Peter prayed for the power of invisibility, or an earthquake.
CJ stopped pacing and watched the boys approach. With CJ near, her brightly colored outfit and tiara sparkling in the sun, the chance of going undetected was nil.
One of the goons, either Jason or Eddie—they were interchangeable—noticed Peter first, nudging Chipper and pointing into the tree as if they were bird-watchers and had just spotted a rare, exquisite bird. Chipper handed off the football and led the goons in the direction of this bird, who was now highly nauseated.
Out of fairness, even Peter would begrudgingly admit that his old neighborhood hadn’t been perfect. There were bullies there too, but they were clearly marked and usually on the fringe of the school’s hierarchy. They were easy to ignore, or their actions could be simply chalked up to a Neanderthal upbringing or low intellectual horsepower. Chipper was different—the new-and-improved version of the modern-day bully. He was the class president, popular with students and teachers, and he cleaned up all those “most” awards at the sixth grade graduation. Peter wanted to submit a write-in award for Chipper, most likely to tie an M-80 to a cat when no one is looking, but he couldn’t trust the student council, which would probably do everything in their power to unveil the disreputable student who dared to tarnish the name of their beloved class president. Chipper wielded that kind of power and influence. His back pocket was filled with people. Worst of all, the playground behind the pavilion, where CJ loved to play, had a gold plaque attached to the climbing gym that read: This playground is the Boy Scout Service Project of Kenneth “Chipper” Kassel, Jr. It was enough to make vomit rise to the back of your tongue.
Peter never understood why Chipper enjoyed lashing out and terrorizing the “lesser” kid. The world was his oyster. The only conclusion Peter came to was terrorism gave Chipper enjoyment and satisfaction. It was a hobby like collecting stamps.
“Are you coming down?” CJ asked.
A small noise came from Peter’s mouth.
“Howdy,” Chipper said, hopping the curb and crossing the lawn. “If it isn’t our friend Peter Grady.”
Peter kept his eyes locked on his book.
“Hey, Nemo,” one of the goons said from behind Chipper. He dropped on the ground and started shaking.
“That’s not nice,” CJ said quietly.
Chipper’s arms shot in the air. “Whoa, watch out guys. Wonder Woman is here to protect Nemo.”
The shaking goon stood up. All three acted like they were laughing so hard they had to hold one another up.
No matter how hard he tried, Peter couldn’t bring himself to look up from the book. He felt a hot wetness forming in his eyes.
Then the tree spoke.
“Get lost, midgets. You’re decreasing my property value.”
Now, Chipper was in no way vertically challenged. There was a rumor he was going to be the captain of the middle school football team as a seventh grader, but he suddenly seemed small as Joshua appeared from the other side of the tree.
Joshua was dressed in the same cut-off shorts from yesterday but was now shirtless and barefoot. A rubber band shaped the bottom of his beard into a triangle. He stared down at Chipper and the goons, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips as he scratched a small tuft of chest hair. His face was expressionless.
Chipper and the goons coagulated. The goons looked to Chipper for representation, but Chipper looked prepared to defer to anyone else. He shifted his weight and bit his lip. Peter had never seen this side of Chipper.
It was the tone in which Joshua spoke that struck Peter—a combination of menace and boredom, as if he’d swat them dead like mosquitoes without thinking twice about it, maybe while eating a ham sandwich.
Chipper and the goons continued to hold their position until Joshua barked, “Get lost!”
They didn’t stay to see if his bite was worse.
Joshua yawned as he watched them run down the street. He scoffed, “Like I give a rat’s ass about property value.”
Peter didn’t know if he should thank Joshua or offer him the three dollars and change in his pocket. Joshua made the decision for him. He walked away, tiptoeing down the sun-scorched driveway to his mailbox. Peter watched from the tree as Joshua riffled through the stack of mail, saying, “Bills, magazines, advertisements. You know what these are?”
Not sure if the question was directed at him, Peter didn’t answer.
“Spiritual handcuffs,” Joshua said, and shook his head in disappointment. “What a waste.”
On the way back to his house, Joshua stopped short as if he’d just remembered there was someone sitting high in the tree next to him. He shielded his eyes from the sun.
“C.S. Lewis depicts hell as this bureaucratic hole where everyone is forever concerned about his own dignity and advancement, and everyone constantly lives with deadly serious cases of envy, self-importance and resentment. What do you think?”
Peter was lost after the word depicts. He found it difficult to maintain eye contact but saw that Joshua had no such problem. His eyes were wide and white and danced like pitched Wiffle balls.
“I don’t know,” Peter responded.
Joshua nodded slowly, as if he was digesting Peter’s nonanswer. “I like someone who is man enough to say ‘I don’t know.’” His hand scrambled in his pocket and he pulled out a lighter.
“You smoke?”
“I’m twelve-and-a-half.”
Joshua nodded again, satisfied with the answer. He pointed up at him. “Good man. Promise me you never will.”
Peter was too confused to answer. He was always being told by adults not to do things, just not at the precise moment the person was doing the exact thing they were telling you not to do.
“What is your name, young man?”
“Peter.”
“I’m Josh.”
Peter nodded, making the mental note of calling him Josh instead of Joshua.
“Okay, Peter. Another question. Why is Wonder Woman hiding behind the tree?”
In his panic, Peter had forgotten all about CJ.
“She’s my sister. I think she might be afraid of you, but I’ve never seen her scared of anyone,” Peter said, which was the truth.
“I’m not scared,” a small voice said from the tree’s trunk.
Joshua’s smile was thin and showed no teeth. “Last question. Don’t your grapes hurt from sitting on that tree limb for so long?”
Peter didn’t have time to process and reply to the question. His mother called to him and CJ from the front door.
“I have to go,” Peter said, apologetically.
“I know,” Joshua answered.
Peter hopped down from the tree and ran after CJ. They scooted in past their mother, who stood stiffly in the door, pointing inside the house. She didn’t watch as her children approached but stared curiously beyond them at the shirtless, long-haired neighbor, even after the screen door closed.
Day 59
The sun started