A Box For Salt

Timmy pulled his coat collar halfway up his face to cover his rose tipped nose, and breathed heavily into the vinyl fabric, hoping to trap hot breath against his frost bitten skin. Where is Kyle, he thought, readjusting his cold a*s on the icy metal bench in an attempt to ignore the slush that had soaked through the seat of his brother’s old jeans. It had been twenty minutes since Kyle had smoothed out the divots and sharp hills of the crumbled paper Timmy had thrown during class. Meet me outside, the scratchy letters commanded, and Kyle had nodded while stuffing the crinkly paper into his mouth, chewing slowly. Kyle’s coal colored hair curled into continuous waves on his shoulders, and his violet eyes quickly flooded with a light film of tears as he swallowed the wad of paper. Coughing, he turned to Timmy and gave him two thumbs up. Timmy waited until Mrs. Martin’s humped back leaned towards the ground to pick up a fallen piece of chalk, and he dashed out of the classroom.

Now he sat in the corner of the playground, waiting. Timmy dug into his deep coat pockets and pulled out two mis-matched gloves his mother had found at the bottom of the coat closet. The soft, woolen white glove fit perfectly on his right hand, but the green one was way too large, leaving strips of scratchy, deflated fabric dangling from his fingertips. Timmy smiled, thinking of his brother Andy walking around the Ohio State Campus with a glove that only covered half his fingers. Glancing up at the grey, cloud infested sky, he closed his eyes and savored the silence. Winter storms always invited a prolonged, peaceful quiet before carefully placing dozens of frozen flakes upon the earth. Timmy enjoyed the nothingness that pressed firmly against his ears which forced dozens of fresh thoughts into his mind. The reverberation of glass and metal doors bounced against the brick building, breaking the silence. Kyle ran towards the metal bench and his long, lean legs pounded against the black cement ground, the excess jean fabric around his leg flapping in the wind like a flag. Timmy watched him pass the mounds of filthy black snow, and carefully dart between the pock-marked ice which was compacted by the boots of their classmates. His face grew hot as he watched Kyle approach the bench, and he quickly stood up, shaking the fabric of his cold, stiff jeans.

Kyle bent over to catch his breath, his face lightly dusted with soft, grey graphite from his pencil shavings. His usual golden cheeks were replaced with two rosy circles which were planted softly below his eyes. Reaching into his jean pocket, Kyle pulled out a hairband the color of an eggplant, and sloppily tied his dark waves into a ponytail.

“Wow,” Kyle said, letting out a raspy breath and flashing Timmy a braced smile, “it’s really quiet out here, isn’t it?.”

“Yea, it...it’s....it is..” Timmy stuttered, glancing towards the door and expecting to see their teacher’s sullen, dry face.

“Don’t worry, We’re in eighth grade,” he said. “The b***h is probably glad we’re out of the classroom. She won’t even notice.” They both laughed, and headed towards the peeling, green monkey bars which was isolated from the other playground equipment. The occasional sound of their rubber soles slapping against the ground was overpowered by the thick silence sharply stabbing Timmy’s ears.

“So I talked with my dad last night,” Timmy interjected, winding his scarf tightly against his neck as he watched Kyle approach the monkey bars.

“Oh yea? About what?” Kyle questioned, his fingers wrapped firmly around the metal handles.

“About that cooking club you asked me to join.”

“And?”

“And he said no....” Timmy mumbled.

“Oh....ok,” Kyle answered,  slowly placing the backs of his knees on the handlebars and hanging upside down. His pony tail methodically rocked back and forth like a metronome.

“Yea, he said that cooking is for women and if I joined the club people would think I was a,” Timmy paused, waiting the boy to finish his sentence.  “A....you know...”

“A what?” Kyle whispered, his body hanging lifelessly upside down and his eyes fixated on the mountainous ashen clouds dolloped in the sky.

“A f*g,” Timmy’s voice faltered.

Silence.

“Yea, you wouldn’t want anyone to think you were a f*g, would you?” Kyle said sarcastically. Two purple veins throbbed wildly down the middle of his forehead, causing his skin to pulse.

“Come on Kyle, don’t start.” Timmy pleaded, biting his lower lip.

“What? I just agree with your all-knowing father.” Kyle said, his dark eyebrows knitted. “A f*g, for Gods sake, someone call the police!”

“That’s not the only reason, I mean...” He stammered. “...he really wants me to join the,,,um...soccer team.”

“Oh, really, soccer?” Kyle mocked, his eyes growing sarcastically big, “I don’t remember you being athletic.”

“Well, my dad said real men play soccer and that’s why I should play. Because.....because.... I'm a man.”

“Oh, yes,” Kyle sneered. “A strong, brave, independent man, that’s what you are.”

“But...but...I.....like soccer...you know,” Timmy said, licking his cold, dry lips.

“Hmm.”

“Its not like he’s...forcing me....or anything like that,” Timmy mumbled, a chilly thrust of air poking his eyes and causing tears to slide down his cheeks. “I made this decision all by myself.”

Kyle coughed and pulled his body upwards, grasping the monkey bar handles. Silence stabbed Timmy’s ears like the high pitched squeal of his grandfather’s hearing aide.

“What? You don’t believe me?” Timmy asked.

“I didn’t say anything.” Kyle said, pulling his legs off of the metal bars, and hanging from his arms.

“You never believe me. You’re always judging me!” Timmy said, balling his hands into firm fists. “You don’t know what it’s like.” Kyle locked eyes with him, but Timmy quickly turned his head to face the swings.

“I’m not judging you,” Kyle softly whispered.

“Karly believes me.... All. The. Time.” Timmy accentuated the last three syllables, watching a tiny thread of light escape the heavy clouds, and bounce against the icy ground. “That’s why I love her.”

“Ok.”

“She never questions me, even when I lie to her she believes me!”

“Sure.”

“What do you mean, ‘sure’?” Timmy spat out as though an acidic taste was in his mouth.

Kyle released his grip on the monkey handles, and landed squarely on his brown, snow boots.

“I mean what I said....sure,” he stated emotionlessly, walking toward the swings. An immense pressure fizzed inside Timmy’s chest, and as a gust of wind hit his back, he felt fire sizzle  deep within his throat.

“You think you can just walk away from me?” Timmy screamed, grabbing the back of Kyle’s winter coat and turning him around. “You’re jealous, that’s all. You are jealous that you don’t have a beautiful girlfriend like me! You’re jealous that.......”

“SHUT UP,” Kyle interrupted.

“You can’t tell me to...”

“Just stop it!” He said, grasping Timmy’s hand and holding it firmly between his leather gloves. After a few seconds of fumbling, their eyes met. Timmy could hear nothing but their intermingling sharp, shallow breaths. His head tingled and he pulled his hand away, as he felt his limbs grow uncomfortably warm.

Listen. Just forget I even asked you to join.” Kyle said, scuffling his feet on the loose, crumbling asphalt.  “I was just hoping that we could, you know, hang out.”

“Oh.” Timmy said, attempting to ignore the bubbling that burned deep within his chest. The clouds grew thicker with blackness, and silence fell softly onto the playground, like a thick mist.

“I wasn’t judging you, and I think it’s....um....great that you and your girlfriend are happy.”

“We are soo happy together.” He reassured Kyle, talking quickly.  “You know, me and her.”

“Thats.....that’s great.”

“Yea......it is.”

The silence was growing so heavy, Timmy could hardly breathe. His skin was itchy, and he used the loose, green glove to scratch at his throat which felt engulfed in hot flames.  Kyle’s eyes were glistening, and when he blinked, a bit of liquid escaped and fell on his supple, pink lips. Timmy opened his mouth to speak, but no words, no sounds escaped from his lungs. A wall of silence formed against Timmy’s eardrum and pounded on it with every passing second, like continuous waves of a tsunami. Suddenly, the clouds separated and released tiny cotton speckles of snow which landed gently on the earth. Timmy felt cold as the frozen pieces melted on his neck and ears pushing away the monstrous silence.

“He hit me,” Timmy said, nuzzling his nose deep within his scarf.

“What?”

“I said he hit me. My dad did. Last night, when I asked him,” Timmy stated. “Said he always knew I was a f*g since I was a baby.”

“oh,” Kyle stated. Timmy looked up at the sky, blinking quickly as the snowflakes hit his eyes. The clouds had morphed from a dark grey to a dank, pale ash.

“Said he would beat me if I ever brought home a man, said he would prefer a daughter to a f****t son.” He choked on his breath, “Then he went right on my mom, blamed her for it, gave her a black eye.”

“You don’t have to....”

“But the soccer club is just as good as any cooking club.” Timmy spoke confidently, “I’ll be a great soccer player, and I’ll make my Dad proud. I’m sure he’ll come to all of the games like he did with Andy.”

Timmy paused for a moment listening to the soft crackling the snow made as it fell to the black cement.

“That’s good.” Kyle said, tiny, pin point snow flakes nestled deep into his damp ponytail, leaving balls of glistening liquid.

“Then he’ll probably take me out to pizza if my team wins, and maybe he’ll even let me take a sip of his beer.”

Kyle nodded and leaned against the pole of the swing set.

A cold chill tumbled down Timmy’s spine as the wind began to surround the playground.

“You should join soccer too,” Timmy said. “That way we can all go together. You like pizza right?”

“No.” Kyle firmly stated, his breath sinking into the air like soft clouds. “I hate pizza.” Timmy stood still and felt the snowflakes create a damp blanket on his shoulders. The bell rang three times on top of the brick school building.

“Listen, today in shop class we had to make these stupid jewelry boxes we were supposed to give to our mom or sister, and my mom...she has too many jewelry boxes,” Timmy spat out quickly, glaring at Kyle’s shiny brown boots, “so anyway, you can have it....if you want.”

“Oh.” Kyle said.

“Not that I think that you are going to put necklaces or rings in there, but maybe you can put your old s**t in it.” Timmy suggested, rubbing his hands over the rough oak before thrusting it towards the dark haired boy. “Or maybe put salt in it, from your cooking club.”

“Thanks,” Kyle said looking Timmy directly in the eye. “I love it.”

Reviews

[swatson]

I love this. The dialogue flows so naturally, and the whole thing is described so beautifully - really makes the whole scene believable. And I love how emotionally you wrote the scene without letting it get melodramatic. Really the whole thing is very well done.

[sbela]

Thank you for the feedback!