Book club was canceled today, so I kind of just waited around the school with the gang until they stopped messing around and got in their cars and went home. Then I saw Lafflin (who draws the pictures who I am creepy to) walking with a few friends, talking and laughing.
I walked a little behind them, and watched.
Lafflin hung a little behind the small group for a second, reached down and scooped up some snow. I smiled. I knew what was coming.
He held it in his hands, patting it, compacting it, making it perfect, tripping over himself as he tried to keep up with his small little legs. Then, he swug back a little, sideways, and tossed it perfectly through the air. His friend turned and moved the back of his head, just a little, just a tad, and the snowball went cutting through the air and exploding to a stop in the rode. Lafflin's friend turned and looked at him, but said nothing else.
So he made another one, just as perfect, as the other boys left, until it was just Lafflin and his friend. The air was cold but the sun was warm, and the trees were drooling onto them as they fought. The sky was a perfect wool gray blanket, the trees black skeletons, the snow soft and white, with the yellow of autumn peeping under them. It was such a perfect shot, if I had my camera, to watch them play like that. Spinning, bending, scraping up melting snow, pffffft, pfffft....pfffft. They laughed half-way broken laughs, laughs of an unforgotten childhood, running sideways in the sun.
I stopped at the stop sign I usually wait at when I saw Jake.
"Jake!" I said.
He was walking his slow Jake walk, holding a poster board from History. "Shady...!" he said.
"Jake!" I tend to be more enthusiastic than Jake is. "Come with me and throw snowballs at Lafflin and his friend!!"
"...I have a poster board..." he said.
"Oh come on," I said.
We walked for a couple blocks or so, just talking, and then I ran a little ahead, and then he started running, and then we raced - the first race I've had in a long, long time - until we finally caught up with the two kids.
Lafflin saw me coming, as the fight was heating up with his friend. His smile and easy, doe-eyed gaze caught me, and his braces made a rare occurrence as he opened his mouth, panting in the polluted, frosty air. I reached down and took up a snowball, and Jake consented to do the same.
Lafflin's a shy kid. I don't talk much either. He doesn't really try to avoid me, but I yell hi whenever I see him, and he smiles back. Not in a forced, polite way. In a raw way. Like he can't help himself.
Today was what made it official.
I threw.
He dodged.
I missed.
Lafflin threw.
I dodged.
He missed.
I threw again, and got him on the shoulder, and then Jake threw an easy one at Lafflin's buddy, and then, just then, the four of us were an unspoken friendship in the afternoon autumn air. We made our way down the quiet, abandoned rows of houses, laughing and choking, the snow biting into us, down our collars, cutting into the ground, soft pats of frozen butter softly spreading the silence out with little snowball sounds.
Lafflin threw again, and this time I misjudged it, and he got me in the hood. I turned back, looking for more snow, as all I heard behind me was an unsure laughter as the kid pumped his fists into the sky and quietly shouted, "Ten points for Gryffindor!!"
I almost said something. Then I just stopped and turned back around and laughed, and thought about it, and laughed some more.
Footsteps, shuffling across the rode: two quick and soft paddings, two slow and solid footfalls.
Out-of-breath, hustling across the wet roads, dirt on our knees and sun on our faces.
One was a cartoonist.
One was a writer.
One played football.
One played lacrosse.
Something about the snow, maybe. Something about the accidental and yet purposeful companionship made with no words. Something about the air we were breathing, the numb fingers, the gray-blanket sky. But whatever it was, when I had to run back, I felt like screaming, and fist-pumping on the top of a mountain.
Five minutes of victory.
Victory over the bad.
Victory over the stuff that makes you want to die.
Victory over test scores, and future, and death, and longing, and over-dosing on gummy vitamins and wishing you could understand Shakespeare.
Victory over thinking too much.
Victory over the big things, the bad things, the hurt and the pain and the putting a razor blade in your pocket that morning 'just in case.'
I remembered as I turned the corner. The other guys were far behind me. I reached in and pulled it out and laughed. I laughed loud.
I ran up to some muddy bark dust and dropped to my knees. I found a stick and dug a few inches, and placed the blade cleanly in the dirt hole, and covered it over. A truck drove up as I made one last perfect snowball and set it on top of the little grave.
A little grave of the bad, for the victory of a five-minute snowball fight.
I walked a little behind them, and watched.
Lafflin hung a little behind the small group for a second, reached down and scooped up some snow. I smiled. I knew what was coming.
He held it in his hands, patting it, compacting it, making it perfect, tripping over himself as he tried to keep up with his small little legs. Then, he swug back a little, sideways, and tossed it perfectly through the air. His friend turned and moved the back of his head, just a little, just a tad, and the snowball went cutting through the air and exploding to a stop in the rode. Lafflin's friend turned and looked at him, but said nothing else.
So he made another one, just as perfect, as the other boys left, until it was just Lafflin and his friend. The air was cold but the sun was warm, and the trees were drooling onto them as they fought. The sky was a perfect wool gray blanket, the trees black skeletons, the snow soft and white, with the yellow of autumn peeping under them. It was such a perfect shot, if I had my camera, to watch them play like that. Spinning, bending, scraping up melting snow, pffffft, pfffft....pfffft. They laughed half-way broken laughs, laughs of an unforgotten childhood, running sideways in the sun.
I stopped at the stop sign I usually wait at when I saw Jake.
"Jake!" I said.
He was walking his slow Jake walk, holding a poster board from History. "Shady...!" he said.
"Jake!" I tend to be more enthusiastic than Jake is. "Come with me and throw snowballs at Lafflin and his friend!!"
"...I have a poster board..." he said.
"Oh come on," I said.
We walked for a couple blocks or so, just talking, and then I ran a little ahead, and then he started running, and then we raced - the first race I've had in a long, long time - until we finally caught up with the two kids.
Lafflin saw me coming, as the fight was heating up with his friend. His smile and easy, doe-eyed gaze caught me, and his braces made a rare occurrence as he opened his mouth, panting in the polluted, frosty air. I reached down and took up a snowball, and Jake consented to do the same.
Lafflin's a shy kid. I don't talk much either. He doesn't really try to avoid me, but I yell hi whenever I see him, and he smiles back. Not in a forced, polite way. In a raw way. Like he can't help himself.
Today was what made it official.
I threw.
He dodged.
I missed.
Lafflin threw.
I dodged.
He missed.
I threw again, and got him on the shoulder, and then Jake threw an easy one at Lafflin's buddy, and then, just then, the four of us were an unspoken friendship in the afternoon autumn air. We made our way down the quiet, abandoned rows of houses, laughing and choking, the snow biting into us, down our collars, cutting into the ground, soft pats of frozen butter softly spreading the silence out with little snowball sounds.
Lafflin threw again, and this time I misjudged it, and he got me in the hood. I turned back, looking for more snow, as all I heard behind me was an unsure laughter as the kid pumped his fists into the sky and quietly shouted, "Ten points for Gryffindor!!"
I almost said something. Then I just stopped and turned back around and laughed, and thought about it, and laughed some more.
Footsteps, shuffling across the rode: two quick and soft paddings, two slow and solid footfalls.
Out-of-breath, hustling across the wet roads, dirt on our knees and sun on our faces.
One was a cartoonist.
One was a writer.
One played football.
One played lacrosse.
Something about the snow, maybe. Something about the accidental and yet purposeful companionship made with no words. Something about the air we were breathing, the numb fingers, the gray-blanket sky. But whatever it was, when I had to run back, I felt like screaming, and fist-pumping on the top of a mountain.
Five minutes of victory.
Victory over the bad.
Victory over the stuff that makes you want to die.
Victory over test scores, and future, and death, and longing, and over-dosing on gummy vitamins and wishing you could understand Shakespeare.
Victory over thinking too much.
Victory over the big things, the bad things, the hurt and the pain and the putting a razor blade in your pocket that morning 'just in case.'
I remembered as I turned the corner. The other guys were far behind me. I reached in and pulled it out and laughed. I laughed loud.
I ran up to some muddy bark dust and dropped to my knees. I found a stick and dug a few inches, and placed the blade cleanly in the dirt hole, and covered it over. A truck drove up as I made one last perfect snowball and set it on top of the little grave.
A little grave of the bad, for the victory of a five-minute snowball fight.
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