Chapter 1 "Formidable Firsts"

Chapter 1: “Formidable Firsts”

“I think we lost 'em,” panted G as we rounded the grassy curve. Directly beside King Point High School, it led to the byway we crossed daily to get home.

“Thank God,” I said, approaching the side of the busy street, catching  my breath.  It had just been one of those days.   The kind that makes you feel like hiding from the world.

Saw was waiting by the side of the freeway for us.  “You know Malcolm won’t stop until you stand up to him.”

A total pacifist that put you in the mindset of a hippie, he was one who stood up for himself only when necessary and with as little force as possible Saw had no idea who Malcolm was.  He was 6 foot 1 with muscles that were solid as a rock.  One of the star basketball players for King Point High, he was  two years older than me, and had been my nemesis ever since sixth grade at Drummond Middle School. When he left Drummond for high school, I had two years of peace. But now, we attended the same school again, and there was no escaping him.  His athletic build meant he was faster and stronger than  I  would  ever be, and more terrifying than the wolf to the three pigs.

“You remember how him and his crew treated me when we were at Drummond don’t you?” I asked,  thinking out loud, not really  expecting an answer.

“Yep,” replied Saw. “More reason you gotta stand up to him.” Standing at five feet even, he was a light yellow complexion, with curly black hair.  

“Don’t worry,” G sympathized, placing his arm around my shoulder.  “I got your back.”  As big as his heart was, G was someone chubby and out of shape, who always  found energy to run at the first sign of trouble. Saw on the other hand, he would at least stand there and yell for the bullies to stop, and shout his catchphrase, “Increase the peace.”   Standing at five feet, four inches, G was 200 pounds, with dark brown skin, and always alternating between a bald head and a low cut with a fresh shapeup.  

Crossing the road, and making a beeline for the soccer fields, we were in the home stretch. Once we got past the green fields that separated my house from the front portion of the neighborhood, we could jump over the fence behind the members' clubhouse, and get to my  house easily.  We met here practically every evening to complete our homework and work on our comic book projects for the Comic Book Club I'd started when I was in the sixth grade at Drummond.

When we reached the field, Malcolm jumped out from behind the tall oak tree that stood dutifully as if guarding its outer portion.  "Wuz up?" 

“I’m busy,” I said, starting past him.

Side stepping in front of me, he snapped with the fury of a violent storm. “I ask you what you was doin’?” 

Refusing to allow him to mock me despite my extreme terror, I spoke.  “Uh … I volunteered it.”

“Bruh, don’t get yo’ a*s whooped in front of all deez people.  When you get home, you best do my work when you do yours!”.

Despite my waning confidence, I remained adamant that I wasn’t being bullied like I was at Drummond ever again.  “I said no.”

“Ite bet! So you want yo’ a*s whooped!” 

"No! Leave him alone!" pleaded G.

"No! Leave him alone!" mocked Peyton, tripping G up. One of the jocks who always seemed joined to Malcolm's hip.  Standing at five foot ten, Peyton was a tagalong who never would have had the nerve to approach anyone without the protection of Malcolm.  “Man, shut yo’ fat a*s up!”

Trembling, G looked at me with apologetic eyes, and ran to hide behind the oak tree.  Seeing this only egged on Peyton and the rest of Malcolm’s “entourage.”  

Having been focused on Malcolm the entire time, I hadn't noticed the large crowd of people forming on the field, gathering like a pack of wolves prepping to start their hunt.  Scanning the crowd to see if anyone was present who would break up the fight, I found only a cheering mob, with cell phones out, ready to create their next social media post at the expense of me, G, and Saw.

“Whoop his a*s Malcolm!” hollered Peyton as the other jocks, also standing behind Malcolm, who  was  now towering  over me,  joined in. As they shouted other obscenities and encouraged him to beat me to a pulp, I stood more frozen than an ice sculpture in a snowstorm.

Lifting me as though I were a feather, he chucked me across the grassy field so hard that I crashed into the oak tree head first..  Then, just to reinforce his absolute reign of terror, he picked me up by my feet and swung me around in circles.

Remembering the days at Drummond, when he pummeled me with his fists and stuffed me in my locker.  And when he, being the strongest one in the class, had no trouble throwing me over Drummond’s metal fence, where I was fortunate enough to land in the creek.  And then, when Mr. Hoffman tried to intervene, Malcolm bashed him with a large stick across his face, which the other kids said would have caused a concussion if not for his humongous head’s incredible absorption ability.  Or when he pantsed me and everyone, even the gym teacher called me "Tighty Whitey"  for the rest of the school year.  Then, there were the wedgies, the swirlies, and let's not forget the robberies when he’d steal my lunch money on ice cream days. And the time he took my lunch and poured it in the toilet. I became enraged.  Not just for me, but for every kid ever picked on.  

“I couldn’t play in the basketball game last week thanks to you!" he hollered, letting go of my feet,  causing me to careen against the steel, diamond patterned fence, hitting my head so hard that my vision was literally blurred.

Grabbing a rock I found nearby, I threw it at him, hitting him ever so slightly in his head.  Not that it mattered.  The rock seemingly ricocheted and he, being none the wiser as to my feeble attempt at self defense, continued his violent assault. “

As the crowd laughed, jeered, oohed, and ahed, their cellphone cameras still filming, I searched in vain for someone, anyone willing to help me.  Then, in his next act of horrifying violence, he socked me in my jaw amidst the crowd that was now emitting shouts of excitement as if watching a spectator sport. Spitting out blood, I looked at him with fearful eyes. 

Meanwhile, the mob, taking great care to miss nothing, continued recording as though they were news anchors, catching live footage to enhance their story.  

Standing over me towering as I laid sprawled out on the ground, Malcolm fumed so hard you’d think smoke was gonna come out of his ears.  "Now I’m gonna tell ya punk a*s one last time! You betta have my work done in the morning!” 

"No,” I said, almost  whispering.

Running at me with his fists clenched like he was prepared to swing and land a powerful hit. His tone escalated from zero to infinity."Now you gon’ make me really whoop yo’ pussified a*s huh?"

Finding the strength as if by magic, I jumped up and ran.  With dreadlocks bobbing up and down, he chased me like a lion chasing a zebra with no chance of  escape.  His hands the size of apple pies, his eyes bulging with anger, his chest puffed out like the Incredible Hulk, he invoked in me an absolute terror.

Catching up to me, he cocked his fist back.  Expecting to receive a powerful hit, I braced myself.  After anticipating it, then realizing a few seconds later that the hit hadn’t yet connected, I looked up, more puzzled than a magician’s spectators.   Standing between us, and moving Malcolm backwards,  Saw attempted to separate us.

"That's enough, chill out," said Saw.  This scared me more.  Saw was one of my best friends.  What was Saw gonna do?  He was shorter than me, I mean he was always exercising.  But given the height difference, surely, he was no match for Malcolm. He was just gonna piss Malcolm off and we’d have two casualties instead of one.

"You can get it too Kumbaya!" hollered Malcolm, now taking a swing at Saw.

Ducking and dodging the hit, Saw flailed into Malcolm, with so much force they both fell to the ground. Malcolm quickly rose like a phoenix from ashes.  Wearing a look that was an equal mix of stunned and angry, 

Malcolm now charged at Saw like a bull attempting to trample the matador. And stood directly in his bubble of personal space, making them almost face to face.   “Your a*s is grass!” 

Patting him gently on the shoulder as though he were an old friend whom he hadn’t seen in a while, Saw extended his hand peacefully to shake Malcolm’s.  “That’s bullying. Stop. You’re better than this Malcolm.” 

 Surprisingly, Malcolm hesitated, stopping in his tracks as if pondering whether or not to reach for Saw’s hand.  Then, as if thinking twice, he lunged violently at Saw, grabbing him by the neck, and punching him in the stomach with immense, wrathful force.

“I don’t like bullying,” Saw said matter of factly.  Having fearlessly swallowed the hit, he moved Malcolm’s hand off his neck.  

“I ain’t ask yuh punk a*s what yuh like!”

“Malcolm, you’re one of our school’s greatest basketball players.  Why do you think you have to treat people like this?”

Frozen as if unsure what to say or do, Malcolm paused, and then balling up his fist, he  violently directed his anger at Saw.  At this point, Malcolm’s  jock friends, seemingly having agreed with Saw’s words, stopped Malcoom, and pulled him across the field.  Seeing that their “show” was over,  the crowd dispersed.  

“Malcolm, that’s enough bruh.  Leave it alone,” said one of the jocks as they fled.

Seemingly still dissatisfied, Malcolm threw a rock, clunking Saw squarely in the back of his head.  “Wait till tomorrow Kumbaya!” 

“Increase the peace,” Saw said back, seemingly unphased.

“Increase the peace my a*s,” scoffed Malcolm, throwing another rock, which hit Saw more forcefully than the first.  

Throwing the rock back, and hitting Malcolm’s backpack, which riled Malcolm up more, Saw remained peaceful yet seemingly undaunted.  “No thanks Malcolm.  You keep that.  And you’re too good a person to treat people so badly.”

What was Saw doing?  He needed to just let Malcolm leave! If Malcolm came back over here, we were in trouble!

“Take yo’ a*s home fool!” hollered Malcolm seemingly caught like a tug-of-war between wanting to fight Saw, and taking his words to heart. Before he had time to decide, several jocks pulled him in their direction like a tide carrying fish, and walked him away.

"Come on G, we have to start the Cake Captain in the Milky Way video at Zack's house," called Saw as G stepped from behind the tree, still skittish as a newborn calf.

Walking the rest of the way to my house in silence, I pondered the events of earlier.  Perhaps if I’d been more willing to meet him in the middle, I could have reasoned with Malcolm.  Well, it was too late now, me, G, and Saw had already made a pretty bad enemy out of Malcolm.

“You can’t reason with someone who’s unreasonable, you weren’t wrong,” said  Saw, breaking the silence, seemingly reading my thoughts.

After some thought, I finally spoke.  “Maybe if I do his work, and treat  him more kindly tomorrow, he’ll back off some.”

“So what you’re saying is that you’re  in violation of his ‘RIGHT’ to force other people to do things that are his responsibility?” asked Saw.

I grew silent and contemplated his words.

“You shouldn’t have did that, Saw,“ said G. “Trust me, we gonna pay for that.“

“And what’s your big solution, run away and keep letting him punk you?” asked Saw sarcastically.

Looking more shocked than a kite in a lightning storm, G gasped. “You not even a little concerned?” 

“Nope. If you start going to the gym and lift something other than a slice of pizza, you might find that same strength,” replied Saw somewhat chuckling.

Arriving at my two story single family home, we lingered by the neatly trimmed bushes for a moment.  Exchanging looks of mild discomfort, we all knew what we had to contend with to get to the basement and begin our comic project.  My twin sister, Zora.  Standing at five feet, seven inches, she was a hot yellow complexion.  Daily adorned in all black, she exuded gothic vibes with her very presence.

“Hi Zora,” I said, forcing politeness after opening the brown oak door that led to the spacious living room.  

“What’s up rejects?” she responded from the oak table across the room

Thinking we would get past her easily, we hastened across the wooden floor toward the matching door leading to the steps in the basement.

“Oh, by the way,” called Zora.  “I just finished talking to Becky.  So I heard about your little skirmish with Malcolm.  Do you know what people are saying at school?”

“I’m sure you’re gonna tell us,” I responded, her words like poison ivy to my brain.

“They’re saying Malcolm chumped you and your ratchet friends.”

“I love you too, Zora.”

“What’s love got to do with it, nerd?”

“Zora, we’re busy, we need to finish our homework and start our �"”

“Let me guess, one of your useless comic book projects that nobody cares about except your whack a*s club because it gives you all some sort of an identity.” 

“Bye Zora.”

“You all suck monkey balls! Get lost!”

Just then, we heard Mom’s room door creak open from the back of the upstairs portion of the house.  “Zora Myrtle Denise Carlson, you stop that talk this instant!” 

“Mother, must you use my whole government name?”

Laughing like a hyena, G looked at her with amused eyes. “Myrtle? I have a turtle named Myrtle.”

Zora, now more annoyed, didn't hesitate to unleash her verbal fury.  “Surprised you haven’t eaten it, fugly fat a*s.”

“Zora, every day, your brother’s friends come over, and every day you are rude to them.  How would you like to be grounded?” asked Mom, firmly.  Standing at five feet nine inches, she had creamy white skin, long blonde hair that touched her back, and blue eyes.  When she was happy, her smile could light up a room.  But don’t annoy her.  When her face was red, and her brow furrowed, it meant trouble.

“I’m just playing mother.  I apologize, Zack,” said Zora, more half hearted than a  politician’s promises.

“You don’t play like that.  And what about your brother’s guests?”

“And Gary and Seth.”

Hastening toward the basement, me, G, and Saw set up our comic book video workshop, if you can call it that, and commenced building our background.  Tomorrow, Reg and Don would be joining us to put together the puppets to go with the set we were building.  Effortlessly cutting through board after board, so we could paint, nail, and  glue the set’s components together, Saw was living up to his nickname. Forgetting the ordeal that had taken place, we worked for hours on our project.  

When the fellas left, I busied myself watching reruns of the Galaxy Grabbers series.  Not a big favorite of everyone in the family, it was certainly my cup of tea.  You see, I wasn’t like most teenagers.  Many of them wanted to be part of the “in crowd,” and followed the masses.  They all dressed alike.  And had the same opinions. Fun for all of them was buying clothes, going to sporting events, and spending all of their money on movies, pizza, and video games.  Some of them even liked to hang with “their own people” as they termed it, essentially eliminating diversity.

 Me and my friends, we were all our own people.  A diverse bunch, Don, Saw,  and I were biracial, having one African American  and one Caucasian parent. G was African American. Reg was Filipino. It didn’t make a difference because “our people” meant the human race.  We had different opinions, which made for interesting discussions.  We all had unique styles of dressing, which defined who we were.  Our idea of fun was doing comic book videos, and playing board games at home on a Saturday night. Which is why I couldn’t figure out  why the other students singled me out, unless of course they wanted me to take the lead for one of their group projects the teacher assigned.  Why then, I was asked to sit with popular students who would have never thought of talking to me or looking my way for that matter.

“Dad!” I hollered, running up the stairs as the door swung open.  Running to him, hugging him, I took his thermos and lunchbox into the kitchen as he went for his recliner chair.  

Dad was loved by practically everyone who met him.  Having the ability to relate to people flawlessly earned him the nickname Chameleon or just Cam when he was  in college.  After just a few minutes, he could size up a crowd, catch onto the dynamics, and fit right in.   Six feet seven inches, he was muscular and toned.  With an olive brown complexion, he was one who always had a way with words.

Smiling like he had just won a million bucks, Dad’s eyes narrowed in that funny way that let you know he was about to start clowning.  Hugging me when I went back over to his recliner, and eyeballing Zora, he spoke. “Well, at least I know one of my children loves me.”.

“Hello father,” replied Zora.  

Standing up from his recliner, Dad made the silliest faces as Zora stood stone faced.  Determined that she would laugh, he lifted her in the air, and began twirling her around like a ballerina. Then, in his silly voice, he began singing.  “I’m so bougie, oh so bougie.  I have no fun with Dad at home.”

Not responding verbally, she rolled her eyes as her lips began to slightly wiggle as if involuntarily.  

Seeing this, Dad took it as his cue to clown more. “Hello father? Why so formal Miss Prim and Proper? Sounds like Becky’s rubbed off on you.” 

“Father, this is so busted,” she replied, feigning boredom.

“So ‘busted’ you can’t hide that smirk on your face?” he chuckled, standing her to her feet.  Unable to deny it, Zora just grinned and looked at Dad as if to say, okay, you caught me.

“Dinner time!” called Mom from the kitchen.

 Contorting his face in a mixture of mock disgust, mixed with an “I’m about to vomit” motion, Dad smiled as Zora and I laughed hard enough to split our sides. 

In a tone that was part amused as if she knew it was funny and partially annoyed because she was the butt of the joke, Mom responded to our laughter.   “I know what you’re doing.”

Dinner time in the Carlson house was always interesting.  In Tallahassee, the weather was warm year round, unless of course a storm was coming.  Ever since we had moved here, Dad always took advantage of the opportunity to cook on the grill.  He made us steaks, burgers, pot roast, whatever meats you can think of, Dad grilled them.  

Mom on the other hand, she made the healthy and organic stuff that nobody, not even a weirdo like me found palatable.  There was the spinach lasagne, vegan quiche, and her personal favorite, which we all loathed, red bell peppers stuffed with cream cheese and imitation meat.  It was cool for her that she was on this vegan kick, but she was dragging all of us along for the ride.

“Dinner is served,” said Mom, beckoning us into the yellow tiled kitchen.  

Sitting at the polished, mahogany wood table, we anticipated what concoction she would cook up this time.  Zora and I, though we bickered a lot, agreed on one thing, we almost never looked forward to Mom cooking dinner.

Zora, making some faces that were more dramatic than a mime, spoke dryly.  “It doesn’t smell like dinner, it smells good.”

The corners of my mouth twitching and trembling, I tried to no avail to suppress my laughter.  

“It’s okay son, go ahead and laugh,” said Dad, laughing.

“Young lady,” Mom started.  Then unable to keep a straight face, she too laughed hysterically.  “That was a good one.”

RING! RING! RING! Dad’s cell phone sounded, almost as if on cue for interrupting our family goofiness.

“This is my brother, Red.  I better take this in the bedroom,” said Dad, suddenly becoming serious.

Serving her  vegan spaghetti with spinach salads that were full of purple, circular onions, and cherry tomatoes, Mom pretended everything was okay.   Asking us how our day was at school, she gazed back and  forth anxiously between us  and the bedroom as if waiting for something to  go wrong at any moment.  When I told her about Malcolm, she half heartedly responded to my concern that she would look into it ASAP.  

“Stop hanging with those losers, and Malcolm MIGHT leave you alone, dog face,” sneered Zora.  “Let’s face it, you hang out with the neighborhood freak show.”

“Zora!” said Mom.

“Zora, I’m your brother, so I wouldn’t say this to you. But you talk to some people like that and they’re gonna tell you, ‘at least I HAVE FRIENDS.’ They might also say, ‘The only person you hang with is stuck up, bougie Becky Lawson, whose point of view they probably can’t see things from because they can’t get their heads that far up their butts.”

“Would you guys stop? Enough,” Mom reprimanded us.

“That was a low blow,” said Zora.

“I’m sorry Zora, I shouldn’t have said that to you,” I said feeling guilty

 Putting her thumb to her forehead, and pointing up her index finger, making the “loser” sign toward me, Zora as if having found the opportunity she was looking for, continued her verbal assault from earlier.  “Look at you. Can’t even talk trash right!  For once in your life, your comeback is clever, and you ruin it with an apology.  Pathetic.”  

Emerging from the bedroom, his face now a shade paler, his voice no longer jovial nor joking, Dad stood in the kitchen.

“You okay Dad?” I stammered out.

“No,” he responded.  “Kids, Debbie, sit down.”

Sharing news that sent chills up my spine, Dad sat silently at the table.  I had lost my appetite.  While we knew it was inevitable, this was in no way what I was expecting nor hoping to hear.