Bird of Paradise
In the shade of an oak tree, Bradley and I are busy digging a tunnel beneath the chain link fence to reach the honeysuckles blooming on the other side. Bradley claws away at the damp sand like a seasoned prairie dog, which, considering his gentle use of crayons in coloring books, surprises me. He does not press hard when he colors, resulting in pastel hues and even shading. All the other kids produce dark waxy blotches that jump outside the lines. On the other side of the fence, the honeysuckles are something between Outrageous Orange and Sunset Orange (I would use a combination of the two and so would Bradley) with traces of Goldenrod. Some of the flowers have reached close enough to the fence by way of vine, close enough for us to detach a flower and suck the nectar from its wound. Taste the honey? Bradley had asked. Nodding, I had dropped everything to help dig for more.
Out in the sunshine, Chad chases Pamela around the jungle gym in the center of the playground. The jungle gym is a miniature ziggurat, or at least the skeleton of one. Chad shoves Pamela from behind, and she falls face-first into the sand. She cries at Teacher, who is seated beneath the faded red awning above the back door to the classroom. Pamela's face is gray and brittle like stone. Her tears darken the area around her eyes. Chad crawls to the center of the jungle gym and climbs to the top from inside.
After what happened during my first year of kindergarten with Chad, Mom does not want me playing with him anymore. Chad had found a red permanent marker in the sand and used it to write his name on the front door of the school. I wrote mine too, because my name was the only word I knew how to write back then. No one saw us do it, but we still got in trouble for it. Last week, Chad taught me how to make a bird with my middle finger. Pamela saw and said God would be mad if He saw what we were doing. To impress Chad, I stood on a swing seat to make myself taller. Grasping two chains with one hand, I held my bird as high as possible to show God I did not care. I expected a lightning bolt to knock my shoes off, but I was more afraid that Teacher would see. Chad was proud.
Bradley has finished digging an adequate tunnel and is wriggling under the fence to get to the blooms on the other side. Teacher is distracted by Pamela's crying and Chad's shouting from the peak of the jungle gym. Up there, he is invincible from Teacher, from timeout—he can do or say whatever he wants. He sits and removes a shoe, then stands up and chucks it at Teacher, wobbling for balance. Teacher counts to three but stops at two and three quarters. Chad knows she does not have the guts to say three. She never does. Never has to. A cloud blocks the sun, and Chad finds his poise, one-shoed, then gives Teacher the bird. Teacher gasps and so do we, unable to believe, but also not surprised. At the base of the jungle gym, Teacher’s anger fades and is replaced with an eerie calm. We all know Chad must come down eventually.
I turn to see Bradley's reaction to all this, but he isn't there.
Out in the sunshine, Chad chases Pamela around the jungle gym in the center of the playground. The jungle gym is a miniature ziggurat, or at least the skeleton of one. Chad shoves Pamela from behind, and she falls face-first into the sand. She cries at Teacher, who is seated beneath the faded red awning above the back door to the classroom. Pamela's face is gray and brittle like stone. Her tears darken the area around her eyes. Chad crawls to the center of the jungle gym and climbs to the top from inside.
After what happened during my first year of kindergarten with Chad, Mom does not want me playing with him anymore. Chad had found a red permanent marker in the sand and used it to write his name on the front door of the school. I wrote mine too, because my name was the only word I knew how to write back then. No one saw us do it, but we still got in trouble for it. Last week, Chad taught me how to make a bird with my middle finger. Pamela saw and said God would be mad if He saw what we were doing. To impress Chad, I stood on a swing seat to make myself taller. Grasping two chains with one hand, I held my bird as high as possible to show God I did not care. I expected a lightning bolt to knock my shoes off, but I was more afraid that Teacher would see. Chad was proud.
Bradley has finished digging an adequate tunnel and is wriggling under the fence to get to the blooms on the other side. Teacher is distracted by Pamela's crying and Chad's shouting from the peak of the jungle gym. Up there, he is invincible from Teacher, from timeout—he can do or say whatever he wants. He sits and removes a shoe, then stands up and chucks it at Teacher, wobbling for balance. Teacher counts to three but stops at two and three quarters. Chad knows she does not have the guts to say three. She never does. Never has to. A cloud blocks the sun, and Chad finds his poise, one-shoed, then gives Teacher the bird. Teacher gasps and so do we, unable to believe, but also not surprised. At the base of the jungle gym, Teacher’s anger fades and is replaced with an eerie calm. We all know Chad must come down eventually.
I turn to see Bradley's reaction to all this, but he isn't there.
Mark Jednaszewski splits his time between Philly and the sea, where he works as chief engineer on a commercial car carrier. He is a flash fiction editor for Lily Poetry Review and holds an MFA from the Solstice Program of Pine Manor College. He tweets occasionally @ninjaneerski.