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Mike
Summer Before Freshman Year
“He’s a fucking psycho, man,” Kyle mumbled out of the corner of his mouth as we sat on the bank of the creek.
My question had been: “Who is that?”
I had been referring to the kid sitting on the other side of the creek, his back against a tree, his knees propping a sketchpad in front of himself as he worked with extraordinary focus. A dark swoop of hair hung in front of his face as his arm jerked quickly, his hand obviously flying over the pad of paper. He looked up every few seconds without moving his head. Other kids were sliding into the creek from the bank, jumping around in the water, splashing each other, screaming and laughing, acting like kids. But everyone stayed away from the kid by the tree. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Psycho?” I frowned as I stared at the kid.
“Yeah.” Kyle snorted. “He’s like in a gang and shit. Apparently, he does drugs and has been arrested, like, a million times or something. You want one?”
He held a pack of cigarettes out to me, one of the cigarettes sticking out of the hole he had torn in the foil.
“Yeah.” I shrugged as I pulled the cigarette free from the pack and put it behind my ear. “Thanks, man.”
Kyle shrugged as a form of acknowledgment and kicked his legs out in front of himself, leaning back to prop himself up with his hands. I stared at the kid as he sketched, though I had no idea what he was drawing. If it was even any good. I was enthralled. A real psycho. Someone that made Kyle, one of the toughest guys I knew, speak with fear, but also envy. The sound of the kids playing in the creek, running along the banks, and walking in from the woods, talking loudly to each other, slowly disappeared from my consciousness.
It was as if I were listening to see if I could hear any sound that the kid across the creek might make. Was he humming? Was he whispering to himself like a crazy person? What did his breathing sound like? Could I hear his art implement scratching on the paper? Everything around him seemed still and quiet, his own personal bubble. What did a vacuum sound like right there in the middle of chaos?
As if I found myself in a movie, the kid’s head slowly rose, and his eyes connected with mine. My gut fluttered at the sight of his pale blue eyes, like icebergs floating in milk. They pierced into me and my gut flip-flopped, butterflies hopped up on caffeine. He stared back at me, impassively, his face a blank slate.
The face of a fallen angel.
Lips downturned like a bow.
Stuck between a frown and a smirk.
Kissable.
What?!
His hair hung in a curtain over his forehead, reaching to just below his eyebrows, but mercifully leaving his eyes unobstructed from view.
Skin that had known the sun, been kissed passionately by it.
Self-consciously, I looked down, lowering my head. I counted to ten. When I looked back up, he was staring back down at his sketch pad, his arm jerking furiously as he continued his work. I watched him for as long as I was brave, then forced myself to look away. Kids were dunking each other, laughing uproariously. I peeked at the kid. People were jumping into the creek, then rising to the surface and bellowing about banging their legs on the bottom. I peeked at the kid.
My gut flipped and flopped.
I felt giddy.
I peeked at the kid again.
“I’m fucking thirsty.” Kyle groaned dramatically next to me, then leapt to his feet. “You wanna walk to the store with me? Then we can go hang out at my house or something?”
“Nah.” I shook my head nonchalantly. “I’m gonna chill here for a bit and then go home, man.”
“All right.” He brushed off the seat of his shorts. “See ya’ tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” I gave an upward nod.
Kyle walked away, grabbing our friend Dalton around the neck with a loud laugh. They walked off together through the woods, talking about getting something to drink. My eyes went back to the kid with the sketch pad. He looked up again, a vaguely irritated frown forming on his kissable mouth—what? —as his eyes met mine for the second time.
I looked away immediately, my stomach tightening and sending the butterflies into a flurry once again. Peering through the hair in my eyes, I looked up briefly, ever so slightly. The kid was standing and sliding his feet into his flip-flops. His sketchpad was tucked under one arm. Without looking over at me again, he walked away from the creek, in the opposite direction of the woods that Kyle and Dalton had gone. My breath caught in my throat and I instinctively found myself counting to twenty. Then I leapt up from my spot on the other side of the creek.
Exactly two minutes later, I found a shallow spot in the creek to dash across to the other side. I climbed up the bank and walked quickly towards where I had last seen the kid. Once I found the tree he had been sitting against, I walked in the direction that I had seen him go. I walked quickly to make up time between when he had left and when I had chased after him, but I didn’t go so quickly as to seem eager if I ran into him.
The woods were plentiful on this side of the creek, littered with hills and cliffs, but there weren’t as many vines and fallen branches and obstacles—save the hilly areas. I found myself walking up a steep hill, straining to climb in my flip-flops. When I crested the hill, I nearly gasped as I found myself at the edge of a cliff, just having avoided falling twenty feet to a trail below. I swallowed hard and exhaled slowly, silently, glad that I had avoided a broken leg—or worse—out in the middle of the woods.
Looking to my right down the pathway, I saw nothing but the trail and green trees. My head shot to the left, and a hundred feet away, I spotted the kid. He was sitting against a tree just off of the path, the sketchpad against his knees again as his arm worked furiously. I crouched down suddenly, trying to be silent as I stared at him sitting there and working on...whatever it was that he was drawing. The early summer breeze that blew down the trail ruffled his hair and tried to flip pages in his sketch pad.
I swore I could see a smile slide across his face as he patted the pages of his sketchpad back into place and tossed his head to get the hair out of his face. The kid worked peacefully and quietly, with purpose and focus. Within the bounds of a wild environment, he seemed to bring peace to the small space that he occupied. Chaos danced all around, but within his space, all was art and quiet purpose.
“Don’t you walk away from me, fucker!” I jumped at the sound of a voice to the right on the trail.
I crouched down lower as my head snapped to the right. I looked over at the kid with the iceberg eyes. His head was raised, and he was peering off in the direction that the voice had come from as well. When I turned my head back to the right, I saw a kid—scrawny, short for his age—who I vaguely recognized as being in a few of my classes. He was walking quickly, his head down, looking afraid. Behind him, three kids—who I recognized as soon-to-be high school juniors—much larger than the kid from my class, followed.
“Hey!” The bully leading the others screamed at the kid. “You better fuckin’ stop!”
I let my eyes slip over to the blue-eyed kid with the sketchpad. He seemed to let out a full-body sigh before he set his sketchpad down and rose to his feet. The small kid hurrying down the trail saw the kid by the tree and walked even more quickly in his direction. Stepping away from the tree, the kid who had been sketching waited until the kid was past him, then stepped into the trail, putting himself between the bullies and the bullied.
“Chambers.” The lead bully laughed haughtily, and his friends joined in. “Get the fuck out of my way.”
“There are younger guys to pick on that way, too.” The kid, whose last name was obviously ‘Chambers’, nodded his head towards the other end of the trail. “So, why don’t you go that way?”
“This has nothing to do with you.” The bully seethed.
“Let’s keep it that way,” Chambers replied, bored.
The kid who’d had the bullies chasing after him was practically cowering a few feet behind Chambers.
“I’m not going to tell you again.” The lead bully growled, his hands turning into fists at his side. “Unless you want to get your ass kicked for this little faggot, you’ll go back to drawing your little pictures.”
“Go away, Carson,” The Chambers kid said, his voice still bland. “You, too, Martin. Jon.”
Chambers was fearless. And I was in awe. My stomach was midnight at the dance club, again.
“I’m not going to tell you again.” The lead bully, Carson, growled once more. “If I have to kick your ass, I will.”
Chambers, who was several inches shorter than the three bullies, many pounds lighter, and obviously outnumbered, just stood there, staring impassively at Carson.
“Go swimming, Carson,” Chambers said. “Go to the store and get something to eat. Go home and play video games. This isn’t something you have to do. No one will think any less of you if you walk away.”
My breath was caught in my throat. This kid wasn’t taking the bait from this bully. He wasn’t returning the insults and threats. He was being reasonable. And he seemed utterly bored with it all.
“One last time, Chambers!” Carson practically howled.
Chambers shook his head side-to-side in a way that was almost undetectable from my position so far away. Though, I doubted he had put much effort into the movement. The bullies didn’t seem like the type he would waste much energy on.
Carson let out a howl of rage and the kid behind Chambers cowered even more, practically whimpering. Chambers stood there, his expression still bland and bored. Maybe sad. Carson ran towards Chambers and all I could think was: Why did you have to get involved? The sound of a fist connecting—a sharp crack of bone against flesh and deeper bone—made me jump. But Chambers was still standing, looking as bored and relaxed as before. Carson was on his back on the trail, laid out like the Vitruvian Man. I hadn’t even seen the fist being thrown. Hadn’t seen it connect. Chambers had clocked Carson so quickly and with such force, the fight was over before it even had a chance to begin.
Carson lay there limply for the most silent and tensest of seconds, everyone else frozen, waiting to see what would happen. Was Carson out cold or just stunned? Was he dead??
“You broke my fucking nose!” We all exhaled.
Except Chambers. His expression never changed.
“It’s not broken,” Chambers responded. “But you’ll want to put ice on that eye.”
“You fucking piece of shit!” Carson howled as he slowly sat up, his hand going to his eye. “I’ll fucking kill you!”
Chambers took two steps to cross the distance between himself and Carson sitting on the trail. His steps were measured, even. Carson’s friends jumped back. Chambers stood there before Carson, looking down at him, utterly and completely bored.
“If you shut your mouth and leave now—that way—you can save some of your dignity.” He spoke down at Carson. “But I will hit you again if you force me. I don’t want to fight you, Carson. But I will.”
Carson held his face with one hand and glared up at Chambers with what could only be described as murderous disdain.
“Why don’t you two help him?” Chambers looked at Jon and Martin.
Jon and Martin immediately grabbed Carson under his arms and pulled him to his feet. Chambers took a step back as Carson was brought to his feet. He was tough—but he wasn’t dumb. Carson continued to glare at Chambers as his two friends drug him off in the opposite direction. Chambers returned the glare with a bored stare. But when the three bullies were around the bend and no longer in sight, Chambers turned to the kid who was standing a lot taller now that the fight was over.
“You all right?” He asked the kid.
“Y-y-eah.” The kid stuttered.
Not from fear. He had a stutter.
“I told you not to come out here without your brother, Kevin.” Chambers nudged him gently in the shoulder before going back to the tree. “Guys like Carson are too scared to fuck with you when your brother is around.”
“I wuh-was juh-just walking home.”
“Stick to the streets, Kevin,” Chambers said. “Out here, Carson thinks he’s king of the jungle or something.”
Kevin laughed. “I guh-guess you shuh-showed him, huh, Ian?”
Ian Chambers.
That was his whole name.
Ian Chambers.
Righter of wrongs. Protector of the weak.
Brave.
Selfless.
Tough.
Kissable lips.
My stomach fluttered.
What was wrong with me?
“Buh-but you duh-didn’t have to hit him so huh-hard.”
“Some people don’t understand mercy until they see mercilessness,” Ian Chambers said, his head turning to Kevin. “Now...go home, Kevin. Tell your brother I said ‘hi’ for me.”
“He duh-doesn’t even like you,” Kevin said.
“I know that.” Ian Chambers smiled finally. “That’s why you should tell him I said it.”
Kevin chuckled nervously. He gave a small wave and dashed off in the direction he had been going before the fight. Ian Chambers watched Kevin running away for a moment, then turned back to the tree. He bent at his knees and scooped up his sketchpad. The sketchpad got shoved under his arm again, cradled against his side. I watched over the lip of the cliff as he stepped back onto the trail and turned in the direction that Kevin had run. He paused for a second, his back to me, and tilted his head upwards slightly.
“I’m going home now.” He stated loudly. “There’s no point in following me anymore.”
I swallowed hard.
“Show’s over.” He added lowly, his voice sounding sad.
Ian Chambers didn’t look back, didn’t look directly at me, but I knew that he was speaking to me. Unless there was some other weirdo hiding in the woods, watching him teach a group of much older and bigger bullies a lesson. He walked with long, slow strides down the trail. The breeze blowing in his direction, as though patting him on the back. My heart was fluttering in my chest as my stomach started its dance party again.
Ian Chambers.
The name became my mantra. I found myself repeating it over and over in my head on the walk home. Over dinner with my family. In the shower. As I watched T.V. As I drifted off to sleep. That name and those lips, those iceberg eyes, that swoop of dark hair. A kid who could lay an older and bigger bully out with one punch but didn’t actually want to fight. The kid who just wanted to sketch his pictures and be left alone. Ian Chambers. It might as well have been the name of a god.
For the next several days, I found myself looking for Ian Chambers everywhere I went—but especially when I went to the creek. Usually, it wasn’t hard to spot him. He was always off to himself, sketching or simply laying against a tree, his eyes closed, a smile on his face as the sun shone down on him through the canopy of leaves. I’d find him at the creek almost every day, by his spot at the tree—a place none of the other kids tried to occupy. Ian Chambers wasn’t a psycho after all.
Sometimes I’d have to walk to the trail where he had punched Carson to find him. He’d be sitting in the same spot by the tree, sketching in his pad, or just laid back against the tree, seemingly napping, but I knew that he was aware of everything going on around him. He could sense me there, watching him, trying to figure him out. Trying to muster up the courage to introduce myself and attempt to make him my new friend.
But he never opened his eyes when I watched him lay back with them closed. He never suddenly raised his head languidly to stare back at me. It was as if I ceased to exist to him. It was utterly frustrating and made my stomach flip and flop even more every time I watched him. Sometimes I’d find myself staring for minutes on end, not worrying about whether or not anyone else noticed my intent stares towards him.
A full week of summer went by where I stalked and stared, acted like I didn’t have any sense or social skills. Finally, I realized that Ian Chambers was not going to speak to me unless he was spoken to directly. I had to make the move towards friendship if I wanted it. On a Sunday morning, when everyone was getting ready for church, I mustered up all of the courage I had and walked to the store. Using some of my allowance from the week, I bought two sodas and two bags of chips. I set out for the creek.
Ian Chambers was sitting in his same spot by the tree, but the creek was empty of any other kids. Everyone was going to church with their families. Then lunch—maybe by mid-afternoon there would be kids at the creek enjoying their summer away from school. But for now, this was Ian’s personal sanctuary. I almost didn’t approach him. But as I stood there, twenty feet away, the plastic bag from the store dangling at my side, Ian looked up and his eyes caught mine. He had been expecting me.
“You still stalking me?” He asked, then turned his attention back to his sketchpad. “I thought you’d have given up by now.”
He didn’t talk like other kids who were about to start high school. He spoke like a world-weary adult. It matched his constantly bored facial expression.
“What are you always drawing?” I asked, giving him a wide berth as I walked toward him.
I walked toward him in an arc, not letting my eyes look at his sketchpad. That was too intimate. I didn’t want to invade his vacuum. Gently, I sat down a few feet away, giving him plenty of room as he pulled his hand away from the sketchpad.
“Usually trees,” he said simply, those blue eyes coming to rest on mine. “Sometimes other kids. Birds. That squirrel there.”
He motioned with his head. I looked in the direction he had nodded and had seen a squirrel laid out on a large rock behind me. My eyes grew wide, taking in the stillness and quiet of the squirrel.
“Is he dead?” I whispered.
Ian made a sudden, high-pitched squealing noise. The squirrel jumped up quickly onto its hindquarters, its head whipping back and forth. It looked at Ian quickly, then me, then it dashed away so quickly it was a blur.
“He was just sunning himself,” Ian said.
I gave a relieved chuckle then turned my attention back to Ian.
“What have you got there?” Ian nodded at the bag.
“I, uh, I brought us some sodas and chips,” I replied shyly. “If you want some, anyway.”
“I don’t eat,” Ian said.
I frowned at him.
“Or drink.” He continued. “I consume the blood of virgins and smoke the reefer and I joined a gang right before school last year. Sometimes you can see me swimming in the creek at night, worshipping Satan.”
I stared at him for a long time.
“Is any of that true?” I asked lowly.
He stared back for an even longer time, considering me. The silence hung between us as he leveled me with his eyes.
“I like swimming at night.” He nodded. “But I don’t believe in Satan. And it’s kind of hard to find a virgin nowadays.”
I gave a nervous chuckle.
“Why does everyone say those things about you?”
“Carson, the guy you saw me with the other day?”
I nodded.
“That’s not the first time I’ve had to punch him,” Ian replied, his eyes sad. “After the first time, he started making up stories about me. He didn’t realize that it made no difference to me.”
“I guess he never learns.” I smiled sheepishly.
“I don’t like hurting people. No matter what you might have heard.”
I glanced at his knuckles. They were covered in old, dark bruises.
“I believe you.” I breathed out, my stomach flipping around.
Ian watched me for a moment, then closed his sketchpad and stretched his legs out, letting the sketchpad lay in his lap.
“So, what kind of chips and soda did you bring?” He smiled.
“I, uh, didn’t know what you’d like, so,” I opened the bag and pulled out my purchases, “I just got two Cokes and a couple of bags of Cheetos.”
“Perfect,” he said. “But I don’t have any money.”
“It’s cool.” I tried to cover up my pride at responding so casually. “I had some allowance saved up.”
Ian Chambers stared at me for a moment, then flipped his sketchpad open, flipping through pages casually before stopping. He deftly ripped one of the pages out and held it out to me.
“We’re even,” he said simply.
My eyes stayed on his as I took the paper from him. I didn’t look away from him until the paper was in front of me. Ian Chambers had sketched me. Sitting on the other side of the bank on the day that I had first laid eyes on him. He had probably done it from memory. It was remarkable.
“Wow.” I breathed the word.
“It’s not my best.” Ian rose to his knees so that he could grab his Coke and bag of Cheetos. His fingertips were charcoal black. “But it’s not my worst.”
“It’s...amazing.” I looked up at him with a smile.
“Thank you,” he replied, twisting the cap of his soda as he sat back down. “I like your hair. You should let it grow out even more.”
The butterflies in my stomach rejoiced. My cheeks flushed.
“So...what’s your name?” I asked him.
Ian cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Okay.” I blushed deeper.
“And you’re Michael Steedman.”
“Mike. I go by ‘Mike’ to everyone but my mom,” I replied.
“What does your mom call you, Mike?” He grinned as he brought the Coke to his glorious lips and took a sip.
“Sugar Man, mostly.” I blushed so deeply that I could feel the heat of my own face.
Ian continued to grin. But he didn’t laugh.
“You look like a ‘baby boy’ or ‘junior’ to me, personally,” he replied. “Sugar Man doesn’t really fit you.”
I laughed gently, grateful that he hadn’t teased me.
“But there are worse things than ‘Sugar Man’, I guess.” He shrugged.
“Do you want to be my friend?” I spat it out.
I cursed myself for being such a dork. Ian’s grin disappeared. We were staring at each other again.
“All right.” He nodded.
“Good.” I smiled and reached for my bag of Cheetos.
