6. The First Tag
Eighth Grade

“Where were you guys?” Kent asked from the back of the bus. Everyone else shared a seat, but he was too large and sweaty to sit with.

“Where were you?” David asked in return. “We waited for you for like an hour, man.”

“I was way the hell at the water tower, where you said to go.”

I nodded at David. “That’s where he said to go first, you must not have gotten the second note…”

Kent stared down, expression bitter—still angry—but seemingly satisfied with the answer. “Well, what did I miss?”

We exchanged glances; Steven placed a finger over his lips, requesting silence, eyes begging each of us not to include the landlord's son. Only one of us wanted to let Kent in on the game.

Cameron gripped Kent's arm. “We’ve got a new game,” she explained, sealing our communal fates. “David thought it up. He’s It. If he tags you any time during the day, you have to change your life somehow in the next fifteen minutes. Then, after you do, you can tag one of us.”

Kent grunted. The bus rolled to a stop outside the school.

Deep breaths helped me build the mental armor necessary to survive each day. The thick skin of the bullied.

We faced off in the space where the two schools split, with David preparing to go to the high school.

“All right, this is it,” David said.

We watched him hopefully. Who would he tag first? He took a step forward, and placed a hand on Kent’s arm.

“Oh, come on. Really?” Steven asked.

“Remember. Fifteen minutes,” David said, smiling.

Kent glanced about nervously as Steven rolled his eyes. Kent took the opportunity to slam a meaty fist down on the backpack of his smaller, glasses-clad nemesis. Steven gawked at his bag, which hit the ground with a vicious whomp.

“Tag,” Kent said loudly. “You’re It.”

Classmates around us froze and watched as Steven stared first at his bag, then at his rival, and finally back down to the ground. As the students began to creak into motion, satisfied the action had resolved, the smaller boy leapt into Kent’s midsection, wrapping arms around the oaf, trying to knock him down.

Teachers on duty had already gone inside to prepare for the first class, so none intervened. I reached for Steven’s wiry little arm, hoping to break them up, but Cameron was faster, tugging at Kent’s waist, trying to keep him from slaughtering Steven.

In seconds, the struggle ended. Both boys stepped away. Steven stalked into the school, flustered. The first bell rang; I dreaded the next forty-five minutes of being chair-bound.

My heart throbbed through the entire class, sore from nervous exertion. I barely heard a word said and couldn’t wait for the next bell—like the start of a boxing match, when we’d all be thrust together again, and Steven would have an opportunity to tag someone.

The blessed ringing came; I grabbed my backpack and raced out the door, then looked up and down the hallway for Steven, at last spotting him exiting a room a few hundred feet from me. I stood a safe distance away, hoping to witness another collision.

Cameron strode toward him with purpose. I couldn’t hear her, but it seemed like she commanded Steven to tag her—because he only nodded meekly and put a hand on her shoulder, mouth opening and closing for an instant in response.

The moment he lifted the hand away, Cameron gripped the boy by the shoulders and pulled him into her, like she was trying to head-butt the young geek, but no, her lips were pursed and, holy crap, she kissed him. Steven cringed so hard he might be trying to disappear into himself, but didn’t succeed in warding the taller girl away. Instead their lips met in an angry mash, both parties seemingly terrified by the act, Steven’s thick glasses pushed lop-sided up on his forehead.

A few yards away, Kent stood gaping, face colorless, looking positively ill.

A coach snatched Cameron’s arm in one hand and Steven’s in another, dragging them toward the office. Emily noticed their plight and began walking to them, dark-chocolate hair bouncing with each step like a heroine’s cape, alabaster skin made to glow in comparison to the sable sheets of keratin adorning her.

Cameron reached out with her free hand and gripped Emily’s in passing, as though they were sharing a note. Not the case, though.

Emily spun and intercepted the coach who held Cameron and Steven. She leapt into the older man, arms clinging and pulling him close, lips extended. The coach, quadruple her size, resisted—Emily hung from the big man’s neck like jewelry until at last he peeled her off, face four shades of crimson. The man laughed, all confusion and disapproving head-shakes, maybe about to scold her before realizing dozens of students and teachers watched them. The adult became embarrassed and seemed to pretend it never happened, and continued to pull Steven—who wore the biggest, stupidest smile I'd ever seen—and Cameron to the office.

Emily shrugged, nonchalant, a smirk on her lips. I swallowed back cold fear and approached. My turn.

Kent shoved me out of the way, trying to reach Emily first. “Tag me!” he demanded, using superior girth to hold the position.

“You just got tagged,” I complained.

Thick arms extended to keep me from getting past. “I didn’t do it right."

“You’ll get another turn. I haven't gone yet.”

Emily arched an eyebrow at Kent. “You just want to kiss Cameron.”

I realized this might be true and turned to him. “I don’t think it works that way.”

“I, well, I just…” the bell rang, freeing him from the clumsy justification. I looked pleadingly at Emily, wanting to get this over with. She only shrugged and turned away from me.

I sighed, frustrated at the anticlimax, and raced to next period so as not to be late. The class was torturously slow. When the period ended at last, I burst into the hallway, checked right and left, and…

No Emily. I walked around, checked up and down the hallways, but—no Emily. On to the next class.

This continued for the rest of the day. Kent and Steven passed by multiple times, and when I asked about Emily, neither had answers for me.

I was disappointed when the last class, English, arrived. Worse: my name was written on the right side of the whiteboard in red marker. The last in a long list of speakers, the rest of whose names were erased days earlier.

Christ. Book reports. I'd known about this for weeks. In fact, an essay on “The Giver” sat on my bed at home.

A soft hand touched my neck, flesh hot against mine like boiling water on ice. "Tag," a female voice said. Emily. It was like my freshly frozen insides were beginning to melt, finding their way up to my skin before being sweated down.

I crossed the threshold and sank down in a chair, wishing desperately the melting process were real and I could drip through the cracks in the floor. The students nearby seemed to sense my dread, and some chuckled.

"Typical Jacob," their laughter seemed to say.

My teacher, a thin lady with a wide, pronounced mouth and formidable front teeth gnawed her way through roll call. I desperately tried to remember what I'd written but nothing came. The clock over the teacher's head counted down fifteen minutes, a constant reminder.

"Jacob, since you had the good luck of going last, I expect this to be an exemplary report," Mrs. Kerrigan's voice was thick as syrup, as though she were talking to a stray cat that might bolt.

Ten minutes left to change my life. I stood, legs weak, and walked to the front of the class, behind the podium.

"I read…" I began. Fellow students stared skeptically. I observed them; the Austin's, the Bailey's, the Colton's. Square words couldn't cross round airways; I was left sputtering with nothing to say.

So, this is Eureka. Change…anything.

I searched the faces of my classmates and found only disinterest and pity. I'd never done anything with these people; literally anything would be a change. Maybe we just didn't understand each other.

Then, an idea was born. "I feel like an outcast," I said. "I feel like you guys judge me because I'm poor, and that’s not very fair. We could be friends, really, even though I dress funny. Trust me; I’m aware that I look stupid. I would love to change my life, but I can't help it. My family is broke. So, I'm in on the joke. I know I look weird. I just can't do anything about it."

The class fell silent. Some kids in the back glanced at one another, scoffing. Others seemed offended I'd assumed anything about them. Still, I'd never said what was on my mind before; not to any of these people. I hoped this qualified as "changing things" for Eureka.

One girl—one chubby girl with no makeup and a thick chin that concealed her neck—was smiling; absolutely beaming at me. I smiled back at her.

"You didn't do a book report, did you?" Mrs. Kerrigan asked. The class burst into laughter. I tried to tell her I just forgot the work at home, but I'm not sure she heard me. The blood rushed to my face, and the embarrassment muted everything else out. I sat back down, too nervous to talk for the rest of the class. I'd never been more grateful to hear the bell ring.

I decided not to jump onto the bus, but walked instead, savoring the sensation of being It. The last fresh, green colors of spring were baking away in the coming summer sun, and soon the vegetation would be cooked golden brown.

A few hundred yards from the school, walking in the same direction, was the plump girl who’d smiled at my performance earlier. Must be fate.

“Hey,” I said, breath coming in heavy huffs from jogging to catch up. “I’m Jacob. What’s your name?”

“Hey,” she answered, smiling at me. A pretty face—perfect teeth, glowing smile. Brown eyes like deep wells of compassion, brunette hair unattended and hanging down to her shoulders. Round cheeks with a sprinkle of freckles, lips a natural pink. Nothing fake about her. “I’m Nora.”

“So, how do you like Mrs. Kerrigan’s class?”

“It’s okay,” she answered. “Definitely more interesting today than usual.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

“I gotta admit, that was pretty cool. Y’know, I kinda feel the same way half the time.”

“Why’s that?”

“Don’t play dumb,” the plump girl accused. I shrugged; we walked another five minutes without a word.

“So, where are you going?” I tried to resurrect the conversation, not sure where I’d misspoken.

“To the store,” she answered.

“I walk this way, too, sometimes.”

“To the trailer park, right?” the eighth grader asked.

“Yeah, the trailer park.” The words came out stronger than I'd expected. I was too accustomed to being teased. I guess we had that in common—we were defensive over our perceived flaws.

She looked at me through another awkward silence while we finished our walk, arriving at a popular Dairy Queen.

“This is where I wait for my dad,” she said.

“The ice cream is good here.”

“What about it?”

“Nothing. I just…I just like it,” I stammered. Maybe Nora's weight was a much larger issue to her than myself.

“Well, here’s where I wait.” She stopped outside the fast-food restaurant—guess she didn’t want me to follow her inside.

“I keep walking. The park is just over there. When does your dad come to get you? He doesn’t mind you waiting alone?”

“It’s just for a little while. My mom is in the hospital.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She has cancer.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say. In the struggle to come up with something civil and considerate, one of the most awkward sentences of my life surfaced: “Well, hey, having your mom die isn’t too bad. My mom is dead and I’m okay.”

Nora looked at me, shocked, and began crying. I quickly walked away.

I arrived back at Broadway to find Steven, Emily, Cameron and Kent grouped together in front of Emily’s trailer, sitting cross-legged in a circle.

“Have you seen David?” Emily asked as I walked up.

I shook my head no; she looked away, apparently satisfied with my contribution. “What’s going on?” I asked them.

“Nothing,” Kent supplied as he flicked a cigarette lighter. “Just waiting for David.”

“Why?” I thought I’d missed something.

“We want to tell him about Eureka,” Cameron answered. “It was his idea, after all. I mean, how are we gonna know if we did it right?”

I shrugged and sat down with them. The moment I got settled in, Emily stood. “There he is,” she murmured, excited, and walked away from the circle to see him. I watched David approach.

Being older gave him an edge, but that wasn’t all. The way he walked toward us; so confident, hands resting loosely at his sides, jacket half hanging off one shoulder, ragged shoes untied. Like he just walked through hell and it hadn’t fazed him.

His almond-shaped eyes were always heavy, half-asleep, as though nothing would ever really be important enough to wake him up. Everything seemed so easy when he did it. He was good-looking, too. But David didn’t spend all day in front of a mirror with a blow dryer; actually, I doubted he tried at all.

My four companions walked to him, stopping David. He spoke, smiling patiently, trying to handle the barrage of questions. I was startled to find myself becoming jealous; I’d known him longest. I blame the death of David Bloom on the fact that people want to be near him. His absolute confidence in himself was a beacon to lost ships.

But after a second, David started moving toward me again. Any doubts were wiped away when he smiled and offered me a hand up; I took it and stood, ready to talk to him about Eureka. Pride sprung up within me, alien and new. Never felt that way before.

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Author's note:

Would you play Eureka? Is it insane, genius, or both?