You're On Fire Pt 18

There’s a thock! sound, and then impossibly there is an arrow sticking out of the ground at your feet, the white shaft feathers dripping with rain. A dark figure is standing by the back door of the house already drawing the bowstring back again and you and Tim run for your lives, only to be diverted by another arrow that races strikes the ground near Tim’s foot. You hear two more wooshes but see no more arrows, hiding in the corn until your teeth are clicking from the cold – you agree to count to three and then bolt for your door, a thousand imaginary arrows spearing you while you run, bursting into the kitchen to a chorus of protests from the wives (and a dirty look from Tim’s mom, who wants him to be friends with anyone but you); you look for your father, drawing up short when you find him in the living room shaking hands with a tall man wearing a station uniform; next to him is a boy with a camouflage headband and a bow slung over his shoulder in a way that would have your father beating your ass if you ever did that to your own rig.

Your father motions you closer and introduces the man as John Van Meter, who shoves his son, Jason, at you. Shake hands, your father says, that’s what men do.

You grip hands, each of you squeezing hard. Jason’s eyes are black, his hair ragged; he appraises you and Tim dismissively, and groans when his father orders him to get to know you – you wait until the firemen are out of sight before you punch him in the nose, bloodying it, steeling yourself for the shouting and the fire moms, but instead of telling Jason wipes the blood on the back of his hand and looks at it.

You should have seen you, he says, grinning, blood in his chipped teeth. Scaredy-cats.

We’re not scared of nothing, Tim says, shoving him; Jason doesn’t shove back, just rolls it off of his shoulders and stands his ground.

You think you’re tough, he says to you.

Tougher than you, you tell him. I can beat you at anything. And you believe it to be true: you’ve fought every fire kid that matters three times over and never once had to say uncle; Jason looks at you like you’re funny and asks if you’ve got any pencils. The kind with erasers, he says.