I was actually HAPPY when I woke up on Monday morning. Isn’t that terrible? I was grounded until my father felt better. That’s what he told me which must be illegal. I tried explaining to him that Elliot had broken the lamp, but that didn’t go over too well.
“Why was Elliot there?” he asked immediately.“Because I asked him to come,” I admitted.
“So it’s your responsibility,” he said in a flat tone that ended the conversation. It didn’t help that the school did leave a message for my father about the minor explosion I caused. Apparently an email at the end of the day wasn’t too much for Mrs. Barron, the vice principal, so my last glorious weekend turned out to be torture by boredom.
Dad had me up at 5:30 AM both Saturday and Sunday, and I spent the weekend, dusting, polishing, and sweeping everything in his antique shop. I was there until 10:00 at night, except for short reprieves for church on Sunday, and chores. And that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part is I messed up again. Getting in trouble I can deal with. It's happened before and would probably happen again, but I let Dad down. I could see it in his face. Money was tight for us, very tight. Dad worked more than one job to make ends meet. This year we moved into the first apartment where I actually had my own room instead of sleeping on the couch. Things were finally going well, and I ruined. I needed to find a way to fix this and take some pressure off my dad.
I was saving up for a dirt bike. Dad still didn’t know about it, but that was my plan. We drove past 831 Cycles every time we left town, and every cent I saved went towards that bike. It didn’t have to be nice, just something with 2 wheels and a motor. This past summer, I started mowing our neighbor’s lawns on Martin Street. It was a good way to make money, trimming one front lawn after the other, working my way down the road. I had a small chunk saved, but I had no idea how much it would cost to fix an stained glass antique. All I knew was I was not going to make things harder for my dad.
The entire ride to school, I tried to figure out what I could do to get some money saved up. I didn’t see Elliot at the front of the school that day. When I got to my locker, I found out why. I was still attempting to solve my stained glass problem when a fist the size of a toaster slammed up against the locker next to me. I should have known. No such thing as a good Monday.
Timidly, I turned around and looked straight into Cameron’s neck. Oh yeah, did I mention Cameron? Below the neck, he wore a T-shirt with cut off sleeves and camouflage pants. He was built like bigfoot with a face to match, and was the only sixteen year old in the eighth grade, which should tell you something about the guy’s intelligence. We called him the Caveman. Well, not to his face. Do I look suicidal?
“Ready to die, Maggot?” he grunted as he stared down at me. As I noticed the bull-like steam coming from his nostrils, I wondered if maybe I did have a death wish. I couldn't think of another good reason for what I did three days ago.
The Caveman and his gang generally tormented anyone they could find an excuse to beat up. Last Friday, that person happened to be Elliot. He was reading at the top of the hill in front of Monterey Junior High when Cameron marched up with six of his pals behind him. Jose, Jamal, James, Jake, Jesse, and Marcel. None were as big as Cameron, or as dumb probably, but they all seemed to share a common interest in causing misery. How lucky for them that they found each other.
They were the Neanderthals, at least that’s what I liked to call them…when they weren’t close enough to hear me.
"What are you reading Loser?" Cameron demanded.
"Why, have you eaten any good books lately?” He quipped on reflex. That’s the thing about El. Thinking and speaking didn’t always occur in the best order.
Cameron picked Elliot up by his belt and collar, tossed him headfirst into the garbage can, and rolled it down the wet green hill. The can tumbled end over end, finally crashing into an oak tree a few feet from the sidewalk. By the time I got there, Elliot looked like he was beat up by a lawnmower armed with chunky peanut butter. The Greek started to charge back up the hill like a Spartan soldier, but I stopped him. If the two of us went up there against Cameron and his gang, we would end up worse off than the trash can. This would take finesse. I was never was the biggest kid, or the fastest, (unless I was swimming) but I could come up with a plan with the best of them. And Elliot… Elliot loved science.
For last year's science fair project, Elliot convinced me that by adding a little salt, cocoa powder, and tripling the recipe of vinegar, baking soda and food coloring, we would have a guaranteed first prize project. When our Mount Vesuvius erupted, the explosion covered the judges with sticky orange goo that didn’t wash off for a week. The stuff looked like the carrot drink my grandma used to make me choke down with breakfast over the summer.
So we recreated our little volcano… in Cameron’s locker. During fifth period, we smuggled the materials out of Mrs. Fulwein’s Life Skills class. Fifteen minutes before lunch, I asked to go to the restroom, and met Elliot at Cameron’s locker. I tore out a divider from my binder, gave it a quick fold, slipped it into the locker crack, and pulled out a tube of crazy glue. I love that stuff. I twisted off the cap and squirted it across the back wall of the locker.
Elliot quickly made a paper funnel, held it up to the slit in the locker and poured in the ingredients: 3 boxes worth. Finally, I slipped a water balloon inside the locker slit and used Elliot’s bicycle pump to fill the balloon with Apple Cider Vinegar and tied it off to the front edge of the locker, sealed it with some extra crazy glue to be safe. The trap set, we raced back to class and tried to look innocent.
When the bell rang, we both raced out and rounded the corner to watch. Cameron and his gang strutted up to his locker laughing. He pushed a kid out of his way, spun the dial on his lock, and flung the locker door open.
It was beautiful.
The water balloon, glued to the locker wall, tore open like a bag of chips and dumped the vinegar across the instant volcano mix. Brownish red goop exploded from the locker with a whoosh, going up the divider like a ramp and gushed onto Cameron’s gang. What looked like chocolate milk and ketchup covered them head to foot, with the head Neanderthal taking the worst of it.
The crowd erupted in laughter. The Caveman turned and pushed the nearest kid, and Cameron’s feet slid on the goo, right out from under him. He fell like a cut tree, knocking over the Neanderthal Jamal. Dozens of students stood in the hallway, howling madly. Like I said: beautiful. That is, until the vice principal checked the security camera and caught Elliot and I setting up the trap. Now, pinned between Cameron and my locker, I didn’t feel quite so clever.
I don’t think I did a good enough job explaining the Caveman. The phrase 'growth spurt' doesn’t quite cut it. I’m not short, but compared to him I looked like I belonged at the elementary school. Under his black crew cut, narrow beady eyes stared down at me like I was food. I hoped he wasn’t hungry.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
He looked confused for a second before he answered, “Yes, and I remember you.”
“I’m sorry. I have a terrible memory," I said. "I should study more.”
He smiled, never a good sign. “Don‘t worry, you won’t have to work too hard to remember what I’m going to do to you.”
I believed him. Cameron grabbed my shirt with his left hand and pulled back his toaster fist. I felt like a deer on a freeway with a monster truck coming.
“Boys, what’s going on?” Mr. Homes stood at the end of the hall, his round face looking serious behind a pair of glasses. The toaster straightened out to a hand again.
“Nothing,” said the Caveman.
“Cameron was giving me some tips on studying.” I ducked under his arm and walked quickly down the 300’s hall, feeling lucky to be alive. I could feel Cameron eyes burning a hole in my back as I turned the corner.
Sebastian, a short kid with long blonde hair leaned against a locker. “I saw Cameron’s brigade heading towards you. Thought you wouldn’t mind a bigger audience,” he said, pointing at Mr. Homes. It took my brain a second to catch up and realize that Sebastian just saved me from a serious beating.
“Thanks," I said. "I think Cameron was getting ready to try to build the wheel, using me as the supplies."
“Don’t mention it,” he replied with a nod. “Seriously, don’t. I’d rather Cameron not figure out I helped you.”
I chuckled “I have a better chance of winning the lottery than Cameron figuring something out, but I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
Sebastian turned and walked off, humming cheerily. A wave of dread washed over me as I realized the hallways just became more dangerous. When we pulled the prank on Cameron, I never thought about what would happen if he found out it was us. Until this blew over, I had a bulls-eye on my back. If I wasn’t careful, I had a good chance of becoming a victim to a Neanderthal hunting party.
“As if I didn't have enough to worry about,” I muttered under my breath. With a sigh, I headed straight for the library where there would be plenty of witnesses. Sure enough, there was Elliot.
“I always liked the library,” I said quietly as I sat down across from him at one of the tables.
“Would the fact that several teachers were usually in here as well as the librarian, have something do with it?” he asked.
“This morning it does. I ran into Cameron a few minutes ago.” I didn’t need to say more. Elliot understood.
“You know what I think?” Elliot asked. “I think Cameron isn’t really an eighth grader. I think Mrs. Barron shipped him here from a Siberian prison to keep students terrified.”
“A Siberian prison?”
“Or a zoo,” he said. “Probably a zoo.” I laughed a little too loud and Ms. Rodriguez, the librarian, glared at me, so I pulled out a book. There was important business to attend to afterschool today, and I could not afford any problems today. I read until the 8:10 bell rang and we made our way to Mrs. Olvera’s English class.
The day didn’t get any better. Class was boring and the sport in P.E. was ballroom dancing. Seriously, whoever thought dance in P.E. was a good idea should be dragged into the street and shot. To top it off, with the Neanderthals coming after us, Elliot and I had to serve detention during lunch so we could try to sneak out of school as soon as possible.
The only upside was art, where Alan was in class with Elliot and me. We had to make something out of tissue paper, so at Elliot’s request, we made a Greek flag. Alan made a wisecrack about using a Roman flag, since they conquered Greece anyway. Elliot was fuming, and the two picked up two long paint brushes and started sword-fighting. I laughed for the first time that day, but I was still worried about a different art project, one that would be far more expensive.
I opened the side zipper on my backpack and looked at the shards of stained glass from the Golden State Theatre and sighed. How am I ever going to pay for this?
We cleaned up the scraps left from the art project, threw them in the recycling bin, and ran out of the room as soon as the bell rang. None of us wanted to give Cameron time to find us before we left campus.
As we were unchaining our bikes Elliot asked, “We’re trying out Sniper’s Run, are you coming?” My heart dropped. It was the new video game. It had just come out Saturday and Elliot had already bought a copy.
“Can’t, I’m still grounded,” I said reluctantly.
Elliot winced, “Sorry dude,”
“Did you bring those pictures I asked for?”
“Oh, yeah,” Elliot reached into his coat and pulled out a large envelope. “I printed them for you last night.”
“Thanks,” I said. I took at look at the picture of the intact stained glass shade. It looked even more expensive. Great.
“See ya Davey,” said Alan.
They rode off towards Elliot’s house on their bikes. I couldn’t help but feel alone seeing them ride off without me, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. I needed to get home as soon as possible, and I still had a long trip to make. I turned north on Hermann Drive.
Trees lined both sides of the road as I coasted down a hill before straightening out towards the ocean. I stared out at the dark blue waves, wishing I could head to the beach, but instead I turned onto Lighthouse Avenue. Lighthouse followed along the rocky coast of Monterey and into Pacific Grove at its far end. I rode past the Presidio, through the tunnel, and onto the greater part of Lighthouse Avenue.
Every type of shop from Golfing to Motorcycles was on the street, and I remembered seeing a sign for Annette’s Glass the last time I went with my dad on a job out in Pacific Grove. I had seen stained glass windows both on the building and hanging inside the door, so it seemed like a good place to start. Lighthouse's grade turned uphill and I had to pump harder on the pedals to keep my speed up.
A panicked thought hit me as I wondered what would happen if I ran into Cameron and his crew out here. The Neanderthals were bad at school, but at least there was always someone close to pull them off before they could get too out of hand. A lot of kids took this same route down to Cannery Row after school to hang out, and I remembered seeing the Caveman there more than once before.
I started glancing over my shoulder every few seconds, and almost got hit by a car in an intersection for my trouble. I swerved, they honked, but I kept going. A burn set into my legs, but I needed to hurry. I knew it was close. Sure enough, after a mile or so along lighthouse, I saw the shop I was looking for.
It was a small, old fashioned building with a roof that was too steep for its size, and ended in a sharp point. I rode behind the building into the tiny parking lot it shared with a fabric’s store next door, and parked my bike. There wasn’t a bike rack, so I leaned my bike next to the stairs and quickly latched my chain from my bike frame to the stair rail. I grabbed my backpack and hustled inside.
Small windows of landscapes or flower gardens covered the walls and reflected the light from several lamps, which made them look like they were glowing. At the front counter, jewelry shone brilliantly in cases where several different colors of glass were melded beautifully into pendants, bracelets, and earrings.
A sturdy-built woman stood behind the desk wearing glasses. She had long hair, really long hair. It was dark black and she had it tied back in a pony tail that went down past her hips. She had a name tag which said Annette and smiled when she saw me walk in. “Can I help you?”
I nodded and walked over to the desk. Behind the counter, she had a small work station with a soldering iron, several small panes of glass, and a strange looking blade.
“I was hoping to get this fixed.” I pulled out the pictures Elliot printed for me. She looked at the picture of the intact lampshade and smiled. It was the type of smile people get when they look at cooing babies. It turned to a grimace when I showed her the picture of the remains of the soccer ball victim. “These are samples of the glass,” I added, pouring out the shards. "How much would this cost?”
She looked at the picture, then at the shards of glass and frowned. “Are these from the Golden State Theatre?” she asked? I nodded. “It’s hard to say, but the cost would be substantial. Take a look at this.” She held up one of the red shards. “Do you see the texture in the glass, the small lines that look like wood grain and the curve of the glass?” I nodded again, feeling my stomach sink. The small streaks looked like miniature rivers frozen in reds and purples. “This is hand-worked cathedral style glass, and it is expensive. The only supplier of this is in New York.”
I gritted my teeth. “So… how much?”
She told me a number, and I knew I was going to be sick. It was more than the bike I was saving for, a lot more, and all hope I had of fixing this problem without bothering my dad withered. “Over half the cost is the glass, and I could do the work here, but that’s probably about the cheapest price you’ll find."
“Maybe I can find some glass," I said, feeling desperate. "Are these all the colors and types I need?” She looked through the broken shards of glass, and back at the picture.
“Yes, except for this.” She picked up the smooth purple piece of glass. "This isn’t from the same piece. Actually,” she said, rubbing the sides of it, “this isn’t glass at all. It’s a jewel of some type.” She handed me the stone.
“Is it worth anything?” I asked, getting my hopes up for a moment. If I could sell it, that would be something.
She shook her head. “I don't believe so. It's not an amythest, and it's worn smooth, not cut.” With a sigh, I slipped it in my pocket and put the rest of the pieces of glass into the paper bag again.
I nodded very slowly. “Thank you for your time,” I said, and walked for the door. My feet felt heavy as I trudged down the steps. How am I ever going to get that money? I thought about my savings, the money I was setting aside for a dirt bike. I would have to spend it, all of it, to get this fixed and even then, I wasn’t even halfway there. My dad was going to kill me, or worse, make me dust until I was twenty-five to pay off the money. Even that would be better than being the reason my dad had to go back to sleeping on a couch.
I looked back down Lighthouse Avenue, and saw a group of dozen or so kids riding towards me. They were far enough away that I couldn't make out who it was, but I really didn't want to risk it. My heart picked up the pace and I decided I wanted to take the long way home. I turned on David Avenue and started pumping up the tall hill. I didn’t know if it was my frustration or the fear, but I made record time going up the rise and turned to follow the windy path towards Highway 68 and Veteran’s Memorial Park. It was a beautiful ride, one that I took often when I wanted to get away. Thickly needled trees reached for the blue sky, combining with a soft earthy smell. It was enough to make me forget about the city completely and be lost in the grandeur of nature.
I hit another incline, and made it up the hill easily again. It felt like the wind stayed right on my back the entire ride. Cars sped by a few feet away, turning along the freeway, but I kept on following the road, turning down Forest Avenue to cut through parts of the Presidio on my way back home. In that moment, it felt perfect.
The smell of the pine trees, the feel of the air rushing across my face… and then without any warning something else was there, something very wrong. The hair on the back of my neck stood as straight as pine needles and my mouth went dry. I looked around, behind me; there were no cars on the road, no joggers or other bikers. I took one long breath at a time, trying to get my heart to slow down. I nearly had myself calm as I reached a small rise in the road and started to pedal up the hill. I looked off to the west and my heart stopped altogether.
A lion, an actual mountain lion near two pine trees stood maybe twenty feet off the road. Her golden fur coat stood out against the dark bark of the trees behind her. She crouched, like a house cat right before it pounces on a mouse. It looked monstrous, at least as long as I was tall. Even from here I could see the muscles in her strong forelegs as they pressed firmly against the earth, ready to move.
She was staring right at me.
After what felt like an hour, my heart beat again. I turned my head back to the road and drove the pedals down over and over. I heard movement behind me. I didn’t want to look, but I had to. She was moving. The sound of her feet pounding against the forest was like hammers hitting concrete. I crested the hill, in complete shock and pedaled with everything I had, picking up speed as the path turned downhill. The road straightened for a second and I glanced back. She was there, right alongside the road, running impossibly fast and gaining on me.
This isn’t happening, I thought. I desperately wanted to believe I was dreaming, but my legs never burned like this in a dream. I leaned into the turn and kept going. I glanced back after the corner and didn’t see the cougar. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. I coasted around the bend. I felt my lungs tighten as something crashed through the brush just behind me, maybe 10 feet back.
Terror strangled me as I realized the mountain lion didn’t need to stay to the roads. My legs forced the pedals to speed up as I tried to figure out what to do, bumps in the road jarring my elbows and wrists. I tried, but something in my brain refused to work, denied me any options. All I could do was flee, pedal as fast as I could, and find some place that was safe.
The road started to curve again. If I followed it, the cougar might be able to leap out in front of me next time, or right on top of me. I forced that image out of my mind and stared through the trees. Just off the road, the hill dropped off steeply, but I could see where the road came around again after the next turn. My bike wasn’t made for cross country. If I started to slide, I would be just as likely to end up in the dirt as make it back to the road. If I didn’t try it, the cougar would be right on top of me.
I focused on the road past the trees and went for it as fast as I could. The wheels leapt from the ground as I left the road. I was far past fear by then and hardly noticed the sinking feeling in my stomach, the slowing of time as my body reached out trying to feel the stability of the ground. I rocked back in the air, tilting the back tire lower.
Nearly twenty feet of ground passed beneath me before the rear wheel finally slammed hard on the dead pine needles. The front end slammed down hard right after, jolting my grip on the handlebars. The wheels almost slid right out from under me on the loose ground, but I shifted my weight and pushed harder down the mountain side. The wheels bounced and slid across the roots and rubble until my tires were on pavement again.
The road straightened a bit as I entered Veteran’s Memorial park. I didn’t really have time to look if there were people, but I could see some movement out of the corner of my eye and I heard someone scream. I raced along the downhill straightaway and could hear the lion still behind me. If I can make it to the city, I thought, there will be help in the city. I didn't know which was louder, my heart or the footsteps of the charging lion behind me.
The road twisted again fifty yards ahead. I could see the pavement below again straight through the trees. There wasn’t time to stay on the street, not if I wanted to stay alive. I looked for a somewhat straight path and darted in between branches. The hill dropped right past the road and both wheels left the ground as I flew through the air. In midair, I yelled in terror as I saw the pine tree no more than 10 feet ahead of where my tires would touch earth. My heart didn't feel like it could keep going, like a fighter who has taken too many hits already. There wasn't anything left, but I knew I needed to keep going. I couldn't stop.
I turned before I landed, the entire bike leaning sideways. The tires hit and skidded on the soft earth. The back wheel caught the tree, flinging me from the bike. I tumbled like a boomerang, and rolled across the coarse ground. I heard a roar from behind me. I didn’t look; I just rolled to the side and scrambled to my feet. The lion landed right where my legs had just been. She slid a few feet on loose pine needles, claws cutting in the earth to stop her, before turning to face me.
The muscles on her legs were thick and defined, and her eyes were like living fire burning into me. My heart tried to fly away without me. I scrambled to the right. I couldn’t outrun the cougar. There was no way. It kept up with me on a downhill ride on my bike.
I ran to a tree, putting the thick trunk between me and the lion. With one bound it leaped passed the trunk faster than I could take a step. I moved back, but her claw was quick as lightning and scratched my arm leaving trails of blood above my wrist. I stumbled back and fell, tripping over a root, and I stared into her amber eyes.
In that instant, I knew I was looking at something I was never meant to see. The lion’s eyes stared at me without remorse or pity. There was something potent in those eyes, a tyrant's power. She crouched and the words in my throat were strangled with fear.
CRACK, the sound slammed off the trees like a pinball. Her body fell over, backside first, the front a moment after, crumbling to the ground in a lifeless heap. The echo of the sound rang in my ears over and over again. I heard yelling from above, someone running down the hill. My head fell back and hit the ground. I could hear my heart quiet down enough for me to hear my breathing, coming in and out like waves crashing. Every part of me ached, but I was alive.
A man in a sheriff’s uniform was racing down the hill, a rifle in his hand. “Son, are you alright?”
I heard his voice, I think. I'm not sure how many times he said it before I sat up holding my arm. “I’m, I’m fine, just a scratch.” He went to the mountain lion first; making sure the animal was down. It wasn’t moving; the eyes stared into nothing, the tyrannical fire gone now. He then helped me up and we walked up the hill. He tried to call for an ambulance, but I talked him out of it. The scratch wasn’t deep, luckily. He bandaged me up and left me at his police car while he picked up my bike.
It was ruined.
The wheel and frame were both gruesomely bent. The gears looked like they’d been hit with a sledgehammer. A couple bystanders came running up, asking questions, as the officer hooked it to the bike rack on the back of his vehicle, apparently interested in whatever just happened. He spoke to them for a few minutes before getting in the driver's seat and starting the engine.
I don’t remember saying one word on the ride home. It felt like my heart was not willing to start up again after the fear and despair had gripped it. It wasn’t a long drive to my dad’s antique shop. The officer went into the shop while I unhooked what was left of my bike from the rack.
I tried rolling it into the shop, but the back wheel wouldn’t turn, it just skidded against the sidewalk. I lifted the rear end of the bike and rolled it inside. Dad and the officer were still talking. I tried to think of what to say about taking the long way home. My dad turned towards me. I started to speak and I never got a word out. He just threw his arms around me.
I cried.