One
It was a Friday night, ironically enough, and it was not one to be spent indoors. The summer was nearing an end, and a group of friends and I were planning a camping trip up north. At the time, I was about to head over to Valentina Burkhart's place, to go over some of the details. If we could persuade Jack's older brother Steve to drive us in his van, then we could leave sometime early Sunday morning. If not, then we would have to put our trip on hold for a week. That would give us one week of camping, and another week to relax before school started up for the fall. Jack spent the first few weeks of the summer in bed, after catching the chicken pox from his younger cousin Mitch—which is ironic, since Jack was only babysitting the brat to earn enough money for the trip. Val spent most of July in Europe, and came back with a dazzling tan; which only made her look more beautiful than she already was—or am I just exaggerating? And the rest of us were busy with work or family gatherings to ever really get together and hang out, so we were determined to have this one camping trip. Two solid months of planning, over fifty phone calls were made—some of them long distant calls, just to keep in touch with Val—and we all had to find some way to work around our work schedules.
I had just left the house when my cousin Sal pulled into the driveway. Her real name was Sally, but I can't remember ever once calling her Sally; to me, she's always been cousin Sal. The fact that Sal was even female was a concept I had only just begun to understand when I turned thirteen. Sal lives in New York City, but was accepted into a University close to where I lived, so she was living with her "favourite auntie Becky and Uncle Prescott." We get along pretty well, but she still won't agree to drive me and my buddies up north for the week. So much for favourite relatives…
Sal noticed me walking out and smiled from inside my mother's beat up Toyota.
"Do you need a lift, cuz?" she asked from behind the half-open window.
I stopped and feigned a look of surprise. "Oh, now you're volunteering to drive me around?" I asked, a few feet from the rusted automobile.
"I'd drive you around the entire city if you wanted," she said, turning serious all of a sudden. I guess she wasn't aware that I was joking. I couldn't blame her. I made a big deal about it the other night…
"I know, I know," I mumbled, feeling bad all of a sudden.
"Really Dare, I would," she assured me. "But there's no way I'm driving six hours across the country just so you and your little friends can pitch a few tents and roast some stale marshmallows."
"Yea, I was kidding." I said, perhaps too loudly. I have a tendency to overreact. "It's only a few blocks to Val's place. Besides, I wouldn't want to be a bother."
Just for good measure, and to make sure that she was sure that I was only joking, I smiled and waved her off.
Val really did only live a few blocks away from my place; maybe just a few minutes away from our high school. We lived in the city, but were a lot further away from down town than most districts. Again, I can't give you many personal details, lest I put anyone I care about in jeopardy. Just know that I don't live in a small town like those characters you read about in books. That's something that always bothered me about novels of any genre: the main characters always lived in a small town with a ridiculous name. I lived in what you would call a district. If you want more of an explanation than that—perhaps a detailed description of the streets that lead to Val's house, or even Val's place itself—then too bad. The houses all look different from each other, and I'm sure that you could care less about how Mrs. Pottersby's roses shook from the rush of wind that is to be expected on a late summer's night.
So there I was, minding my own business and walking to my friend's house. I wasn't thinking about anything in particular. It was a summer night, so I wanted to relax my brain. But, I guess if you're really interested, I was thinking a little about Valentina. I won't lie. I have a major thing for Valentine Burkhart. I would even go as far to say that I'm in love with her. I mean, we've been friends since freshman year, and graduation was a lot closer than we were willing to admit. I've known Jack Morrison for much longer—going on ten years now—and I'm just as close to him as I am to Val…I can't explain it. I also won't go into much detail about trivial things, like how I stay up late at night thinking about her, and how I see her face whenever I close my eyes. Some things are best left private, and I think that's where most narrators go wrong when they tell a story; they give up too many of their secrets. Let's face it; you never know who's listening to your thoughts when you spill them out to the world.
I cut through the football field of a middle school across from my high school, just like I did on any other night I chose to see Val. I've taken that route a million times over the last two years or so, and I have never once—not once 730 days—have I ever witnessed some kid getting the crap kicked out of him. And these guys were really giving it to him! I could see the bruises forming on his face from ten feet away. This poor kid didn't even stand a chance, either; not against two broad-shouldered foot-ball types—only, instead of playing with a football, they played with his head! I knew these guys: Brett Fischer and Ronnie Black. I also knew the guy they were beating up, but only vaguely—his name was either Larry or Lucas, but I can't be sure. Well, whoever he was, Fischer and Black were really giving him a pounding.
I'm ashamed to say that I hesitated before helping Larry, or Lucas. It bothered me, seeing a good kid like Larry or Lucas getting beaten up, especially by such cruel thugs like Black and Fischer. But it wasn't any of my business. I've never bothered either one of these goons…then again, I doubt this poor kid ever said more than a word to them. I did walk up to Brett and Ronnie eventually, but only after I turned my back on Lucas or Larry and started walking a few feet more to Val's place.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" I said, walking over to where the white kids were beating up Lucas or Larry.
"Just having a bit of fun, man," Fischer said, grinning up at me. He let Lucas or Larry fall to the floor.
"I think he's had enough," I said. "Look, he can't stand up, and both of his eyes are swollen. Just step off, and sober up, alright?"
"What's it to you?" Black asked, poking me in my ribcage. "Do you even know the kid?"
"Not…personally, no." I mumbled. "But…come on, you're killing him!"
"Just run along, boy scout," Fischer laughed, grabbing the pathetic looking kid by the collar of his jacket. I think Black thought Fischer was being really witty, because he was howling with laughter at the Boy Scout remark. Meanwhile, I did something that I wouldn't advise: I pushed a very large, very dim-witted punk.
