“What did I just do?” I cried, collapsing to the floor. I sat balled up in the sun softly crying to myself. I threw my head in my hands and began rubbing my temples. I wanted more than anything a joint, right now, just to let me forget and calm down for a while. I thought of calling Ace, but then again, he was probably in deeper crap than me. Actually, he was most likely locked up in the Clayton Detention Center for the Youth.

Sprawled out on the ground, I couldn’t even remember exactly what happened. The sun shined down in the center of my scalp and left a nice burning, red spot. I crawled over to the bushes in the shade. Honestly, I didn’t mean to do it, it’s got to be the weed and the alcohol. Maybe it’s the anger boiled inside me, coiling my fingers into firm fists, scratching at my throat and letting out desperate screams.

It felt weird; I guess that’s all I can say. I’ve never done something this bad, and now the police are out there, searching for me. Usually they look for Ace. In a short amount of time, I could be on the trial of my life, just because of one mistake, and my mama doesn’t even know where I am. I don’t even know where I am.

I closed my eyes shut and tried processing everything racing through my mind. Then it was clear. It started at Kelly Kakuk’s “Spring Bash”. The music was blasting so loud that when I stepped, I could feel myself vibrate. Beer was being passed all around and everyone’s smile was covered up by a joint in their mouth or a bottle on their lips. Bottom line, everyone was having a great time. Or, at least I was until Cameron Jets showed up. Something I never got was why Cameron would ever live here. He was the type of guy who came from a family that owned an elite apartment in the Upper East Side, in New York. The kind on Park Ave with the doormen holding the door open in their fancy green suit with the gold spiral trimmings at top and the black top hat and the silk white gloves. He came from the family who owned a house in the Hamptons that they traveled to every weekend and in the summers. I could picture him and his dad sitting on a sailboat at midday, fishing and spending quality father and son time together. Down here in Clayton, Georgia, you were lucky if you even had a father. Cameron didn’t belong here.

He came in a forest green cashmere sweater, which, by any chance he would probably end up taking off when him and Kelly made their way to the bedroom. He was like a mannequin, just for show but anyone could dress him and undress him whenever they wanted. Well maybe that rule only applied to girls…

He cut through the crowds of drunks, passed out, the couch couples and all the way to Kelly. I’d watched this happen at five other parties. First they talked, probably flirted, but I didn’t get that close to them. Then he left and come back with a drink for her. After a good four or so drinks, they traveled upstairs to do what God could only imagine. Sex. Despite the many things, I don’t remember from last night, I do remember this part of the party.

It got me so mad; I just couldn’t control myself anymore and lashed out. I ran up stairs, skipping two or three steps at a time. I was feeling pretty woozy from the Heineken I’d been gulping down. When I ascended to the top of the spiral stairs, I chased them into the bedroom. Kelly was my girl. Everyone knew that since the freaking fourth grade. But, then Cameron showed up last year and she went crazy for him.

I slammed the door behind me, letting the clothes that hung on the back of the door swing about. My face was red, brick red, I was furious. “What the – ” Cameron started.

“Shut up and get out of the room,” I said calmly.

“What?” he giggled. Yeah, definitely drunk.

That’s when I lost it, actually, for no apparent reason. I swung a nice, solid punch at his face. “Ah!” He fell to the floor.

Suddenly, Kelly ran out of the room. I whipped around to see where she had gone but was knocked in the back with a beer bottle. I jumped on top of Cameron, not that hard since he was already having trouble standing up straight. He let out a loud yelp and I slid my hand over his mouth. The thing about having a fight at a party is that not everyone’s drunk. I clearly recall cuffing him one up the neck. That was when I threw myself off him and he puked up all night’s worth of beer. So drunk he started sobbing and twitching. I got up and kicked him in the neck once more. His eyes flickered slowly and I scurried over to check his pulse. I sighed in relief, knowing he was just passed out. Although, it did look like his neck could be broken. It was swelling and was in a weird, distorted position.

Feeling no remorse, I left and ran back down stairs only to be chased out of the house by Kelly. Her long wavy brown hair bounced side to side and her soft green eyes stared me down. I could never be mad at this girl. “I called the Po-Po! They be after you ha-ha!” So drunk, she tried grabbing my arm but I viciously tore off.

The light spring wind picked up and sent a chill down my spine. I sprang up and walked to the water fountain in the park. All this beating up sure made me thirsty. It was about ten o’clock in the morning and a crowd of little kids were already here playing with their babysitters. I really miss being a kid, when I could come down here and play on the tire swings until seven o’clock and come home to dinner cooking, not a huge assault trial. I want to be home, in the comfort of my mother’s arms and the warming gift of my little sister’s presence. I want to run home and tell mama I’m scared, but I can’t. She’ll only tell me to turn myself in. I have my whole life ahead of me, I want to go to college, get a job, be successful. Not that my mama could even afford college, even with papa’s monthly child support. Now, just because I lost my temper over a stupid thing, I’ll have to leave all of this behind.

Whenever something bad happens, people always tell me it’s going to be fine, just move on. But, like it’s not. I can’t just leave my future behind and end up as a dumb drug dealer who has no potential, and dies at the age of thirty of an overdose. I can’t. I’m Annabella’s role model; she’s my baby girl. Drug dealers and little sisters don’t go together. So, maybe I didn’t need my mama, maybe I needed my papa.

It was Sunday afternoon now and the sun was real hot. I always dream about moving out of Clayton one day, into the north where there are actual seasons, and in the city where there are actual buildings. In all of Clayton, there are only two apartment building and they’re low rise, not the type of beautiful high rises New York City has.

My papa lives in Atlanta, Georgia and I get to see him every weekend in the summer. I guess he won’t mind seeing me today either. It was boiling outside and I was sweating right through my baby blue polo. This kind of made me upset since this shirt is Annabella’s favorite. It’s funny; I’m on the police lookout for assaulting someone and the only thing I can think of right now is my baby sister.

The sky became dark and little gray clouds began to form across the horizon. “Crap,” I whispered. I didn’t have anything else on except my polo and my baggy cargo shorts. I have five dollars and an assault trial to my name and it’s raining out. The gel was beginning to run out of my hair as I quietly took a step on the Atlanta bus with my head down.

I knocked on the cold metal door. No answer. I knocked again.

“Who there?” Yep, that’s papa.

“Pops, It’s me, Clyde.”

The door swung open and in an instant I thought of summer afternoons, coming back from the pool club, all wet and chlorine smelling. “Clyde what you doin’ here?” He smelled heavily of beer and cigarettes, but I didn’t care, this was my daddy. The big man hugged me tight and patted my wet head. I probably smelled like beer and weed also.

“Papa,” I started, not knowing how to finish, “I did something bad.” I played around with the words in my head a while before choosing that that phrase suited best.

“What’d you do boy?” His eyes got all wide and serious.

Gosh, I was staring at the man who taught me how to swim, how to dive into the deep end, how to “play nice” with Annabella when she was young, how to be a gentleman, and I was about to tell him how I’m going to jail. Gee, thanks Dad.

“I beat up a boy, think I broke his neck, the girl I’ve been in love with since fourth grade called the cops and they’re out there looking for me. You see, this wouldn’t have happened if he had kept his hands off Kelly…” It’s not all that easy to talk when all you want to do is punch something. My words come out choppy and I spit. A lot. I don’t know why, and it’s embarrassing. More than anything right now I want to make sure that Kelly is safe and in no harm. Most of all away from Cameron, far away.

With saying that, I broke down, not in the crying way, please, I’m a man. I threw my fist at the folding chair in his living room. It collapsed. I kicked every single one of those twenty or so beer cans off the table. Then I just started punching everything I could get my hands on, until Papa picked me up and set me down on the couch.

“Jesus Clyde, won’t you calm down?” he shouted. I recognized this scream. It was his panicky scream. Those words were the same exact words he had said to mama seven years ago, when he left and moved to Atlanta. I looked into his eyes and for the first time, saw my papa sad, scared, and petrified. I wanted to give him a big bear hug and cry and talk about how we’ve been since last summer. But I didn’t, because men don’t do that.

“Boy it’s ok, I ain’t mad at you,” he reassured me. “What did your mama say?”

“That’s the thing, I didn’t tell her.”

The next morning was Monday and I should’ve been in school. Instead, I was riding shot gun in papa’s red Dodge Ram pickup truck, listening to country music I don’t even like. The whole ride back home I kept rehearsing what I would tell my mama. Papa already told me that when we got there, she would definitely make me turn myself in. So I guess it doesn’t really matter how I tell her. Dad tells me it’s for the best, but I don’t see how jail is any better than living in guilt my whole life.

Back home Annabella was out in our front yard playing and I could see mama washing dishes through the window.

“Clyde, where the heck you been? Mama’s mad!” I rolled my eyes and patted her on the back, awkwardly. Back pats are always awkward.

“We’ll go tomorrow to the Cobb precinct,” she said even before I could open my mouth. I guess Dad called. “You came just in time for lunch, sit down and eat.” She put the grilled cheese down on the four-seater table and called out for Annabella to come in. Ever since Pops left, it’s just been a three-seater. Annabella used to tell me that dad just worked too late to come to dinner, but then she grew up and learned. I guess we all take things for granted.

During lunch we talked everything over, how I was going to present myself, what I was going to wear, and all the other necessities. My mom was not all that mad at me, she was just mad at the world, I think. I hate giving my mama stress. I mean, she’s a single mom raising two kids; and eight-year-old sweetheart and a fifteen-year-old juvenile delinquent, with barely any child support income. I got to give this woman credit.

I staggered up the stairs to my room, when my phone started to ring. It was an unknown number but I answered it anyway.

“Hello?” I asked, pacing around in my tiny room.

On the other end I heard screams and the phone being passed around. I was about to click end when a familiar voice came through. “Where the hell are you?” It took me a minute to realize that it was Cameron.

My heart jumped and I panicked. I freaked and hastily pressed the little red phone button and ended the call. As if that didn’t give this jerk the message, he abruptly called again.

“Bro, you need to get your ass down to the detention center and confess. You can’t just run away from this because you’re scared. They’re looking for you. Oh, and you little brat, you broke my neck,” he said everything so over pronounced and sharp that I could hear him spit into the phone. But that’s Cameron Jets, a stuck up snobby rich kid who gets everything he wants with the swipe of a card.

I grabbed the pen off my desk and snapped it in half. “Screw you, Cameron Jets and your stupid Mercedes Benz and your beautiful girlfriend!” With that I threw the snapped pen at my door and let all the black ink run down, spilling into a puddle on the tacky gray-carpeted floor.

My phone rang again and without even bothering to look at the caller ID, I began cursing every curse word I could think of into my cell phone.

“Dude, it’s me, Ace…” he trailed off.

“Oh, hey, sorry.”

“It’s alright, how come you ain’t in school today? Everybody keeps talking ‘bout what went down last Saturday night. Lemme hear the real deal man!”

Pause. Here’s the thing about getting into a fight, there’s so many different rumors going around and nobody knows which one to believe. The other thing is I end up explaining my self a million times and just to tell them all to hop off. But Ace is my best friend, so he deserves to know the real story.

“Are you for real, son? That’s crazy, I mean, he’s always been a sleazy snob, but dang!” Ace sounded all giddy and excited, meanwhile I’d most likely end up in juvenile jail. Drugs, sex, girls, alcohol, jail, none of that ever fazed Ace. Unless anyone made fun of his mother or his manhood, he was fine. Ace just lives for the thrill. I always wonder if he’ll ever mature. We talked for a while longer until my mama called me down stairs.

She was reading the newspaper and had a tired, weary look on her face. “Clyde, you should write a statement about what happened and we can give it to the court,” she said, not even looking up.

“I can’t write! I’ve got the education of about a 10 year old,” I scolded my mom.

“Clyde, don’t you raise your voice at me. I’m your mother and I’m telling you to do this; you don’t have an option.”

Whatever mama says goes, no matter how much I don’t want to do it.

About an hour later I finally wrote my first line. It took me forever to think of what I was going to say and how I would write it because everything just seemed too redundant and cliché. So I started it like this: “What did I just do?” I cried, collapsing to the floor. I sat balled up in the sun softly crying to myself. I threw my head in my hands and began rubbing my temples.

Stella Von Spreckelsen
Age 13, Grade 8,
Mark Twain I.S. 239 for the Gifted and Talented
Silver Key