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The assignment was to:
A. Describe someone from your childhood who had an irrational emotional power over you.
B. Describe yourself from that person's perspective.
C. Write a fictional account of an adult meeting with this person.
There were as always, limits on length...
Here's my part A:
“Part A”
I’ve always felt like I need to defend myself for slicing open Casey Boyd’s hand with a brush cutter because she was a girl and you’re not supposed to hit girls, but I had extenuating circumstances. It was a brush cutter with the long handle like you see the chain gang swinging at the opening scene of Cool Hand Luke. I can’t remember whose it was or how it got out to the tiny marsh island where Casey and her cronies had decided to construct their new home base. Casey and I had a sort of land dispute. The island at the end of the road was a prime lookout post and a natural harbor. She and I were for the most part the leaders of rival warring neighborhood factions. Sometimes we played neighborhood sports together but most of the time we stole each other’s clansmen and systematically wrecked one another’s scrap-wood forts. The day I hit her with the garden tool, I was without any compatriots. They had all crossed over.
Casey was/is two years older than I. At the time I think she was 14. I’d been caught prospecting the island by two of her scouts (everyone’s little brother was a scout), and I’d refused to leave. I literally drew a line in the sand and said that half the island was to be mine. The little bastard kicked dirt in my face and then sent for Casey. Casey arrived with her entire crew. There was a brief argument before she slammed my head into a tree and started to kick me in the ribs where I fell. I was debating the entire time whether or not to hit her back. When she was finished with her business she started to walk away. This is when I lost my nerve. I grabbed the first garden tool I could find and hit her twice, once in the hip and once in the hand while she tried to defend herself.
Later that day, after I showed up at home spattered with her blood and was summarily sent to my room, Casey’s parents called and requested I come out and apologize directly to her and her bandaged hand. I refused, over and over again, until my mom had to tell them it just wasn’t a possibility.
Here's my part B:
“Part B”
Andrew Poff is an obstinate little punk. I know it was he and his brother who wrecked the Teepee we built in the woods by the Cronley’s house. We spent a week on that thing. We actually cut down trees. He doesn’t cut down trees.
Anyway now I’ve got everyone and he has no-one. He just needs to give up and go back to being a little dork held up in his house with his video games. He sucks at football anyway. I know he just wants to get in to our crew, but I’m sure as hell not going to let him, and I’m definitely not letting him on Turtle Island. He needs to stay on his side of the road, by himself, with his giant tree fort with no-one in it. I’m going to send Hunter and Ellison out to spray-paint it again, and maybe he’ll get it. No one on this side of the neighborhood likes him. Corey doesn’t even like him. If he doesn’t get it with the spray paint, I’m going out there myself to tear the fort down, and hopefully he’ll come out so I can kick his ass too.
Here's my part C:
“Part C”
“Do you still have a scar on your hand?”, I typed into the Facebook chat window.
“A little one. It’s like a little line,” Casey typed back.
“I’m sorry I did that to you.”
“It’s okay. I was a bitch then.”
“So was I.”
“So how long are you back in town?” I typed.
“Indefinitely. No job, no tuition,” she answered.
“Are you with your parents?”
“Yes.”
“Really? Right up the street… How come I never see you?”
“I don’t know…”
“Hmm.”
“You can see me now,” she typed.
I blushed. I stared at the tiny box of her photograph, smiling back at me. She’d grown up.
“Really? Where?” I typed.
“Just meet me in the street in 15 minutes.”
“What do you wanna do?”
“Dunno… catch up?”
“I’ve got some Rum… but I don’t have any mixers. Do you have some Coke or anything?”
“I’ll bring some Ginger-Ale.”
“Oh great. I love Rum and Ginger-Ale.”
“So do I,” she typed.
“Awesome…” I typed.
“So, I’ll see you?”
There was a tightness in my throat. I swallowed it and felt warm and fluttery. In the background was a picture from an album of Casey at the beach. Every time a girl from my past hits me up on Facebook or Myspace, I feel compelled to see what they look like in a swim-suit. Most of them have photos up.
“What do you wanna do?” I typed again.
“Dunno…” she answered.
I sat there for a few minutes staring at the screen. Then I tried something that had a few times before. I typed,
“Wanna make out?”
Right away the words looked very stupid—immature. It’s something else doing the talking, I thought, I should’ve finessed my way into this, but yes, it does have to happen. The feeling was there from the second I saw her picture. It was probably there when we fought. It’s tough to get that close to someone and not have some inkling of lust. Dopamine is dopamine. I was twelve. The whole thing was just beginning. Plus, her body had a wealth of symbolic value. It’d happened before, wanting to fuck people I hated, or used to hate. I’d acted on it before, and it was never as simple as getting back at them. There’s no way to sum it up, except that it’s a quick head-rush, a total euphoria—like winning a fight—and there are always very strong feelings afterwards—confusing and immensely gratifying. But it flares up and fades quickly. When these things end you feel a dichotomous sort of sensation. They’re easy to walk away from, but they stick with you, in a whole separate part of your mind than the one that’s occupied by conventional women and conventional relationships.
It looked very stupid and I’d thought I’d blown it. I started to get discouraged but then I looked at that picture again and regained my nerve. I ritualistically held my breath.
“Sure,” she typed, after about a minute.
“Okay. I’ll see you soon then.”
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Siredwinsantos@gmail.com
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