From the hand of Kristine Dyer
&
The collective memories of the aforementioned and Jordan Mitchell
]
Chapter One: The Battles Rage
We were Bonnie and Clyde, Mortie and Furdie, partners-in-crime, mortal enemies. He was my best friend, and became another brother. Our story is not one of intense morals, beauty or sadness. It is simply the in and out of life, we grew up. We learned that life was a series of memories. And perhaps these memories have been blown out slightly, but there is more truth than fiction. We had but a passing together and as is typical with the ebb and flow of life; reality reached into our sphere of safety and tore us apart. We had a few years of complete closeness, but as I moved away, and grew and changed, we grew apart and all I had to cling to was the memory of those few years.
I was twelve when I met him. Even now I chuckle and a smile breaks across my face when I think of our first meeting. I moved to Hawai’i with my family, my 9th move, and I was certain we were to be living in huts on the beach, with little modern necessities. As it turned out, we didn’t but the military housing they put us in might as well have been a hut. A “historical monument” these decrepit buildings had survived World War Two and apparently deserved the honor of remaining in the neighborhood. Needless to say, we were slightly disappointed with our small, falling apart, housing 15 minutes from anything important, except a small park which would be the center of my life for a few years.
The park was down the street about a hundred yards, equipped with two slides, some gymnastic bars, and a swing set. I have so many memories on that swing set. That dirty, rusty park was the central hub of my memories in Hawai’i. I had lived there for almost a year, with no friends; I walked to the park almost every day and swung by myself, or with my brothers, but mostly with myself. On that fateful day, my brothers and I had decided to take a walk to the park down the street; homeschooled loners like us could do that anytime we wanted, and to my distress and my brothers delight all the young kids in our neighborhood, Camp Stover, we being driven mercilessly by a teenage boy. Busy as ever, these children were being mastered by this boy sitting regally in the highest peak of the playground atop the slide. Upon his head was a makeshift crown, under him was a makeshift throne and in his hand he held a scepter of sorts. From this point he commanded his “army” of cheerful children. While viewing this strange scene, I observed that the boy was decidedly handsome, he sported a tousled coif and a face rounded still by baby fat. He was rather tall and slightly plump, but it suited him well. Having little to no contact with boys my age for several years, I was quite intrigued and slightly aghast at the child-like hierarchy he had established. I proceeded to take my usual place on the swings while making judgments of this quirky character. Was it normal for a teenage boy to be dictating little children and creating a monarchy of his own? Did boys often play games this way? He was commanding, firm, resolute, confidant, as if he had been commanding armies of children for quite some time. As I would come to find out, this boy was not normal, he exuded weird, odd, quirky and bizarre. He was everything I wanted to be, but was too scared of becoming. In short, this Monarch was not, in any sense of the word, normal.
Before I knew it, my brothers had joined the “monarchy” and sported deeply mischievous looks across their countenance. The Monarch, drunk with superiority, had taken no notice of a small rebellion stirring among his subjects. My brothers, known for their troublemaking abilities, were taunting the children with the sweet temptation of freedom and liberty. Some were finding this offer irresistible, though strangely some were loyal to this cruel master. Slowly as the economy of his empire slowed, the Monarch realized something was amiss. As he inspected his subjects my brothers loudly defied His Majesty and spoke out against the injustice of the whole operation and listed their demands for freedom. The indignant ruler told them to leave before they ruined his empire. Happily my brothers shrieked “NO!” and gathered weapons for their rebellion. Enraged, the Monarch began stocking his empire with sticks as swords and berries as ammunition.
Thus the infamous Camp Stover wars began. It was to be the first of many epic battles that would lead to trouble, broken bonds, wounds, scolding and an overall feeling of satisfaction of a job well done. Still I remained on the swings observing this scene, and a feeling that something grand was beginning washed over me. As the excitement of the battle rose to its climax, the cries for assistance became louder and more desperate. I was forced to choose, the Monarch or my rebellious brothers? I was no longer given leave to sit complacently on the swings and speculate upon the sidelines of the battles rage. Thus I was equipped by the rebels and the adrenaline of war pounded through my veins as I unleashed my battle cry. I was wild with the desire to overcome. As I fought, I noticed that my brother would periodically declare a truce with the Monarch and as they would near a handshake, my dear brother would pounce upon the back of the Monarch and begin beating him repeatedly about the head. The Monarch desperate for the return of order and peace to his kingdom would desperately and foolishly believe my brothers truce and eventually received many bumps upon his head. The children were becoming equally violent and a piercing shriek sliced its way through the battle. All went still. A young boy christened Michael lay upon the ground sobbing. His father emerged from a nearby home and threatened us older children with unmentionable things. Our war ended as quietly as it began. Sheepishly the ruler had walked across the now abandoned field between the park and swings and declared my brothers and I worthy opponents of his Empire. With that handshake, our journey began.
…
After that day, we were inseparable. I learned the Monarchs name to be Jordan Anthony Mitchell. He’d only been in the neighborhood for two weeks and had more friends than I had made in a year. Being the… er…gentleman that he was, he introduced me to his “friends”. That’s when the trouble began.
We had been on the swings singing our favorite songs. True we were odd, but it suited us just fine. During the chorus of “Come Sail Away” by Styx, Jordan’s friends came to us. Having already been introduced to these “friends” and having already made a not-so-friendly judgment of these “friends” I turned to make a lame excuse to go home and hit the dust but Jordan would have none of that and begged me to stay. I decided I could endure the turmoil for his sake and with that the harassment began. We walked over to where the group was sitting on the bench across from the park. Someone had brought candy. O, that weak spirited Jordan. I had learned of his insatiable desire for anything sugar filled and a wave of fear came over me as a catch to his obtaining this sugar became evident. They pulled Jordan out of earshot and proceeded what seemed to be a bargain of some sort. Triumphantly he returned to the bench with no more than 8 Sour Patch Kids. Immediately upon his return his “friends” shouted “Do it! Ask her! Remember the deal.” I was confused and rather irritated as Jordan proceeded to tell me the plan.
In exchange for his beloved candy, Jordan was required to ask a certain friend of his “out”. One can only guess who that certain friend happened to be. I knew the instant Jordan said, “Kristine,” and took a long, deep breath. What was I supposed to do? I’d never been asked “out” before; much less had a boy even like me. Slowly, following Jordan’s example, I inhaled and said “Maybe.” But oh no, that was not nearly sufficient enough for Jordan’s friends. Chorus’ of “You have to say yes, maybe isn’t an option, CHICKEN!” swirled around me and I felt claustrophobic. They chided me and teased. So what was a poor naive red-headed girl to do?
“Fine”
...
Thus, my entirely un-epic romance with Jordan began. I went home that night with butterflies in my stomach. I was torn between my conscience and those very lovely butterflies. As I lay thinking about my future, as pre-teen girls often do, Jordan simply would not fit as a romantic figure. But no matter, we had time right?
As the following days unfolded it became increasingly transparent that something was amiss between Jordan and his “friends”. Increasingly, I had been confronted about the fact that I was an item with Jordan. People would inquire and laugh manically as I confirmed their suspicions. Blissfully unaware of the upcoming conflict, Jordan and I sat upon our usual swings. Lately we had taken to just sitting and talking. We teased each other and shared our wonderfully random thoughts. That particular day, a fellow named R.J. proceeded to inquire why we didn’t act like we were “going out”. We ceased our daily tradition of referring to the unattractive state of each other’s countenance to address this foolish question. We told him that we simply enjoyed chiding each other.
Jordan and I both possessed and interesting sense of humor, our sarcastically sardonic natures meshed well, though we tended to shock the average passerby and we were generally avoided. This suited us quite nicely. During the first couple of weeks with Jordan I found in myself a brave quality. I had stopping caring what his friends thought of me. What did it matter anyway? I realized with Jordan’s help, that someone other than family could appreciate me for simply being myself. He never judged my over dramatic thoughts, or my quirky statements. He never once laughed at me as I stared up at a tree and wished aloud to be a dryad. In his own way, Jordan encouraged my nostalgic, mythical nature. In me, he injected a desire to look beyond the dreary surface of life and to see the faeries in the sparking magic of the dew. With him I could be as mature or as childlike as the day suited me. Never once did Jordan make fun of the long hidden, fanciful ideas in my head and he encouraged these thoughts and it wasn’t long before I found myself jumping out of bed in morning excited for the next adventure. The long hours of idle playtime full of magic allowed Jordan and I to wreak havoc on our small neighborhood in our own way and we were left to our own devices. For this reason the next episode in the Camp Stover Wars began.
Days after Jordan and I had been “together” the little children of the fallen empire we banding together to declare war. Jordan, my brothers and I took immediate action. We proceeded to build our Headquarters behind the abandoned house down the street from mine. We gathered berries and sticks, and proceeded to plan the battle. Amidst the fervor of battle preparations a thought struck me. As Jordan and I exchanged glances over my brothers’ heads I realized that boyfriends and girlfriends were supposed to kiss. How stupid of me! I decided to remedy the situation immediately. I moved closer to Jordan… and closer… my heart began to race…my palms began to sweat… I closed my eyes… I leaned close… and …fireworks. But not the typical kind, bright lights floated in front of my eyes. Yes, definitely not the fireworks described in my novels nor the ones I had heard extolled about. In fact, my nose began to hurt profusely. I opened my eyes to a stunned Jordan with a bloody nose.
Jordan bellowed, “What in the world were you doing woman?! You’ve stopped production!”
I sputtered, “I dunno, it just … happened.” Jordan resumed his work, glaring at me all the while and muttering about the delay in preparations. Again, I stood back and surveyed the situation. I was absolutely positive that was not how it was supposed to happen in the movies or in real life. In any case, a strange sense of relief washed over me. Why? Well that was beyond me.
After organizing the equipment Jordan began to chide my misplaced kiss. Though I was beyond embarrassed and was entering a state of mortification, I noticed an advantage to my position and as Jordan’s harassment became more intense I simply pushed him down the steep slope behind him. I’ve always admired his quick wit and as he fell the not-so-long hill he screamed “AS YOU WISH!” At this quote from my favorite movie, I softened slightly but not so much as to let him off the hook. I shouted down the hill, “Don’t expect me to jump after you.” I threw some of our demolition berries after him and stalked off to my house. Stupid boy.
To my knowledge the battle went well and went quickly. By the next day it was over and I had regained my composure. Once again, I sat on our swings. Slowly I propelled myself backwards and rocked back and forth in a complacent motion. Jordan generally favored a more erratic movement and twisted and turned and changed speeds to his leisure. I assumed he had for some reason or another gotten into trouble with his poor mother and so I was waiting for her to send him to me to deal with as she had often done when he exasperated her. I spotted in the distance his “friends” coming towards me. It was too late for me to back away, I remained in my swing. They advanced towards me with malicious looks. One crony stepped forward,
“Did you hear about Jordan?”
Calmly I responded “I am his girlfriend if that’s what you mean.”
“No, no about the dare.”
“The what?” My cool was slowly dripping from my voice.
“Maybe he should tell you about it, “ The crony laughed, “You should know though, he’s not entirely straight.”
Now irritated I spoke icily, “What on earth are you talking about.”
The gang shuffled away with a quick, “Wait and see.”
An ominous feeling lay thick in the air, perhaps it was my nerves, or perhaps my over dramatic sense of mood, but I felt a chill in the air. As I sat, Jordan emerged triumphantly and jubilantly spoke of his victory over his “evil step mother” (who was actually his biological mother, but step mothers made for better stories.) She had confined him to his place of residence until he had completed the long demanding list of required tasks. He then pleaded insanity and was finally released after infuriating her to a breaking point. Jordan, thrilled at his brilliant plan of action, failed to notice my disinterest in his latest triumph.
“What’s your issue?” Jordan inquired not-so-gently as he sat next to me.
“Tell me about the dare Jordan.”
All joy drained out of Jordan’s face. “What do you know?”
“Only what you’re going to tell me.”
“Do you want to know? Kristine, ignorance is bliss.”
I was scared, I had ideas in my head and I didn’t want my only friend to disappear. What I heard I was not ready to deal with at twelve. I had lived in an ivory castle and was sheltered in my books and my family. I grew up that day. It was not a gradual integration to adult matter; it was a plunge into the murky waters of adulthood where black and white issues begin to blur.
I spoke slowly and cautiously, hoping for the “right” answer to my next question,
“Jordan, are you gay?” Out of my mouth flew that “dirty” word and I shuttered waiting for his reply.
“No,” he said even more slowly, “not exactly, I’m bi.”
My heart stopped, I knew what the Bible had to say about homosexuality and I did not agree with the practice. I was somehow fully aware of the hatred and anger towards people like Jordan. But I was confused, I knew Jordan. I knew he was fun and albeit slightly psycho, I had grown very attached to his unorthodox nature. In that instant, I realized that I couldn’t ever hate Jordan, I didn’t know how people could. He was crazy, but he was ever looking to make others smile and to bring a different viewpoint to light. I realized, I didn’t have to hate Jordan but I didn’t have to agree with him condone his choice. I realized the key to happiness and to being a loving person is that I could hate the sin, but I could still love the sinner.
“Jordan, what did they make you do?” I said softly,
“The guys, Nick, Paul, R.J. and Dominique were sleeping over and we started playing Truth or Dare. And you know me, I’m too crazy for truth and Kristine, I just decided to try truth, and they asked if I was gay. I didn’t lie; they’re my friends, I didn’t think it would bother them, so I said yes. But I didn’t want any more questions so I picked dare the next time around. The dared me to do something terrible, and I told them no and to go but they wouldn’t.” Jordan started to cry, “So I did what they asked. I did it…”
“Jordan what did you do?”
“You DON’T want to know.”
“Yes, please tell me.”
“Remember dear, ignorance is bliss.”
“Jordan, just tell me.”
His face became emotionless and blank. His eternally bright blue eyes dulled as he obviously went to a dark place in his mind as he thought about the horror he had been coerced to. Big, fat tears rolled down his face and he whispered to me the crime. I gasped, scarcely believing what had been admitted. Who could have imagined something so despicable? My hatred towards these people overwhelmed me. Those evil, rotten, disturbed people!
“But,” I now whispered, “why didn’t you just say no, and walk away?”
“They wouldn’t go! I asked and demanded. Of course I tried Kristine! I AM NOT STUPID!” His voice cracked and he began to cry harder. “Don’t you DARE tell anyone, don’t tell my mother or any of your friends.”
“Jordan, I don’t have any other friends.”
“Oh, I forgot.”
“Yeah, well it looks like I’m your only friend now.”
“Kristine, I don’t know why I did it. I’m disgusted with myself and with them. They’re sick and Dominique is sick for making me do that.”
“I know Jordan, I know. You should have stayed firm and said no.”
“We’re not all spoiled homeschooled brats.”
“That was lovely, you jerk. I really appreciate that. I’m not saying it wouldn’t have been difficult, but it’s over now. Just stay away from those kids,” I sighed, “It’s getting late, I need to go home.” I stood up and hugged Jordan and began to walk home.
Jordan yelled after me, “ Are we still together?”
I shouted over my shoulder, “No!”
I noticed a relieved sigh from Jordan and I felt myself heave a relieved sigh as well. But every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and the lovely butterflies left.
