Neighbor Boy

A short story

Photo by Ozan Safak on Unsplash

“What are you supposed to be?”

The neighbor kid. The one who lived on the boyfriend’s street. A freckled brunette with a badass bike and clubs for hands. Bob doesn’t answer. Kicks rocks between his converse tennis shoes. Imagines he’s a soccer player and the crowd is going wild, drowning out the noise.

“Did you hear me half-breed?”

Bob looks up then. Doesn’t quite make eye contact. Focuses on the constellation of freckles that spatter across the boy’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Watches him lick his lips. Wonders if there’s spots on his tongue.

“Holy shit he’s got blue eyes!”

A couple of boys run to see, dropping bikes and baseballs to gawk at the mixed kid. Bob looks down again, kicks the rocks between his feet. Tries to scoop a big one onto the toe of his converse. The motion is simple. A quick scrape down, point the toe ballerina style, then up. Balance it. He tries it again and again. The noise of it against the road, all he can hear as the boys talk amongst themselves.

“Look at ‘em. Show ‘em your eyes.”

Bob doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t hear. Lets the words drip off him like water droplets on duck feathers. He scrapes his shoe, the white tip of his converse streaked with the black of the asphalt.

“Did you hear me? I said look at them!”

Right at the end of that sentence, before the point of the exclamation mark is dabbed violently into the world by a fist, Bob gets the rock to balance on his shoe. A smile crosses his face, and he looks up to see the world gone mad. There are six boys, some older, some younger. Their eyes are wide and expectant. They fan out to the left and right of Neighbor Boy. Always the ringleader. 

“Whoa!” one of them exclaims from the back. 

“He is mulatto,” another one says.

Bob feels the gentle weight of the stone on his foot. He lifts the sole of his shoe and balances it. 

“Pretty boy like you is gonna have trouble around here,” says the kid, batting his eye lashes.

He cocks his fist back, and Bob is ready. He balances for one moment, the rock perfectly centered on the white of his shoe, then rears back before flicking his leg into a kick good enough to score the winning goal. His aim, impeccable. His execution, perfect. The rock flings off his foot going at least a hundred miles per hour, and lands square in the eye of the freckled kid. His elbow is still pulled back into a punching position when it happens.

Bob knows enough not to watch. To take his good fortune and make a run for it. And he does. Legs pumping away from danger. His heart, filling with courage as he flees the scene of the would-be beatdown, the first of many attempts on that street. The boy is screaming at the top of his lungs, but all he hears is the roar of the fans in the bleachers.