Playground Battlefields

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I stand at the top of a tower surveying the scene before me. Across the field I see Mark M. and Mark A., two people on opposing sides, laying down side-by-side, perhaps bleeding out but unwilling to do so alone. They reach for each other, one Mark grasping the hand of the other, seeking comfort in the familiarity of human touch, even if it comes from the one that caused your downfall. I see one of them, the one wearing a green pinnie, my Mark, laugh. His chest goes up and down twice before he coughs. His sneakered foot twitches once, twice, a third time, before going still. That’s another one lost. What will happen to his body? Will it be dragged away or will the enemy surround him like the Trojans did Patroclus, rejecting the Greek Rule of War – take a life but leave the body? The dead belong to their ancestral homes, they should not be forced to rot in an unfamiliar land with ruthless gods.

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There is someone beside me. It is my best friend, perhaps the last of my friends left standing. Before he joined us, I was applauded and praised. I was loved, my head bowed to receive numerous wreaths of laurel. Now he is the one who receives the gold star. Am I the SpongeBob to his Patrick, the worthless one in boating school? Why does he deserve the Good Noodle Star? What have I done to have fallen so far off my pedestal? What has he done to be lifted above us all?

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“Sir,” he starts, “sir, I just got word from Mindy. One of her calvary intercepted a note from the Pink General to her First-in-Command, Commander Emily. Sir, the note – the note states they are to advance at 12:50. Sir, what are we to do? Do you want me to take a platoon of our men to try and slow them down before they reach the rickety bridge? Before they reach our tower?” That is what makes me the angriest about him. About Mitchell. He is always so eager to please, so eager to throw himself into the midst of danger. He can fool everyone, but he cannot fool me. Me, who has known him since first grade, when he flicked a pea into my ear on purpose during lunch to see what I would do. Two years have passed since that day. Two years in which we have slept at each other’s houses, played in my pool, jumped on his trampoline. And yet I know that he waits for my downfall so he can take over and be the General. I must win this battle. Everything is at stake.

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I take a deep breath, in through my mouth and out my nose, steady like my mother taught me when I cry about the monsters under my bed and in my closet. If we face them here, head-on, we have a greater risk of our – what was that? I feel it again, something cold and wet, falling onto my head. No. No. I look up at the sky. What used to be just an overcast day is quickly turning into a full-on onslaught of rain, complete with a quick flash of lighting and thunder following not far after.

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“Three seconds,” Mitchell murmurs almost to himself, “three miles.” We look at each other and then at Ms. Spyropoulos, who is shouting and waving her arm high in the air. She’s beckoning all of us to come, the rest of recess will be spent indoors. I can feel the tears forming in the corners of my eyes before angrily swiping them away. We were supposed to win. I was supposed to win. It wasn’t supposed to be this way! We can’t have a battle indoors! I’ve already been sent to the principal’s twice for bringing sticks into the classroom!

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The slide a few feet in front of us is uncovered. It twists around three times before depositing whoever is brave enough to face it safely on the ground. Mitchell has already sat down at the top, heedless to the fact that the back of his shorts are getting soaked through.

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“See you at the bottom!” He propels himself forward with both hands, sticking a bit in the rain, before going off with a woosh. There is nothing to be done. The sky is crying and raging for me. All I can do is follow and join my friends at the edge of the playground where they are already lined up, Mark A. still wearing his green pinnie and at the front of the line. The shouts of joy coming from them does nothing for my dampened mood.

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I slowly lower myself onto the plastic yellow slide, situate myself at the top, and let gravity take me down. At the bottom, I am slow to rise, Ms. Spyropoulos gesturing to me impatiently. As I stand, I take one last look at our fortress, standing tall and forlorn against the backdrop of black clouds heavy with the storm. There’s always tomorrow to win. And win we must.

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