Fiction Friday #7

Gunner Kerndus: After the Trip

I limped to the nearest bathroom, the one in the gym, to clean up. If I showed up in class with blood or massive bruises showing, questions would be asked. I knew that the teachers were only trying to help, but not one of them knew how to actually help.

If a teacher saw bruises, asked me where I got them, and I told the truth they'd make me confront Lloyd or Carter or one of the other. The idea behind the meetings was that we were supposed to talk things out, understand each other's point of view, and end up friends. Usually, the meetings ended up with me getting pounded on harder and longer after school or the next morning. Most of the times that a teacher found out about Lloyd and the others, they didn't give him a detention or anything. They said they couldn't since they didn't see it happen. Not that a detention would have helped much. What kind of a punishment is making a kid sit for an hour after school anyway?

I pulled the door open and limped to the only sink with an intact mirror to look at myself. I saw my father's weak chin, my mother's up-turned nose, my grandpa's springy hair, and my sad, dark brown eyes, but I didn't see any blood or bruises. Which was good. My neck and back and arms and legs were sore and were probably starting to bruise, but as long as I kept my hoodie on, the teachers wouldn't see them. My face was dirty and streaked where the tears fell when I sobbed into the grass, so I turned on the water, rolled up my sleeves, and started washing up.

If a teacher saw bruises, asked me where I got them, and I lied and said I fell or crashed my bike, they'd get suspicious. Someone would call my parent and we'd all have to talk because the school can't be too careful when it comes to child abuse. Going through that once was one time to many. My dad's never hit me or my little sister and neither has my mom. And even if they were the sort of people who'd hit a kid for doing something wrong at home, I'm not that sort of kid. Then I told the truth and guess who I got to speak with in front of the vice principal and the school councilor? Right.

Dad's advice was stupid. "Just turn around and pop him one in the face," he said. "Just stand up to him and he'll leave you alone. He's more scared of that than anything else."

Obviously, Dad never had a bully while he was growing up.

Once, earlier in the school year, after Leon took a swing at me and missed, I balled up my fist and swung back. I got him in his already twisted nose and hit him hard enough that he took several steps back. When he turned back toward me, blood was drooling off his chin. He just wiped his face, smearing blood all over his cheek, smiled, and kicked me in the balls. When I fell down, he jumped on top of me and started pounding my face, smiling a huge and drizzling blood all over me. Lloyd and the other just stood there laughing.

That was the first time that crying didn't get them to stop.

I stopped scrubbing and looked up just as the first bell rang. Five minutes until class started.

Fiction Friday #6

Gunner Kerndus: Face First

The dew on the grass tasted sweet. That seemed odd. Shouldn't the dew taste more like water? Where would the sugar come from? Sure, grass, like all plants, make sugars while doing the whole photosynthesis thing, but why would a plant secrete its energy source as water condenses during the night? Or was the water from the air just naturally sweeter than the water that's been processed and filtered and then fed to us through drinking fountains and bottles?

I didn't know anything I realized as one of Lloyd's guys--Cory, Leon, or Carter--kicked me in the side. It hurt, but not much. The best thing about falling face first is that you can't be kicked in the stomach, that hurt more. When that second kick came, I started to roll into a ball. I couldn't help it. Instinct. And in the second my stomach wasn't covered, Lloyd got me, hard. I kept curling, but I'd lost my breath and started coughing and they started kicking.

When they ganged up on me last year and years before, they wanted to see me cry. When I learned that, I'd give it to them after a few punches or kicks. Now, I had no idea what they wanted anymore. So I just lay there and let them do it to me. I think about something, anything, to distract me from what's going on outside. Anything to keep me from crying because it didn't help anymore.

I was kicked in the back.

Photosynthesis is how plants make food.

A kick to the butt.

Plants use the air they breath and the water they drink to make sugar for energy so they can grow.

Someone kicked my shin.

I don't know exactly how they do it, but it has something to do with chlorophyll.

My arm, which was wrapped around my head, was kicked and I started breathing heavy.

Chlorophyll is why leaves are green. It helps collect sunlight.

Another kick to my arms. I wanted to get up and run. My breathing came in quick gasps. I was not going to cry.

If chlorophyll makes leave green, what makes flower petals red or purple or yellow?

Then a kick to the back of my neck. I clenched my jaw and tried to take longer breaths through my nose.

Do the petals on blossoms help the plant to grow?

There was another kick to my neck and Lloyd started to laugh his high, piercing, laugh.

No, they attract insects and bird to knock the pollen down. Petals are for reproduction, not growth.

I felt a kick to my shin and one in the center of my back at almost the same time.

Bees get pollen stuck on their furry little bodies and carry it from flower to flower.

Lloyd laughed, "Okay, that's enough guys." The others stopped kicking me. "It's time to go. See you tomorrow, shithead," he said, kicking me in the butt.

I heard them walk away, but I wasn't about to move until I was sure they were gone. I didn't want to give any of them a free shot at me.

I counted to 300 before I uncurled and rolled onto my stomach and sobbed into the grass. I don't know how long I was on my stomach for, but I had to get everything out of my system before I got up. Crying didn't help anything.

When I finished I slowly thought my way up my body, starting with my toes, to make sure nothing hurt so much that I wouldn't be able to get up. Everything seemed okay, sore, but the hurt parts would work just fine.

With a deep breath, I pushed myself up to my knees and then gritted my teeth and stood up. I limped to my backpack, scooped it up, and limped to the nearest bathroom to clean myself up. All I could think as I walked was that middle school sucked.