Chapter IV- Force & Change

Mark knew he was a different boy now; he walked, talked, and acted in ways he never had in the past. It wasn't anything instant or so obvious that literally everyone could see the new boy Mark had become… but in a way, everyone could. In PE class- a subject many boys, Mark among them, had once been so-so at best in- Mark was engaging himself with gusto, enjoying the chance to run, do pull-ups and pushups, and try out new sports every week. He wasn't the strongest or fastest of the boys in his class- not yet- but Mark's new enthusiasm for physical education surprised everyone.

Mark held his head higher these days, and as much as losing his mother had bothered Mark, he knew it was something he now had behind him. There was a time for mourning your losses, but there was such a thing as too much. Mark had been headed for a lengthy session of mourning; perhaps he'd never have gotten over it, period. Henry, on the other hand, had showed Mark how vital it was to take blows when they came, but to always come right back and keep going, always keep going. You always had to be moving forward.

The change in Mark was gradual, but steady, and Henry was cheerful and encouraging whenever Mark called. When the two had been standoffish and distant- at times even unfriendly- during that first week, Henry had been cold and arrogant. He was warm and generous to those he liked, but had a brutal sarcastic streak, and was very cold to those who angered him. But none of that applied to Mark; having accepted Henry's offer of friendship, Mark was now reaping the benefits. He could always call the house in Maine to speak with his cousin for advice, or just to talk about how things were going at school and at home. Henry was always making time to talk to him, and called Mark regularly himself.

What surprised Mark the most was one day, shortly after his birthday- which Henry had of course called on and sent presents for- when Mark called. Henry had been out in the shed in the backyard, working on some project or another he had out there. Mark, when told this by Aunt Susan, had smiled at the memory- he remembered Henry's "laboratory", all right. Mr. Highway and the crossbow that fired railroad spikes had both been created there; Mark hadn't asked Henry what he'd been working on there lately, but it could be safely assumed it would be of similar- better- impressiveness.

Mark's cousin had come inside around 6:30, an hour after dinner and perhaps a minute or so after Mark had called. He was traipsing through the kitchen in search of a warm snack- a good boy, Henry had made sure to leave his boots and coat in the entrance hallway- when Susan noticed him and told Henry Mark had called, and was still on the phone. Henry had quite literally dropped what he was doing- Mark had heard some bundle of things go crashing to the floor- and raced over to the phone.

"Hey! Hey, Mark!" Henry said, sounding a little breathless and more than a little excited. "What's up? How's my teenage- uh, cousin?" he said, briefly casting a glance at his mother. He wasn't sure if he wanted his mother knowing about his bond with Mark, how the two really just called each other cousins so as to avoid questions from curious adults. Of course, the world- absolutely no one- could ever know how closely bonded the two really were… and, in his own thinking, Henry wasn't sure himself. He understood a lot about Great Aunt Helen's estate home across the suburbs, enough that he'd been willing to take a tremendous risk and lure Mark into the Hall and force him down, drag him back to the Glass Library… and let the house change him.

Henry wasn't quite ready to admit it- not quite yet- but he was beyond thrilled at how well the whole thing had worked.

On the other end of the line, Mark chuckled.

"What?" Henry asked, frowning in confusion. "What's so funny?"

"You," Mark laughed, stifling rising laughter.

Henry was silent for a few moments, trying to figure out if he was being made fun of. Finally, though, Mark heard him start to laugh, too.

"I know you didn't just call to make fun of me, loser," Henry said with mock disdain.

"True," Mark agreed. "I saw roadkill the other day, and that squirrel still looked better than you."

"Eat me." Henry said.

"Only your intestines."

"With ketchup."

The two boys laughed again, pleasantries now having been properly exchanged. They talked amiably for a few minutes, the range of subjects loosening up some as Susan headed elsewhere in the house and no one was around the kitchen to listen. Henry was almost green with envy that Mark had turned thirteen first; he was looking forward to being a teenager in a big way. High school was said to be the best years of somebody's life, and Henry had every ambition of forcing that statement to come true for him.

Once he had wandered upstairs with the wireless set, Mark asked how Henry's "projects" had been going since he'd left. He could almost see Henry's face brighten at the question, and his voice lifted as well, showing his enthusiasm. "Oh, man!" he said. "I'm doing all kinds of stuff! Making a squirrel trap, for one thing. That's gonna be fun!"

Knowing just what use Henry planned on putting that trap to, Mark snickered. "Sounds fun, all right."

"Yeah," Henry said, his voice turning wistful. He lowered his voice a little, glancing around to make sure nobody was listening. "It'd be a lot more fun if you were still here."

Henry hit that nail on the head; Mark felt a deep pang of regret, a hope that he and Henry having the exact same wish at this moment could somehow help make it come true.

"Yeah," Mark said, wishing he could say something else. "I know."

But Henry, as always, had an answer; he made himself cheer up a little, knowing he needed to. For his cousin, even if not for himself. "Well, it's okay," Henry said. "We could never be done, Mark. We're brothers, and brothers look out for each other."

Mark had to clear his throat a few times before speaking; he felt something gripping his chest, restricting his ability to speak. He missed Henry. Missed him so much it hurt.

"Listen, Mark," Henry said gently, "I'm really glad you called."

"Yeah," Mark said finally, "Me, too."

Then, suddenly, Connie bounced into the kitchen, chirping something at Henry and then bouncing off into the house about how Henry was on the phone with a girl. "Connie!" Henry exploded, turning his head and only just remembering to avoid shouting into the phone. "Don't you ever-!"

Then Henry remembered he was still on the line with Mark. "Listen," Henry said, "I gotta teach another lesson. Talk to you later, okay?"

"Sure," Mark said, "You just set her straight." He liked Connie well enough, but intruding- and perhaps listening in- on other people's conversations was rude. Connie needed to learn that now so she wouldn't make a bigger mistake later.

Henry chuckled warmly- or coldly, depending on who you were. Connie doubtless would not have appreciated Henry's laughter at that moment in time. "Oh, you know it," Henry chuckled softly. "You know I will."

"Hang loose," Mark said, wondering where he'd even heard that, then hung up. He could almost see Henry tearing out of the kitchen, speeding through the vast white house and hunting down Connie for her transgression. Doubtless he would do something effective but harsh, and doubtless he'd get in some measure of trouble with his parents for it. But, also doubtless was the knowledge that Connie would indeed learn her lesson- and would never trifle with Henry like that again. Not when he was on the phone.

In their conversations, Mark sensed something else about Henry. His cousin was always in a good mood when talking with him, but Henry's tone of voice gave the impression of somebody who was improving to a good mood- and perhaps hadn't been in one before. More than once did Henry mention how he had done this or that, gone here or there, and found it would've been a lot more fun if he hadn't gone there himself. He really missed Mark, and that night on February 5th, admitted it openly. Mark took that as a great compliment- one he could easily reciprocate. But Henry seemed to be particularly short-tempered with people lately, like gaining a friend and then just losing him two weeks later had made his overall tolerance lower. Mark understood that easily enough.

One of the people Mark could barely stand even allowing in the same school as him- let alone the same room- was Sean Walters. Somehow naturally gifted as one of the strongest, fastest-growing boys in his class, Sean was the iconic, mean-spirited bully. He was tall, strong, and had a messy mop of black hair under which beady dark-brown eyes peered suspiciously, searching out weaker kids to establish his superiority over. Mark had given up his lunch money more than once in his early days at junior high; Sean had a way of finding him, it seemed. Once or twice he'd even endured a light beating- and that meant sitting there and being the kicky/punchy bag for a couple of minutes until Sean got bored.

But Sean wasn't bothering Mark much these days. There'd been no direct moment of truth, no confrontation that showed Sean and all the school who Mark really was now. But Sean, seeing Mark the first day he'd come back, had started to move in as the smaller kid was at his locker, talking with that twerp Alan Parks- and Mark, somehow, had easily seen him coming. Mark hadn't done anything in particular, said nothing to Sean- but gave him such a hateful, venomous look that Sean suddenly altered course and just headed off to class. He'd thought about that moment for a week afterwards; never had he seen a look like that from a scrawny kid like Mark Evans. Never.

Alan Parks, on the other hand- he was different. Sean beat him up a little after gym class one day- just a little playful slapping around, a few punches to the stomach and one to the nuts as a finishing touch- and the ginger-haired boy did just what the weaker kids always did. He tried to hurry for an exit without admitting fear and running, and didn't make it. He wisely gave up any effort of resistance, as that would've failed miserably and given Sean reason to let the beating really earn the name. And he tried to hold back, but just like all the others ended up crying anyway. Sean got bored and left him there before long, sniveling and curled up on the locker room floor. He'd made extra certain that Mark Evans had indeed left class early that day- the infirmary had called him up for some reason or another; a great stroke of luck as far as Sean was concerned. Last of all, Sean warned the Parks boy not to tell Mark Evans; dark look or no, Sean knew he could still take them both in a fight if he wanted, and it would be much worse for Alan Parks if he squealed, to Mark or the administration. If he did that, Sean advised, Alan Parks would never, ever again want to be alone. Not where Sean Walters could find him.

Sean knew there were some kids who were just tough customers- or thought they were. Some eggs took more effort to crack.

That was what Sean's pocket knife was for. He didn't carry it often, or his brass knuckles- but he could if he needed to.

Mark didn't hear about the incident from Alan directly; another player on the soccer team observed Sean moving a little slower than he should have during practice the next day, and when a ball bounced off his chest- no big deal at all normally- Alan visibly winced in pain. Noting these things, Mark had approached Alan during a break and asked if everything was all right. The vehement, evasive way Alan said yes immediately made Mark suspicious; at the end of practice, he all but dragged Alan into the baseball field's dugout and threatened to beat Alan up himself if he didn't talk.

Alan cringed visibly at Mark's sudden fierceness; for the first time in his life he was really afraid of his friend. "Wh-what's wrong with you?" Alan asked, scared and confused.

Mark's fierce, tense expression softened somewhat, but not a great deal. "Look," he said quietly, "You need to tell me. I gotta know what's wrong, because if someone messed with you, I gotta go kick their ass."

Alan just sat down on the dugout bench, clutching his bruised middle and wishing all the weirdness would just stop. That Mark and everybody else- or just Mark, really- would go back to the way they'd been. He didn't get his wish, because Mark just stood there, arms crossed over his sky-blue soccer jersey and the number 12 in white.

"Sean," Alan said finally, staring at the dirt on the ground. A dangerous fire lit in Mark's eyes, and instantly Alan felt afraid- this time not for himself, but for- of all people- the school bully. Well, one of the school bullies. Sean wasn't exactly alone in his role, not at a junior high school.

"Take off your shirt," Mark said, and it wasn't a request- it was a command. Too tired from the beating yesterday and practice today, Alan pulled his #9 jersey over his head and waited. Mark drew in a sharp breath as he looked over his friend's pale, lean chest and belly, now spotted unpleasantly with some well-placed bruises.

"Okay," Mark said finally. "Put your shirt back on. Let's go."

Alan asked- even begged- Mark to say no more about it, to not even tell anybody else on the team. Mark finally agreed, though he had to resist giving Alan a disgusted look as they walked back from the soccer field. What was Alan even doing; demonstrating teenage Stockholm Syndrome? Sean Walters was the biggest jerk in their class; what did Alan care what happened to him?

But Alan was adamant, and Mark assured him everything would be fine. He meant that in a somewhat different way than Alan understood it, though.

For a whole week after that Mark and Sean kept on ignoring each other, and Mark's standing among the hundreds of junior high students went up a small notch. He was no longer a victim, and that meant he could- perhaps- start to be taken seriously. The system was arbitrary and hypocritical about who it favoured, but some of it did have logic to it, however flawed it might have been. Simply enough, someone who looked like prey probably was. Girls- and guys- overall would not grant respect or popularity to someone like that. It was the boys who stood on their own two feet who got respect, and Mark was starting to earn some of that.

In early February, though, right around the 7th, the weather warmed just enough that some of those students who could began walking home instead of taking the bus. Nobody at Duvall Junior High was able to drive yet, but with the teenage years beginning to make their mark, the school bus just wasn't all that cool anymore. So Mark was pleased to learn that Sean did indeed live within walking distance of school, and that his neighborhood was even fairly close to Mark's.

The two happened to leave school at different enough times that neither had really noticed this before, but Mark noticed Sean heading out back and starting the walk home after school one day, just as he and Alan were getting ready to go. That Friday, when it was again sunny and Mark figured Sean would again be walking home, he made sure he and Alan were getting ready to go when Sean was. They headed out back, the one boy and the other two, one not quite aware of the others as he climbed the wood steps going up the tree-covered hill behind the school, planning to pass through these woods, head up a street and down another, and then be at home perhaps ten minutes later. Not far behind him though, and walking quicker than usual, was Mark- and not only was Mark madder than hell… he had a plan.