Walking Boys
By Cheryl Skory Suma
We all have childhood memories that left storyboards seared to the inside of our eyelids. These experiences seed the birth of our future attitudes, plant the roots of our embraced philosophies. Like living roots, they can crack foundations and break free of the earth; these memories may move slowly and beneath the surface, but given enough time, they can change our landscape. I share such a memory with Walking Boys—I had my first affair with one when I was eight.
*
First, the push from behind. Then the wallop of the pavement, the catch of my breath, the brightness of pain.
Push. Wallop. Gasp. Pain.
I could wallow in self-pity and tell myself I had lost count of the number of times he had pushed me down, but that would be a lie. It was seventeen, and there was no time to feel sorry for myself. I wasn’t even halfway home. A lot more getting up to do.
He hadn’t said a word in a while, but then, neither had I. A truce of sorts. He would keep doing the job he had chosen for himself, and I would do mine. Each time my knees hit the road, the weight of my body striking the pavement sent a jolt of pain racing up my legs. The scrapes on both knees were becoming nasty wounds, sending ribbons of blood weaving merrily down my legs to meet the top of my runners.
Sad, once white, new runners. Mom didn’t get me what I wanted that often, and I sure had wanted those clean, white shoes.
Push. Wallop. Gasp. Pain.
Strange that the moment of my knees striking the pavement could still feel so unexpected. My companion had fallen in step with me a pace behind, allowing him to remain just out of sight, ensuring the unpredictability of his next assault. Perhaps it was this well-crafted element of surprise, in addition to the immediacy of the pain, that made each fall feel so fresh.
Get back up. You’re no quitter.
I pushed my palms against the ground. Once upright again, I slowly brushed both hands along the side of my shorts, wiping off the grit of the street before resuming my march forward.
Push. Wallop. Gasp. Pain.
“Wait! Stop!” More croak than a holler, my friend’s voice floated tentatively from his front door to where my tormentor and I stood in the street.
Oh no. Go back inside, Jack. I have got this under control.
Instead of heeding my silent alarm, my friend strayed from the safety of his porch, then walked quickly across his front yard. He came to a breathless stop on the edge of the curb, just catching his toes before they crossed into the never-never land of the pavement. Little grade-three-not-yet-grown Jack stared up at my torturer, then turned to glance back at his front door.
It hung open, just as he had left it.
The street was mine and the bully’s, and Jack knew it. So instead of stepping down to join us, Jack began rocking and twitching on his toes on the edge of the curb.
“Leave her alone!”
His words rattled like leaves that had forgotten to fall and now bumped together in winter’s squall, hoping to secure freedom. No freedom for me just yet. We had some distance to go before my companion was satisfied.
In response to my friend’s interference, the older boy gave me the biggest push yet, causing my backpack to go flying from my shoulders. Crouching to catch my breath, I saw the pack had spilled its contents. Notebooks, pencils, and the remnants of my lunch lay scattered across the grass above the curb. Even my backpack knew the pavement was off-limits.
I began stuffing my belongings back into the pack. Jack, keeping a watchful eye on my tormentor, squatted down to help.
He leaned closer, his breath hot on my cheek. “Get ready to run. You can hide in my house ‘til he leaves,” he hissed, then yelped when the older boy poked his shoulder.
“Get outta here! Ain’t none of your business. Unless you wanna join?” The older boy grinned, his delight at squashing Jack’s meager attempt at chivalry momentarily brightening his dull eyes.
Poor Jack. You are a good friend, I said with my eyes. I didn’t dare speak out loud. Hopefully, Jack would understand and run. I am almost home. It will be ok. When he didn’t run, I started walking again, not daring to look back, although I could feel Jack tottering on the edge of the curb. Wanting.
Soon I heard the heavy breath of the older boy as he fell back in step beside me. Too lazy to switch targets. Or perhaps, he liked to honor his commitments.
“Ain’t no one gonna rescue you now, eh?”
Push. Wallop. Pain. No gasp this time. I had finally gotten on to his timing. Less surprise in it now.
“Not so tough, are ya?”
It seemed he wanted to talk after all. His pushes were losing their enthusiasm, however. I would stick with the program.
Almost home….
*
A good student, not likely to get into trouble, my teachers would likely say—although some complained to my parents that I tended to watch more than I played with the other children. One had even gone so far as to say that I was “…too somber for eight. Her staring can be a bit off-putting at times.”
I suppose I can give her that one. Although only in grade three, I was already heavily ladened. My watchful eyes and I carried around a lot of pain and observations, carefully stuffed into the corners of my mind like stolen things into pant pockets. I was quiet—more observer than participant.
It wasn’t because I was afraid of the other children. In my opinion, it was the adults that needed watching. A chaotic home had taught me independence at a young age, and I had learned early the value of anticipating my elders’ needs, of understanding their demons. Beyond my home, I’d had several unfortunate experiences with other adults who taught me that being a grown-up doesn’t mean you were necessarily fair or kind. Or safe.
I wasn’t great at making friends, so some adults mistook my watchful nature for shyness. An “old soul,” my current teacher had said to my parents with a sympathetic smile that trailed off too long at the sides, all the while patting my head as though maturity were a crime best forgotten.
I had a younger brother. I had tried to watch over him for as long as I could remember. So the bad things that had happened to me might not happen to him. I liked to think he appreciated this—the bonus caregiver. So far, he hadn’t exhibited the people-pleaser gene that I had been saddled with, however, so he was able to run wild and carefree. Just as he should at six.
That morning, my brother and his friend ran afoul of the schoolyard bully. I didn’t know the bully’s name, but I did have a name for those like him: Walking Boys. In my mind, Walking Boys were those few children that did require watching. Mean and always on the prowl, they were eager to share their pain if you’d let them.
This Walking Boy was in grade six. He ruled the schoolyard and every hidden place in between. Held back a grade twice, he was now thirteen. This fall, he’d had a growth spurt and was approaching six feet tall, allowing him to tower over the next tallest boy in the class by at least a foot. His size and lack of intelligence were an easy recipe to brew the mindless endeavor and distraction that bullying could provide.
When my brother and his friend realized their error, they ran from the bully. Ran away from the safety of their teacher’s eyes. Ran all the way across the schoolyard and around the corner to where I sat on the school’s side door’s stairs, writing. I liked to record things I observed and thoughts I had.
They spoke over one another in their haste to tell me what had happened. I never did figure out what they’d done to make the Walking Boy so mad. There was no time for that, for he’d also come running, along with most of the school’s children, who quickly formed a ring to watch the events unfold.
I put down my notebook and got up. My brother and his friend fell in behind me. Several of the children observing let loose nervous giggles.
“You little twerps gonna hide behind a girl?”
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” The crowd’s chant was half-hearted. They recognized the gross mismatch this current confrontation held.
Walking Boy took one hesitant step forward. I figured he’d never fought a girl before, at least not one as young as me, and didn’t know where to start. We were both at a disadvantage since I’d never fought before, period. I decided to strike first. Bursting forward, I leapt into the air, swinging my foot up. Up until it connected smartly just below his kneecap, my stiff new running shoes cushioning my toes. I stumbled backward before steadying myself. He went down like a ton of bricks, as my grandpa would say.
Rolling about, clutching his knee and bellowing, he reminded me of those black beetles that ball up when you flip them on their backs. Interesting. I wished I had time to write that down.
Silence from the crowd, then they inhaled. Then they laughed.
“He’s down! She made him go down!”
Uh oh.
BZZZ! Saved by the bell. As quickly as it began, the fight was over. Everyone ran back inside, including me, although I paused to snatch up my notebook before pushing through the door.
A few hours later, it was time to walk home. My brother ran ahead and left me to endure the torture of the Walking Boy alone.
*
Push. Wallop. Pain.
“Why don’t ya cry? Why do ya keep getting up?” He sounded confused, although less angry than when we’d begun this journey together. I didn’t answer, although I did shift my backpack to the other shoulder. My left knee was much worse off than the right and couldn’t bear the weight well any longer.
Not much farther.
Walking Boy’s breath was now as raspy as Jack’s had been while balancing between the curb’s edge and bravery. His steps dragged too, stirring up dust, causing his shoes to make a horrid sound as they struggled with the pavement. Perhaps, this game wasn’t as fun as he’d thought it would be.
Push. Wallop. Pain.
Finally, I saw the fenced shortcut between the two subdivisions. Tree branches from the neighboring backyards hung pleasantly over the walkway fence, providing both shade from the heat and shadows from watching eyes. Comforting yet secretive, that sweet mystery place between beauty and danger. I looked up at the Walking Boy for the first time.
“I’m almost home.”
He stared back, then shrugged. I started down the path, being careful not to look back. Within a few steps, I knew I was alone.
Don’t run. Keep stepping.
Not until my hand was on the knob of the side door did I give in to the urge to rush, pushing the door shut as quickly as I could behind me.
*
I saw the Walking Boy in the schoolyard the next day. I stared, ready for whatever he’d do next. He gave a slight nod, then turned away. I watched for a moment longer, but he didn’t turn back. I smiled. Interesting.
We had reached an understanding. He had accepted I wasn’t going to share his pain. This was good. My pockets were full enough already. Too bad he had no pockets of his own.
What better reason to smile? Better to be the victim than the Walking Boy.
Cheryl Skory Suma’s (she/her) fiction, creative nonfiction and poetry have appeared in US, UK, and Canadian publications, including Barren Magazine, National Flash Fiction Day, Fatal Flaw Literary Magazine, Longridge Review, Reckon Review, SugarSugarSalt (forthcoming), and many others. A multi-Pushcart nominee, her work placed in thirty-one competitions across 2019-22, more recently: shortlist, Five South’s 2021 Short Fiction Prize, Runner-Up, 2022 Pulp Literature’s Flash Fiction Contest, Honorable Mention, Exposition Review’s 2022 Flash 405 Contest, shortlist, 2022 International Amy MacRae Award for Memoir. Suma has a MHSc Speech-Language Pathology and a HBSc Psychology. You can find her on twitter @cherylskorysuma.