, “What do you do first?” Thomas was four years their elder with spiky black hair and slick, rimless glasses. Gene adjusted his own large, round frames:

“Well, there’s tinder, kindling, and fuel,” he rattled off on his fingers, “and you need mostly tinder, less of kindling, and even less of fuel.” His said it more to himself than Thomas, or perhaps to the leafy ground.

“Pftt, I could start a fire with just fuel. Gimme a match – no, flint and steel – and I could start a fire in the Arctic!” Miguel burst out.

“Hey! Yappity Yap! What have we talked about? Anyway. Right-o Chip, a ton of small stuff, and a small amount of big stuff. Go spend five to ten minutes just collecting tinder. It should be the size of a basketball. Then maybe we’ll be ready to set it up. ” Thomas stalked off toward the dining fly, apparently to hover over the food and harass the lead cook, Tyler, about the burning pancakes.

Gene and Miguel, left to their own devices, ventured into the surrounding brush. It wasn’t long before Gene was in his own little world, scanning the ground, cramming twig after twig into his tiny paws. Two decent handfuls later he looked up to find both Miguel and the campsite gone from the earth, consumed by some vengeful, long-overdue act of nature. Heavy breathing, sweaty palms, and paralysis set in, gripping where his legs or voice ought to be working towards his survival. Gene gulped painfully. Survival. Without thinking, he resumed collecting the precious tinder, as if the fire he did not know how to start were his only hope for that all-important word.

“Hey Chip! Where are ya?” an enviously husky voice called to him much too loudly, given its proximity. It may be worth mentioning Gene’s ingenuously large ears. They were not merely large, but protruding and concave like accurately aimed satellite dishes. He liked to think he could hear better than most people, but when you’re eleven that’s a hard thing to gauge. Combined with the thick glasses and a small nose and mouth, he looked positively like a baby lemur, young and wary, or perhaps an alert chipmunk. In fact “Chipmunk” was currently his nickname in a troop where every newbie had a nickname. At first Miguel’s was “Pigpen”, given his remarkable resemblance to the Peanut character after the first day. But a close second, more revealing in this case, was “Yap”, short for “Yappity Yap, shut your trap!” as coined by Thomas the second day. Thing about nicknames, they’re always either endearing or infamous, and Miguel’s often leaned toward the latter.

“I’m here!” Gene called into the foliage. Miguel popped his head out from behind a tree.

“C’mon Chip, quit dawdlin’! Let’s go make a fire!”

Despite the enthusiasm, Thomas swiftly appropriated their tinder and relegated them to “watching a professional in action,” much to Miguel’s chagrin.

“C’mon man! I can do it too!” Miguel protested.

“You two couldn’t light a fire with a gas can and a flamethrower. Now give me some space so you can see this teepee technique,” Thomas replied. Five minutes  and three matches later, a flame and marginal heat were observable.

“I coulda done it with one match,” Miguel muttered so only Gene could hear. Another five minutes later it was a decent size.

“Alllllright! Ha-ha, looka that!” Thomas gloated. “Now, all we need is some fuel…”

Just then, Austin appeared at their back.

“Wow guys! Excellent job; those Fireman Chits were well earned. I brought the bucket of water for cleanup.” He flipped the metal grate attached to the fire pit over the fire, then set the blackened pale on top of it. “Breakfast is ready by the way. I’ll watch the fire while you all get some grub. Bring everybody over here and we’ll eat around the fire.”

They ate a hardy meal of cold scrambled eggs, spicy sausage patties, and burnt pancakes with gooey centers. Gene could barely stomach it, yet the other boys wolfed it down without complaint. By now they’d given up griping about the food. All too quickly came clean up: three tubs of fire-heated water for pre-rinse, wash, and after-rinse. Miguel celebrated once more their assignment to fire, meaning they merely had to wash their personal mess kits and not the endless pots and pans. Gene, though he would never admit it, actually enjoyed cleaning. He was thorough and good at it and let his mind wander. But Miguel quickly went through the line and left the rest of the cleanup to those who were doomed to it.

“CA MAHN!” Miguel called to the meticulous Gene, gesturing to the axe yard where Thomas and Tyler were already preparing the fuel, the big stuff, for a truly “Pro” fire. Austin had assigned himself to cleanup along with a red-headed 15-year-old named Pauly, but he called after them:

“Tell those two to chop up that log for dinner tonight, yeah?”

“OK,” Gene answered before trotting after Miguel.

“Hey hey hey!” Thomas halted them as they approached the roped perimeter to the 20-foot diameter axe yard.

“Only TWO people in the axe yard at a time,” he said to them, emphasizing the TWO with his free middle and fore fingers, the other three gripping an imposing three foot axe. Tyler wielded another, its identical twin, swinging it full force on a tremendous log that actually spanned the enclosure and stuck out a few feet past the rope. It must have been nearly a foot thick at the base where Tyler was uselessly hacking away, his feet balancing himself precariously and foolishly atop it. But where Thomas was, it tapered down to a manageable diameter and he was already half way through it.

“You two just stay there and watch the masters at work,” Tyler grunted with a crooked smile. Miguel grumbled something to himself, such that even Gene couldn’t hear him, and his small hands fisted over the abrasive rope. It was then that Gene noticed the log was floating. They’d propped it on another stump to keep it from rolling and also to get a better angle to swing at it. But Gene was quickly bored with the simple mechanics of an axe yard, the monotonous thunk of sharpened metal on tough, green wood (which, as Austin would admit later, wouldn’t even burn well anyway). He took a seat on the ground next to Miguel and once again took off his glasses to clean off some soapy water.

All at once, there was a crack and the drone of thunking stopped. Quickly, Gene shoved his glasses back on. He saw that Thomas’s swing had finally cracked through the log all the way, with Tyler still atop it.

That night Gene went to a party, walking the few blocks to his friend Nick’s. Not a real party, those were still the far off clichés of movies and television. There were no alcoholic beverages or illicit substances, just a gaggle of friends in a basement with the parents out to a dinner party for the night. There were girls, however, and that was quite a change from the middle school years of video games and alleyway basketball. Except Mel of course, but she didn’t really count. All ten of them, sophomore boys and girls, sat in a circle on the floor, and Mel sat the second on his left. Spin the Bottle was still taboo and Truth or Dare had been done to death, so the hip thing these days was Never Have I Ever…

“Never have I ever…hmmm, peed on a tree!” One of the girls declared, giggling to her cohorts. All the boys groaned and put one finger down, even Gene. It was the first finger he’d lost in half an hour of playing. Lose all ten and you were out – the last one with fingers won. You’d think it might shame the rebellious and reward the innocent, but in the end it really just shone an embarrassing spotlight on those yet to become “cool” with corruption. Peer pressure by reverse psychology.

“Never have I ever, uh, smoked a cigarette,” said Tim, a lanky fellow who always dominated in the alley games of yore. Nick’s finger went down, behind which he grinned smugly. So too did Lily’s, the one who’d yet to pee on a tree. Some of the other girls saw this and shook their heads in disappointment. Then it was Mel’s turn.

“Alright Mel, you’re up,” Nick said, showing off his three remaining fingers.

“Never have I ever…been on a real date,” she said, almost proudly, happy to collect the falling fingers as trophies. Everyone groaned at the loss, but Nick was winning this race and smiled wider. Gene swallowed, considered, then kept his fingers up. But he looked at her, tried to catch her eye. He couldn’t, or maybe she wasn’t willing to give it.

“I-I gotta use the bathroom,” Gene said all too quickly.

“Alright, but hurry back- it’s almost your turn,” Nick called after him as he leaped up the stairs.

When he got there he tried to go, but he just didn’t have to. Instead he cleaned his glasses to kill time. Never been on a date? What the hell? I mean I know nothing happened, but it was still a movie, just the two of us. Does it not count? Do I not count for anything? And the way she said it! Hell, like she never plans to go on a date, like a date would be degrading, like no boy has ever come along that’d be worth it. Jeeze, why couldn’t we have seen something else – anything besides that stupid movie. Maybe things would’ve worked out differently. His glasses cleaned to a sparkle, he sighed, quieted his mind, and wondered how many fingers he had left. Nine. Nine adventures he could’ve had, nine girls he could’ve kissed, nine beers he’d never tasted, nine cigarettes he’d never smoked, nine countries he’d never been to, nine lives he wasn’t leading. He didn’t know if he wanted any of it, except Mel. But he had to make up for those nine lives somehow.

He went back downstairs, mind racing. It was his turn by now, the easiest part due to his veritable saintliness. But he had to be careful lest he chose something too flagrantly novice.

“Um, never have I ever…driven a car.” The group laughed.

“Na man,” his friend Nick said, “none of us have done that yet. Choose something else.”

“Pfft, I’ve driven a car,” another girl boasted.

“Yeah? I’m surprised you lived to tell about it,” Nick teased coolly. “C’mon Gene, something good.” It suddenly felt like an inquisition.

“Um, never have I ever…” His mind blanked so forcefully, he reeled with shock. Finally, without thinking, he quietly said what no one else would, what they all wanted to, what was all on their minds.

“Never have I ever had sex.” Everyone stopped chatting.

“Ooooh, Gene! Pullin’ out the big guns,” a stockier kid named Randy said, smiling. “Soooo, who else is a virgin?” Randy asked with beady eyes. The girls glanced at one another, some giggling. Nick, too, glanced at the girl across from him, Lily. She glared back. Slowly, bashfully, he put his second to last finger down. Her jaw dropped ever so slightly, eyes widening, incredulous.

“WHOA! No way, really?! And you didn’t even tell me?” Randy said, laughing and punching him in the bicep.

“Sorry,” Nick said, shrugging. Lily’s face contorted in anger. Everyone now looked back and forth between the two. Embarrassed, red with rage, she averted her eyes from theirs.

“You’re such an ass,” she whispered. Then erupted: “Really?! You’d just go and do that, tell everybody like it was nothing? Just something to boast about!? Well, fuck you. FUCK YOU. It was the worst mistake I ever made.” She stood and stormed up the stairs, slamming the front door so they all heard.

“What the hell just happened?” Mel asked Nick. He wasn’t smiling anymore, avoiding their gazes as well.

“I, um- it’s just-” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry…could you all go?” They looked around at each other, searching for something to say. “I’m sorry, just- yeah, thanks for coming, but could you all leave?”

The girls, who had all bused there, slowly got up and collected their things. The exception was Mel, who lived just a few blocks away. It was only 9:30 and some of them whispered to each other about how weird things got, but eventually they were waving perky, awkward goodbyes while ascending the steps. Similarly, Randy and Tim left to bike back to the East Side. Mel and Gene, having stayed behind to see the rest of the adjunct friends off, got up to go.

“Wait, you-you guys can hang around for a bit if you like,” Nick said quietly from the ground.

“Um, sure man.” He looked to Mel; she shrugged. They both resumed their seats, this time on the chairs instead of the ground. “Yeah, we’ll stay. You…gonna tell us what happened or no?” Gene said. Nick sighed, then leapt up from the ground.

“Not without a drink first.”

“A drink of- what?” asked Mel, suspicious. He came back down with a bottle of Scotch.

“Snagged it from the parent’s liquor cabinet. Pretty sweet, eh?”

Gene knew Nick had been slowly discovering life’s debaucheries; he was distant lately, going to real parties and flirting with girls, whatever that meant. Apparently doing more than just flirting. He’d been busy hanging with upper classmen and partaking in things Gene couldn’t even imagine. And since Nick was always the overtly social one, the three of them had usually convened in his basement, their unofficial hub. So with Nick off being rebellious, Gene had slowly drifted from Mel too. She now disappeared into that giggly clique of freshman girls. But it wasn’t until now that their friend had openly tempted their curiosities, and they were anxious to say the least.

“Whoa, have-have you drunk that before?” Mel said.

“Yeah, it’s good stuff. We’ll definitely need chaser, but it goes down smooth.”

“What the hell is chaser?” Gene mumbled to Mel.

“Ha-ha, you guys are so young! It’s cute,” Nick said.

“Pfft, I’m older than you by a month!” Mel snapped back. He laughed, but his mind was elsewhere as he poured them drinks in milk glasses. They took the glasses, staring at the golden liquid as if it were hemlock.

“If it’s so great, why didn’t you have it out earlier?” Gene asked.

“Well I don’t have that much. I thought I’d save it for just the three of us. Hold on, I’ll get some soda to chase with.” He hopped up the stairs again.

“So, you ever done this before?” Gene asked her.

“Just a few sips from my dad’s beer, but I don’t think that counts. And it didn’t smell as bad as this stuff. You gonna drink it?”

“If you do,” Gene said with a slight smile. Nick came thundering down the stairs with a twelve pack of Dr. Pepper, and Gene was relieved to at least have his favorite drink along with this new, intimidating one.

“Alright, what happened with Lily?” Mel said curtly as he handed them lukewarm cans.

“Nope, not until you both drink.” So this is how it’ll be, Gene thought, foreseeing the coming years of utterly effective peer pressure. But in an odd way he relished how Nick finally wanted him there in this world with him.  “I’ll go first,” Nick reassured, tipping the mouthful back, quick as cough syrup. His eyes watered a bit and he quickly chugged some cherry cola.

“Looks so painless…” Mel quipped, then looked again at her glass. Gene suddenly felt he had to drink before her, like he had to prove himself. Without waiting for her he tried to down it all like Nick, but it tasted exactly as it smelled, worse in fact, and he choked down the noxious fumes. He’d forgotten to open his can, so he just snatched Nick’s out of his hand, nearly downing the rest of it.

“Dude! Going for it, ha-ha. Burns nicely, yeah? You’re up Mel.”

It hit the bottom of his stomach, churning there, growing outward like a cancer. Yet it felt good, in a way. His throat was still raw, but he’d done it, he’d survived it.

Mel wasn’t so forceful. She sipped it first, which is of course an awful thing to do. Her face contorted with disgust and she nearly resolved never to do such a thing to her taste buds again.

“Na na na, you just gotta shoot it back, don’t taste it; there’s no other way. Gene had the right idea.” With the milk glass in one hand and the Dr. Pepper in the other, she took a deep breath and drank the shot as quickly as she could, then followed suit with the soda.

“Whoa…that feels weird,” she finally announced.

“But kind of good, right?” Gene said. Nick poured them both another shot before they had time to refuse. A few shots later, they were all on the floor again, giggling hysterically, drooling with joy.

“Do you remember- do you remember that time in seventh grade when Bobby Hutchins asked you out? Ha-ha, and you said only if he did cart wheels in the cafeteria during lunch!” Nick couldn’t go on, his stomach cramping from laughter.

“Right!” Gene carried on, “and then when he did, he ended up cartwheeling into the snooty 8th grade girl’s table and hitting that one Rebecca in the face! He got suspended for it, Ha-ha-ha.” Gene doubled over as well.

“Afterwards I didn’t- oh man- I didn’t even go out with him! Ha-ha…” They all caught their breath while Nick had supreme difficulty pouring another drink.

“So seriously, Nick…what happened?” Gene said, still swaying from the laughter. The color drained from Nick’s face, but while he answered a bizarre smile would twitch across it.

“We-we had sex? Last summer.” He phrased it with an upward inflection, as if he himself didn’t believe it. “God, it was terribly awkward. I’d never worn a condom, and it didn’t last that long, and a bunch of other stuff. Anyway, afterward, she- was late.

“Waz that mean?” Gene asked dazedly.

“It means her period was late; if you’re late you might be pregnant,” Mel answered quickly, surprisingly sober.

“Oh…shit,” was all Gene could say.

“Yeah, and so she’s texting me and calling me, leaving messages crying about how she doesn’t know what to do, and whether she should tell her mom, or go to a clinic, or what. And- I just didn’t return any of it; I’m not sure why. No, I know, because I’m fucking coward. I just ignored her, in the worst kind of way. Two fifteen-year-olds shouldn’t have to deal with that! You know? That’s-that’s not supposed to happen…

Eventually, I get a text from her: ‘Got it.’ That was it, the end of it, all she said. I didn’t see her for the rest of the summer, and then when school started she was perfectly chipper, like nothing happened. She was friendly to me and everything; eventually things just returned to normal. Until tonight…” His face was bright red and beginning to tear up. “Gah, fuck me. She’s right, I’m a complete asshole. How could I have done that? And during a stupid game, in front of everyone!” He angrily took a long swig straight from the bottle.

“Whoa, alright that’s enough,” Mel said, getting up and taking the bottle from his lips. All of a sudden they looked up, hearing the sound of the front door creaking open.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” Nick whispered. “Hide the bottle, hurry!”

Gene, not knowing what else to do, grabbed his back pack – full of snacks and Xbox controllers – and threw in the half empty bottle. Then he hid the backpack beside the chair and they all sat, Mel turning on the TV. Nick wiped the sweat and tears from his face just in time to see his dad descend the stairs.

“Oh hey guys! Mel and Nick? Haven’t seen you two here in a while. Just doing the same old basement thing, eh?” They both nodded dumbly. Gene thought he might have had something to drink also. “Well, glad to have ya back; I’ll leave you guys to the fun. Myself,” he patted his belly, “I think I’ll call it a night. Sweet dreams!” He trudged back upstairs.

“Goodnight Mr. Hennessy…” Gene whimpered with a sigh.

“Well, Gene, think we should call it a night too?” Mel said. They both struggled to rise, but gained composure the longer they stood. Picking up his backpack, Gene went over to Nick, who stood up to see them off. He looked about ready to cry again.

“Nick, yur- you’re a good guy, you know?” Gene nodded like a bobble head, patting him on the shoulder. “You just- you just gotta stop and look around sometimes.” Then Gene hugged him, harder than he’d ever hugged even his mom. Nick hugged back, and Mel joined in. Slowly, reluctantly, like disposing of the old, worn-out mementos of childhood, they parted. The two managed to stumble up the stairs and out of the front door without being noticed by his parents, who were already deep in slumber.

They walked together towards their houses just a few blocks away, the night stretched before them beautifully. Although it was winter, warmth never left this South Western sprawl of theirs.

“You still have the bottle?” she asked.

“Ha-ha, yeah. Didn’t mean to take it, just kind of happened.”

“Ha, I think it’s for the best we cut him off…”

“Pretty crazy, eh?”

“Yeah…I think they’ll be alright though, not as bad as it could’ve been.”

“Yeah.”

They walked a while in silence. She stumbled a bit, then took his hand in hers. He didn’t care if it was for support, it felt wonderful.

“So…it didn’t count?” he said.

“What?”

“The movie last summer, it didn’t count?”

“Oh. Right. I guess that was a little mean of me earlier, wasn’t it? But, we went as friends, didn’t we?”

“Well, when a guy says: ‘Do you wanna go out sometime?’ he typically…”

“Yeah, yeah I know. It’s just…it wasn’t what I had in mind, ya know? As a date.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

“But I suppose we all have high expectations for that kind of thing…”

“And um- I’m sorry, you know? I’ve sort of ignored you ever since.”

“No, no I’m just as much to blame for that. It’s been a weird couple of years.”

“Shyea, high school’s definitely been weird…Say, would you- would you like to try for it again sometime?”

“I don’t know Gene.” They got to the corner where they would part ways. She let go of his hand. “Ask me again when my head’s not spinning, ha-ha.” He took her hand again, pulled himself to her and her to him, and kissed her gently. She smiled with surprise and gave him a funny look. Alas, she hugged him goodnight and walked home under the orange street lights. He stood at the corner, watching her go, wondering how many fingers he could put down now.