Part of me wanted to charge at him with all my strength. The other part, the one that usually won out, was telling me to cut my losses, turn back home, and stay up late plotting unfulfilled designs of revenge. Either option would’ve been fine if it had been just me and Shawn. But Dave Kimball was there.
“Screw off. We’re going down to the pond.”
Shawn made sarcastic “ooh” and “ahh” sounds. “You dorks should go home. It’s past your bedtime.”
I pulled Danny by the shoulder and started us down a trail.
“Look out for Mike!” Shawn shouted. Then he did an imitation of the soundtrack to the movie Friday the 13th – the breathy part when Jason is creeping up on some guy and girl making out in a shed.
I had no clue where we were going, but I took the trail at full charge, determined to have something to show for an otherwise humiliating night. Danny stumbled after me. He was no doubt wondering what the hell the big deal was. But I kept pressing on, re-born serial killers or older brothers be damned.
In my rush, I’d never gotten the flashlight back from Shawn. When you hear someone say: ‘it was so dark, I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face,’ that’s what it was like. But there was a new kind of adrenaline pumping through me. Not the kind that makes you want to run back home, triple-bolt the doors and hide under your bed. This adrenaline was getting me revved up to beat the shit out of any man-sized lizard or blood-sucking bat that decided to cross my path.
I ripped out branches in front of me and stomped over the frickin’ reeds sprouting out all over the place. The ground got muddier, but I didn’t care. Danny fell behind and yelled out that he’d lost his shoe. I told him to stop bitchin’ and keep the hell up. My sneakers were soaked through, and I was having my own troubles pulling them out of the stinking mud. It was getting looser and deeper, up to my ankles. Then I took a step and splashed down on cool water.
I stepped a little further, and the way ahead cleared up. A full moon hovered over the top of the woods and shone down on a field of marsh weeds. A few more steps in, and there were minnows nibbling at my shins. If you ever go down to Mike’s Pond, you’ll understand. You don’t find Mike’s Pond. Mike’s Pond finds you.
Danny caught up, looking all flipped out. I pointed him around the place like one of those European explorers they taught us about in social studies class. I was Ponce de Leon stumbling on the Fountain of Youth. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Beyond the reed bed, I could see the water, sparkly in the moonlight. When a breeze came by, it was like the whole place breathed in and out, viny trees swaying around the border, and reeds bowing down and springing back. There was a little island in the middle, no more than twelve feet wide, and I could imagine swimming out there and feeling totally removed from everything in the world.
A few yards off, there was a forested bank where we could take it in without standing in water up to our knees. It was on the opposite side of the way we’d come. We trudged toward it and climbed up to higher ground.
I sat down with Danny, and we took off our muddy sneakers. We looked at each other and laughed and gazed out at the pond. We didn’t talk, but I figured Danny was thinking the same thing as me. A whole big world we’d never imagined, practically in our backyards.
Across the pond, I heard a group of teenagers gathering. There was laughter and screeches, and I could see little flashes of orange light from their cigarettes. Someone set off a string of firecrackers. Girls screamed. Boys howled. I studied every sound. I tried to imagine being part of the scene, but every picture in my head had me sitting off by myself, praying like hell that no one would look at me and fall out in hysterics.
Danny was looking over there too. His eyes lit up in dreamy expectation. I felt my heart gagging up in my throat worse than when we had first set foot in the place.
My failed future came into horrifying focus. I’d gotten through little league with snarky observations and an ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude to cover up the fact that I was the worst player on the team. When Danny talked about the possibility of dating girls, I changed the subject, acting like I was above such mundane things.
But next year was junior high. There would be junior varsity baseball tryouts and school dances. I had listened to my brother talking to his friends about make-out parties and girls that all the guys were hoping to bag. Meanwhile, the only thing that interested me was watching Dave Kimball playing his guitar in his garage with his vintage wide-collared shirt unbuttoned all the way down his torso.
I wasn’t normal. I wore the camouflage of normalcy but the clothes were getting threadbare, nearly see-through. And the eyes of other kids were sharpening with wisdom gleaned from older brothers, TV shows, and phys. ed. teachers. They knew how to spot a homo.
That night, I realized I didn’t belong at Mike’s Pond just like I didn’t belong anywhere in the world. I felt like bawling, but I kept it together sitting there with Danny. Danny was good for talking about TV shows and sci-fi movies, but he would think I was a real freak if I told him what was going on inside my head.
Danny nudged me and pulled up a handful of swamp grass. Sometimes, sitting in the outfield, waiting for someone to actually hit a ball our way, we put blades of grass between our thumbs, hold them up to our mouths and make a sound like a kazoo. We did that for a little while. Then we found a trail that cut through the woods to the thruway, hopped the fence and took the long way back home.
About Andrew J. Peters
Andrew J. Peters writes fiction for readers of all ages. His young adult series (The Seventh Pleiade, Banished Sons of Poseidon) garnered spots on All Our Worlds Diverse Fantastic Fiction’s Best Books of the Year and honorable mentions at the annual Rainbow Book Awards. His Werecat series was a finalist in The Romance Reviews’ 2016 Readers Choice Awards. He is also the author of Poseidon and Cleito and The City of Seven Gods, which was a finalist for the 2016 Foreword INDIES Best Book of the Year.
Andrew grew up in Amherst, New York, studied psychology at Cornell University, and has spent much of his career working with lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender youth to promote their safety and well-being. He lives in New York City with his husband Genaro and their cat Chloë.
Other Books by Andrew J. Peters
“A gay Atlantean prince combats gossip, a creepy priest and throngs of serpents in an attempt to deliver his ill-fated city from annihilation. Varied, vivid landscapes will entice discerning fantasy readers, and beefy vocabulary keeps the narrative hearty. A marriage of equality among fantasy, mythology, action and same-sex romance.” ~ Kirkus Reviews
““★★★★★ Peters knows how to write edge of your seat excitement. Strength, power, intensity, and adventure.” ~ Diverse Reader
The Werecat Series
“A newly turned shape-shifter strives to maintain his humanity while satisfying the demands of his creator and lover. It’s fantasy fiction certainly, but the emotion-driven narrative is achingly human. An innovative take on the shape-shifter genre.” ~Kirkus Reviews
Connect with Andrew J. Peters
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