F. Wilson - Secret Circles

Though only four months older, Weezy was a year ahead of Jack in school. The other two were giggling as they watched Carson Toliver swing the mallet

and try to ring the bell atop the board. His muscles bulged beneath his tight T-shirt. But he wasn‟t having much luck reaching the bell. Despite pounding the pad on

the base pretty hard, he was moving the striker weight only a third or halfway up.

Weezy joined the others in calling out the labels on the levels as he reached them. Whack!

“Wimp!”

Whack!

“Dork!”

Whack!

“Nerd!”

Jack wondered why he felt such plea sure watching him fail. He was supposed to

be a pretty nice guy. He‟d never picked on Jack—never acted any way toward Jack—but

for some reason he disliked the guy.

A word popped into his head.

Jealous?

No way.

Yeah, Weezy had kissed Jack on the lips last month but that hadn‟t meant

anything. Little more than a peck. They weren‟t like that. They were friends, nothing more.

Still … nothing more he‟d like to do right now than show up Carson Toliver. As Jack watched him swing the hammer he noticed how the pad was fixed about

four inches in from the outer edge of the rocker board. With that loss of leverage, even Conan the Barbarian would have a tough time ringing the bell.

But if you just so happened to miss the pad and hit the outer edge of the board

…

He caught Weezy‟s eye and jerked his thumb toward the front end of the

midway. She nodded and held up a finger: Meet you there in a minute Maybe she didn‟t want to be seen deserting Toliver for a frosh. Or maybe she

thought Toliver was going to try again. But he threw the mallet down instead. “It‟s rigged!”

Jack stared at the sign: Three Swings for a Dollar . On impulse he pulled out a bill and waved it.

“I‟m next!”

The carny running the game took his dollar and pointed to the mallet. As Jack

picked it up he saw Weezy standing between the two snickering sophs and giving him a what-are-you-thinking? look.

He gripped the very end of the mallet handle, rested the head on the rocker pad,

then stepped back six inches. He raised it high above his head, took a breath, and

swung with everything he had—

And missed. The mallet head smacked into the mud with a gushy thok! Jack felt his face heat up as Toliver and the two other girls burst into laughter.

Weezy stood with her eyes closed, shaking her head.

The carny gave him a gap-tooth grin as he tapped the rocker pad. “Guess I

should a told ya. Y‟hit „er here, not the ground.”

They laughed louder.

Jack did his best to ignore them as he reset his grip and repeated the same

process, except this time he backed up only three inches. Again he raised it high and swung, putting his back as well as his arms into it.

The mallet head caught the outer edge of the board, sending the weight

shooting all the way to the top. As the sound of the bell rang through the air, Jack dropped the mallet.

“You don‟t get no prize,” the carny said, “because you didn‟t hit the pad. Y‟gotta

hit the pad.”

Jack didn‟t care. He‟d just wanted to see if he could do it. He shoved his hands in

his pockets and walked away without looking at Weezy and company. Didn‟t have to.

Their silence said it all. He didn‟t wait for her. It definitely would not be cool for her to walk away with the frosh who‟d just one-upped Carson Toliver.

But halfway to the entrance she appeared beside him.

“I saw what you did,” she said.

He glanced at her. She was grinning.

“And what would that be?”

“Hit the end of the board. Nerds know levers.”

Jack resented that. “Nerd, huh? I guess I left my taped glasses and pocket

protector home.”

“Maybe nerd‟s not the right word. How about misfit? You‟re into things most kids

wouldn‟t understand. Your mind works differently. I should know. I‟m the same. But

you know how to hide it.”

“I don‟t hide anything.”

Well … maybe a few things.

“Yeah, you do. You don‟t even know you do. Kids just think of you as kind of a

loner. Me … they think I‟m weird. But I‟m learning how to hide it.”

“Why?”

She glanced back at the kids she‟d left behind. “Because sometimes I wish …” “Wish you were like them?”

“Not like them, exactly. It‟s just that … sometimes I get tired of being on the outside looking in, and I start thinking it might be nice to be on the inside looking out.” “Better view?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I‟d like the chance to compare. You ever feel that way?” Jack thought about that. It took only a second.

“No.”

“Never?”

He shook his head. “Never even occurred to me. And I‟m surprised to hear you

talking like this. It‟s not you. You always seemed so … happy with who you are.” “Happy?”

She looked away. “I don‟t know if I‟ve ever been happy.” “Sure you have.”

“Okay. Yes. I was happiest when I had the pyramid. And I was happy just now

to see you ring that bell.” She gave him a gentle punch on the shoulder. “Brain beats brawn every time, right?”

“Not every time, but it‟s got a good win-loss record.”

She heaved a theatrical sigh and slipped her arm through his as they walked. “My hero.”

He had to laugh at her unpredictability. Her warm skin tingled against his and

made for a nice end to a mostly crappy day.

I was happiest when I had the pyramid.

Really? Then Jack was going to get it back for her, one way or another.

MONDAY

1

Jack‟s father slammed on the brakes in their driveway.

“What the hell?”

He‟d been leaving for work the same time as Jack this morning and offered him a

ride down to the bus stop. He worked as an accountant for Price Water house in Cherry Hill and sometimes their departures coincided.

Now he gaped at their lawn where the VIVINO

FOR FREEHOLDER sign lay in tatters.

He stared a few heartbeats longer, then looked at Jack. “Was that like that when you came home last night?”

Jack shook his head. “Looked just fine when I rolled past.”

Very true. Jack didn‟t mention that after he‟d parked his bike in the garage he‟d walked back and torn the sign to shreds.

He noticed something and used it to change the subject.

“Hey, where‟s the Frisbee?”

They‟d left it in the oak that grew curbside and spread over the street and the front yard. But the spot where it had lodged was empty.

“Must have fallen out during the night.”

Jack scanned the front lawn. The disk was bright yellow. If there it would have been easily visible.

“Yeah, but it‟s not there.”

His father made a sour face. “Maybe whoever tore up the sign took it.” He shook his head as he gave the car some gas. “People … I‟ll never understand them. Who on earth would stop and go to the trouble to tear up Al‟s sign?”

Jack shrugged. “Someone who doesn‟t like him, I guess.”

2

Jack‟s father accelerated away toward Cherry Hill, leaving him alone at the high school bus stop. Nobody else even in sight yet.

Southern Burlington County Regional High School—known as SBC Regional or just plain SBR

for short—lay only three miles south of Johnson. Jack had wanted to ride his bike to school when the weather was decent but his folks put the kibosh on that.

His mother worried about him riding on the rutted, two-lane blacktop of Route 206. Jack had explained that he knew back roads and paths that would keep him off the highway most of the way. She hadn‟t bought it.