Chapter 2
I’ve never gotten the point of nicknames. If you think about it, a name is your identification. If someone asks who you are, you don’t prattle off your social security number- you give them your name. So why chop your identity in half? Just for convenience sakes? I don’t think so. Anyways, let’s pretend you asked me my name. It’s Casper. Casper Wolfe.
And yes, you just read about me in that whole kindergarten/Mr. Rhodes’ office scene. I got tired of writing in the third person, so here I am using “I’s” and “we’s” and other personal pronouns. My English teacher would be all breathing down my neck about ‘switching the tenses in the middle of a story’. Frankly, I don’t give a crap- this is my story. It’s about me. If I decide I want to switch to future tense and then omniscient, I guess I’ll probably go to jail.
I’m getting distracted- sorry. Let’s get to the point; I am writing this story to figure out what’s happening in my life. I don’t know the ending yet (My English teacher is really gonna kill me now) and I don’t know if there’s gonna be a cool, mind-blowing twist in the middle that will make you keep reading. In fact, you may never read it; maybe no one will ever read it but me. I think I can live with that.
Arguably, it all started in kindergarten that day when I slapped Jamie Gunner and we first fought. All through grade school and up now to being a Junior in High School, most of my social life has been focused around beating him in everything. We are constantly at each other’s throats like two bulldogs with rabies: foaming, snapping, and growling while fighting their restricting chains so much that they rub their skin raw. That’s me and Jamie. And you know what, everybody loves to watch us. They think it’s better than, like, Disney channel or something. I don’t.
That day in the office I just talked to you about was our first real big fight. Actually, I guess I should clarify what exactly happened, because it’s kind of important.
It was lunch, Thursday if you’re interested, and I was, as I said, vaguely enjoying my plastic cheese pizza. I try to say it as politely as possible, in case the lunch ladies ever read this. What else can I say? I was distracted that day, maybe the pizza was actually good but I just was in such a crummy mood it tasted like plastic. Anyways.
He walked up, splatted my pizza onto my shoe. I can see it now if I close my eyes- the way it fell. He’d flipped the side up, so it did some acrobatic pirouettes in the air before it landed face down on my brand new white Nike running shoes. The ones my sister Ronica got for me on my birthday with her own money earned from babysitting.
I remember he was standing close behind me (hard not to when you’re trying to dump pizza onto someone’s shoes), so I could feel his laughing breath on the back of my neck. I froze up everywhere, knew instinctively it was him, and then I stood.
My thoughts by this time ranged from ‘kill him’ to ‘how to execute a roundhouse kick’. In other words, I was pissed off. And all those years we’d spent hissing and spitting at each other, but never being able to land a punch for fear of expulsion, it all exploded. It was like a lit match in a box of firecrackers the reactions it caused. My throat tightened, my skin felt hot, my heart was pounding a war drum, my pulse was electrified by adrenaline, and my eyes felt acidic.
I turned.
It always surprises me how grown-up he is now. Taller than me, even. But then his smirk was there and his blue-grey eyes had that little spark and I wanted to strangle him.
I turned my back on him like I was going to leave, but then used that momentum to whirl back and give him a roundhouse kick to the head. I took Tae Kwon Do. Absolutely love roundhouses.
Let me tell you right now, the feeling I got when my foot made a solid connection with his left temple was one of the most satisfying I’d ever had. He staggered, but didn’t fall and recovered quickly. I’d assumed a tight, narrow stance, dancing on my toes with my arms up to protect my face. His was more defensive, but also a lot more solid. I don’t lie to myself, I knew like heck he was way stronger than me- one of the perks of being a guy. But I was quick, I knew, and smart; tactical, I like to think.
And so the battle began. His first offense was a jab to the face. I blocked, but he connected so hard the only difference it made was my arm hit my face instead of his fist. A bit stunned, I bounced back on my toes. And Gunner smirked that smirk he has.
So now I fought looser, more dodging and weaving and kicking. Meanwhile he was trying to get a hold of me so he could grapple. (Meaning wrestle- he was on the wrestling team so he wanted to get me on the ground. You could call it instinct.)
It’s safe to say our fight was more interesting than others- one thing me and Gunner had in common was that we’d both practiced martial arts for a long time. Thankfully, me longer than him- still not much of an advantage. Anyways, the point is we knew what we were doing.
Now before I continue, you need to know something. See, you already read that it turned into a wrestling match and I gotta make something perfectly clear from the get-go. And that is that Jamie Gunner is the definition of hot. He’s got layered, wispy, kind of in his face but not all the way brown hair that I’ve heard described as ‘touchable’. To say the least. Wonderful light, ice blue intense looking eyes, bla-bla-bla, smirking dimpled smile, sort of long face, flawless muscle physique, the whole shebang.
So, yes, watching him fight was incredibly attractive. Not at the moment, because I was trying to beat him up, but looking back at my memories- yes. If only he weren’t such a jerk. And, yes, wrestling with him was more than just attractive looking back. But let’s focus on the hate right now, alright?
His takedown, when he finally got it right, was very direct. I dodged, but he’d anticipated that. So he launched like some puma after a rabbit and knocked me to the ground.
It hurt so bad.
Let’s just say that cement is a very… uncomfortable thing to land on, much less to be shoved down into. I felt like my brain had imploded- the nerve signals pulsed once all along my spine, shoulders, neck, and head in one single heartbeat before I began to lose consciousness. Thankfully, I didn’t.
Now while I was laying there, absorbing the impact in shock like roadkill, Jamie was straddling my stomach, working his legs into a tight wrestlers’ hold behind my back. An odd sight to see, believe me. I opened my eyes and he looked kinda scared, like he thought he’d just killed me. He hadn’t.
But after that pain, I really was thinking some vicious thoughts. It was survival mode- no flight option. The first thing I noticed was that his weight was shifted back in surprise. I came forward, and would have knocked him on his back (ground HIS spine into pavement for a change) had he not reacted by tightening his hold and leaning forward.
I knew he’d try to get full control by locking my head because I’d watched UFC enough, so I landed a hard blow on his ear and then protected my face, alternating between defense and a ruthless offense that was centered on punching him in the face. All the while, I tried to wriggle upward a bit so that I could be flexible enough to do something with my legs and break his hold.
When he got one arm around my neck, locking my head between his arm and his armpit, I knew I was in trouble. It was also quite awkward, sitting there with my head sticking out of his armpit. My ear was pressed up against his side, though, so I could hear his heartbeat. And good news, it was sprinting. Maybe he was out of shape. His breathing was certainly a bit shallow.
Luckily for me, at this time his own flexibility wouldn’t permit him to keep his hold on me while I was bucking around like a woman possessed. As soon as I felt the shift he made to compensate, I rolled hard to the right and got my legs around his waist. Yeah- at that moment, I was hit with the desire to either punch him in his mouth or kiss him on the mouth. Hormones… Anyways, I went with punch him in the mouth. His lip split and I grinned.
But he was just getting started. Now came his own array of blows- nose, mouth, ears, gut he was punching me everywhere. And every one was so solid I could barely breathe. My head was jarring back and forth with each connection- I tasted blood.
The principal, plus the janitor, literally tore us from each other. Imagine pulling apart two furious feral cats locked in a fight to the death- that’s the way we were fighting. I can’t even remember if a crowd gathered.
So now you got it. That’s how it happened. Crazy, right? Unreal? It feels that way. Okay, now you’re all up to speed I’ll tell you where I am at the moment.
Technically I’m in my room- and I’ve been here for let’s just say a good long while. Grounded, you know. But I guess you figured that out when my mom said I’d be spending more time with her. She always says it with a peculiar sentence structure, like she needs to add a few more words to make her point.
That’s the first time I’ve ever been able to punch Jamie Gunner over and over as I’ve dreamed. You know what’s weird now though? Now I can’t stop thinking if he enjoyed beating me up as much as I did. As a rule, Jamie and I don’t talk except to throw sarcastic insults at each other. So seeing his Dad was a bit of a shock. I mean, I guess I always knew there were more like him but I never thought I’d have to meet them!
It’s also a general rule that no one in my family mentions any Gunner. Ronica, my crazy 12-year-old sister, instigated this rule- at least I think so. Somewhere around my 6th grade year when I about bit his head off. Literally. I’m pretty sure, though, there’s a couple more kids in his family.
The point of all this is that other than the fact that I hate him, I don’t know much about Jamie Gunner. I know only what everyone else in all of Woodruff High School knows, and that’s four things:
-He’s unbelievably hot. This is common knowledge and the subject of much fantasy among girls.
-Good at pretty much any sport, hence the martial arts/wrestling.
-He doesn’t date much. This, according to some of my friends, makes him that much more irresistible.
-I hate him. This is basically the only important thing on the list.
Another thing I really hate- being grounded. Thanks to Jamie, I’ve been up here dying of boredom for hours. For someone who always has to be focusing on something, being confined to your room with nothing to do is pretty much torture.
My room is on the second floor of our house, and it is the best room in the place. Or at least that’s my opinion. I spent my pre-teen years coming up with new ways to decorate it, my early teens earning the money, and now I’ve been getting it all put together.
It’s a very square room, with one sliding-door closet and walls a tinted white-blue color, like milk through glass. It’s pretty average looking, except for I had the closet doors taken off and the little cove that’s left is where my bed is. It’s awesome. The shelf above me where you’re supposed to put, like, blankets, and clothes, I taped my alarm clock to the top right above my head so I can wake up and not scramble around wondering if I’m late for school.
I also cut a trapdoor into the attic above that shelf, and I can get up there any time I want. Which is why I don’t store much up there outside of the clothes I’m going to wear for the next day.
The other side of the room has a couch with a bookshelf near it. The couch cost the most so far, and it’s a sort of cream in color. The bookshelf has all the books I’ve ever bought, so I can read them over and over. Which I do. Across the room under the window I have these five drawers built right into the room that are for my sports. One for martial arts, of course, horseback riding, soccer, basketball, and surfing. My loves. And strewn throughout are pictures I took in Photography class.
The rest of my room is a dresser for my clothes and a laundry chute right down into the laundry room below. I like it open and free in the middle. So right now I’m staring from my alcove out at the drawers and the couch and everything. I haven’t gotten to the best part yet.
Yup, you guessed it. (Maybe) The window. Well, not the window window, but what’s outside the window. See, I pop the screen off, scramble out onto the shingles of the roof, and shimmy towards my tree.
My tree is a huge, ancient oak tree that’s been here longer than I can imagine like my own stationary grandmother. Who grows out of the ground and is made of wood… bad simile, but you get the idea. The tree’s an old, old friend. When climbing my tree, which I do frequently, I have several options.
The first is just a little nook in the tree where I sit out over the small expanse of farmland my mother inherited and watch. The second is this twisted branch that, eventually, leads up to the attic. And my third option leads to another portion of the roof, from which I can reach my brother and sister’s bedrooms, as well as the guestrooms.
We live in an old-ish house, two-stories tall and equipped with eight bedrooms, four baths, and a Jacuzzi. Sure, like that it sounds fancy and I sound like a spoiled little rich kid who has the world in the palm of her hand and likes to spit on it. But in reality, this is how it happened.
My dad’s rich father left it to him in his will, along with a million dollars. Now my dad, who died when my brother Brent was born the jerk, was the type of spoiled little world-spitting-on rich kid I was just talking about, he married my mom for who knows what reason and then the two of them blew the million dollars.
Nowadays we’re struggling to pay the bills, my mom’s jobs keep slipping through her fingers, and the house is but a reminder of how my parents wasted a good thing. To make things worse, she’s constantly talking about how she needs a man in her life again and goes on dates about every night.
Guess where that leaves me, the oldest of three kids. Yup, in charge. Now I love being large and in charge, but it just gets plain boring after a while. And not that I don’t love Ronica and Brent, but they sure can make me scream.
Sometimes I think the only thing I look forward to is fighting with Jamie Gunner. It sounds crazy, I know, but it really does give you a sense of purpose if you have a war to be fighting every day. Somehow, every year, Gunner and I get about the same classes. This, of course, is probably because we’re so obsessed with beating each other in everything and therefore get good grades.
Well I’d love to tell you more, but there’s my mom stomping up the stairs to lecture me. Excuse me while I prepare my ‘yes-mom-you’re-right’ face.
