He only noticed that his hands were sweating. He didn’t feel the stress in his leg. He didn’t comprehend the pounding of the muscles, the blood flowing, his skin virtually beating like one giant heart, his feet turning over and over and over again as he literally beat the bicycle pedals into understanding his urgency. Just his hands, the slickness of wet skin on rubber handlebars, the fear that he might slip, lose control, and lose her.

His sword banged against his back, held in place by a piece of rope his mother used to tie up old newspapers for recycling. She didn’t know he’d left. She would have stopped him. She would have said “you’re nine years old and, the street is too busy. It’s dangerous. You can go by yourself when you turn ten, when you learn a little more common sense.”

He was two months from those mystical double digits.

He didn’t notice the sword’s rhythmic beating against his back. He stopped thinking about his hands. He had to get to her. He had to save his Princess. It was his last chance, his only chance.

He didn’t hear the car coming, the revving engine growing louder as it closed the distance between the front end of the Grand Marquis and his Huffy bicycle.

His eyes, locked on the path in front of him, didn’t pick up on the great blue hood bearing down on him from his left.

“Princess Cassandra,” he said breathlessly, “Princess Cassandra. I’m coming!”

He didn’t feel the impact, the crushing of metal against bone against metal. He didn’t know he’d landed on the hood of a car, and he might have thought he’d sprouted wings when the car screeched to a stop and he sailed through the air. All he thought was “I’m flying. I’ll fly to you, Princess.” the thought interrupted by the cruelness of pavement, the unforgiving, unbending essence of the blackness.

The sky began to grow dark. He felt warm all over. He could hear a voice but couldn’t understand it. His fingertips suddenly felt cold, like he’d dipped his fingers in ice water. He squinted his eyes but the darkness crept in from all sides, more of a smoky impenetrable haze than blackness. A fine, distinct, vivid point of light fought to push off the haze. He focused on the light. Again the voices, but they didn’t make any sense. He rolled his tongue around feeling it stick to the roof of his mouth, get caught on his teeth, grow thicker and thicker. He squinted again. The light was losing. The darkness continued to close in.

“Princess Cassandra,” he managed, but he wasn’t sure if the words got anywhere. “Save Princess Cassandra,” he tried again.

The darkness won.

  Kelly had a date. It wasn’t her first date. After all, she was 17 years old. She’d been going on dates for three years, and even then she thought her parents had been painstakingly slow to finally say “Yes, Kelly. You can go out with that boy to the movies. But you have to be home by nine.”

Over the years that dating curfew had stretched out to ten, eleven, and then midnight . Kelly wondered what life would be like in college, with no curfews, no parents, no one to tell her when to be home. Or even whether she had to come home at all.

No, it wasn’t her first date. But she didn’t want it to end up being her last. At least not with this one. He was so different from the others.

His name was Davis . He was tall, with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes. He was a swimmer, and that meant his body was perfect. Better than those bulky football players, more defined than those stringy baseball players. Each muscle a study in perfection and symmetry. And he was smart. He knew about poetry and books and physics and movies and magazines and. everything! And when he talked about them he wasn’t trying to impress you. He just talked about them. He was smart enough to know when not to sound too smart, and that was just right for Kelly. She couldn’t stand the braniacs.

It was going to be their second date. “It’s going to be our first kiss,” Kelly smiled and grabbed her stomach thinking about it, trying to feel every single butterfly that flittered and fluttered from one side of her belly to the other. “And it’s not going to be our last,” she sighed, sinking back into the couch, then turning her head for a look at the clock.

It was eight thirty . He’d be picking her up in an hour and she still had to get home. Mister and Misses Granger said they’d be back by nine. They promised. She’d told Mrs. Granger about her plans, her date with Davis .

“That’s so exciting,” Mrs. Granger had said in her usual hurried way. “But make sure he’s a nice boy. Sometimes boys are after more than just a fun night at the movies. But of course you know that. You’re 17 after all. I’m sure you know a lot more about boys than I did when I was 17. Sometimes I wish I could figure it all out again.”

For a minute Kelly wondered what Mrs. Granger meant, but by 8:30 she wasn’t wondering about that anymore. She was wondering if the Grangers would just get home on time.

“He treats me like a princess,” she remembered telling Mrs. Granger, grabbing her stomach again. The word hung on a little cliff inside her head, trying to keep from falling into the abyss of the forgotten. A princess. The word snapped her back to the present. “Princess,” she muttered again, but with a shiver and a hint of contempt. She thought of Sam up in his room. He’d been there for 40 minutes. She hadn’t heard a peep in all that time. Then again, Sam was an easy kid to babysit. He never cried, he never whined, he didn’t really talk all that much at all. And he never called her Kelly. He called her Princess Cassandra.

The stars looked so close he knew that if he could just reach high enough, hard enough, one day he would touch one.

He liked the stars more than the moon. When he blinked at them, they blinked back. And there were so many of them, so many possibilities, so many to try and reach. The moon was big and boring, glimmering and shining and taking up so much of the night sky it was obvious the moon just wanted to steal the show. Man had landed on the moon, but don’t they say man is always reaching for the stars? Why should we be happy landing on the moon? And it had been so exciting, we don’t even go back. No, the moon was a bore, an egocentric cheese-looking crater filled hogging the sky bore. And Sam could have gone the rest of his life without ever seeing it again.

“Just let me touch one star, once. I know I can do it. One day, I will do it,” he told himself.

Sam wandered from his window to his bed, stopping in front of the mattress and launching himself into the air, the highest leap he could muster, belting a “Heeyah!” as he sprung then and landed with both feet sinking into the softness of his covers.

“Just try and take me alive,” he bristled to no one in particular, his shoulders hunched and teeth bared. He was ready to spring again, this time on any enemy that might have the gall, the audacity to set foot into his room, his fortress. But no one came.

Undaunted Sam flopped onto his stomach and reached beneath the bed, his hair hanging in front of his eyes as the blood rushed to his brain. He liked that feeling, being bent at the waist, leaning precariously over the mattress, feeling the surge of fluids flood his head, that feeling where the eyeballs seem to be getting bigger and bulgier. He hung that way for 15 seconds before reaching his hands beneath the box spring, pushing aside a suitcase and a few boardgames and looking for what he was really after.

“There you are,” he said. “No one can touch you except me. Anyone who touches you besides me will die. Do you hear that,” and like that, like a bolt of lightning he was back on his feet, arms stretched high over his head gripping the hilt of “Thanus, the most powerful sword in the whole universe,” the words barely escaping his lips amid a truly valiant exhale. “My trusty friend. The only one I can trust. Sir Samuel, Knight of the Order of the Stars, sole protector of the secrets of.the secrets of.the secrets of the world!” he shouted. “And the universe too,” he said, much more subdued, bringing the sword down in front of him. He fingered the blade, “You need to be sharpened,” he said. “Not going to slay many enemies in this condition. Off we go,” and he vaulted from the bed onto the carpet, rolling across it with the enthusiasm of a gymnast trying to make the Olympic team.

Slashing and slicing his way through the room he was back at the window. Gripping Thanus, he thrust his arm outside, aiming the point of the blade skyward. “The evening star,” he said, and bowed his head. “I swear by the evening star, the most sacred of stars, the wonderful beautiful fantastic evening star, one day I will touch you. But in the meantime, I have my mission. I swear by the evening star that I won’t fail. I will not fail,” this time with emphasis, “not even if all the demons and all the knights and all the wizards and witches try to stop me. They can’t stop me, not with trusty Thanus in my hand. They can’t. I am Sir Samuel, Knight of the Order of the Stars, and I accept my mission to protect Princess Cassandra. I swear to protect her, or to die trying.”

He was kneeling on a chair when she walked into the room. A chair propped up right next to an open window. He was still on his knees, but barely, the bulk of his body leaning dangerously through the open space where the glass was supposed to be.

“My God, Sam,” Kelly screamed running across the room. She grabbed him by the waist and pulled him back through the window. “What in the world do you think your doing?” She was seething. “You could have fallen out. It’s twenty feet to the ground. You could have been killed. You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

He looked at her quizzically. He looked at her in a way that a nine year old isn’t supposed to look at you. He wasn’t afraid, not even apologetic. He seemed to be, of all things, confused.

“My lady, I would never give you a heart attack. I’m sworn to protect you,” he said as he whipped the sword up in front of his face, not before catching it in the fabric between the crevice of her chest.

“You poked me in the boob,” she shouted. “If that thing were real you’d have cut it off. Give it to me,” Kelly demanded, one hand stretched in front of her.

“Give you my sword, Thanus?”

“Yes,” and she stomped her foot, the blood now rushing to her face. “Give it to me, now.”

“But my lady, if you touch this sword.if anyone but me touches Thanus that person will die. I can’t give it to you. Remember, I’m sworn to protect you. I’m sorry, but I can’t do what you’re asking me to do, Princess Cassandra.”

“I’m not a princess, I’m your babysitter. And you’re not a knight, you’re a weird little boy with a plastic sword and you’re going to give it to me or else,” she fumed.

“Or else what?”

She lunged for an answer, both her hands outstretched determined to catch that “plastic piece of junk” as she called it, and throw it in the trash once and for all. She lunged, but Sam had anticipated it. He stepped aside.

She didn’t expect the nimble move, and she wasn’t ready for what was behind him. She’d lunged too hard, too fast, and suddenly her shin caught the wooden chair Sam had been kneeling on. She didn’t notice the pain, not the dull smack of wood versus bone, barely any flesh to cushion the blow. She didn’t notice the pain but she did notice she’d lost her balance, and she was headed straight for the open window. Suddenly she found herself calculating that 20 foot drop all over again.

For the second time in just as many minutes, the words “My God” flew from her lips. The second time they’d lost any authority, the words consumed by fear. Her hands missed the window ledge and her feet were starting to leave the ground when she felt like someone was trying to pull off her skirt. For some reason she thought of the hooligans at her high school, the boys overwhelmed by testosterone and whatever else those hormones brought on, the ones who thought it was funny to sit behind you in class and unclasp your bra. Her skirt was about to come right off!

She wanted to scream at the indecency of it. She did scream again, but not about any indecency. She screamed at the pavement staring up at her, from what had to have been twenty feet. The sidewalk stared, but it didn’t move any closer. She’d stopped. She didn’t fall.

Sam was still holding her skirt when she pulled herself back inside.

“Take your hands off of that,” she scolded, and she saw the sudden change on his face. From the bright eyes, the broad smile, the confident, beaming look he had when she first saw him standing there clasping her skirt, from that to a loss of color, his head hanging, his eyes fixed squarely on his feet. Thanus, fell to the floor.

“I was just trying to protect you,” he whispered. “I didn’t want you to fall.”

Kelly fell to her knees as the first of Sam’s tears fell to the floor. She put her arms around him and pulled him close, kissing his cheek and holding him tight against her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she slowly rocked the both of them back and forth. “I’m so sorry, Sam.” She held him for a few more seconds then released him, both her hands on his shoulders, half a foot separating their faces. “You did protect me. God,” she sighed, “you probably saved my life. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I really didn’t. You saved me,” she told him.

“I told you,” he said, “I’m sworn to protect you.”

He didn’t huff and puff like most kids his age. Kelly had been around the babysitting block and knew a sincere cry from a cry for attention. He just stood there, crestfallen, hands hanging at his sides, the words coming softly from his lips. There hadn’t been a flood of tears, just quiet, salty streaks lining his cheeks, one at a time drifting towards the floor.

“You’re Princess Cassandra.” And the way he said it she almost believed it. Like she’d had amnesia and had forgotten who she was and here this boy came along and reminded her just like that.

“I’ll be your princess,” and she hugged him again, “and I’m glad to have you protecting me. The bravest knight in the world. Thank you, Sir Samuel.”

He was like a lizard, no a snake, quiet and cautious, easing himself around the banister at the top of the stairwell for a clear look at “him.”

“The villain,” Sam said under his breath, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword.

Sam’s parents weren’t going to be home on time, and that meant Kelly wouldn’t be home on time, which meant she’d either be late for her date with Davis or she’d have to cancel it altogether. Canceling wasn’t an option.

“But Mrs. Granger,” she said, “when do you think you will be home?”

“It should be right around 9:30 , maybe a few minutes later. Don’t worry, Kelly, we’ll pay you double your hourly rate for the extra hour.” Kelly could hear a muffled Mrs. Granger telling her husband “Don’t you start arguing, we’ll pay her more and that’s that,” figuring Mrs. Granger had put her hand over the phone to stifle any evidence that her better half wasn’t keen on the idea of forking over any more cash.

“It’s not the money, Mrs. Granger. It’s not the money at all,” she fought to keep the tears from coming, “I’ve got a date. With Davis . Remember, the boy I told you about tonight?”

“What’s that dear, a date? Oh that’s right, you do have a date, don’t you.” Kelly could still hear Mr. Granger mumbling in the background, phrases like “money doesn’t grow on trees” and “she’s only 17, what’s she need all that money for” carrying over the phone. He was just starting to say something like “she’s probably going to spend it on” when Mrs. Granger’s voice finally drowned him out again. “Tell you what, Kelly. I know this is an inconvenience for you,” then she whispered into the phone, “and I’ll throw a little extra money your way on top of what I already said,” and she raised her voice again, “but what if you asked David.”

” Davis ,” Kelly corrected her.

“Of course, Davis . What if you asked Davis to pick you up at our house? We’re only a mile from where you live and..”

“But I’ve still got to change!” Kelly protested.

“I was getting to that. We’re about the same size, aren’t we? Go ahead and go into my closet and see if there’s not something there that might work for you. Never mind the business suits on the right. Past them I’ve got some wonderful blouses, I think this black one I just bought last week would be perfect. You are wearing jeans, aren’t you?”

“No,” Kelly started to say, but Mrs. Granger kept going as if Kelly had said “yes.”

“Well, go ahead and just dab on a little perfume, brush up your make-up (you can use anything of mine that you like), and grab that blouse and you’ll look spectacular. I’m sure of it.” Kelly took a breath, ready to respond but it was too late. “Alright? Perfect. We’ll see you around 9:30 then. Bye Kelly!”

And that was how Sam got his first look at “My sworn enemy,” he grimaced. “I’ll have to strike him down.”

Surprisingly, Kelly thought, the blouse was perfect. It was silk and short and showed off Kelly’s slender figure better than any top she might have found in her own closet. It made her look mature, and she liked that. “He won’t think I’m just another high school tramp wearing this,” she told herself, turning from side to side in front of the Granger’s head to toe mirror, admiring the shape of her legs, stomach, chest, and butt. “You do look good,” she smiled, “he won’t be able to resist.”

True to form, Davis took the change in plans in stride. “It’s not a problem, Kelly,” he told her over the phone. “I’m just glad you don’t have to cancel. I’ve really wanted to go out with you again,” and when he said that the butterflies felt more like bumblebees buzzing a million miles an hour around her stomach. She gave Davis the Granger’s address and said he could still pick her up at 9:30 . “I’ll look forward to seeing you then,” he’d said before hanging up.

The Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center only wishes it could be lit as brightly as Kelly’s face was after she hung up the phone.

“It looks like your parents are going to be late, Sam.” She was still on the clock and couldn’t neglect her duties to the nine year old.

“It’s Sir Samuel, remember,” he reminded her.

“Of course, Sir Samuel,” she said. “Well, my brave little knight.”

“I’m not a little knight. I’m a big knight. The biggest and the bravest in the whole universe.”

“Okay, Okay,” she hurriedly said, “Then my BIG knight. Your mom and dad should be here around 9:30 . In the meantime, I’ve got to get ready.”

“Ready for what,” Sam asked her.

“I have a friend coming over. He’s meeting me here instead of my house because your parents are running a little behind. So I need to get ready before he gets here.”

“Is he a knight?”

“No, he is not a knight. His name is Davis and he’s a friend.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“Not yet,” she mused with a broad smile, “No he’s not my boyfriend. But he’s a very special friend, and I want you to be very nice to him. That means keep your sword in your room when he gets here.”

“Will he be nice to you,” Sam asked her. “Because if he’s not nice to you then I can’t put my sword away. He could be an evil knight and you would never know it. He could be a warlock or something, and then you’ll want me to have my sword so I can strike him down ,” and as he said the words Thanus virtually cut the air, leaving behind a razor thin slice in spacetime that physicists would have difficulty explaining for centuries to come.

“You won’t be striking anyone down,” Kelly said sternly, patting him on the head at the same time. She hadn’t forgotten her near fatal fall from his bedroom window, nor the tears that fell when she scolded him for yanking on her skirt. She didn’t want to upset Sam, but she didn’t want him making her look like a fool either.

The valiant Knight of the Order of the Stars carefully sized up the man he knew to be his enemy. He could feel it in the air, the way the tall, slender, keen-eyed looking foe’s presence brought a rush of cool air into the room, chilling the valiant Knight’s ears and making his eyes feel so dry that he blinked seven times in a row just to get them to work properly again.

From the top of the stairs Sir Samuel weighed his advantages. His enemy wasn’t armed, at least not with a sword. Sir Samuel knew the enemy might have other weapons at his disposal. He could be wearing a protective charm around his neck, a device given to him by a wizard or witch who practiced the dark arts and whose talents could be bought for a cheap price, one’s soul. Or he might even know a few spells of his own, spells that would ward off the sudden swing of a sword, causing the intended blow to glance and rendering the Knight who attacked him powerless to do anything else.

There were so many possibilities. If there was one thing Sir Samuel wouldn’t do, it would be to underestimate his enemy. Like any good Knight, he’d study his foe for weaknesses, look for an opening, then exploit it.

“How long before the kid’s parents get home,” he heard the man who called himself Davis ask Princess Cassandra.

“It shouldn’t be too long,” and Sir Samuel saw that she took the man’s hand as she led him from the front door into the living room, and out of his view.

“She’s already under his spell,” Sir Samuel told himself. “He must have powerful magic,” he said out loud.

Sir Samuel lay motionless at the top of the stairs, his bright eyes poking between two spindles, his fingers moving along Thanus’s edge lost in their own thoughtful contemplation. They rounded the smooth curves, the fingers pressing into the line of the blade where the two broad sides meet, the line that should slice through any opponent with the ease of a hot knife through butter. But the fingers weren’t damaged by the blade, sending a message to Sir Samuel’s brain that “Thanus really needs to be sharpened.” Sir Samuel scowled, “But I don’t have time for that. Not right now, at least.”

He slithered to the top of the landing, staying on his belly, staying low. He counted the stairs, all seventeen of them. Sir Samuel knew he had one advantage working in his favor, he knew the terrain. The fourth and tenth stairs down creaked if you stepped on the left side. The twelfth stair creaked no matter where you stepped. He’d have to skip over that one.

The hardwood floors carried Princess Cassandra and Davis ’s voices from the living room, through the hallway, and up the stairwell. Sir Samuel cupped a hand to his ear and leaned forward, hanging his shoulders and neck over the first stair. He could nearly hear what they were saying, nearly. He leaned forward further and listened harder. He still couldn’t understand. He pressed forward again so that the foot of the landing dug into his stomach making it hard to breath, the top half of his body hanging now fully over the ledge. He strained for a hint as to what was being said. He strained, he strained.and nearly fell.

“This won’t do at all,” he told Thanus. “We’re going to have to take a closer look.” He pulled himself back and slid so that his knees now hung over the stairwell, then turned around and sat up, slowly. “You may not be as sharp as you used to be,” he said to his trusty sword, “and while he might have some magic to fight us with, I trust you. We’ll be able to take him. But not just yet. If he finds out I’m a knight he’ll try his magic. I have to find out how powerful he is first.” He took a deep breath. “I have to leave you behind.”

Sir Samuel gingerly placed the sword on the ground. He brushed his fingers along the hilt. “Stay hidden. Don’t let anyone see you. I’ve got to pretend I’m not a knight,” and he took another deep breath. “I’ve got to be plain old Sam again.”

After a few seconds sitting there with his eyes closed, Sam opened them up, stood, and scurried down the stairs doing his best to hit the fourth, tenth, and twelfth stairs with firm footfalls as he stomped his way towards the first floor. He rounded the staircase, put his hands in his pockets and started whistling. He had a plan, a very sound plan. He’d appear to be just an average nine year old boy. He may not have been a wizard (in fact, he despised wizards, believing them to be spineless because they chose to hide behind their magic instead of facing an enemy with a real weapon) but he could be just as deceptive as one.

His ears grew colder the closer he got to Davis . “He’s got powerful magic,” Sam made a mental note. Davis was sitting in an easy chair, leaning forward as he flipped through a magazine. At the moment, Princess Cassandra (”Kelly,” Sam chided himself. “You can’t give yourself away”) was nowhere to be seen.

Davis heard the whistling and picked his head up. “How’s it going, big guy,” he said. Sam noticed how casual his opponent was, how easily he put aside any hint that he was a wizard or an evil knight. “My name’s Davis,” and he held out his hand.

It was time for a quick decision. Sam knew that if he took that hand, if he accepted the gesture of friendship, Davis could cast a spell simply by touching him. But he couldn’t not take the hand. He’d give himself away! He had to stick to the plan. He had to appear a normal nine year old. So he did the only thing he could think of. He sneezed. Not a real sneeze, but a convincingly fake one. One of those sneezes where spit and mucus flies in every direction unless you’re fast enough, and considerate enough, to stop the projections with your hand, which Sam did. With his right hand.

Sam wiped his hand against his pants. “My name’s Sam,” he said. “Sorry I sneezed. I don’t think you’ll want to shake my hand still, huh?”

“That’s okay, buddy, we don’t have to shake.”

Sam smiled. Davis hadn’t picked up on the trick. Or if he had, Davis was as crafty as any wizard or evil knight Sam had ever heard of.

“Your parents sure do have a nice house,” Davis went on, apparently trying to continue with whatever plan he’d concocted. “I hope when I get older I have a house this nice. How old are you, Sam?”

“I’m nine. But I’ll be ten in two months. So I’m practically ten already. I’m ten,” Sam said with finality. Something about the single digit struck Sam as making him weaker. At least if he was in double digits he figured he’d be on the same playing field as Davis .

“Sure,” Davis laughed. “And I’m 17, but I’ll be 21 in four years. Think if I told the guys at the convenience store that I’m pretty much 21 already,” Davis started to say, but stopped himself. “Never mind. Forget I started saying anything like that.”

“Why? What happens when you’re 21?” Sam imagined 21 must have been a special number for people who were into black magic. Davis had made his first mistake. He’d exposed a weakness. Sam smiled.

“Nothing happens when you’re 21,” Davis noticed the smile and laughed again, thinking Sam was somehow in on his joke. “Think your folks will be home soon?”

“I don’t know. I hope so.”

“What’s the matter, you don’t like hanging around with Kelly,” Davis asked.

“He doesn’t call me Kelly,” came her voice. She waltzed into the room, looking very different to Sam than she had just an hour ago. She looked older. She had a bunch of make-up on. And she smelled like his mom. “He calls me Princess.”

“I call her Princess You-Look-Funny-Tonight,” Sam quickly interrupted her. She nearly gave him away.

“That’s not very nice, Sam,” she was still smiling, but her eyes shot him a quick look of disapproval.

“And you smell like my mom,” Sam said.

“Well I think she smells great,” Davis chimed in. “And I think you look great, too.”

The butterflies were at it again inside Kelly’s stomach, while Sam’s innards did a few summersaults of their own. He could see that Kelly was already under David’s spell and the thought made him feel sick. He cursed himself for leaving Thanus upstairs. But there wasn’t time to run up and grab his sword. The front door opened. His parents were home.

Sam watched from his window as his mother gave Kelly a friendly peck on the cheek, overhearing her words of wisdom, “now have a good time. But don’t have too good a time. And here,” Mrs. Granger said, reaching into her purse, “a little something extra. Thanks so much for staying.”

The car door closed and within seconds Kelly, Princess Cassandra, was off. Sir Samuel wanted to follow her, but he knew that was impossible. Even though he was a Knight, his sturdy steed was no match for a car. He could pedal that Huffy faster than any kid on the block, but Davis had horse-power on his side, plus whatever magic he’d kept hidden during his short visit to Sir Samuel’s house.

Eventually the tail lights faded into the night. There was little left for Sir Samuel to do. He turned his attention back to the sky. He shook his fist at the moon again and searched the darkness for Venus. When he spotted her he smiled.

“The evening star,” he said. “You’ll protect me, won’t you? You’ll help me save Princess Cassandra. I’m the only one who knows, the only one who’ll take up the mission. I’m brave, but I’m scared. He seemed to have powerful magic. But I have you,” and he put his chin in his hands, his elbows resting on the window sill. “And eventually, Princess Cassandra will realize.” but he never finished the thought.

When she came to check on him, Sam’s mom found him sitting in the chair, his face buried in the creases of his folded arms. He was sleeping.

She picked him up quietly and carried him to his bed. She put his sword next to him, knowing he slept better when he held onto it. She stood over him a few minutes, smiling the way only a mother can smile at her child. She leaned over and gave him a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Sleep well, my brave knight,” she whispered and left the room.

PART 2

When Foster heard Raymond “Skip” Douglas say Maude Whitaker had “the best butt these eyes have ever seen” he told himself he wasn’t coming back. Not ever. “Makes your stomach feel like Jello when you look at her scampering off down the hallway, doesn’t it,” Skip went on, referring to Maude’s backside. Only you could hardly call what Maude did scampering.

“I’m not going back there, mom,” Foster said at the breakfast table. He already had a long day of school ahead and wasn’t excited about the prospect of another day at the home.

“Foster dear, those people need you. You’re doing a good thing. And whatever that man says can’t be all that bad. After all, he’s 85 years old, right?”

“Eighty-two,” Foster muttered.

“Eighty-two, eighty-five, what’s the difference. There’s no harm in it,” she said into the depths of the refrigerator, then closed the door, and turned around with a beaming smile, “And look, I’ve got Jello! Why don’t you have some.”

Images of Maude’s geriatric rear, slices of fleshy celluloid folded one over the other, bare and flaccid and filled with liver-spots flooded Foster’s mind.

“Thanks mom, can’t. I’m already late for school.” A minute later he was in the car, his book bag sprawled across the passenger seat, key in the ignition and foot itching to press down on the accelerator. Through an open window he heard his mother shout as he pulled out of the driveway, “You go back there after school, young man. You’ve made a commitment.”

Commitment. The word bounced around inside the car the full 20 minutes it took Foster to get to school. It didn’t escape until he opened the door in the parking lot, wishing he drove a sports car or jeep and wasn’t stuck with grandpa’s old Grand Marquis. “There’s nothing grand about it,” he muttered, closing the door and shutting out any thought of commitment until the final bell rang and he’d have to face it all over again.

“Well he asked for you specifically. It seems you’ve made an impression on him.” There was no wavering in her beady eyes. Foster looked for sympathy, understanding, anything. He hadn’t actually told her what Skip had said. He only asked to work in a different part of the home, maybe in the kitchen. Just get a different view of things.

“I’m sure there’s someone else who can take care of Mr. Douglas,” he said.

“I’m sure there is too,” she piped in a sing-song voice that had the quality of a bird in its resonance, a bird that sits outside your window at sunrise and chirps away until you finally decide you can’t fight it and get out of bed. Then the bird shuts up. “But even if there is someone else who can take care of Mr. Douglas, it doesn’t mean someone else will . Honestly Forest ,” she gave it her best sigh of exasperation, “your mother said you wanted to volunteer. I told her you were too young, but she insisted on your behalf. And because she’s an old friend I said yes. I don’t want to have to find myself realizing I’ve made the wrong decision. She said you wanted to make a commitment to help the people who live here. I believed her. Now it’s time for me to believe you,” she handed Forest a tray of tiny cups and tinier pills with a final emphasis. There was no arguing. It was put up or shut up. It was off to Skip Douglas’s room.

Skip. It wasn’t a name he picked up in war, even though he was a veteran. It wasn’t a nickname given to him as a child. Raymond Douglas wasn’t christened “Skip” until the ripe old age of 79, a month after he’d moved into Forest Hills Nursing Home and displayed a penchant for skipping about the hallways in a hospital gown, nothing but a hospital gown. And not that the gowns were standard issue. It seemed he’d kept his gown from his last visit to the hospital, his last visit anywhere before taking up his new residence in the home. “I like feeling the wind tickle the little hairs on my butt” he’d told Forest . And they tickled best when he skipped around the hallways, the two flaps of the gown barely held together by an iffy looking knot, Skip’s bare white behind peaking between them at each twist and turn.

He was going on again about Maude Whitaker. “That little Tinkerbell just sucks the breath clean out of my body,” he whistled through his dentures. “Makes me feel like a young man again. Say,” he turned to Forest , “I bet it makes me look like a young man, doesn’t it. What would you say,” he smiled as valleys formed between the folds of skin along his cheeks and forehead, “not a day over 65, eh?” He slapped his thigh, “God it’s good to be a young buck!”

Forest knew he shouldn’t but couldn’t help himself. “A young buck? You’re like, 85 years old or something, aren’t you?”

In a flash, barely a blink of an eye, Skip’s cane cut the air just inches from Forest ’s face. Any closer and it might have broken the teenager’s nose.

“I may not be a spring chicken anymore,” Skip said, “but I’m willing to wager I can knock you flat on your rear without even thinking about it. And I don’t need you reminding me how old I am. I got this place here to remind me, don’t I? This wheelchair filled, arthritis aching place packed with people just trying to figure out where their graves are and when they’ll finally manage to get themselves into them. The walking dead, they are. Just about all of them, but not my Maude,” and he brought the cane back down. “Nope, not for all the jellybeans in the world. She looks ripe as an apple ready for plucking. And once upon a time I used to be a farmer, if you catch my drift.”

“I catch it, Skip, I catch it,” Forest said.

He’d been volunteering at the home for all of three days. Forest ’s mom said it would look good on a college application. “They want to see that you’ll actually get off the couch and do something good for someone. It means more than grades,” she’d told him, “not that your grades are going to do a whole lot for you, the way you’re going. Of all things, a C in speech class! How hard is it to speak?”

Not hard at all, Forest thought, and a lot easier when he didn’t have to explain his shortcomings to his mother every afternoon. Forest didn’t mind the prospect of going to the home. He imagined he’d just sit around watching TV with old folks, maybe wheeling someone around a courtyard or helping people carry their lunches from the buffet line inside the cafeteria to a table.

But Ms. Nichols had it in for him. He figured that out from the moment he stepped foot into Skip’s room. He remembered what she’d told him when she gave him Skip’s medicines and a tray packed with cups, each one filled with a different color liquid. “I know just the person to have you look after,” she’d said. “His name is Mister Douglas, but he’ll probably tell you to call him ‘Skip,’” and Forest noted how she seemed to bristle when the nickname escaped her lips.

“How come he’s got so many different drinks,” Forest had asked.

“You’ll quickly learn that sometimes it’s best not even to ask. Just humor the man.” And with that Ms. Nichols had stomped down the hallway.

Just humor him. Forest soon understood the phrase had less to do with the drinks and more to do with Skip’s knack for admiring Maude Whitaker, and it wasn’t anything close to silent admiration.

“The first time she walked into the room, I could have sworn a whole garden of night-blooming jasmine woke up, she smelled so sweet.” Skip inhaled deeply, trying to pull his robe, the carpet, the television and even his cane through the passages of his beaten down nose. “Can’t you just smell her! It’ll make you young.”

“I am young, Skip,” Forest reminded him.

“You just think you are. Having smooth skin and good eyes don’t make you young, you know,” Skip said. “Being young’s about feeling young, living young, and chasing skirts! Who’s skirt are you chasing? Who’s your wonderful, stupendous, beautiful, sexy, invigorating minx of a woman! Who’s your Maude?”

“I don’t have a Maude,” Forest told him, handing Skip a few different colored pills and guessing at which colored drink he’d want to wash them down with.

“You don’t have one,” Skip mused. “Not the orange juice, boy. You should know orange juice is no good for washing down these vile concoctions,” he said, reaching onto the tray and grabbing a different cup, this one filled with a purplish colored liquid. “It’s got to be Cranberry-Grape juice for this. Remember that. After that it’s water to clear the pallet, then a dash of orange juice to remind my taste buds that the juices are still flowing, so to speak.”

Forest worked to remember the order: Cranberry-Grape, water, then orange juice. It didn’t seem so difficult.

“What about the apple juice,” he asked.

“Apple juice?” Skip raised his eyebrows. “If you had any sense at all you wouldn’t ask such idiotic questions. Apple juice! That’s for when I’m stopped up, if you catch my meaning. If not, I can go into detail.”

“That’s alright, no details, please.”

“Of course, of course, no one wants to hear about an old man’s gastro-intestinal malfunctions.” Skip noticed Forest visibly shiver as he said it. “Come on, son, it’s no different than with you. In case you haven’t heard, everybody poops!” And with that he smashed the bottom of the cane towards the ground, one of those three-pronged canes with each prong tipped with a piece of rubber to keep it from slipping and sliding along linoleum and tile. It also kept Skip’s balance in check when he’d vault down the halls in his nightgown, skipping and dancing and twirling as best he could, inviting the air to cool his nether region.

“But not everybody talks about it,” Forest told him. “And it’s got nothing to do with your age. I don’t want to hear my mom, my friends, my teacher, or a first grader talk about it. You just don’t talk about it.”

“You just don’t talk about it,” Skip mimicked him, raising his voice a few octaves doing so. “No wonder you don’t have a Maude of your own, son. I imagine there are a lot of things in this world ‘you just don’t talk about,’ and if love’s one of ‘em, it’s fixin’ to be a long, lonely life.”

Forest was about to answer when Skip grabbed the apple juice slammed the liquid down, then took off for the bathroom. As the door slammed, Forest could hear skip saying, “It’s already a lonely enough life with me talking about it all the time.”

“You’ll never guess what I saw last night.”

It was lunch. The cafeteria was crowded. Each table was dominated by its representative clique: the jocks, the hip-hop gangster wannabes, the dorks, the self-imposed gothic exiles, the do-gooders, and the skate-rats to name a few.

Forest and Jason didn’t belong to any of the groups. They liked to think they were beyond that kind of petty social structure. They didn’t see the irony that because they refused to sit with any of the cliques, they became a clique of their own, weaving unnoticed through the social fabric of your average American high school.

“What did you see last night,” Forest asked. He didn’t really care what it was, but he knew it was better to appear to be talking to someone than it was to just be sitting there with someone and not saying a thing. While he didn’t want to be categorized, Forest was wary of finding himself lumped into the one group no one can possibly crawl out of: the losers.

“Give me your Doritos and I’ll tell you,” Jason said, eyeing Forest ’s bag of chips.

“Screw you. I don’t care what you saw anyway.”

“Fine,” Jason said as he bit into his sandwich. The next words barely made it past a mouthful of turkey, cheese and mayonnaise, but they managed to escape. “But if you don’t care where Kelly Bannister spends her weeknights, then I guess I had you all wrong.” He took another bite.

“What do you mean, Kelly Bannister,” Forest suddenly peaked with interest. “Here,” he said, “have the stupid Doritos,” and he handed them over.

Jason snatched up the crinkly bag and grabbed a handful of the cheesy nacho chips. He stuffed them in his mouth and dove for another handful, then another, chewing so fast he missed a chunk and swallowed a sharp corner that seemed to lodge itself in his esophagus. He started hacking, his face turning beat red and tears starting to stream down his cheeks. Jason lunged for his drink and guzzled it down, his Adam’s apple contracting over and over again, looking very froglike. Finally the chip dissolved enough to finish the trip to his stomach. Jason felt like he was going to throw up and put both of his hands flat on the table, his stomach rolling under his shirt, and closed his eyes hoping to fight off the wave of nausea. Finally, looking much more pale and pained, the episode ended.

“Teaches you not to wolf those things down, you pig,” Forest told him, smiling.

“I could have died,” Jason gasped. “You didn’t even get up to help. I might have needed the Heimlich. Jerk,” he scowled. “Now I’m definitely not telling you.”

“Give it a break,” Forest said. “You weren’t going to choke. You’re always so melodramatic.”

“Insulting me’s not going to change my mind, you know,” and seeming to forget what had just happened he thrust his hand back inside the Doritos bag and pulled out another fistful of chips, stuffing them vigorously into his mouth.

“You’re going to choke again, idiot,” Forest pointed out.

Instead of answering Jason just opened his mouth and chewed hard and fast, the chips starting to look like orange curd, just about turning into a liquid before he swallowed.

“Very nice,” Forest said.

“Thought you’d like it,” Jason replied, reaching back into the back and rustling his hand around only to find it was just about empty. He put a corner of the open bag up to his mouth and leaned back, letting the rest of the crumbs and cheese flavoring pour straight down his throat. He swallowed hard, crumpled the bag up, and licked his fingers, running the end of each against his teeth to peel off the cheese residue. When he was done he wiped his hands off on his shirt.

“You’re going to get a lot of girls that way,” Forest said.

“Well you’re not going to get any girls. Especially not Kelly,” Jason smiled. Forest was about to point out the bits of yellow that stuck to the corners of Jason’s mouth, embedding themselves in the creases, but thought better of it.

“So what is it you’ve got to say,” he asked.

“I told you. I’m not telling you,” Jason quipped. “You insulted me.” Jason did his best to look sheepish, to appear hurt.

“Whatever,” Forest said. “Listen, if you tell me I’ll let you drive my car.”

Jason had a driver’s license but no car of his own.

“When?”

“When my mom goes out of town. This weekend.”

“I want it for the whole weekend,” Jason demanded sensing that he had an advantage.

“You’re out of your mind,” Forest laughed.

“Okay, I want it for Saturday,” Jason leaned forward for emphasis, “the whole day.”

“You’d better see the nurse. I think you’re running a fever. You’re delusional,” Forest told him.

“Saturday night. Two hours. And that’s my final offer.”

“Done,” Forest said.

Jason reached his hand across the table. Forest kept his to himself.

“We’ve got to shake on it,” Jason pointed out.

“I’m not touching your hands! No way. Not after you scarfed down those Doritos and licked your fingers. That’s disgusting. You’ll have to trust me without a handshake.”

“Fine,” Jason shot back. “But you’ll have to swear.”

“On what,” Forest asked.

“On your mom’s life.”

“Whatever.”

“Swear. Swear on your mom’s life you’ll give me the car Saturday. Or no deal.

“Alright,” Forest finally said. “I swear on my mom’s life,” and he tucked one hand under the table and crossed his fingers, “I swear on my mom’s life you can have my car for two hours on Saturday night.”

Jason waited. And waited. He didn’t say anything.

“Well,” Forest asked, “Now you’ve got to ante in. What did you see last night? What did you see that’s got something to do with Kelly Bannister.”

Jason just kept staring. A smile took shape, spreading slowly across his face.

“Quit smiling like an idiot,” Forest nearly shouted. “Lunch is almost over. Tell me or the deal’s off.”

“I just like watching you squirm,” Jason said. “Alright. So, last night. You already know Kelly babysits that kid across the street from my house. Well anyway, so she’s babysitting last night. I saw her mom drop her off. So anyway, I’m minding my own business at home, you know, not thinking anything. Well around 9:30 I got bored and went out for a bike ride. Don’t ask me why, I know it’s weird. But I wanted to get outside. So I’m biking around the neighborhood when guess whose car shows up at the house where Kelly is?”

“Whose?” Forest felt a knife turning over in his gut.

“Davis Johnson’s. The swimmer.”

“You’re kidding me,” Forest said.

“I kid you not. His car pulled up. He didn’t see me, at least I don’t think he did,” Jason said thoughtfully. “But anyway, I recognized the car. That Mustang. You can’t miss it. So I got curious and hid in the bushes.”

“You are sick. You know that, don’t you,” Forest told him.

“Never mind my mental state. So I’m hiding there and the kid’s parents come home. Five minutes later, Davis and Kelly come out of the house. And you should have seen her!” Jason whistled for emphasis. “She looked hot! I mean, she looked incredible. Not like a high school girl. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Forest said through clenched teeth, “I know what you mean. And then?”

“And then what,” Jason pointed both palms towards the sky for emphasis. “She’s going out with Davis , idiot. Your fantasy is over. Not that you had any hope.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You’ve said three words to the girl, if that many. But I figured, hey, I’m your friend. I’ve got to let you know the truth.” Jason looked around the cafeteria for a second. “So,” he said after gazing for who knows what, “what time can I have the car Saturday?”

The bell rang. Lunch was over.

You never get too old to acquire a nickname. And you never get to old to give one. Ms. Nichols didn’t have to notice the whispers that died with the sound of her footsteps as she plodded down the hallways to know that she’d been given another name, one that was never spoken to her face.

Of all people, Skip came up with it. He figured since the nurses had no qualms about calling him “Skip” (and frankly, he enjoyed the title) then they should have no problem being dubbed a different name. He had no problem coming up with the name, but he didn’t find it easy to convince his friends and neighbors to use it. The way Skip saw things, even when you’re 82 you still have to stake your claim. You still have to be able to fight back.

Obviously a nickname isn’t exactly a revolution. He liked to think of it as a quiet protest, a subtle thorn in the establishment’s side. Because the home was an establishment, one that told him when to sleep and when to eat, when he could go outside and when he had to get out of the cold. He liked to conjure up images of 1930’s fascism when he talked about it with the World War II Veterans, hoping the grim memories of the war would stir up a new kind of patriotism.

But not everyone bought into it. Actually, no one did.

“I’m telling you, she’s Nurse Ratchet.”

“Who,” was the typical response.

“Don’t you know anything? Haven’t you ever read a book? Nurse Ratchet. You know, ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest!”

“You’re the one who’s cuckoo,” he’d been told. Willis McReynolds had no idea who or what Skip was talking about. And he wasn’t being facetious. Willis had pegged Skip from day one, when he was convinced the crude newcomer belonged in a different kind of home, the one with padded walls and machines that shocked the insanity out of your system.

Willis had a thing for Maude Whitaker, the same kind of thing that Skip had, only Willis thought of her only in ways he believed were dignified. Once every ten days he had a dozen flowers delivered to Maude’s room. He never sent a card. He didn’t think of himself as a secret admirer. Far from it. He lumped secret admirers in the same category as Peeping Toms. And Maude knew where the flowers came from. She never said “thank you,” but she made sure that when she saw Willis in the courtyard or the common room or in the cafeteria, whenever she saw him she made sure to do her best curtsy, smile, and say “Good afternoon, Mr. McReynolds.” And he would put his hand to his forehead, tipping an imaginary hat, and say “Good afternoon, Ms. Whitaker.” And that was the extent of it.

Willis didn’t send a card with the flowers because he didn’t have much to say. He wanted the flowers to speak for themselves. So it came as a shock, to say the least, when Skip Douglas just about shouted “An angel! But she’s got the figure of a devil, and my she makes me want to sin!” That was Skip’s first day at Forest Hills . It was no secret who he was talking about. There were only two other people in the common room, two people who had just happened upon each other and were about to exchange pleasantries when Skip’s outburst nearly sucked all the air out of the room. Maude blushed and did her best to look personally attacked. She didn’t say “Good afternoon” to Willis McReynolds, the first time in six years she hadn’t said “Good Afternoon,” and Willis never forgave Skip for it.

“She wants to own your soul, don’t you get it,” a very animated Skip argued. “She gets her kicks off bossing us around, telling us what to do and when to do it. She’s like a Nazi, is what she is.”

“You wouldn’t know a Nazi if one came up and bit you on your old rear-end,” Willis said.

“And you wouldn’t know a concentration camp if you were digging your own grave then told to lie down in it,” Skip scoffed. “Which is basically what we’re doing, anyway.”

“What are we doing?”

“Digging our own graves in this place. Shuffling towards that great big light in the sky like a bunch of decrepit zombies.”

“And what’s that got to do with your ‘Nurse Ratchet, or whatever you call her?”

“My God, man,” Skip was exasperated, “If you can’t tell then there’s no use explaining it to you.”

“If you think it’s so wrong then why don’t you leave. No one’s forcing you to stay here. No one even wants you to stay here. Everyone knows you’re nuts. We’d all prefer it if you just found somewhere else to live.”

“Not everyone would prefer it,” Skip smiled. “I can think of a certain, rosy vixen who’d be heartbroken if she didn’t see me. A woman who makes me feel breathless. A woman, no, a lady! A lady by whose grace alone I make it through each day in this place. Without her, I’d be a ship without a compass, being tossed around this great big sea of old age only to be marooned eventually on the island of senility.”

“I don’t have to sit here and listen to this,” Willis threw his hands in the air.

“No you don’t. It’s a free country. At least that’s what they like to tell you.”

Willis wasn’t listening anymore. He rolled up his newspaper and threw it across his lap, then threw his motorized scooter into drive and wheeled away at three miles an hour, not stopping for anything or anyone who might get in his way.

“You just wheel yourself out of here. Don’t get up and walk,” Skip said to himself. “Don’t let them see you’ve still some strength in your bones, some fire in your gut.” He raised his voice and shook his fist in the air, “You’ve got to fight for something. And to fight for something you have to fight against someone. The minute you stop fighting is the minute you die.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, “and it could take years before someone has the decency to bury you.”

Skip was still in a chair, his chin sunk into his chest when Chester Campbell walked into the common room. He quietly regarded Skip, wondering if he was asleep or maybe even dead.

Chester couldn’t move around too well, but he refused to use a wheelchair. He called it a “death chariot,” and often told the nurses that they could wheel him to his grave when the time came, but until then he’d use his own two feet. His own two feet plus a very sturdy cane.

He stood in the doorway for five minutes. Chester ’s vision was as bad as his arthritis, but he wasn’t eccentric enough to refuse to wear glasses as well as use a wheelchair. The frames had gotten bigger over the years, the lenses thicker, but no manner or degree of adjustment ever brought his vision back to what it had been when he was a young man. The entire five minutes he stood in the doorway he spent focusing on Skip’s chest, looking for any sign of movement, that slow deliberate compression that tells someone you’re not dead, you’re just taking it easy.

Only Chester couldn’t tell if Skip was breathing or not. He weighed his choices: between finding a nurse or just going over and finding out for sure what Skip was up to. Considering it took him a long time to get anywhere, Chester opted for the easier of the two choices. And while he and Skip were only separated by 30 feet, it took Chester nearly five minutes to cover the distance.

“Hey, you old bag,” he wheezed in Skip’s direction. “Uh-hmm,” he cleared his throat loudly. “Skip, you worn out bugger. Hey, you awake? Or you dead?”

There was no answer. Chester stood there, leaning heavily on his cane for support. He took his other hand and put it on the back of a chair, moving his weight from right side to left and using the chair to steady himself. He lifted his cane off the ground and started tapping Skip’s head with the end of it.

“Hello,” Chester said, “anyone home in there? Or do I need to get one of the boys and tell him to grab a shovel?”

He rapped on Skip’s head a few more times then dug the end of the cane into Skip’s ribs. “Wake up, you fool. Someone’s going to walk in here and think you’re a corpse.”

“They won’t think that when I take that cane of yours and shove it so far up your butt the doctors think you’ve grown a second spine.” Skip slowly raised his head and burrowed his eyes into Chester ’s. He looked at him hard, then raised an eyebrow and the beginnings of a smile started taking shape along the corner of his mouth. “That’s a good way to get yourself killed, you old windbag. Knocking a man on the head while he’s trying to catch a little afternoon nap.”

Chester put the cane back on the floor, slid the chair out and eased himself into it. “Who’d have ever thought sitting down would be such hard work,” he gasped as his body finally slumped into the chair.

“Wait until you have to get out of it,” Skip laughed, “then you’ll be the one they’re digging a whole for.”

“My hole’s already dug. I’m just walking around it in circles, taking a gander at it before I give it my stamp of approval.” Chester reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of sunflower seeds. He put two in his mouth and sucked on the salt, then spit them out without ever biting open the shells and eating the nut inside.

“Don’t you ever eat them things proper,” Skip asked.

“I just like ‘em for the salt. You know that. Why you always ask. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, or hasn’t anyone told you that one yet.”

“I heard it somewhere,” Skip sighed.

“Well I heard old Willis McIdiot going on about you again.” He leaned across the arm of the chair. “Sounds like you’ve been talking up the Nurse Ratchet scenario again. Ain’t you ever going to give that a rest?”

“I was just talking for talking,” Skip said. “And I don’t need to be explaining myself to you,” his voice became very sharp.

Chester threw up his hands. “You don’t need to be getting snippy with me, either. I got no problem if you want to have some fun, entertain your mind by calling Ms. Nichols ‘Nurse Ratchet.’ Do it if you want. It don’t bother me. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Skip said. “So what you want, anyway? Why’d you take the long shuffle into here just to wake me up from a perfectly fine nap?”

“Same reason you call Ms. Nichols ‘Nurse Ratchet.’ Entertaining my mind.” Chester took a deep breath. “I was bored. Just wanted to see if you was dead or something. Figured it would at least change up the day some.”

“Well I’m alive and kicking, so now what are you going to do,” Skip asked.

“Hell, just sit here. Not going to be able to get out of this chair for a while yet. How ’bout you. What you going to do, Skip?”

“What I was doing before you barged in here,” his eyes closed as he said it. “I’m going to get me some shut eye.”

Within thirty seconds he was snoring, softly, like the hum of an air conditioner coming from another room. Chester watched his friend sleep, sucking on sunflower seeds then spitting them back out whole. He flicked a few in Skip’s directions, keeping a silent score in his head based on whether the soaked seeds stuck to Skip’s shirt or not. After he’d scored ten points Chester ’s head began to droop, his eyes grew heavy, and his cane that had been leaning against his thigh slipped and fell to the carpeted floor with a quiet thud.

Friday. Date night. They’d be gone until ten o’clock . They’d be out eating, drinking, and dancing. They wouldn’t be worried about what was happening at home. How could they worry? Their son, their hero, their young knight in shining armor would be there to look after things, to look after the house and especially to look after the beautiful and delicate Princess Cassandra.

“Where’s daddy taking you on your date tonight,” Sam asked. His mother was zipping breathlessly around the kitchen: from sink to cabinet to pantry back to sink. She made Sam tired just watching her. And she never seemed to stop, not for a second, not even to take a breath to answer him.

“I don’t know where you’re father is taking me tonight but I made him promise it had to be somewhere nice that we haven’t been before and also has a dance floor and a nice crowd but not too many young people and certainly not too many old people but mostly people about our age.I don’t know if such a restaurant exists even but your father is a wonderful man who loves me very much so I know that he’ll go out and try to find just the perfect place and we’ll have the most wonderful time and you’ll be here and happy and sleeping when we get home and you’ll have a perfectly wonderful time with Christie.”

She spoke so fast that every word sounded flat, no accents on any syllables, just a breathless regurgitation of information. But when she got to that last word, that tragic finale, it flew from her mouth and exploded in the room with the impact of a nuclear bomb. CHRISTIE!

She wasn’t a princess in need of protection. She was no lady in waiting for whom a knight would risk life and limb to save from death. She was a pimply faced teenager with braces and uneven boobs, one growing faster than the other. She hadn’t baby-sat for Sam in over a year, not since he’d become a Knight, but he remembered her well: that nasal voice always asking him if he wanted to play together, the way her knees bowed towards each other making each step an exercise in awkwardness and making it impossible to play catch with her, that cackle of a laugh like an apple was stuck in her throat and she was trying to force the air out around it. Sam had to admit she was nice, very nice. But she wasn’t, she just wasn’t..

“Christie,” he asked, trying to keep the shock and pain out of his voice, “Don’t you mean Kelly?”

“Kelly.” The word brought her to a stop. She put down the dishes she was about to place in the cupboard, pulled her skirt with her hands and squatted with her knees together in front of her young son. She let her hand drift across his face, brushing stray bangs away from his eyes with her thumb, and smiled in that way that mother’s smile at their children, the way no one else ever smiles, with devout love and compassion. “My dear Sam. I know how much Kelly means to you. It’s sweet. She’s your princess, isn’t she.”

Sam nodded his head, unable to think of something to say.

“She’s your princess who you’ve sworn to protect. She’s a lucky girl, Sir Samuel,” she smiled. “But you’ve got to remember, she’s also a young woman. A young woman who’s finding out what the world is like. What boys are like.” Sam’s mother sighed deeply, deciding whether or not to tell her son the truth, whether or not it would break his heart. “Sam, my dear Sam. Kelly can’t baby-sit for you Friday night. She has a date with a boy she likes very much. And as much as she’d like to be able to come here and take care of you, she won’t be able to do it. I’m sorry, honey,” and she put her arms around him, pulled him close, and hugged him deeply.

Sam’s mind churned in light of the news. He understood these kinds of moments were important to his mother. He knew she was emotionally vulnerable and because of it she thought everyone else was the same way, especially her dear little son. Sam was stung by the news and his feelings were slightly hurt, but where Sam saw an obstacle Sir Samuel saw opportunity.

When his mother let him go Sam asked her, “Is she going out with that boy who came to pick her up last time she took care of me?”

Mrs. Granger stood up and looked suspiciously at her son. The question had purpose, clearly not something he’d asked out of idle curiosity. “I think she is, dear. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, mom. It doesn’t matter. Christie’s fine. She’s always nice to me. Bye,” and he bolted from the room.

Mrs. Granger considered her son for thirty seconds, her hands on her hips and her mind racing trying to figure out what kind of plan he was hatching. Eventually she shrugged her shoulders and said “Boys will be boys,” got back to work and decided it was best not to worry.

She’d never looked better and she knew it. It’s a primal difference between girls and guys, especially when they’re teenagers. Girls seem to know when they look good, when they’re irresistible to everyone and unapproachable to most. But she had no plans to keep him from approaching. In fact, she’d planned for the opposite.

It had been easy convincing her parents, and she hadn’t even had to lie. Not a real lie. After all, she really was going to spend the weekend at Angela’s beach house. And it was a safe place, tucked inside one of those gated communities designed to let the well-to-do get in and keep the rest of the world out. So it didn’t matter that Angela’s parents weren’t going to be there.

“Well I’m sure you girls are going to have a fine time,” Kelly’s mother had told her. “You deserve a bit of a break. It’s nice of Angela’s family to let you have the house for the weekend. You’ll have to send a thank you note, of course.”

“Of course, mom. Have you seen my blue bikini,” Kelly asked.

“Your blue bikini,” she repeated. “You mean that little patch of fabric that doesn’t cover anything but maybe a nipple.”

“Mom!!!” Kelly shouted, embarrassed, obviously not comfortable with her mom’s assumption that yes, she too had nipples. Teenagers have a tough time grasping the reaches of their parents’ sexual knowledge.

“Oh don’t be shocked, dear. You don’t think you’re the only one in this world with nipples, now do you?”

“Stop talking about nipples, mom! It’s gross!”

“If it’s so gross, what do you want that tiny little bikini for? If you want people forgetting you’ve got something as ‘gross’ as nipples, why would you wear something that makes everyone want to see them?”

“For God’s sake, mom! I just want to find my blue bikini. I’ll worry about what people see and don’t see, thank you.” Kelly stormed past her mother and tore open a dresser drawer. She ripped through its contents, tossing everything that wasn’t a blue bikini over her shoulder so that if you walked in the room, you’d have marveled at the site of a shower of white panties and silk bras and one piece bathing suits and single, unmatched socks.

“I don’t think you’re going to find it like that,” Kelly’s mother said after stepping back and allowing the spectacle to continue a few minutes. “I’m pretty sure it’s not in that drawer.”

“How would you know where it is,” Kelly growled into the near empty drawer.

“Because I’m holding it right here.” Her voice was calm, relaxed, but there was an unmistakable edge to it, the kind a parent uses to teach a child a simple lesson.

Kelly spun around, her face red with frustration. “How long have you been standing there holding it, mother,” she demanded.

“Long enough, daughter,” her mother said sharply, but then smiled. “You never even let me answer, you know. You asked if I’d seen your bikini but you didn’t wait for the answer. Here it is,” she continued to smile, laying the piece of fabric on the bed. “Now, I suggest you clean up your room and get everything back inside that drawer that belongs there.” She was just about out of the room when she turned around. “Out of curiosity, dear, why pack something as risqué as that bathing suit when it’s just going to be the girls hanging around at the beach? On second thought, don’t worry about answering that,” and she left the room with a broad smile on her face.

supposed to go camping for the weekend with friends. And it was true that those friends included Jessica and Shelly and Angela. And why wouldn’t a few young women want to experience the solidarity of a night together under the stars? Why do the photographs on outdoor magazine covers always show a group of guys sitting around a fire and having a good time, and not a group of girls? After all, Angela spent an entire summer outdoors the year before. And they weren’t going far, just to the State Park. It was an easy argument, and Kelly’s parents bought it.

What she didn’t tell mom was that this was a girls’ weekend out with an open invitation for a few guys to come along, including, of course, Davis .

“I hope you girls pack some bug spray,” Kelly’s mother told her. “And don’t forget to charge your cell phone. God knows if there will be bears or panthers or who knows what in those woods and you need to call for help.”

“Relax, mom,” Kelly sighed, saying it for the hundredth time. “We’ve got everything covered. Angela knows what she’s doing. She did spend three months hiking around Montana last summer, remember. She’s trained to live outdoors. We’re going to be fine.”

“That’s what you say now. I still think your father or Angela’s father or someone’s father ought to be out there with you.”

“Just because we’re girls doesn’t mean we’re helpless, mom. This isn’t the 1950’s,” Kelly said with finality. And we will have a few men with us but you can’t know about that, she told herself.

“For your information, young lady,” her mother said, “I was born in the 60’s.”

“Nineteen-sixty,” Kelly clarified.

“It’s still the 60’s,” her mother said with force, “and I don’t need my daughter making me feel any older than I already do. So I’d appreciate it if you left the ‘this isn’t the 1950’s’ comments out.”

“Sorry, mom. I’m not trying to make you feel old.” Kelly put her hands on her mother’s shoulders and looked softly into her eyes, “And I promise, we’re going to be careful. We’re just going camping. Don’t worry so much.”

The two hugged, Kelly’s mother saying “I forget sometimes you’re not a little girl anymore. You’re a young lady. Of course it’ll be fine. You’ll have a wonderful weekend.”

I’m a young lady, Kelly smiled. I’m about to really find out.