by Devin James Leonard

Daryl was hanging out by the jungle gym, slicing a stick through the air, pretending it was a sword—as all ten-year-old boys do—when he heard a group of kids cackling like hungry coyotes across the schoolyard. There were four boys in a circle, pointing and laughing at Daryl’s classmate Emmet. His shorts were around his ankles, his underwear too, and he was tugging his shirt down past his thighs to cover himself.

“Look at them skid marks,” one boy said. “Emmet’s tighty whities are more seasoned than a cast-iron skillet.”

Emmet tried to brush past the bullies who had pantsed him, but made the mistake of placing his back to the biggest one. The boy shoved him, and another stuck a foot out and tripped him. Emmet went down, his face taking most of the fall, since he’d been using his hands to conceal his privates.

Daryl walked over, said, “Hey,” and the four boys spun around, their eyes darting to the stick he drew from his hip like it were in an imaginary sheath. He aimed the stick at Emmet, who turned over and sat up, his face covered in dirt, eyes leaking tears, and said, “What’d he do?”

“Hell you care?” said the biggest boy.

“I don’t,” Daryl said. “Just wondering why it’s taking four of you to beat on someone smaller than you.”

“What’s with the stick?” the big boy said.

“This?” Daryl said. “This ain’t a stick—it’s a sword.”

The big boy snorted. “You wanna join your buddy?”

“He ain’t my buddy.”

“Then get lost, or your pants will be around your ankles next.”

“You got a thing for taking boys’ pants off, I noticed.”

The other boys cackled. The big boy shut them up with a mean look, then he cracked his knuckles and approached Daryl. “You asked for it.”

Daryl raised the stick like a fearless knight, and the big boy halted.

“Put the stick down and fight like a man.”

“Four on one,” Daryl said. “Now you wanna play fair?”

“You gonna take us all on?” the big boy said.

Daryl shrugged. “Not likely. Very least, I’ll get you before I go down.”

“That right?”

“I don’t like your mouth,” Daryl said. “Runs too much.”

“Kid’s crazy,” one of the other boys said. “Come on, Kyle, let’s get out of here.” He placed a hand on Kyle’s shoulder. Kyle shook it off without looking away from Daryl.

“What’s your name?”

“Daryl Fox,” said Daryl.

“Better watch your ass,” Kyle said.

“You’re around, I’ll have to.”

Kyle turned tail, and his three goons fell in line like good little soldiers and followed.

Emmet lay on the ground, propped up on his elbow, dirt-streaked tears running down his cheeks like a sad lady’s eyeliner.

As Kyle and his buddies sauntered off, Daryl gripped his stick like a baseball bat and flung it as hard as he could, calling out at the same time, “Hey, Kyle!” The stick soared through the air, Kyle turned around, and it clobbered him across the face. The stick was rotten and broke into pieces upon impact. Kyle stumbled backward, crashing into two of his buddies. The fourth kid came running.

Daryl put up his dukes, but the boy passed through them like an apparition and tackled him to the ground. Two of the other boys pinned his arms, and Kyle stood over him, red-faced and furious. The boy who’d tackled Daryl spread his legs, and Kyle kicked Daryl in the balls. Daryl gasped for air, feeling the pain all the way up in his throat.

Kyle sat on him and patted his pants pockets. “Where’s your lunch money?”

Daryl swallowed once, twice, found his voice, said, “Don’t got none.”

“Horseshit! Your folks don’t give you money to eat?”

“You must not know my folks,” Daryl said. “You did, you wouldn’t waste your time frisking me.”

“Jeez, guys, we got ourselves some poor white trash.” Kyle said, rising. “Let’s go—he’s a dirtbag. He doesn’t have any money.”

The boys sauntered off. Emmet was standing now, but they paid him no mind. When they were long gone, he said to Daryl, “What the heck did you do that for? They were leaving, and you made it worse for yourself.”

Daryl rose, hissing and rubbing his crotch. “Was gonna happen at some point,” he said. “Best to get it out of the way now, instead of wondering when it’s coming.”

“Thanks for saving me,” Emmet said, adjusting his shorts.

“What’s it worth to you?” Daryl said.

“Huh?”

“How much money do your folks give you for lunch?”

“Five dollars.”

“Give me two bucks every day,” Daryl said, “and I’ll make sure those boys wail on me instead of you.”

Emmet snickered. “You wanna take a beating for me? For two dollars?”

“Why not?” Daryl said. “It’s more than I make at home.”

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