"Where All The World Comes From"

I'm sorry this took so amazingly long... I hope you have enough time to read it!

Where All The World Comes From

Young Chris Kandmin laid the map out on the lunch table under the musty, overcast sky. In pencil, it accurately illustrated the playground, Os and Xs and long, winding lines between buildings to demonstrate the strategy he’d devised to crush his enemies. It was a good plan, and an easy one. But he and the other three boys had only 20 minutes before first recess was over.

“Ok guys, listen” Chris began. “Here’s the map of our school. I drew it. But we’re gonna start here in the sandbox,” he pointed at the position with his pencil for effect. It looked official.

“So we can get those sandrocks we made.” Thomas pitched in. It had been his idea. It rained days before, the sandbox sloppy with mud, and he mentioned something about balls of mud drying in the sun and throwing them and they’d brake apart. They made a dozen, setting rocks at their center.

“Yeah Thomas. We’re gonna use the sandrocks. We’ll start there and move to the soccer field at the other side. They’re always around the portables. Now what we need to do is, all of us together like a team—“

“Now wait,” Andrew spoke up, “but what about yard duties? We can’t get in trouble and they’re always there.” He ran his hands through his brown mop-top at the thought.

The young boys all nodded. Nobody wanted to go to The Office. From there, The Principal would either give them trash pickup or call their parents, and they’d lose recess for an entire week. If they told the teacher, they may have to pull a red card.

“Well, listen.” Chris stood up. He tossed his blonde waves back and straightened his jean jacket. “They’re not even there. They don’t go in there, look at the map I drew. And anyway. We can’t forget why we’re gonna do this. Christopher Cruner is a bully. He pushes guys around for no reason! We all know that, and we all know his friends do it too.”

“Well, what about ‘two wrongs don’t make a right,’” John said matter-of-factly. “I don’t think we should do it. It’s all risky.” He crossed his arms over his Michael Jackson ‘Dangerous’ shirt. Andrew crossed his arms as well and nodded.

Chris examined them. Andrew was the one he really needed for the attack. He was about the same height as Chris and they were in the same Karate class, so he knew Andrew could fight all right. John was much shorter and though he was as outspoken as Andrew, he mostly did what the others wanted to do, especially Andrew. They always did everything together, and they both had rich families and afraid of being in trouble. They’d fight and do whatever thing needed to be done, but only if they wouldn’t be in trouble. Thomas wasn't smaller than the others, though he was passive and seemed much plainer. He wore a buzz cut and the same, crummy green windbreaker every day. He was dependable and loyal and didn't say much.

Chris knew how to win the others over. “Well don’t you watch the news? You know about the war.”

“Psh, yeah,” said Andrew, “those idiots are going to die!” He laughed at the idea.

“Ok. Well we can’t forget why we’re fighting them. My dad explained this to me. I know all about it. Iraq attacked this other country for no reason— ‘cause of money— so we sent guys in to take care of it. That’s totally evil! So it's not like we started it!"

John perked up. "Cause its revenge? It’s self-defense?"

"That's it!"

"So it's not wrong because they did it first."

Chris nodded. "You see, our whole country is doing that. And Christopher Cruner attacked us for no reason. So we're gonna take care of it, right guys?"

Andrew clapped John’s shoulder. "It's what everyone thinks, John! They’re evil!"

John laughed excitedly. The laughter and excitement twittered through the group. Chris slammed his hands on the table and shouted to go, and they all jumped up and shoved each other with thrilling aggression. The boys pulled on their backpacks, all Jan Sports in different colors, and stared down to the playground. They were going to be like the soldiers in the sweltering Iraqi desert, fighting with noble determination against evil forces. In truth, Chris couldn’t remember why he and Christopher starting hating each other. They only knew he was a bully, in general.

The lunch tables and the rest of the school, pasted with peach stucco and capped by red tiles, were set up on a high mesa. A long shelf of stairs adjacent to the shaded, elongated blue lunch tables drew the boys into the sunken playground. The girls played hopscotch and handball at the courts on the wet smelling blacktop to the left, the towering wooden walls echoing with thudding and laughter. A deserted, sparse and muddy field for soccer flanked the courts on the left, a long chain link fence on it’s left most edge running the length of the field, separating it from a courtyard and portables. That was where Christopher Cruner and his team were, and usually always were. A black iron fence set in a stucco foundation surrounded the entire school.

The boys trotted on the blacktop through the girls at the handball courts toward the basketball hoops and, at the edge of the blacktop, the sandbox. They were certain not to run; running at recess, except on the field, was against the school rules, and being caught by a yard duty would force the boys out of recess. Running was quite dangerous on the hard black top and concrete sidewalks, of course. The yard duties strolled the perimeters of the yard in bright yellow windbreakers, clutching bullhorns and clipboards, a few lanky and tall, one short and hideously fat.

Chris scanned the yard as they trotted. As he’d drew on his map, two duties patrolled around the blacktop and two more walked along the mesa up top, one near the stairs and the other at the planted slope along the remainder of the mesa. With that arrangement, they’d never see their attack at the portables.

They entered the sandbox, slowing to a walk past the arching rainbow bars, monuments in rust and steal. The gymnasium set and the swings at the opposite end were cast in the same neglect. Only the three tiered slide set in green and beige at the center of the sandbox seemed new.

“The sandrocks are over here at that edge.” Thomas pointed. He wiped his nose with the windbreaker.

Chris knelt and picked the sandrocks up carefully. He held them steady, like grenades. “Ok guys. There’s enough for all of us to have three. Take these. Set ‘em in your pockets” he held his hands out with two for Andrew and two for John. They were chattering back and forth in some gibberish talk, tickling and punching, laughing. Chris gave one pair to Thomas instead. “Guys. Come on. Are you going to do this or not?”

Andrew stopped. “Oh, yeah, hurry up already and give me those things.” He took them greedily.

Chris looked away from the pair. “Ok. Whatever. Why don’t we do this, guys?”

“Do what, Chris Kandmin?” The voice was girly shrill.

Chris turned toward the rainbow bars. Jamie Higgs, stuffed in a pink dress and pink tights, swung her legs from atop the rusty arch. Chris squinted at her. She looked like a horse with blonde pigtails and Chris would never like her.

“Why do you want to know?”

“You gonna beat up Christopher Cruner?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should! I hate that stupid idiot.”

“Well that’s what we’re not gonna do. Because we’re gonna play basketball. We’re not beating up Cruner today.”

“Why don’t you? Do it for me, pleaaase?”

The boys all shook their heads. Except John. “Yeah, we are! That’s why we’re even over here!”

Jamie jumped down off the rainbow bars. “I knew you were gonna beat him up! I’m gonna tell! I’m gonna tell them all!” She swung around towards the slide set. She cupped her hands around her mouth and sounded a high, whooping coyote call.

In an instant, Christopher Cruner jumped out from the shadows beneath the slide, Phil Ream and Simon Canan following suit, yelping calls in return.

Chris stared at Jamie in dismay. “When did you join their team?”

She only shrugged, and smiled.

They trotted towards the boys, kicking up the sand. “Well well well,” Christopher Cruner laughed, “if it isn’t Chrissy Kandy come to beat us up, huh?” He stopped and set his hands firmly on his hips.

“My name’s ‘Christopher,’ and that’s what you’re gonna call me, got it?” Chris shot back. The boys were in the same class and the truncation of Chris’ name was a major point of contention; in the syllable clapping lesson, ‘Chris-to-pher’ was worth three syllables. ‘Chris’ was worth only one.

“What every you say, Chrissy. Wow, temper, temper!” He chuckled. Phil and Simon walked with strained nonchalance, Phil whistling, to either side of the group of boys. They were being flanked.

Chris glared at each in turn. Christopher Cruner was just taller than him and a bit thicker, but, always to his dismay, had the same wavy blonde hair and the same thin features and light eyes. Though Chris’ eyes were an astonishing grey and Christopher’s much flatter, some people mistook them for brothers. Christopher generally wore the same grubby, green and red argyle sweater day in and day out.

He glared at Phil, still whistling something stupid and out of tune. Phil was paralyzed with nerdiness; the thickest bottle cap glasses, the blandest polo shirts and styleless brown hair. Chris may have felt bad for him had he not allied himself with Christopher. At their left flank stood Simon, perpetually grinning and squinting. He was rail thin and looked like a deprived hamster by way of his teeth. Otherwise, he was utterly forgettable and seemingly existed to serve Christopher.

Christopher pulled a tootsie roll pop from his pocket, unwrapping it and stuffing it in his mouth. He crumpled and tossed the wrapper at the boys. “You’re just gonna stand there.”

“Well, ok. I have an idea. How about this. Even though I bet you don’t even know how to play chess—“

“Yeah I do.”

“Well, ok. I have a board right now that I got for my birthday. Now I’m eight. So let’s play right now and see who wins.”

Christopher tisked. “Know what? I know how to play. I just don’t feel like it right now.”

“Yeah right, liar. That’s what all liars say when they don’t really know how!” The team of boys laughed.

Phil pointed at Chris. “Ha, you’re the liar, fool,” he began in his weepy, nasally whine, “betcha you don’t even got a chess board, and it’s dumb anyway if you did.”

Chris stepped forward. He clenched his fists, grinning. “Ok. Well how about I show it to you, Philly—“

“You stop right there!” he whined. “We’ll charge all you if you don’t keep still and where I can see ya!”

Chris ignored the warning, turning his gaze to Christopher. “I’ve got a better idea—“

“No you don’t!”

“Yes, I do,” he continued, speaking with clear confidence. His chest tickled with anticipation. “I’ve got one. How about, ‘fuck you!’”

Everyone gasped. It was a stunning, powerful statement. After that, they knew Chris was serious. He had secretly planned using it. Andrew and John squealed with laughter, and Andrew threw his finger at Christopher. “Yes, fucker!” Their laughter was uncontrollable.

Christopher turned bright red. At home, he’d heard the word spoken to him before. His teeth clenched like his fists. “No!” he screamed, “you can’t say that! You can’t even say that to me! Now I’m telling! We’re going to tell— Simon!”

Simon turned, grinning, and dashed alongside Jaime for the yard duty across the blacktop.

Andrew and John stopped laughing. “Yard duties! Yard duties!” they whispered hoarsely. In a second, they started away, trying their best to look like they were only passing by. Chris noticed Thomas from the corner of his eye slipping his hands into his jacket pockets for the sandrocks.

Christopher laughed manically, doubling over, and Phil smiled. “Stupid! You thought you had friends! What are you gonna do now?”

Chris whipped his hands from his pockets. “Thomas!”

They hurled the sandrocks at Christopher. Sandy explosions popped on the argyle. His arms flailed in front of him.

“Ohhhh!”

“Ohhh!” Chris and Thomas yelled.

Phil lumbered forward in a surge. “Chaaarge!” he squealed, skipping and trotting off kilter. Christopher only watched him, brushing off his sweater.

Thomas calmly stepped forward and slugged Phil in his soft stomach. He tumbled back into the sand, his breath leaving.

Christopher ignored him. He set his hands back on his hips “Ha! Nice sandrocks, loser, that didn’t even scare me!”

The distance between the two boys closed. At the edge of the blacktop, Chris could see the yellow-jacketed yard duties the size of ants growing as they approached. He looked back to Christopher, glaring into his eyes. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“What are you gonna do about it?”

Chris stood face to face with him. He could smell the stink of his rotting mouth. “Why don’t you push me?”

“You push me!”

“You won’t because you’re afraid!”

“You’re afraid!”

“Then you do it first!”

“Because I don’t feel like—“

Chris chomped his teeth in Christopher’s face. Christopher instinctively pushed him away.

“You pushed me! You pushed me first!” Chris was empowered. Self-defense. He stepped forward, shoving Christopher. They shoved simultaneously.

Approaching bullhorns from the basketball courts sounded angry klaxons.

Christopher stepped back. He raised a leg and kicked, but Chris was too fast. He fell into stance and kicked Christopher’s leg as a parry. They kicked simultaneously again and again. Finally, Chris landed a kick into Christopher’s groin. He doubled over in agony.

Chris glanced up to see the yard duties running through the sandbox. He grabbed his knee and wailed, falling into the sand.

“He beat up Christopher Cruner.” Jaime said officially.

Chris lay in the dirt, clutching his knee for show. “Oh my God, he kicked me so many times, he kicked me over—“

“Kandmin, I saw what you did,” the tall duty said. She towered over them on skinny legs, her shorts pulled up over her belly. She wore a visor and sunglasses with the yellow windbreaker, and her hair was frizzy and curly and Chris thought she looked haggish. “I saw you throwing rocks and kicking him.”

“No!” Chris shouted back. “Not true! We weren’t throwing rocks! Those were sandrocks, they don’t even hurt, and it’s sand. The rules say you can’t throw rocks—“

The fat one burst in interruption. “That’s enough, son! I was watching you the whole time, so don’t you think you can lie to me for a second.” She took the walkie-talkie from her belt and informed The Office to prepare for two boys.

“Then you saw him kick me, too.”

“Kandmin, and you, both of you are going to The Office. You will meet with The Principal and he will call your parents. The rest of you, get out of here— now.”

The two boys stood up from the dirt. They glared at each other in contempt as the yard duty walked behind them, making their way across the playground up to The Office.

...

Finally, the boys were called in from the waiting room. They entered the open door to his office and took the two seats before his desk, both holding their breath. The walls themselves were bland except for a wall phone and coverings of official looking certificates in frames and photos of relatives lighted by the florescent lights overhead. A small but leafy plant sat on the corner of the desk beside The Principal’s nameplate. The brass plate read “Mr. George E. Halker.” Nobody really called him Mr. Halker, only “The Principal.” He did not greet them immediately, his long, splotchy face turned towards the flickering, green monochrome screen. Chris watched his squinty eyes scan the screen, reviewing their records. He noticed how his crazy receding hair made him look like an egg.

“Alright, boys,” he began in his ponderous, neutral voice. “You’ve both been in here before and I’ve spoken to you both. There seems to be quite a rivalry between you two.”

Chris realized that he must seem as blameless as possible. He focused on maintaining an expression of surprise and fear, his eyes scared and his eyebrows raised. He glanced at Christopher and saw he was doing the same, though with less success.

“Because this school tries it’s hardest to be fair and what we call ‘unbiased,’ which means not having a point of view” The Principal explained to the children, “I like to look at things from all possible angles. We need to keep things fair.”

The boys nodded.

“So, what I’d like you gentlemen to do is alternately relate today’s events to me, going one at a time, switching off between each statement, and you may only say what you did and not what anybody else did. Let’s begin with you, Mr. Kandmin.”

Chris looked at The Principal inquisitively. “Uh… really, I don’t get what you mean.”

The Principal was a patient man. “Alright, Chris. What you’re going to do now is make a statement, in one sentence, relating the beginning of this story. Mr. Cruner will then give his sentence, the next thing that happened, and then you will give yours, and he will give his, and so on. You will only say what you did and not the other. Alright?”

“Ok.”

The Principal smiled. “Great. Why don’t you start us off, Mr. Kandmin?”

“Ok. So, I hung out with my friends at the lunch tables and we talked.”

They looked to Christopher. “Well, we hung out in the sandbox and played on the slide.”

There was a pause. Chris thought and said, “And then we talked about Michael Jackson.”

“We went to the rainbow bars and played there.”

“We decided not to play soccer because it was muddy and—“

“Uh, gentlemen, actually,” The Principal interrupted quietly, “why don’t we actually pick it up where you two met each other for the day just before the fight. Alright?”

Chris thought over the situation. He realized that since they need only relate what they’d done themselves and couldn’t accuse the other, this was a great time to force Christopher into saying something horribly foolish. “So. My friends and I saw Christopher at the rainbow bars.”

“My friends and I came to say hello to Chris.”

“I asked if he— if Christopher— wanted to play chess with me.”

“I said I didn’t and…” he fell off awkwardly.

“I asked for Christopher to call me ‘Christopher’ instead of ‘Chris’ or ‘Chrissy.’

The Principal raised an eyebrow at Christopher and anticipated his next statement.

Christopher squinted, his brow tightening. He was unsure how to win this game. “He… I… came close to him and told him and Thomas Toma to leave Phil Ream alone.”

Chris squinted as well. “I… asked him not to come so close.”

“…I said, I said something like, like ‘Chris stop picking on him, don’t pick on him all the time’ and,” he audibly swallowed, “and, then, I pushed him away from me because he snapped his teeth at me.”

Chris felt relief open up his chest. He knew what to say. “Then I pushed Christopher back in self-defense.

The Principal looked to Chris and nodded.

The burning redness returned to Christopher’s face as he realized the turn in the ping-pong match of words. “I… said, I said something like— I mean, then I kicked him back, in self-defense.”

“I kicked his kick away in self-defense.”

Christopher snapped in frustration, “then he kicked me again!”

“Now Mr. Cruner,” The Principal said, holding out a long, splotchy finger, “that’s not how we are intended to conduct this. You need only state what—“

“He totally attacked us and threw rocks and said the ‘f’ word!” His voice went high with hopeless rage. “I’m telling the truth! I sware to God!”

The Principal held his long hands up softly. “Mr. Cruner, gentlemen, I think we’ve heard enough here to piece things together, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, yes I agree, Mr. Halker.” Chris said quickly. He looked over at Christopher, watching him sink back into the seat with hate and zeal, his eyes narrowing and his mind already washing over his revenge.

But Chris didn’t mind. He looked away, satisfied and content, that justice had served him well and the day was won. The war with this bully and his colleagues wasn’t over, and it wouldn’t be for two more grades, but for the time, things were right.

“So, that settles things, gentlemen.” The Principal put his palms flat on the pinewood desk. “I believe I can make a decision based on these statements. Clearly, the truth is that you two are terrible rivals. However, Mr. Kandmin, you seem to be trying to make peace, and Mr. Cruner, you seem to also be trying to make peace and speak in a civil manner. Things got a little, how might you say… out of hand, and Mr. Cruner, you simply lost your temper. Mr. Kandmin, you acted in self-defense, and things escalated from there.”

Chris nodded with quiet satisfaction.

“Right. So. All of us need to take something away from this. We all need to treat this as a learning experience.” The Principal turned to the computer, and then looked down at the keyboard, alternately hunting and pecking for keys and glancing up and squinting at the screen. “Considering everything, the self-defense and all that,” he said absently, focused on typing, “what I’m going to do, first, is speak to each of your parents. I think trash pick up for both of you is suitable.” He continued typing.

Chris welled with confusion. “Wait! Hang on! But I thought you said I was in self-defense. Why do I have trash pick up?”

The Principal stopped typing and looked over at Chris. “Why, to be fair, of course.”

Christopher withheld his immensely satisfied grin having snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.

“Now, Mr. Cruner, could you please wait outside my office while I speak with Mrs. Kandmin on the telephone. I’ll speak with your mother afterwards.”

Chris watched as Christopher stood up and walked across the room, smirking at him, his chest out. A great heat evaporated from the room as he left, and in his absence, it seemed airless and void.

The Principal scanned the computer screen, then turned and lifted the receiver from the wall phone. Chris’ stomach turned over and over in knots and knots. The Principal was calling his mother and there was no way out of it now.

He fixed his stare to his black high-tops while The Principal dialed the number and waited.

“Hello, Mrs. Kandmin? This is Mr. Halker from Gran País Elementary School… yes… well that’s what I’ve called to inform you of, Mrs. Kandmin. It seems they had another fight today and I’ve spoken with both of them. It seems the boys were trying to communicate when things got out of hand, and your son acted in self-defense, and consequently… oh, well, Mrs. Kandmin, I’d hardly call that, fighting in general a good thing—“

Chris could hear the squawky phone voice of his mother rise in intensity. The splotches in The Principal’s face faded as it grew evenly redder. His eyes widened.

“No, Mrs. Kandmin, bullying is definitely not an acceptable thing, but that’s… ok… yes I understand your concerns, and while that may be the case, we are not— we are not in the position to judge what… well I suppose we do in that respect, then. Any authority must. But self-defense is still considered…”

The distorted, unintelligible voice on the other end fired a tirade into The Principal’s ear. He looked down absently at his desk. After some time, the voice ceased.

“…alright, Mrs. Kandmin. I understand. I, uh, thank you for speaking with me.” He quietly set the phone back on the receiver, rubbed his eyes for a moment, then looked back up at Chris. “Listen. I want you to go back to class now.”

“What about trash pick up?”

“There will be no trash pick up. However, I need to stress to you that you need to stay away from Christopher Cruner and Phil Ream and all of those boys.” He sighed deeply and returned to hunting and pecking on the keyboard. “Because I really don’t want you in here again. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Get a move on.”

Chris stood up, his eyes bright with amazement for his mother, and he walked out of the office into the courtyard and ran back to class.

...

For the kids in second grade and over, like Chris Kandmin, Tuesdays and Thursdays and rainy days were different. If it wasn’t rainy enough to produce a significant hazard to the children, that is, rainy enough for many puddles to slip in, recess would take place in the park up beyond the portables and the rest of the school.

The park was a park in its own right, not restricted for use only by schoolchildren, and thus featured a massive, sunken baseball diamond with the outfield meeting the street, three full tennis courts with the high fences and tall hedges around the edges, and the playground sandbox in between. There were few trees scattered among the grass, all of them skeletal and towering. Beyond the playground, the tennis courts, the baseball field, was the rest of the park that was off limits, all rolling, hilly green grass dotted with stone lunch tables. No visible barrier restricted them from the rest of the park; only the patronizing, protective comments from yard duties and The Principal. Beyond the park and the street around it, rows of suburban houses lined the street and the cliff on the other side, a looming mountain vista beyond, obscured by the clouds.

Chris Kandmin and Thomas Toma huddled together beneath the stone building at the park entrance that housed the restroom, stone, rectangular planters all around it. The drizzle came down in a flowing veil around them, larger drops falling off the eaves of the building. Both boys were zipped up in their jackets, Thomas in the crummy windbreaker and a hooded long sleeve shirt beneath it. Their hoods cast shadows over their faces.

“I can’t believe nothing happened to us the other day,” Thomas laughed. “We really could of gotten busted. We could of gotten expelled.”

Chris nodded. He stared at a group of girls huddled together beneath pink umbrellas, laughing hysterically and pointing at different kids.

“Say, what did your mom do when you got home? Was she even mad?”

“No way,” Chris said, smiling, “she even yelled at The Principal. He was almost crying!”

The boys laughed. “Yeah right, he wasn’t crying.”

“Ok. He wasn’t. But I bet he wet his bed later. I bet he always does it.”

They kept laughing, Thomas punching Chris’ arm.

The drizzle fell without end from the opaque sky, a solid fog beyond them seemingly without dimension. Chris let his eyes stare out into the drizzle, and every now and then, his eyes would lose focus from the rest of the world and he would notice the individual sparkles of water drifting through space, shining like stars. He realized, too, that the imperceptible fog must have been made of an unimaginable number of those sparkles, drifting around. Where did they come from?

“Thomas,” he began quietly, “where does all the world come from?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ok, I mean, this rain and everything. How did it get here?”

Thomas thought for a moment. “Well, remember in class, Mrs. Gautner talked about that ‘water circle’ thing. You know, it’s in the ocean and the sun makes it steamy, like in the shower, and it flies up to make clouds.”

Chris thought about the steam and the hot showers and baths. “But wait. How come steam comes from a hot shower even though it’s water? There’s not even the sun there to do it.”

Confusion passed over Thomas’ darkened face. “Yeah… I don’t know.”

“Ok, what if it’s ‘cause hotness is what does it. ‘Cause the sun is hot.”

“It’s way hotter than water.”

“Yeah. But, you know,” Chris said, “what I really asked is more like, why is everything here to start? Like, how did water start?”

Thomas nodded. “Well, my dad said God made everything.”

All of the memories from kindergarten at a Christian elementary school came back to Chris. “Oh, right,” he related, “He made it in just a few days.”

“Yes.”

“But how?”

“What?”

Chris shrugged with confusion. “I mean, how did he do it really? Did he use his hands? ‘Cause, God is a man, right? He made us like him, right?”

Thomas nodded confidently. “Yeah. I remember them saying at church he made us like him.”

“Ok,” said Chris. He stared back into the rain. He thought for some time. “Does it mean God feels and acts like a person?”

Thomas stared out into the rain for a while. Finally, he nodded his head with certainty. “Yes. He must.”

“Hang on, Thomas, look,” Chris pointed out near the baseball diamond. Phil Ream stood alone on uneven footing in the soggy grass, talking to himself, shaking and pulling at his black, nylon umbrella. Resentment slowly boiled up in Chris’ veins.

“I don’t know, Chris. Maybe it’s not even worth it. We almost got busted last time.”

“Ok. But we didn’t,” Chris shot back reflexively, “and another thing, we almost got in trouble ‘cause of him.” He felt secure in his quest against Christopher Cruner and his team. He knew Phil hadn’t caused them trouble directly. But he also knew, without any doubt, that Phil was a henchman of Cruner’s terrifying reign. The feeling of action was irresistible, regardless of its origin.

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“Ok. I’ve got an idea.”

Phil gripped the umbrella tighter in his fist as he saw the boys approaching him. “So, it’s Chris Kandmin. Betcha you fools didn’t learn your lesson last time.”

Chris shoved his hands in his pockets. “No. I didn’t get a lesson. I didn’t get in trouble or even get trash pickup.”

Phil snorted and shook his head. “You shoulda. That principal don’t know what he’s good for. Guys like you think you own the place.”

“Well, I’m just defending myself. You and the rest of Christopher Cruner’s team have attacked so many times—“

“And you,” Phil interrupted, “Chris Kandmin, yourself, have attacked for no reason before too. You’re fools, you and Thomas Toma and all the rest.”

Thomas pulled his fist from his pocket, walking forward slowly, but Chris put a hand on his shoulder. “No. Hang on. It’s not what we’re doing anymore. ‘Cause Phil, you’re right. You know?”

He squinted his eyes and gazed at Chris through the bottle cap glasses curiously.

The temptation of peace was alluring and Chris knew it. He pressed on. “Ok. This is what I think. Why don’t we make a ‘peace treaty,’ and you put your name on it, then we can stop fighting the rest of second grade. Do you even know what that is?”

“Of course I know what it is!”

“Ok, good,” Chris said. He himself had learned the term from a complicated game he watched his dad play called Civilization. “So. You come with us, follow us over to the playground, and we’ll make the peace treaty. I have paper in my backpack.”

“I don’t know.” Phil’s face slackened, his brow lowering. He looked at the grass for a moment. “You really think I’m right?”

“Well, yeah. Think so.”

“…Ok. I’ll sign your treaty.”

The boys made their way over the wet grass towards the park’s small sandbox with its slide and two-tiered platform and two swings, all faded and distressed. The sand was muddy and dank, but there was a bench beside the sandbox where they could sit.

Beneath the slide platform was a deep hole; day in and day out, boys and girls dug as deeply as they could, the hole eventually filling with water at the bottom. There was no rationale for digging the hole. It existed, and before it existed, sand existed, and thus it was dug simply because it was fit for digging.

“Hey you guys,” Phil exclaimed, “whatcha guys like when you’re done with homework?”

“Huh?” Chris asked.

“I like the Beach Boys!”

“Oh.”

“Maybe we could hang out n’ stuff with this treaty n’ all. And we could be friends.”

Chris was silent. His lip tensed and he glanced off to the side. “Yeah.”

They arrived at the muddy sandbox and stood at its edge. “Ok, Phil. So now we’re gonna sign the peace treaty. I have it in my backpack.”

“Now wait just a sec’. I thought you said you ain’t made it yet?”

Chris’ heart pounded. He glanced over his shoulder and laughed. “Oh! Did I? It was a mistake, you know. But listen. Come with us over to the slide, and um, I’ll show it to you. ‘Cause nobody can see it.”

Thomas glanced silently at Chris and he nodded their faces shadows beneath the hoods.

“Now you wait a minute! You’re making me go in the mud!”

“That’s it!” In an instant, the boys lunged forward, seizing Phil by either arm. The adrenaline exploded in their chests. With all their will, they pulled him towards the slide set, the watery pit beneath it.

He squirmed and thrashed in their grips. “Liars! You liars, you tricked me!”

“Sorry,” said Chris, “you’re on the wrong team!”

“No I’m not!”

“You are! You’re always with them!”

“They don’t even like me! I hate him!”

The boys shoved him down at the edge of the hole. He scrambled in the mud to his feet, struggling to find balance.

Chris, scowling beneath the wide hood, pointed at the hole. “Get in there.”

“No! I won’t, fool, you have to fight—“

Chris threw his backpack off his shoulders and across the sandbox. “I told you to get in that goddamn hole you shit bastard!”

Thomas looked at Chris. The verbal onslaught shocked all the boys, including Chris himself. He glanced over his shoulder. Nobody was paying attention.

“Cut it out Chris!”

“No! I have to stop you! Look what you people started! You all started this!” He shoved Phil into the hole. “Pull it in! Bury yourself!” He fell on his knees in fury, thrusting great heaves of mud back into the hole.

A klaxon echoed. The tall one was at the bathrooms, jogging towards them.

“Chris! We need to run for it, now!”

Chris ignored him, hurling mud in handfuls, Phil slapping and thrashing and topping his lungs with screams of attrition.

“Chris! Run, now!” Thomas sprinted from the sandbox toward the baseball diamond. He slipped on the grass, landing face down. The bullhorn sounded, nearly on top of them.

Blind and gasping, Chris rose. He ran. He ran out of the mud, over the grass, to the stone bathrooms. He glanced. The duty holding Thomas. Walkie-talkie. More coming. He threw himself against the wall, flattened. He fell to the concrete. The duties came up the sidewalk into the park, the fat one and somebody else. Chris crawled around one of the stone planters, the backpacks piled up, and peaked around. They scanned and pointed. One trotted toward the baseball field. One started toward him.

Adrenaline. He crawled on hands and knees along a planter towards the sandbox. He watched over the edge. The duty vanished behind the stone building. He took a breath. His palms flattened against the ground, his feet pulled up. In a single movement, he shoved himself up and sprinted for the tennis courts, snatching his backpack, passing the sandbox, muddy Phil and Thomas away, yards away.

The klaxon sounded. They saw him.

He rounded the corner. The grass pulled from under him. He slid, his feet treading. Clump of grass, caught his balance. Dashed along the hedge, found a break, and finally thrust himself through.

A thousand twigs hissed and snapped on his jacket and sliced his cheeks as he slid sideways between the hedge and fence. The leaves crunched under his feet and rotten bark and dirt invaded his nose. He’d have only moments before they found him. He pressed forward into the darkness.

“Kandmin!” The voice barked over the horn.

He froze.

“Get out here Kandmin! Now!”

He held his breath. Something silky on his fingers. Heartbeat in his ears. He glanced beside him. It’s a spider web.

Footsteps swished through the soggy grass. A shadow passed slowly over the hedge, investigating each section, pondering the shading and the spacing of the leaves, searching for the hidden message. The shadow stopped before Chris.

He closed his eyes as tight as his breath. All was dark. His heart pounded his eardrums. Slowly, the darkness shimmered with red and yellow sparkles. His chest burned and the shimmering in his eyes erupted in fiery sparks, electrifying his fingertips and toes, his arms, his ears and chest and finally, after an age of holding his breath, he let it go, heaving and coughing.

He opened his eyes. The shadow had passed.

The air was dead, but the hedge stabbing into him was living with a thousand crawling souls, and kept him company in the darkness. His legs burned, so carefully, quietly, he bent down, his back sliding against the fence and his knees pressing into the hedge, its countless tentacles digging into his jeans and snapping off. He rested.

He thought nothing, only listened. There were occasional, faint cries of laughter and shouts somewhere out there, somewhere distant and far. There was some distant ring, some kind of bell, and all the voices faded away. And then, Chris heard only the faint simmering of endless droplets of drizzle landing over the twisted network of the living hedge, the waves upon waves of grass, every blade and branch rising up toward the sky without knowledge of reason or blame.

Finally, he carefully made his way back through the break in the hedge. Chris walked out past the courts onto the forbidden grassy knolls, turning to survey the playground and the rest of the park. It was utterly deserted. He turned slowly, scanning over all the vast space around him, unaware of the layers of life crawling upon him, beneath him, around him; all was empty in his ignorance. He felt small and alone, but stood in awe of the deserted park. In his mind, he’d never been so alone.

Zipping up his coat and brushing the leaves away from his hood, he walked towards the edges of the empty space around him, towards the long road home.

I hate to admit that this is mostly a true story.