The snowballs came out of nowhere.
I’d been blithely trudging the sidewalks, picking my way through the half-melted, soggy remains of a blizzard, (people who don’t shovel = pure evil), when great balls of snow pummeled me from all directions.
I crouched, covering my head, and eyed the landscape for an escape route.
“Cease fire!” a kid’s voice rang out in the otherwise empty street.
I spotted his legs as he hid behind a parked SUV sporting huge, traction-enhanced, chain-wrapped tires. If only that worked for boots.
“We just hit an old man!” another boy yelled from behind me.
An old man? Where? I peeked out from under my arm, but the only victim on the street was me. Then I remembered Monty’s loaner – in my hat and with the rest of my hair tucked under the bulky coat, I must have looked like a frumpy, fat old geezer.
Like Monty.
I lost it - chortled so hard I lost my breath. I braced my hands on my thighs, coughing air back into my lungs.
“He’s having a heart attack or something. Call 911!”
I heard the crunch of many feet heading my way as the boys got brave and came to check me out. No longer laughing, I searched the ground and there it was, glimmering in the morning light - the most magnificent patch of snow. Unspoiled, protected by an awning, it had melted to the perfect snowball consistency. An adequate snowball is impossible without the right kind of snow. Every kid knows this, has memorized the texture, the required moisture ratio. Once learned, it is never forgotten.
I stooped and quickly gathered enough white stuff for a few good rounds. Though I hadn’t indulged in years, I squeezed and pressed without thought, running on pure adrenaline.
When Crunchy Feet got close enough I spun in slow mo and then let my balls loose in rapid-fire succession.
“Retreat, retreat!” the boys cried, veering off, rivaling jets in complex aerial maneuvers.
I showed no mercy.
My exuberant movements sent my hat flying, revealing my long auburn locks in a typical oh-my-God-it’s-really-a-girl moment.
The boys gasped.
“It’s Charlie,” squeaked the closest one, and I recognized Owen under the scarf he’d wrapped around his head.
I growled, baring my teeth.
Blindsided by an ice ball to my shoulder, I began to panic. Ice balls – the ultimate snowball. Only the patient and truly heinous can master their construction – the snow is packed and melted, and packed again. Gradually it becomes a solid sphere of ice, in much the same way coal is compressed in the depths of the earth for millions of years to form diamonds.
I pin-wheeled and nailed a stop sign with my face.
The boys gasped again.
I saw squiggly comets for a few seconds.
“Which one of you little fuckers threw that?” I screamed.
No one answered - they had taken off while the world was still coming back into alignment. But Owen’s time would come. I’d see him at supper. I had hours to come up with a retaliation plan.
And so it was I arrived at Eric’s not-so-Italian, Italian restaurant in a flasher-style coat, my hair matted and wild, a trickle of blood oozing from my temple.
Someone who must have been his mom answered the door, she had his nose.
“Hi,” I said, with a brilliant smile. “Can Eric come out to play?”