A Summertime Journey

choker, like the ones you see in California. His friends trail behind him, but not too close, as he makes his way toward me. DAMN—RUN! That’s what is racing through my mind. Visions of being punched and knocked to the ground as they stand over me, laughing, swirl in my head. But I can’t. The imaginary tar grips my feet, and no matter how many times my mind tells my legs to move, they won’t. I will stand here in the heat of the summer sun and await my fate.
Larry saunters up to me and thrusts out his right hand as if to shake. My eyes momentarily catch a glimpse of the skull ring on his middle finger as it glistens from the sun, and I think, That’s going to hurt. I close my eyes and extend my right leg behind me for balance as I prepare for the onslaught of his fists of fury… then… nothing. I’m shocked. Instead of throat punching me, he wants to shake my hand. Why? Maybe Larry is going to congratulate me for surviving a whole school year. Perhaps I’m off the hook, no humiliation, and, more important, no pain. I smile nervously and stick my hand out. Larry envelops it with the stout firmness of a burly truck driver and smiles. I’m okay, and I know I’ve dodged a bullet. Just then, I feel an excruciating, sharp, searing pain. Larry has a thumbtack and runs it down the length of my hand from the wrist to the knuckle. Blood immediately bubbles up between the broken skin and the pain with it. Damn, that hurts. Instinctively, I try to pull my hand away, but Larry still has it trapped in a vice-like grip.
“What the hell, Larry,” I yelp.
“What, you little sissy, you gonna cry over a little scratch? Are those tears? Little baby.”
Yep, those are tears, not sweat from the summer heat, threatening to roll down my cheeks. By this time, all of the rubberneckers have slowed down or stopped to watch, many just glad that it’s not them. Damn, humiliated again. From the back of my eyelids, I hear a calm female voice: “Don’t worry, you are safe. We’re here to help and protect you.” Was that in my head? Or did a teacher walk up to us? I open my tightly shut eyes and, through the blur of my tears, try to catch a glimpse of the teacher—nothing. It must be in my head, I think. I’ve heard the voices most of my life. My mom said they’re guardian angels. I think it’s a nuisance and sometimes wonder if I’m sane.
“Hey, I said: do you wanna come to a party tonight?” Larry rumbles. I must not have heard him the first time; he is staring directly at me.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you dumb little shit, you wanna come to a party tonight?”

CHAPTER THREE
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“… AND HAVE A SAFE summer!” Mr. Richardson, Jeremy’s teacher, yells. At that moment, everyone in Mr. Richardson’s class jumps to their feet and starts heading for the classroom door, Jeremy, among them. “Stupid teacher, keeping us late on the last day of school. Stupid fucker—jus’ cause he has nothing to do doesn’t mean he needs to keep us all late.” Jeremy is swearing under his breath, soft enough that his teacher can’t hear but loud enough that the girl next to him is giggling and nodding her head in agreement. He rounds the door and starts heading south, down a very crowded and loud hall, bobbing and weaving in and out of the traffic to avoid a collision. “Fucking can’t believe it, the nerve of that motherfucker.” Jeremy is still cussing but no longer trying to hide it from anyone as he slams the double doors open with his shoulder and exposes them to the sunlight once again. He immediately begins to look around for me. As he looks down toward the parking lot, he starts swearing again: “Fuck, fuck, fuck, not again,” as he sees me surrounded by Larry and his motley crew.
When Larry notices Jeremy walking toward us, he loosens his grip on my molested hand, turns his head, and yells, “Wuz up, Jerk-off Jeremy?” He fully let's go so he can give the universal sign of jerking off.
“Not much, just glad school’s out,” Jeremy says nonchalantly, pretending not to notice Larry’s hand going up and down in front of his pants like a piston pump on a Big Texan.
“Hey, I just invited this little bitch to my party tonight—you can come too, Jerk-off. What do you say?”
“Yeah, we’ll be there, Larry. What time?” Jeremy says as his eyes fixed on two ninth-grade girls loudly chatting as they strut out of the overcrowded parking lot onto the street.
“Why don’t you show up about six a.m. so you can help clean up. I don’t give a shit what time you show up, Jerk-off. Party starts at dark. And bring some alcohol or drugs, bitches—this ride ain’t free.” And then Larry’s friends join in: “Where’s the beef, bitches! Where’s the beef!” That’s their favorite saying now. You can hear them coming down the hallways yelling that out every day. Except they leave off “bitches” in the school. Jeremy nods at Larry, and we turn and walk away, ignoring his buddies.
“Dude, I can’t believe we got invited to Larry’s party,” I say as we turn to leave, rubbing my molested hand, and we begin walking in the same direction as the two girls. Jeremy looks over at me with a look of disappointment on his face, and his eyes wander back to the two butts stuffed into skintight, faded 501 jeans.
“Yeah,” he says.
Jeremy isn’t as naïve as me, and he’s way cooler. He’s a halfback on our football team, and growing up with his older brother taught him how to deal with bullies and fight back if needed. Jeremy always wears the coolest clothes—Vans, 501s, and Ocean Pacific shirts. He also has an array of rock concert shirts his