December Park(21)

There was nothing in particular Nathan Keener had done to Michael this year, aside from simply making all our lives miserable every time we had the misfortune to run into him. And it wasn’t just us—the son of a bitch tormented every kid he came into contact with. Every town has its bully, and Nathan Keener was ours. And while he had no goodwill for any of my friends, I knew he hated me a little bit more than the rest because my father was a cop. People like the Keeners grow up with an ingrained distrust of law enforcement, the way some breeds of dogs, after generations of abuse, will distrust people.

“Besides,” Peter continued, “you don’t have the balls to go after Keener.”

Michael scowled, then chucked another egg at the McGee house; it shattered against the aluminum siding. “I’ve got balls like cantaloupes, *.”

Both Peter and Scott laughed just as the porch lights came on. We all dropped down behind the hedgerow. Through the branches, I saw someone peering out of a lighted doorway, examining the detritus on the porch.

A man called out, “I see you kids.”

But we knew this was a lie. It was what all the adults said, presuming they could fool us into revealing ourselves. We never fell for it.

After a moment, the door shut again.

We remained secreted behind the hedgerow, none of us making a sound. It was cold enough that our respiration fogged the air. Somewhere off in the distance, a lone dog howled despondently.

“Okay,” Michael whispered after enough time had passed. He dug around in the knapsack on Scott’s back, produced some more eggs, then handed them out to the rest of us. “Let’s do the egg cream,” he said, fishing one of the cans of shaving cream out from the knapsack.

We covered our eggs with shaving cream, and on Michael’s three-count, we all sprung up simultaneously and launched our projectiles at the McGee house. Four distinct explosions—flump! flump! flump! flump!—resounded through the night as great foamy clouds appeared on the siding of the house.

This time, less than two seconds passed before Mr. McGee, massive and black and silhouetted, bolted out the door and down the porch steps.

None of us said a word; we all took off, laughing.

“You little bastards!” Mr. McGee shouted after us. “I know where you live! I know your parents!”

We didn’t slow down until Scott, who’d chanced a glance over his shoulder, informed us that we were no longer being pursued. Still giggling, we continued down the street while attempting to catch our breath. Michael held his pith helmet as he tipped his head back and howled into the night.

At the end of the block, another group of kids returned the howl, followed by some derogatory catcalls. They chucked small twists of white paper at our feet, which popped with little explosions as they struck the pavement.

Scott, who still had an egg in his hand, skidded to a stop. He wound his arm back and tossed the egg, which exploded on the shirt of the nearest boy.

“Bull’s-eye,” Peter crowed, and we sprinted into the trees before the other kids could give chase.





We burst onto McKinsey Street, our hearts racing. With our laughter dying off in shuddery increments, we staggered over to the curb and sat down. A small A-frame house, nestled among heavy black spruce and about as dark as the interior of a coffin, stood at our backs. The name on the mailbox caught my attention.

“Shit,” I said. “It’s Nozzle Neck’s house.”

Still somewhat out of breath, Michael spread his map across his lap and examined it. “You know, I forgot to put old Nozzle Neck on the map.”

“Why?” asked Scott. “What’d he do to you?”

“Not to me,” Michael said, jerking a thumb in my direction. “To Angie.”

“Oh,” Scott said and looked at me.

I waved a hand at them. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

“No way, man.” Michael motioned for Scott to slide the knapsack over to him. “He got you in trouble with your pops. He got you grounded. He has to pay, just like everyone else.”

“No one has to pay for anything,” I said.

Ignoring me, Michael peered into the knapsack. “We got four eggs left.”

“It’s kismet,” Scott said, his eyes brightening in the mask of black shoe polish he wore.

Michael removed the eggs from the knapsack and handed them out to each of us. Then he stood, anxiously rolling his egg back and forth between his palms as he surveyed Mr. Naczalnik’s house.

“Shit,” Scott said. “I think I saw someone in that window.”

Peter looked at the house. “Which one?”

Scott pointed to one of the first-floor windows. The whole house was dark, and it was impossible to see anything. “Right there. Someone was looking out from the curtains.”

“You’re imagining things,” Michael said. “No one’s home. There’s not even a car in the driveway.”

In my hand, the egg felt cold and heavy, somehow more substantial than the others I’d chucked all evening. On the next block over, the disembodied whoops and hollers of children could be heard.

“Bombs away,” Michael said, and pitched his egg at Naczalnik’s house. It smashed against the siding of the front porch, a sound like a small firecracker.

Scott threw his egg next, and his aim was more precise than Michael’s: it hit the front door dead center and shattered, the stringy goop seeming to glisten in the moonlight. Then Peter threw his egg in a high, lazy arc; the egg exploded against one of the porch balusters with a sound like a frog’s croak.