Disclaimer: I don't own Rent.
"These cars are so stupid," eight-year old Roger Davis said, tossing a plastic, blue Matchbox car at the toy bin in the tiny second grade classroom.
Mark, his best friend, nodded in agreement. "I'm glad my Mommy never bought me these to play with." The six year old tossed his car in the bin after Roger's.
"What do you play with?"
Mark shrugged. "Sometimes I read Dr. Suess to my Daddy or I play with my Star Wars action figures. What about you?"
"Well, if my dad leaves his lighter on the table, I go out back and burn ants."
Mark's eyes widened. "You play with… fire?"
Roger nodded. "I'm careful. I ain't never set nothin' on fire yet. I like banging spoons on pots too. I used to do it when I was real little. My mom said she'd get my drum lessons when I got bigger, but I said I wanted to play the guitar."
"The thing with strings?"
"Yep," Roger nodded. "I'm gonna be a rock star when I grow up." He made little noises with his mouth and mocked the air guitar.
Mark grinned. "I'll listen to your records and be your number one fan."
"Really?" Roger brightened.
Mark nodded vigorously. "I'll be just like my big sister Cindy. She's Carly Simon's biggest fan."
"My mom listens to her records when she's sad. And she sings real loud and it hurts my ears."
Mark giggled. "So does Cindy."
"Recess is almost over," Roger sighed. It was his favorite part of the day – talking to his friends and not learning.
"On Friday after school, my Mommy said I could invite a friend to come over and play. Do you wanna come over to my house and play?"
"Okie dokie," Roger replied.
--
After school on Friday, Mark led Roger out of school towards his mother's green and wood station wagon. Mrs. Cohen stood outside of the vehicle, leaning against the side. She smiled when she saw that two boys coming towards her.
"Hello, Mark dear. How was school?" She bent down to kiss her son's forehead, and take his school bag.
"Fine. This is my best friend Roger." He indicated towards the tall-for-his-age boy with dirty blonde hair and torn jeans who was standing next to him.
Mrs. Cohen smiled at him. "Hello dear, it's nice to meet you."
Roger smiled. "Hey."
--
"Would you boys like some cookies?" Mrs. Cohen asked, leading the boys inside the house with blue shingles and a white picket fence.
"Are they homemade chocolate chip?" Roger asked, remembering the cookies Mark had generously shared with him the previous year.
"Yes, they are," Mrs. Cohen insured.
"Yes I do want one," he followed her into the kitchen. "I mean, may I have one please?"
Mrs. Cohen smiled at Roger's attempt at manners. "Of course, dear."
Mark and Roger sat down at the kitchen table, Mark struggling to get his scrawny body up onto the chair. Mrs. Cohen placed two cookies and a glass of milk in front of each boy and sat down with a copy of the weekly magazine from the Scarsdale Jewish Community Center she subscribed to.
When he finished his cookies, Mark let out a tiny burp, both boys immediately breaking out into giggles.
"Mark," Mrs. Cohen warned with a soft smile.
"Excuse me."
"That was weak," Roger taunted with a grin, followed by a loud, obnoxious belch. He patted his chest and let out an "ah" for emphasis. Mark giggled louder.
Even Mrs. Cohen allowed herself to chuckle, but not until after, "Now what do you say?"
"Excuse me," Roger smiled politely.
"Why don't you two go upstairs and play?" Mrs. Cohen suggested, collecting the empty cups.
Mark led the way upstairs. Once at the top of the steps, the boys heard what sounded like a cat dying.
"What is that?" Roger asked.
"That's Cindy singing," Mark explained.
They listened closer. "YOU'RE SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO VAAAAAAAAINNNNN!" The singing was off key and not in time with the song.
"She sounds exactly like my mom," Roger mentioned.
Mark laughed. "This is my room." On the closed door, Roger saw a baseball plaque-type-thing that said 'Mark's Room' in red with a Yankees symbol on the bottom.
"I'm ashamed," he pointed at the small NY in the corner in mock disappointment.
"My daddy got that for me," Mark explained. "I actually really don't like baseball. It's boring."
"It's funner if you go to an actual game," Roger said. "My dad took me to a Red Sox and Yankees game when I was four and I've been the biggest fan since."
"That's cool," Mark replied. "I went to a Yankees game once and I fell asleep on my mommy's lap. Wanna go inside now?" Mark opened the door to his room, decorated mostly light blue. In the corner, there was a pile of toys, mostly super hero and Star Wars action figures and a few books. "Whattaya wanna play?"
"Wanna play soldier?" Roger asked.
"Okay," Mark replied. He walked over to a toy box and dug through, retrieving a small doll. "My aunt got me this for Hanukkah last year and I never got to play with it. I think his name is Joe."
Roger took the G.I. Joe doll from Mark. "He can be the eminy. Can you borrow a Barbie from your sister that can be a hostage?"
"Lemme see." Mark wandered down the hall to sneak into Cindy's room. Distracted by Carly Simon, Cindy didn't even notice her little brother slip into her room and leave with her favorite Barbie doll. "Got one," he waved it in the air.
"Cool." Roger set the G.I. Joe and the Barbie on the windowsill near Mark's bookshelf. "I'll be Sergeant Boo. You can be Colonel Hoo."
"Okay."
"Psht," he mimicked a walkie-talkie. "This is Sergeant Boo. Do you read me Colonel Hoo? Over."
"Phst. Yes."
"Psht. You're supposed to say Roger. Over."
"Wait, I thought I was supposed to call you Sergeant Boo?"
"You are. But when you hear me, you're supposed to say Roger."
"Oh. Psht. Roger."
"Psht. We're going to attack from the left and sneak up on the eminy. Over."
"Roger that."
The boys continued their game of soldier, diving around Mark's room and flopping off his bed. They eventually were able to rescue Cindy's Barbie, but not before the battle's only causality of Joe. After a long freefall from the windowsill to the azure blue carpet (or the Patlantic Ocean as Roger called it), Joe was pronounced dead and what Roger named World War Twelve was won by the Second Grade Army. Cindy's Barbie was safely returned to her bedroom, although Mark got an earful from his twelve-year-old sister about how it was wrong to kidnap Marina (which was apparently the Barbie's name. Roger didn't know Barbie's had names besides Barbie.)
The boys returned to Mark's room and sat down on the floor.
"That was really fun," Roger commented. "We should play again some time."
Mark nodded. "Yeah. You can come over again."
Roger's face lit up. "Cool." His eyes wandered to the pile of books in the corner of Mark's room. "Read me this?" He picked one up at random.
"Sure." Mark took the Dr. Suess book from Roger's grasp and opened it to the first page.
Roger scooted closer to Mark, leaning his head on his shoulder so he could see the pictures. After a few minutes of Mark's soothing voice dictating the tale of Sam's green breakfast, he could feel his eyelids begin to droop. He smiled sleepily as Mark read him into a dreamland of Green Eggs and Ham.