Young Writers Society

Baptism of Fire

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The first fight I’d ever been in occurred in spring of the eighth grade, just weeks before we found out my dad had to have heart surgery. I mean, there was that bullshit with Tim Wilcox where I left the bastard in the goddamn snow, but it wasn’t officially a fight, per se.

His name was Sean. He was an arrogant bastard who usurped my role at the farm. I worked there, see. I know what you’re thinking. Yeah, you probably couldn’t see this bastard working on a farm now, could you? Well, let me tell you something: it wasn’t your average to EIEIO bullshit farm. It was a colonial farm; a living history museum in McLean, Virginia.

I was looking for an opportunity to work at a place like that for quite a while because of my love for history. When Mom found it online, I was all over the prospect.

I had to write an application. Due to my elaborate writing skills, I was accepted, naturally. One surprisingly humid, wet, 60° day in late January, I went to the orientation. I was impressed. I don’t remember how many acres it was, but it was large. There were fields, livestock, and a quaint, little farmhouse. It was a lovely landscape too.

At the orientation, I met two people I had things in common with. The first was Molly, a tomboy who shared my passion for history and pirates. The second was, well, I can’t seem to recall her name, actually. For the sake of the story, I’ll call her Helen, the name I gave my Swiss Army knife. Like my knife, this girl was pretty sharp. Anyway, Helen was born in Cairo, even though she was American. Apparently her dad was CIA, which made sense, given the fact that the farm was right next to Langley. Anyway Helen was barely my age, maybe thirteen.

It was decided that I would work on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I would take Wednesday’s off from being tutored.

The whole deal worked out well at first. I had fun. We cooked our lunch using obsolete colonial recipes. The paid adults were alright too. The role of the mother was alternated between Katherine and Liz, two paid employees. Sometimes this Jewish guy with great hair, which he kept in a ponytail and looked like a pirate, played the uncle. This other, stout lady played the aunt. If I had to pick, she was the nicest one, not awkward like the two ladies. The Jewish guy was cool too. Anyway, the lady, whose name escapes me right now, loved nautical fiction, which is why we got along so well. She had two cats, Jack Aubrey and Hornblower. Another random thing I just realized. Everyday was cloudy when I worked at that damn farm.

Anyway, the workers were fine, yeah, and most of the other kids were too. There was, however, this one lady who pissed the hell out of me. I didn’t know her name. Frankly, it doesn’t really matter. My time on the farm is all blended together in my mind and I can’t separate various instances. I can’t recall if this lady worked at the gift shop or in administration. All I remember is that she was awful.

I had seen her before, this lady. Somewhat plump and in her early sixties, she was definitely a product of an older generation, a generation where kids were to be seen and not heard. Apparently an almost fifteen-year-old was still a kid in her mind, which makes no sense, seeing as she was a product of the eighteenth century (doubly so, as this was a colonial farm) and fourteen-year-olds were considered pretty much adults back then. Maybe this woman simply translated those archaic values to modern standards. By those standards, I was a kid. By kid standards, I acted much younger than I actually was.

Anyway, my first encounter with this woman occurred at the first market fair of the year in early March, a mere week after my encounter with Tim Wilcox. The snow is melted. It was warm.

The market fair was a quarterly festival at the farm that occurred in March, May, July, and October, where various artisans could sell their wears, interpreters would teach people about colonial life, and one could immerse himself in a variety of riveting eighteenth century games like apple bobbing and pick-up-sticks. Yay! But yeah, the market fairs were, for the most part, fun. I won't deny that. There was also food, shows, and demonstrations with militia captains and obnoxiously arrogant fencing masters.

I liked the sailor the most. He had a stall where he sold a variety of nautical items. He taught me all of the ropes, literally, shared in decent conversation, and let me work as his assistant. He even gave me a couple pieces of eight! He was probably my fondest memory of working at that damn farm, the sailor. He really was.

Anyway, after working with my sailor friend and participating in an awkward three-legged race with Molly, I was feeling pretty damn hungry. Like any sensible 14-year-old, I figured that, since I was hungry, I would treat myself to the most appetite quelling thing I could think of: a cookie. They had damn good cookies.

I went down to the food stand and saw that there was no line. I was feeling like the luckiest bastard on Earth. A glorious cookie would soon be in my belly. I saw the lady was talking to another person behind her stall. This was the old fat lady I was telling you about earlier, mind you, and I didn’t recognize the other person. I decided I would interrupt her conversation and politely request my cookie. She would have to oblige. After all, her obligation to serve a hungry customer heavily outweighed the urgency of her need to have a conversation at that particular moment, right?

“Excuse me, Miss.” I said to her in the most angelic voice that an awkward, acne ridden, fourteen-year old boy could muster, “but may I please have a cookie-“

“How rude!” she yelled at me. “Can't you see that I am trying to have a conversation?”

I was bewildered at this old cow’s insolence. I tried to calm her down. “Oh, I’m sorry, Ma’am, “ I said sincerely. “I meant no disrespect.”

“Don’t lie to me, boy!” she yelled at me again. I could feel the wind blowing out of her mouth as she screamed. “You are a rude boy with no discipline or respect!” That was a laugh. That’s what five years of cotillion does to a person, you know? I did not want to be a part of her shit, so I just walked away.

I went back and found my sailor friend who, after I told him what had happened, gave me some hardtack with Jam. It was much better than any old cookie that that bloody witch would’ve sold me, for sure. Plus, it was free. That’s the life. Getting free hardtack from an old guy pretending to be a sailor at an eighteenth-century living history museum. It really is. That’s the life.

It turns out my swim coach would tell me the same exact thing a week later. Maybe he and the cookie lady were conspiring against me. I’m a very superstitious person. I swear, I think that everyone’s out to get me. If I see a little, six-year-old girl in a tutu, smiling at me, I’m liable to think that she is a serial killer. Little kids love me, but they scare the shit out of me.

Laser I observed an older man walk up to the cookie lady as she was still having a conversation and he asked for a cookie. Do you know what she did? She sold it to him with a smile on her fat face. What was her problem with me? Fat pig. Charade she is, I guess. The sailor later asked her what it was I did wrong. She told him I was using inappropriate language. Filthy lying pig. Apparently her reasoning for this was because I didn’t speak in appropriate colonial language. Maybe I should have used a goddamn English accent? Screw her. The irony is that, at the farm, they never let me use my English accent. Their excuse was bull. They said that they didn't know what English accents sounded like back in colonial times, meaning I wouldn't be speaking in an accurate voice. That's weak. Accents couldn't have changed that much in three-hundred years!

Anyway, I said something I shouldn’t have that day. I do that a lot. I don’t have much of a filter. My unconscious subversive behavior has offended many a person in the past. This one time, at church, I said this inappropriate joke during youth group and the pastor pulled me aside to lecture me on appropriateness. I ended up running away and wasting everyone’s time. I get embarrassed easily. Now that was a fun day for me. I should tell you the full story another time.

So, anyway, I sort of lack a filter. Katherine, that day, was pretending to be a gypsy fortuneteller lady and I wanted to have my fortune read. She was wearing a rather revealing gypsy outfit and, well, let’s just say I wasn’t complaining. Did I actually want my fortune told? I don’t know. Maybe my fourteen-year-old hormones just wanted an excuse for her to caress my hands.

When I went to her, she started to softly and slowly move her fingers across my palm, gently. She told my fortune and such, but one particular "reading" stood out.

“I see,” Katherine said, “that an old friend is thinking of you right now; someone whom you’ve had a falling out with.” Well, Tim Wilcox sure wasn’t my friend. I thought a little more about what she could’ve meant. The conclusion I finally came to was, looking back, highly irrational. I had recently been kicked out of my writing class but my teacher who, while previously appreciated and even somewhat liked by me, had taught me for three years. It must’ve been her who was thinking about me! It was then I did something stupid. I opened my stupid mouth and told Katherine the whole goddamn story. I won’t bother telling it to you, as it is unimportant, but I will say that it was a misunderstanding as to why I was kicked out. My former teacher was a little anxious and very high-strung. Anyway, Katherine obviously felt uncomfortable after I told her the story. I'm thinking she started assuming that I was a troublemaker from then on. I later told my family that it was, quote on quote, “fucking awesome” that she would predict such in my naivety. They just got pissed.

The most annoying part of the day of the market occurred within the last few hours. Liz came to me saying that one of the ladies needed help selling bread, and I figured, due to the way she worded it, that I was handpicks to do so!

I headed down the hill to the stands, Liz alongside me, where we went to meet the lady in charge of the bread vending. We found her. Liz opened her mouth. “Bertha Mae, I found you someone.” The lady turned around, and guess who it was? The goddamn cookie lady from earlier!

“That boy?“ she asked, startled. “I don’t want him. He is rude. One of the most disrespectful delinquents I ever had the displeasure of speaking to. Find me someone more respectful, Liz.“ Liz never stuck up for me. She left me there and went to find “a more suitable lad.“ I felt betrayed. I never even got the chance to prove that I could do a good job of selling bread. I am an efficient person, after all. The cow just judged me prematurely. I hate people like that. I really do.

I will admit, the way she talked to me made me feel really upset. I was able to partially concealed tears. Luckily my sailor friend was there to call me down by lightening the mood. “That lady wasn’t my mother-in-law was it?“ He jokingly asked. “I’d like to have a few words with that woman.“ I laughed.

For all I know, that bovine bitch is dead. Probably a result of a common cold, or smallpox, or whatever it was everybody died from back in the 1700s. I did never get a pass out bread though, which for some reason, I was looking forward to. The job was given to another boy roughly my age. I later found out that his name was Sean.

I’d never worked with Sean before, that is, until the Saturday following the market fair. When I walked into the administration building, the place we all gathered before we headed out to the farm, I noticed that we had another boy there as well, the one who took my job handing out bread that was initially promised me back that lousy fair. I didn’t hold it against him at the time. Actually, I was kind of glad to have another male presence working at the farm for once. I took the fact that it was mostly girls who worked there for granted. I was a bit of a late bloomer, to be honest. At fourteen, my attraction to girls had not yet run its course.

We each had our own role to play down at the farm. By that, I mean that we each had to portray different character. My character was Benjamin, the son of a farmer fellow. The back-story was pretty lame, as I recall. It was extremely clichéd, especially in terms of the bullshit that always befell poor, wretched folk in the eighteenth century. As I recall, the other girls play various sisters, the lady I liked most was an Aunt, the man, when he did work, was my uncle, and Katherine and Liz, depending on who’s day it was, played my stepmother. Apparently, my real mother was dead or something. My father was out exploring, looking for new lands to settle. Him and everyone else! For some reason, I recall being told that he was in Maine or something, which is funny because Maine wasn’t called Maine back then. It was part of Massachusetts. Talk about historical inaccuracy! Either way, I wouldn't mind settling in Maine. I love New England. I really do! But, like I said, the back-story was lame, unoriginal, and clichéd. Oh yeah, my real mom apparently died giving birth to one of my younger sisters. That is so eighteenth century.

Anyway, the year was 1771 and the Scottish Earl of Dunmore had just become royal governor of Virginia, and small farms like us were being exploited. I even came up with the back-story for Benjamin: it has always been his lifelong dream to go to sea. Whilst I portrayed my character when the crowds came, I told them this. I got trouble for creating an “unapproved back-story.” I was told that it was unrealistic that Benjamin would ever go to sea. That’s bullshit. I mean, we’re less than a day’s ride away from Alexandria, one of the largest seaports in the southern colonies! Other large ones were Hampton Roads in southern Virginia and Charleston in South Carolina, but that’s sort of irrelevant. Baltimore’s a few day’s right north too, I suppose. Anyway, I’m ranting. Sorry. I don’t mean to go off topic. Let me just say this though: Benjamin can’t be a sailor for some inexplicably unrealistic, bullshit reason.

Anyway, I was prepared to portray Benjamin, when Sean proudly proclaimed, “I’m Benjamin today, dude.”

I was surprised. I hadn’t even spoken to this kid yet, and already he was acting like an entitled bastard. I didn’t like it one bit. “But I’m always Benjamin,“ I protested.

“Well,“ Sean said as he lustfully eyed Helen as she walked by, “so am I! I am Benjamin.“ He was Benjamin? What the hell does he mean by that? Man, it pissed me off. I concluded that this bastard wasn’t Benjamin. This bastard was entitled. Sean was pretty damn entitled. He really was.

“That’s unfair,“ I told Sean. “You can’t just say you’re Benjamin.“

“I just did,” as he looked at me with a satisfied glare, which had a hint of distain as well.

I shook my head. “That’s not cool at all.” It’s true. It wasn’t. Benjamin was my character, and I was never informed that I was working with another guy that day. Besides, Saturday was my day, not Sean’s. He can’t just take my character! “Besides," I continued assertively, “Saturday’s my day.”

“What’s going on here?” another voice asked. It was Katherine, already dressed in her costume and ready to go.

“He thinks he’s Benjamin,” he said in a very whiny voice; the kind of voice a six-year-old would use to make others feel sorry so that he could have his way.

“Sean,” Katherine said in a tone as if this were a common occurrence with the boy.

“Can I just be Benjamin?” I asked, sounding like a victim. I said it in a way that some could’ve misinterpreted as sounding like that of a disinterested third-party.

“Well, Sean did say he was Benjamin first,” said Katherine, “didn’t he?”

Sean said, “Yes, I did.” I slowly nodded my head in agreement.

“In that case,” Catherine said, “I think it is only fair that Sean be Benjamin.”

“But that’s unfair!” I objected. “Today’s my day. Sean’s never scheduled on Saturdays!”

“Parker,” Katherine said in a somewhat assertive tone that displayed some signs of nervousness as well. “You sound very entitled right now. I think it would be good for you to let Sean to portray Benjamin this time.” Entitled? My ass. Effing Sean was the entitled one, not me. But Katherine gave a twitching, nervous smile as she usually did. I think the old girl was afraid I’d lash out at her or something. She got nervous a lot. I swear to God.

This one time, on one of my first days volunteering at the farm, the entire group was playing Trust. You know, that game where you have to fallback and trust that one of the other person is going to catch you? Hence the name Trust. Anyway, we were playing the game and Katherine had to trust that I’d catch her. She misplaced her trust, I guess. I just didn’t feel like catching her. I guess I just thought it’d be funny. She complained about back pain the rest of the day. It’s funny though; I don’t recall getting in much trouble. All I remember is that everyone was shocked. I guess she made a mistake by trusting me.

The farm schedule was pretty ridiculous, from what I recall. They worked us all day, nine to five, without pay. They took advantage of us. We were forced to split wood and plant and harvest crops, which was stupid since the crops weren’t even used for anything! They just wanted to keep us occupied. Now I realize that we were just cheap labor. We got to stop work when the tourists came. I portrayed my character in the first person, as expected, but when the groups left, it was back to manual labor. I would’ve loved to help cook the dinner, as was called the midday meal back then, but they never let me. They said it was “woman’s work.” Bullshit. George Washington was known to cook his own meals from time to time. Or was it Jefferson? No matter. Long story short, they didn’t let me cook, and I like to cook!

So, yeah. Basically they made us clean and farm and other boring things while we worked there. It was terrible. I realize we were slaves, since we were unpaid. They took advantage of young folks love for history and the excitement associated with such and put us to work. And we let ourselves get dragged down to the bottom of the river by the rock that was that farm. In other words, I was its bitch. Yet, for some reason, one I still don’t fully understand, I actually liked it.

So, that was my last day on the farm. The day with Sean, I mean. Since they are usually not two boys working on the same day, there was only one male character. I ended up portraying a random cousin that day or something. Now I understand why they usually didn't schedule two guys on the same day. They didn’t want us to clash, I guess. Sean and I clashed. We just brought out the worst in each other that day, I suppose.

We argued most of the day. About what, I don’t remember. It was probably over some stupid shit. When I can’t remember something, it’s usually because it’s something stupid. I have the best damn memory though. I even remember when I was two. I remember insignificant details about shit that doesn’t even matter, like what I had to drink with dinner six years ago to the day. But, yeah, I have the best goddamn memory in the world. I really do. Don’t you forget that!

So, Sean and I argued. We were competitive, to say the least. We tried to one-up each other. Looking back, I’m kind of surprised we didn’t compare dick sizes. I would’ve won though. Just trust me on that one. I would have. I’m just saying.

Everything went fine through lunch; that is, if you consider two fourteen-year-old boys at each other’s throats as “going fine.” It was still only a cold war in the morning, the early stages of the conflict of the century.

After “dinner,” Sean and I were assigned, along with Helen, to do some slave labor out in the orchard, which was this huge meadow clearing with trees and bushes. As I recall, we never actually got any work done. We just played Blind Man’s Bluff or some other colonial game. That’s when the trouble began.

Helen and I ended up blindfolding Sean and ditching him. We hid behind this large fence. We had a good laugh. We felt like jokers, we did. Sean didn’t find it so funny. He ran to us in tears! The bastard was… crying? Why? He was a bloody mess! I started laughing, believe it or not, but stopped after Helen nudged me on the shoulder.

“What the hell!” he yelled, crying. “That wasn’t funny! You left me there!” He was really bothered by what we did. It was hilarious. I wish you could’ve seen it. Honest.

“Look Sean,” Helen said, putting her hands on her hips. Girls didn’t strike me as all that interesting back then but, I have to admit, it was a pretty sexy sight. Not so much at the time, though, just looking back. She was also assertive. I like that in a woman. “We were just having a little bit of fun. Come on-“

I couldn’t believe my eyes! Sean had just slapped Helen in the face! One does not simply slap a girl. Well, actually I slapped a girl once. Her name was Francine. But that’s another story for another time. Franny deserved it though, unlike Helen. She was just trying to calm Sean down, for Pete's sake!

“Hey! What’s your problem!” I yelled at Sean after he’d hit Helen. “You don’t just hit a girl!” I walked over and, without thinking, stuck my leg out and tripped him. He fell down. Clumsy moron.

He moaned as he hit the ground. He had tears in his eyes and red in his face. Maybe I should’ve been the bigger man and just walked away. I think that I may have just been sticking up for my friend at the time. I get passionate and fired up in the heat of the moment. It’s been my downfall at times. I guess you can say that it has a tendency to be both my cross and my crown.

Anyway, you know what the bastard did? He got up, brushed himself off, raised a fist, and punched me in the balls. “I hope you piss blood!” he said as he turned to run back to the farmhouse, only stopping to turn his head once. Now that I think of it, it was pretty gay of him. Men don't touch other men's balls, even if they are trying to hurt them! Kick, maybe; punch, no. His hand made contact with my privates. That's pretty gay.

I immediately put my hands over my groin as a reflex and kneeled down on my knees, hissing in pain, but the reflex was posthumous. It hurt… a lot. I was actually half convinced I would be pissing blood, that’s how much my jewels hurt.

“Oh my God!” Helen proclaimed, gasping as she put her hands over her mouth. “Are you alright?” She was obviously concerned. She was a sweet one, Helen. She really was.

I sort of screeched. “Yeah,” I said, clutching my genitals. “I’ll be fine.” It takes a true woman to ask a man if he’s fine after he gets punched in the nuts. It really does. I guess that made Helen a true woman. Back in colonial times, girls were often deprived of their childhoods and forced to become women at early ages. I guess the fact that Helen was now a true woman, by my definition, just goes to show how historically accurate the situation was. I’m being sarcastic, naturally. I’m the king of sarcasm. It comes as a second language to me, actually. I speak it more fluently than German, which I speak a little of.

“Do you want me to take a look?” she innocently, but seductively asked. I must admit, I was a little turned on and terrified at the same time. Did a girl just ask to see my nards?

I gulped. “Was that an offer?” I asked, nervously. I was awfully confused.

“Hell no!” She exclaimed. “I was just wondering if you wanted me to. If you’d said yes, you would’ve been punched there again, this time by me.” We both started laughing. She was a tease, Helen. She really was. It’s really just now by telling you this that I’m really starting to recall how great she actually was.

She and I walked back to the farmhouse together, both with our respective battle wounds. We found old Sean whining to Katherine. She got pissed at both Helen and me. Sean got to her first and made up some bullshit story of how I’d beaten him up. Katherine was sensible enough not to believe that bit of Sean’s tail, but not smart enough to dismiss mine and Helen's alleged "harassment" of the boy. Let’s just say she kept on eye on the two of us after that. When the time came for me to tell my version of the story, all Katherine said or did was scold me for using the term “balls.” That’s all she had to say about that.

The three of us were sent back to the orchard where we played some more. Sean did something very stupid once we started playing again. Now, not only was this kid an idiot, but I think there was also something wrong with him. Not only was he awkward, mentally slow, and antisocial, but he definitely had a condition. It couldn’t have been Aspergers. All of my friends who have Aspergers Syndrome are ridiculously intelligent. No, I think he may have been… challenged. I’m resisting the urge to say the word “retarded.” That is a terribly mean word. I hate when people use “retarded” as an adjective, unless if used in the context of it’s original, historical contextual definition, meaning the stunted state of an inanimate object. But nobody talks that way anymore, save me. I tend to use archaic language. It’s sort of my thing. Anyway, there are smarter words to use than “retarded.” No pun intended. Retarded is a retarded word. Forrest wood say “retarded is as retarded does.” I hate that word. It stings. My aunt, however, is a Wii-tard. She looks so stupid when she tries to play the Wii. She coined the term to describe herself, actually. It’s pretty funny.

Anyway, Sean asked us this stupid question. He asked Helen and me to tie him up to a tree. We did. We blindfolded him too while we did it. The son of a bitch was laughing while we did it. He sounded like a little kid on Christmas. Then he started to cry. I was a bit confused to be honest. Then he started to yell.

“Untie me, you morons!” he screeched. I swear, this kid was crazier than I was!

Helen was equally as baffled. “But you wanted-“

“I don’t care!” yelled Sean, like a baby. “Untie me right now you stupid bitch!” It was geared towards Helen, obviously. She put her arms up and waved them up and down in a gesture that implied “calm down.” He didn’t, though. “My aunt’s going to hear about this!” Sean exclaimed into Helen’s ear, making her shiver. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but I later found out what he meant by it.

Once Helen and I finished untying Sean, he did the most unexpected thing imaginable. He immediately bolted, running in my direction! He cane up as fast as he could, tackling me to the ground, beginning to punch me in the face. I closed my eyes and started to moan, slightly. I must admit, it would’ve made for a funny sight from afar. I picture some panorama where this lunatic just comes up and randomly tackles some poor bastard. Sean was definitely the lunatic. I guess that made me the poor bastard.

We struggled on the ground for about a good ten seconds until I finally grabbed a hold of his wrist, which I twisted. It startled him and he screeched. It distracted him enough to allow me to get a punch or two in before I wriggled myself free from his weight.

I got to my feet and brushed myself off. My head hurt, and there were clouds in the sky. I normally like cloudy days, but this was the worst cloudy day I’d ever experienced in my life. I’m the type of OCD guy who can only experience a happy Christmas if it is cloudy out. Christmas has to be cloudy out, or else it’s not Christmas! Anyway, it was cloudy and my head hurt. My head always hurt when I worked on the farm. It was a mixture of all of the manual labor and my bloody migraines. The blows to my head weren’t helping.

Once we both got back to our feet, we just stood there for a couple of seconds, looking at one another and sneering. “This was it,” I thought, “my baptism of fire.” I breathed heavily before giving a quick shiver. I bet you that Boy Wonder was thinking the same thing I was. At exactly the same time, we ran at each other. We collided. The force of our mutual impact, while strong, was dominated by the twenty or so pounds I had over Sean. It was then, at fourteen, when I actually started to lose weight, actually.

As we ran up to each other, we grabbed a hold of one-another and fell down. He landed on his back while I was on top of him, punching away at his lousy face.

“Get off of me!” Sean pleaded. I never did.

I realize now, by describing the fight itself, that it would’ve looked good caught on camera. Although it most certainly wasn’t staged, it was well choreographed; at least it felt like it was. It was like something out of a gratuitous Quentin Tarantino movie. In fact, the fight would’ve gone well if the “Safety Dance” were playing in the background. Only, it was not me who wanted to dance. And Sean was most certainly not my friend. Either way, I wouldn’t mind leaving that bastard behind. Anyway, the “Safety Dance” is actually the music that was playing in my head during the fight. It really was.

We rolled around for a bit, slugging away, alternating who was on the top and who was on bottom. Somehow, we freed each other from our own clutching grasps. I stood up. He tripped me. I stood up. I tripped him. We did this several times, caught our breaths, and then started running for each other once more. Before I had the chance to beat him up some more, I felt two hands detain me from behind. It was Helen. When we weren’t paying attention, she had run to go get help and returned with Helen and another girl. All I remember is that the other girl was Jewish. It’s funny how I can only remember people by their religion or ethnicity. Actually, I’ll take that back. I do remember names; I just have difficulty matching names to faces. When I think I remember a face, I don’t want to assign a name to it, because I am afraid I am going to be wrong, even though it usually turns out I’m right. Anyway, the other girl detained Sean.

I was still running for him, as he did me. I felt like Scrappy Fucking Doo. Inside I was screaming, “Let me at em’!”

We were taken back to the farmhouse where we were calmed down, given something to drink, and composed by Katherine who later made us apologize. When we were told to, we both said “yes, Ma’am” at the same time in a somewhat dismayed fashion.

We finished the day out without any further conflict. My dad picked me up, as always, and we went home. At the time, I was surprised that no one said anything to him during pick up. No news of the fight was delivered to him. I didn’t bother to tell him about the fight either. Frankly, I was too scared.

The next day, the email arrived I was reading a book in the study, when my mom came in, holding a piece of paper. Somehow I guessed what it was. “Let me guess,” I said, nose still in book, “I’m fired?” She nodded. That damn email was my pink slip of sorts. I shrugged. Strangely, I was completely unaffected emotionally. Whether it was out of confusion, shock, or I just simply didn’t care, I don’t remember. I told her the story. My mom laughed. I never got in trouble, actually. Mind you, she was angry, but not so much at me. She was pissed at the farm. They didn’t even do the courteous thing and give us a call! They sent a goddamn email! Maybe it was just another example of historically accurate colonial etiquette. Bastards. If I am ever fired again, I’d want to do it in the most badass way possible: fired by freaking Donald Trump himself.

My mom later talked to old Liz over the phone, who got really nervous during the conversation. Liz allegedly acted as if she knew the whole story, in spite of her absence that day. Bullshit. She wasn’t even there!

I had completely forgotten bout the farm for about a month until I took a trip to D.C. one day with my mom and sister. We went to some medical museum at some national hospital or something, and guess who I should see there? It was Helen! We talked for a few minutes, initially surprised by the coincidence, when the topic of discussion changed. Naturally, we began talking about the day of the fight back at the farm. I had learned from her that I wasn’t the only one who had been kicked out. When I asked her if she worked there still, she told me that she had received a similar email as well, saying that she was no longer welcomed back. Apparently the farm wanted to do a massive purge of the volunteers there, so they not only expelled me, but everyone else who was there that day, save one person. Apparently they just didn’t want to deal with the situation, so they fired us all, even the ones who weren’t the least bit involved in the incident. That’s just unprofessional. Molly still works there as far as I know. She wasn’t there that fateful day.

Well, I had learned from Helen that the only one who had not been fired was Sean, the kid who started the whole bloody mess in the first place. It came as no surprise when I found out why this was. His Aunt, a lady in administration, had pulled strings. Her name was Bertha Mae Waldoson. You should remember that old cow, the bovine bitch. I’m actually resisting the urge to use the c word right now. I hate that word. It bites. It really does. Anyway, the fact that we were all kicked out and Sean Waldoson still remained was just stupid. That’s unfairness at it’s finest, folks. But then again, life isn’t fair. No siree.

Anyway, I didn’t talk to Helen for much longer. My sister came to get me. It was time to go. I haven’t spoken with Helen since our fortuitous encounter all those years ago. I was too shy to ask for her number. I’m always shy around girls. Let’s just say I don’t get many numbers. Anyway, it makes me sad knowing that I’ll probably never see her again. That happens to me a lot. It always depresses the hell out of me to know I’ll probably never see a girl again. That happened to me later that summer too. I met the sister of some kid who went to the same technology camp as me in June. She was cute. She had braces, but was still cute. At the time, I liked girls with braces. I thought it was a sign of innocence. I like that trait in girls. Anyway, the last thing I ever said to her was a Star Wars reference. You know, chicks dig Star Wars references, or so my fourteen-year-old self though. I kept having this fantasy while on vacation a month later that this girl and I, by chance, would meet on the beach. It never happened. I never saw her or her brother Mike again. I remember that I tried to convince Mike to give me a video game he had won in a raffle. He never did. I never saw his sweet sister at the beach, naturally. Instead, I had to settle for Rachael Gilligan and her brother/cousin/lover/whatever the hell he was.

I never saw Helen again either. Maybe I’ll turn these stories of mine into a book or something one day and some lonely kid will be able to learn from my putridly stupid mistakes. Maybe Helen, or whatever her real name is, will stumble across it and read this story and remember. Maybe I’ll even pick up the phone one day and hear her sweet voice, knowing that she went out of her way to track me, the author, Parker Charlton, down. Although that probably won’t happen, it’s a nice thought, don’t you think? It really is. Anyway, I said goodbye, and I left with my mom and sister. On the ride home, my sister taunted me because I was in love.