He caught up to them at the playground. They were diving headfirst down the sliding board—stacked, all three.
“C’mon, Snots, make it four,” Beans called.
Palmer’s mother had told him about sliding boards, way back when she started bringing him to the playground. Hold tight to the rail as you climb the ladder. No sliding down stacked. No sliding down headfirst. But this was a new time. He wasn’t here with his mother, he was here with the guys. His guys.
“Snots, c’mon!”
He joined them on the ladder. As the stack arranged itself, he wound up on the bottom. He could not take a deep breath. He could feel the shape of his belt buckle in his stomach. He could smell the tinny slide. And down they went. And for the two-second trip, Palmer felt something more than the thrill of the plunge. He felt his friends above riding him, clutching him, depending on him. Had the slide been a thousand feet long, he would have carried them happily. And then they were spilling off the end like potatoes dumped from a sack.
Again and again they rode the slide, taking turns on the bottom. The first time Beans was on the bottom, he clamped the sides halfway down and stopped, sending the rest of them tumbling to the ground.
A lady called from the swings “Hey, you kids, no stacking.”
Beans pinched his nose and honked, “Ehh, yer old man!” as they went flying down again. Mutto and Henry honked too. Finally Palmer did it, his back to the lady, pinching his nose, getting it out—“Ehh, yer old man!”—just before the giggles came, forgetting he hated the park.
Then Beans was pointing from the top step, shouting, “Look!” Everyone followed the pointing finger to a kid leaning against the monkey bars, a big kid, chewing on a beef stick.
Mutto gasped, “Farquar.”
Farquar it was. Legendary wringer. The coolest, most feared kid in town.
Why was he staring at a bunch of nine-year-olds?
Beans called to Farquar, “Here he is.” He was pointing at Palmer. “The birthday boy.”
Suddenly Palmer understood. His birthday was no secret to Farquar. He was about to receive the ultimate honor, the ultimate test, The Treatment.
Farquar started walking. They followed.
Nobody gave The Treatment like Farquar. Palmer knew a kid who had his arm in a sling for a week after. Yet Farquar himself was maddeningly unpredictable. Some birthday boys he seemed to totally ignore, passing them on the street as he usually did, as if they were dog doo. On the other hand, he had been known to walk halfway across town, knock on a door and say sweetly to a surprised parent, “I hear there’s a birthday boy in here.”
Some kids turned into quivering zombies. They kept their birthdays as secret as possible. In school, if their teacher announced their birthday, they denied it, claiming it was a mistake. They refused to have parties. They stayed inside their house for a month so they would not bump into Farquar.
But there was another side to it. There was the honor. There was the respect you got from other kids, the kind of respect that comes to soldiers who survive great battles. There was the pride in yourself, in knowing you passed a test more dreaded and painful than any ten teachers together could give.
Farquar led them to the World War I cannon. The cannon was on a small grassy hill overlooking the park.
Farquar approached Palmer. With the end of one finger, he pushed the last segment of beef stick into his mouth. “Left or right?” he said.
Palmer had not known he would get a choice. “Left. No, right.”
“Make up your mind.”
“Left.”
“Left it is,” said Farquar.
Farquar rolled up Palmer’s left shirtsleeve to the top of his shoulder, so that the entire arm was bare. Farquar studied the arm for a long time, pressing, feeling, like a doctor. Finally he said to Beans, “Put your finger right…here. Don’t move till I say.” Palmer felt Beans’s fingertip on his arm, on a bony part about halfway between elbow and shoulder. Farquar spat on his own fingertip, rubbed the tip in dirt, and with the resulting mud—“Move”—made a mark on Palmer’s arm where Beans’s finger had been.
At this point, it was rumored, some kids wet their pants.
“Blindfold?” said Farquar.
Palmer looked over the peaceful scene: people playing, walking in the park, the trees, children’s shouts. “No,” he said, but nothing came out. His throat had turned to sand. He coughed, swallowed, tried again. “No.”
“Okay,” said Farquar, “don’t move.”
And don’t look, thought Palmer. That’s what he had always heard on the street: If you ever get The Treatment, don’t look. By the time Farquar bunched up his fist and stuck out the knuckle of his middle finger, it was hard as a ball peen hammer and sharp as a spear. Bad enough you had to feel it. Don’t make things worse by watching it coming.
Farquar took a position to Palmer’s left side. He backed off a step, spread his legs, planted his feet firmly. He crouched, lowering himself. Palmer felt a gust of beef stick breath.
Beans and Mutto stood directly in front, grinning, as if watching someone about to get a hotfoot. Palmer wished he had asked for the blindfold. Henry was off to the side. Palmer took a quick look at him and wished he hadn’t. Henry was not grinning. His eyes were wide as a hangman’s noose.
Palmer turned back to find Beans’s grin wider than ever. Beans had the most incredible teeth Palmer had ever seen. Beans swore he had not brushed them since the big ones came in. At one time or another Palmer had seen every color in the crayon box on Beans’s teeth. Their major color was a dull yellowish-brown fringed with green.
Beans and Mutto shouted “One!” as the first rap hit, and Palmer understood instantly the genius of Farquar. He understood that Farquar somehow knew his body better than he himself did, that there was no need to rear back like a baseball pitcher and bring the whole fist. That when the perfect spot is found, the tip of a knuckle fired from a mere six inches away is enough—enough so that Palmer’s whole body was sucked into a suddenly new sinkhole in his arm.
But Palmer kept his mouth shut. Don’t scream, the street had always said. If you do you’ll get an extra.
“Two!”
Tears sprang to Palmer’s eyes, smearing the grins of Beans and Mutto. Don’t cry, the street said, or you’ll get two extras.
“Three!”
Palmer bit on his lip and screamed inside his head, bashed chairs and flung himself against the walls of his braincase: Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!
“Four!”
He takes his time. You want it to be over fast but he goes real slow.
Henry had turned his back.
“Five!”
MOMMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
“Six!”
“Seven!”
“Eight!”
“Nine!”