The sky was a vivid, bright blue, clouds ringing it in a way that made it feel like being inside a cereal bowl. The grass, emerald after seemingly endless spring showers, was cool and damp. It smelled like spring, too; the strong, sweet scent of fresh-cut grass and wildflowers, perhaps too thick in the morning air. Somewhere nearby, bumblebees buzzed lazily, waking up after the long, cold winter. It was nice.
“Hey, Colt!” The peace of the morning was shattered. “Man, get up.”
“Where are we going?” He just grinned, green eyes shining like the dewy grass sliding underfoot. His hair was beaded with small water droplets as if he had only just left the shower. But his clothes were soaked too. “Why are you wet?”
“Slipped crossing the creek. The water's cold,” he added, “in case you were wondering.”
“No duh.” He walked with sure steps. It was evident he wasn't just wandering where his feet would take him. “Come on, where are we going?” He just shook his head, making a small tisking noise.
“You'll see when we get there.” Typical Kyle. He was like a ball of moving energy, a puppy amongst old dogs. Right in that moment, to him, something was good in the world, and he couldn't wait to share, stumbling over the underbrush in the woods bordering Mr. Tympole's old back field and splashing through small streams and pools leftover from the rain. The woodsy smell was strong and full of life.
The path we followed was vaguely familiar. “Are we going to your house?”
“Yeah, gotta swing by and grab some stuff.” We stepped out of the shadows of the reviving woods into the brilliant sunlight of the day. The sun was high in the sky; it was almost noon. Kyle was walking a step ahead, now mostly dry. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck.
I had only been to Kyle's house a few times, something unusual amongst childhood friends. Whenever it was brought up, a dark look would cross his face and he would say simply that his father didn't entertain. It was easier to just pretend the implications of that were wasted on deaf ears.
We were halfway up a high hill. Kyle hissed a little in pain. His gait was slightly uneven. He was limping. “That from falling in the creek?” He looked down at his leg, biting his lip as if he had hoped the injury went unnoticed.
“No,” he admitted. “That happened last night. Tripped over some rocks.”
“Must have been some pretty big rocks.” He grinned again. “You'll see,” he repeated.
His house was at the top of the hill. It was a small two-story structure, bluish-gray paint peeling, almost completely chipped away in some places. The little porch made of dark weathered wood built against the front was warped and bowed with age. Mismatched lawn chairs rested there, seats sagged down with water. The grass around it was littered with faded red beer cans. The three stairs protested against our weight. It felt like the wood planks would break right under our feet.
“You should wait here,” Kyle muttered, quietly pulling the mangled screen door open. Even from outside, his light footsteps could be heard as he tried to creep through the house. For a moment, the sound disappeared, before returning. Kyle must have been right next to the door again.
“Oh, you're here,” a gruff voice said just a bit too loud for normal conversation, loud enough to hear outside. Instinct said it was Kyle's father. If Kyle said anything in response, he said it in a low tone. “Watch your mouth, boy.”
“Sorry, sir.” It sounded like acid coming from Kyle's lips. His father snorted.
“Just like your mother.” It wasn't a complement, the way he said it. “Always running your g------------ mouth.”
“I wouldn't know,” Kyle growled. “You made sure of that a long time ago, didn't you?” The words hung in the air. It was easy enough to picture Kyle's face, soft eyes taking a hard edge, jaw set tight as his teeth ground together.
The sound of flesh striking flesh was sickening. A stream of slurred obscenities drifted through the screen door like smoke curling away from a fire. Kyle was there like he had suddenly popped into existence. In the next moment, he was tearing across the yard at a pace that was hard to follow. He didn't stop until we reached the tree line, disappearing into the shade of the woods.
His back was pressed flush against the trunk of a thick tree, eyes closed tightly. His hands trembled by his side, corners of his shirt twisted into his balled-up fists. It was hard not to notice the tear that rolled down his blotchy red cheek. That was where his father hit him.
It was a long moment before his eyes opened and he ran the back of his hands across his face. “Sorry 'bout that, Colt.” His voice shook. He was still trying to draw in breath. There was nothing to say. “Just... Just, you can't tell anyone.”
“Kyle-”
“No,” he snapped. “Please, promise me.” The look in his eyes... There was something wild in them, something raw and dangerous and feral. It was terrifying, but, somehow, so Kyle. It was like face he hid behind his usual lighthearted, easy-going nature, behind mischievous grins and emerald cat eyes. Something didn't let anyone see, but when someone did, it was hard to imagine why they never saw it before. It was written on his face with a Sharpie.
“Okay. Promise.” He pushed himself away from the tree and spun around on his heels, pressing deeper into the woods like nothing ever happened. He stopped when he was a few paces away.
“You coming?” From behind, it was hard to tell what was going on under his dusty brown hair. His back was straight, small brown knapsack hanging lightly off one shoulder. His hands were tucked casually in the front pockets of his jeans. He turned his head to glance over his shoulder. Like earlier, they shined with their own light. The only trace of earlier was the angry red splotch resting on his cheek bone. The corner of his mouth tugged upward a little like a challenge, 'what are you, chicken or something?'
Just like that, he hid his secret face, tucked it back under nonchalance and the carefree spirit of the crisp spring day, wiped away as easily as Expo marker, not Sharpie from a white board in school. His mind was set on the adventure he had planned since he made his way to Mr. Tympole's field. “Of course.”
