Ike Hamill - The Hunting Tree Trilogy

“We put you here.” Mr. Nguyen pointed to a group of five which included the blond boy. “Together we do drawing or writing,” he continued. Davey’s group-mates seemed to know the agenda. They dragged desks and chairs to the center of the room to form a rough circle. Each student received a couple sheets of unlined paper and a charcoal pencil.

Mr. Nguyen gave brief instructions. He set up a table bearing a bowl of artificial fruit; to this he pointed. “Draw or write,” he said. “One hour.”

Davey’s eyes scanned his group. They included two other boys and three girls, all of whom bent over and went to work on the assignment. He looked at his pencil and wondered what sort of script he might achieve with such a tool. As far as he knew, he had no interest or aptitude in art, but that seemed like the less onerous option. He began to sketch the round arc of the front of the bowl.

Even to his untrained eye, he could see that his drawing was a naive interpretation of the simple shapes. Mr. Nguyen circled the group once more and then stalked off without offering any advice. Davey glanced around at his fellow inmates and hunched over his work, imitating their concentration.

He glanced up again at the apple, tried to memorize its contours, and focused back on his paper. Something in the back of his head clicked as he looked back down at his paper and Davey’s head snapped back up. His eyes focused on the empty seat across the circle. The older boy with the long blond hair, the one who had thrown the ball earlier, was no longer in his chair.

Davey glanced to his right just as a hand clamped down on his left wrist. He fought his arm as it moved back, across the edge of the desk and jerked back up behind his back. The blond boy’s face appeared just over Davey’s right shoulder; his hair brushing Davey’s neck and cheek. Blondie lifted Davey’s arm another inch, until he could have scratched his own shoulder blades. Davey felt his elbow and shoulder light up in pain, but he kept his quiet—not rewarding his attacker with a yell.

“Hey queer-boy,” the blond boy whispered in Davey’s ear. “I heard your mom’s a whore. Is that true?”

Davey’s eyes danced around the room, looking for help. Within his group kids glanced up at the altercation, but they quickly returned to their own work. Davey’s eyes touched on young Evan, across the room, covered up to his wrists in finger paints. If Evan saw the attack, he made no outward sign.

“Leave him alone, Curtis,” said a girl across the circle.

“Shut up, bitch,” said Curtis. She shot him a disgusted look, but she heeded his order. “Now, faggot. Is your mom a whore or not?” he asked again.

Davey didn’t answer. Not because of some brave act of defiance, but because he wasn’t quite sure what was happening to him. The world had slowed again, like when he was catching the pop foul at catcher’s camp. His vision sharpened, focusing only on the world within ten feet, but he could see everything.

With awe he realized that he could take this frozen moment and disconnect himself almost entirely from the slow-motion scene and see himself from the outside. Davey pictured clearly his own sitting form, arm pinned painfully to his back, and Curtis’s crouching form and savage sneer.

Davey chose to repel the attack, and to inflict as much damage as possible on the bully in the process. He fired the strong muscles of his thighs, turning the toes of his right foot outward and kicking his chair back and to the left. Rising a few inches from his seat, the pressure left his arm and Davey dropped his shoulders, moving his shoulder-blades onto his back. He accomplished all these actions before Curtis had time to respond.

“Hey,” Curtis barked as the back of Davey’s chair drove into his hip. He didn’t have time to utter another syllable—with his shoulder-blades out of the way Davey was free to drive his head backward, hitting Curtis’s temple with the side of his skull.

A flare of pain shot through Davey’s head, but he was prepared for the blow. The sound from Curtis’s head sounded like a rock hitting a rotting pumpkin, Davey decided. With his head driven back, Curtis staggered as his brain sloshed.

Given the extra distance between their bodies, Davey pivoted and took full advantage of Curtis’s stupor and spun to his left. Once he faced the blond bully he realized that the only thing keeping Curtis on his feet was his death-grip on Davey’s wrist. Davey raised his right arm quickly and chopped Curtis’s grip, leaving Curtis swaying on his feet. With his accelerated perception, seeing the world one frame at a time, Davey had time to consider if this retribution on the bully had been good enough, or if he should exact further revenge. He almost decided to show leniency, but then remembered the ball that Curtis had aimed at his head earlier. For whatever reason, Curtis meant to conquer Davey. Based on this fact, Davey decided to strike a decisive blow.

Even in a daze, Curtis raised his hands to ward off Davey’s attack, but Davey saw the blond boy’s hands come up and ducked under. He waited for gravity to catch up to his legs and then thrust upward, driving his arms up, underneath Curtis’s defenses. Davey’s hands connected with Curtis’s chest, driving him backwards—away from the circle of desks.

As he stumbled backwards, Curtis’s feet interlocked and he tumbled, landing flat on his back and sliding a few feet on the shiny tile floor. With two long strides, Davey leapt on the prone boy. With one leg bent and the other knee to the floor, Davey drove two knuckles down with all the force he could muster. His sharp knuckles connected squarely with Curtis’s solar plexus.

The effect was instantaneous—Curtis’s torso rose up off the floor as he pulled his knees to his chest and produced a strange, inhaling “Ghurrrp!”

Davey stood and stepped back from the blond boy who was struggling for air. Time started to speed up for Davey again as the threat passed. The color returned to his vision. He once again heard the ambient sounds of the room, and his focus waned, returning him to a broad peripheral view of the world again. Footsteps pulled his attention to his left—Mr. Nguyen banged through the door and strode to Davey’s side.

“Come,” he said to Davey. The small man stalked back towards the door.

Davey lowered his eyes and followed him, leaving Curtis still on his knees.

Once they reached the hallway, Mr. Nguyen closed the door to the classroom, clasped his hands behind his back and faced Davey, scanning the boy’s face.

“You too smart for room,” he said.

Davey struggled to parse the sentence before he realized that Mr. Nguyen purposefully omitted words to disguise his accent.

“No sir,” said Davey, taking the statement as an accusation of vanity.

“Yes,” said Mr. Nguyen. “You too smart. Those kids not smart.”

Davey wondered suddenly why Mr. Nguyen had drawn this conclusion. The little man hadn’t witnessed the fight, and even if he had, he wondered why fighting back would mean Davey was smart.

“You want library?” asked Mr. Nguyen. “Read alone? Away from boy?" He jabbed a finger at the classroom.

“No sir,” Davey blurted out his reply. His first instinct told him that to go to the library would be almost as bad as losing the fight; it would be an admission of weakness. Mr. Nguyen didn’t reply right away. Davey found he didn’t want to change his answer.

Sensing Davey’s resolve, Mr. Nguyen didn’t repeat the offer. “Okay, but no more fight.” He wagged a finger in Davey’s face. “You fight again and you go to library.”

“Yes sir. Thank you,” Davey nodded to the thin man.

“Okay. Go finish bad drawing.” Mr. Nguyen smiled at Davey as he opened the door.