10:10 PM.

The driveway was lit by a single, cobalt flood.

I limped through the swarm of Livy's friends. Mara was among them--one of them--and I gave her a thumbs up. She grinned and returned the gesture.

In the garage, Mom, Mrs. Bullard and Mrs. Greenfield were ladling chili into the actors' styrofoam bowls. Mrs. Conrad declared herself the captain of “Whitney Protection Duty.” She sat beside her son on a tub of bird feed and asked repeatedly if he survived the make-believe battle. He assured her that he didn't touch the fireworks, the sword was dull, and the four-wheeler didn’t come anywhere near his limbs.

A.J. asked my mom where he could change out of costume. She gave him directions to the downstairs bathroom. He thanked her and bounded inside.

I pulled off my shoes and socks, inspected the matching white blisters on both heels, then slipped into a pair of flip-flops from the shoe shelf beside the door. All nine war-scene setups had been completed in only two hours with twenty-five takes. The woods were a mess, but it was time to relax.

Mom served me a half bowl of chili, then licked her thumb and rubbed the dirt from my chin. “Why are little geniuses always so messy?”

Mrs. Greenfield--pink with delight from the commotion--offered a handful of Fritos for my soup.

“I'm down twelve pounds, Mrs. G. Don't tempt me.”

“How'd my hubby do out there?” she asked. “He's been talkin’ about your movie all week. He didn't blow off his hand, I hope?”

“Mr. G did awesome,” I said. “He's got killer timing with a Roman Candle.”

Mrs. Greenfield looked over my shoulder to the circle of men in the front yard. Her husband was there, thin like my father but less hunched. He compensated for his male-pattern baldness by boasting a neatly combed Tom Selleck. A silver cross hung between the collar of his Polo. The guy managed a Sporting Goods store in Holland with the clever name “Greenfield Sporting Goods” and--several years ago--gave my father a deal on a beach volleyball set we never use.

I sipped my chili from the corner where the retaining wall met the house and used the vantage to study the dynamic of my peers. Below my dangling legs, the boys sat on the planter trough like construction workers on a skyscraper beam, squishing Mom's geraniums with typical adolescent mindlessness. 

In the driveway, the girls mingled in rotating clusters like a system of dancing bees. Ryan Brosh played it cool, whispering and laughing with his comrades. He was too old for the buzzing tykes... but never too old for their queen. The girls stole glances at the boys, then giggled when a boy glanced back. Every girl assumed the attention was meant for them, but how could they understand that their brief exchange was not flirtation, but a trivial darting of eyes caught at the wrong moment by their sappy imagination, meant--by the boy--as a pit stop on the way to and from the intended recipient of their affection.

Mara knew the attention was hers; I watched as she willingly partook in the flirtatious dance. “You're like my brother,” I recalled and my innards churned.

(I should note that most of these observations were only made after years of reflection. I did, however, acknowledge that my perception of the sexes had evolved drastically in the two-and-a-half months since that glimpse of Roslyn's thigh.)

From my perch, I watched my little cousin Scott conspire with Bobby and Jake behind Leo the stone lion. Scott was just young enough to connect with the twins on a level of immaturity, but old enough to test his rare position of dominance. There were whispers, shushes, elaborate gestures... then little Bobby nodded, stepped from the patio, and circumvented the group of dads with reluctant audacity. He arrived unnoticed at the group of girls, circled them with casual strides, then broke the delicate balance of sexes by squirming through the wall of the clique.

I heard what I couldn't see; Bobby spoke loud enough for the whole production to hear. “Hey, Miss Mara!” he shouted. “Wanna see my goober?”

“Eww!” Girls scattered in fits of disgusted laughter, leaving Mara alone with Bobby, jeans at his ankles and wiener in his hand.

The jocks on the trough pointed and jeered and leaned against the stucco wall to brace their amusement.

Bobby looked to his cousin and brother as they fell to the ground in stitches. He looked at the scattered girls and the row of hysterical boys. He huffed and he puffed and when he noticed my mother approaching from the garage, he pulled back his arm like an MBL pitcher and slapped his hand into Mara's bare thigh.

If Mom wasn't accustomed to witless boys and sensitive girls, the situation may have ended in tears. Instead, she placed a kitten in Mara's arms, took Bobby's hand gently, and lead him through the garage and into the house.

The cat diffused the situation just as Mom had planned. The girls regrouped, “ewwws” turned to “awwws,” and Mara was spared further embarrassment. The men--barely distracted by the sight of a penis--turned back to their conversation, arms crossed, swaying back and forth on the balls of their feet. Dad's arms were outstretched--soaring--and I knew exactly what he was talking about.

Whit donned a fresh tee and spit-shined cheeks as he rolled from the garage to the girls. Before he could bemuse a lady with the specs of his IBM PowerPC or the speed of his modem, Ryan intervened, slipping easily into the center of the swarm to strike up a conversation with Mara.

Giving in to instinct, I abandoned my bowl and spoon on the ledge and started down the concrete steps to the driveway. A flicker of light caught my eye meandering through the driveway foliage like the eyeshine of a one-eyed dog.

I reached the bottom step just as the castle floodlight revealed the new arrival; it was a truck, a white Toyota with a broken headlight, grizzly motor, and four different hubcaps. Nobody noticed the truck as it joined the cluster of vehicles along the drive, but when Danny Bompensaro emerged from the passenger-side door, Whit and Ryan perked like the ears on a threatened wolf.

Hank joined his nephew at the front of the truck and ushered him toward my party.

I should have been the first to react, but I was distracted by Danny's stiff gait and the undefinable bundles in both of his hands.

Ryan turned from his conversation with Mara and positioned himself between the chatting girls and the approaching menace. Whit joined him.

Mara saw Danny. Her neck tensed, her lips narrowed, and she scanned the party until she found my eyes.

I gave her a single nod as if I had a plan. I didn't.

My father noticed the visitors, excused himself from his circle of new friends, then joined Ryan and Whit at the front lines with a welcoming smile and extended hand.

As Hank closed the gap to my father, I finally made out the dark bundles in Danny's hands. In his left was Trent's sword, point down with a line of holes where the nails had been removed. A trashcan lid was pinched in the crook of his arm along with fabric from a homemade costume. His right hand gripped a bundle of yellow snapdragons, an hour from wilting, tied together with a shoelace bow. He wore a Polo and khakis as if it were a tuxedo.

“'Evenin', folks,” said Hank and shook my father's hand.

“I'm David Parker, James' Dad.”

“Harold Bompensaro.” Hank elbowed Danny's shoulder. “I'm responsible for this knuckle-head.”

Danny watched his shoes to avoid my gaze. “I'm here for the movie, Mr. Parker.”

My old man didn't know Danny Bompensaro from Luke Skywalker. Nobody told him about the incident with Mara, nor did he know that this was the villain who took my camera. “I believe the moviemaking is over, tiger.” He rubbed the bully's hair, oblivious to the scar creeping an inch from his fingertips. “But you're welcome to grab some chili and hang out with the other kids.”

Crap! I mustered my courage and stepped forward to join the ranks of men. I looked at Danny's costume and the trash-lid shield... I couldn't tell my dad to make him leave.

It was that moment--as Danny circumvented our mini platoon and stepped toward the girls--that I realized Mara's fear was a transcendent reaction, emitting from her spirit like a radio signal for those of us attuned to the proper station. We didn't need to see her expression to know Danny's presence made her ill, we could feel it--all of us--clear and persistent like the tip of a rattlesnake's tail.

Ryan stepped left and cut the bully off. Whit and I approached from the rear like raptors on the hunt.

“Where do you think you're goin'?” Ryan asked.

“I--”

“I've heard stories about you. You're a little punk.”

The other girls sensed the change in mood and turned to face us. Mara was frozen, cat in her arms, eyes on Danny. Livy slid an arm around her waist.

“I thought I could help,” said Danny.

Ryan puffed his chest. “What are the flowers for?”

Danny's eyes flicked between Mara and the ground. “They’re snapdragons.”

Ryan scoffed. “She doesn't want your dumb present.”

“I wanna tell her I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

Whit inched closer and pressed his footrest into Danny's heel.

“For being an ass. For pushing her against the tree and for scaring her.” He tried to sidestep Ryan--right, left, then right again--but he was like a scrawny goblin facing a armored knight. The veins constricted in his neck. His scar--only a foot from my face--turned from light pink to boiling red. Suddenly, he rammed his shoulder into Ryan's chest. “Faggot!” he blurted “Let me by!”

The other boys finally noticed the commotion, left the planter, and formed a semi-circle between Danny and his pretty victim (one of Ryan's friends had the gall to place a hand on her shoulder.) In the garage, the mothers remained cheerfully unaware.

My empathy for the well-intentioned bully evaporated at the word “faggot.” I balled my fist around the collar of his Polo and jerked him back. “Go home, Danny.”

He dropped the shield, flowers, costume and sword, then planted his palms in my chest and pushed. “Shut it, Fatty!”

Maybe it was my newfound confidence that secured my feet to the paver-brick drive; maybe it was my need to match Ryan's heroics. Whatever the reason, I didn't budge.

Dad turned around.

Hank stepped forward. “What the hell is goin’ on?”

Danny's head was a pimple about to burst. “They're bein' jerks, Hank! I tried to--”

“You stupid boy. Yer gonna ruin this night, too?” He wrapped his fingers around Danny's neck. “Yer gonna embarrass us in front of these nice folks?”

Dad adjusted the bridge of his bifocals and scratched the back of his neck. “I think we just have a misunderstanding--”

Before he could diffuse the situation, the front door opened and slammed. It was A.J., standing on the patio in his usual camouflage duds.

“Age?” Danny said, nearly a whisper.

A.J. locked eyes with his friend, then grabbed the door handle and jiggled it, but it had locked behind him.

Danny glared at A.J., then at me. The moment of silence summoned Mrs. Greenfield and Mrs. Conrad to the opening of the garage.

Suddenly, Danny lunged toward the patio, forgetting he was still caught in his uncle's grip. Instead of charging A.J., he writhed before us like a hooked gar. “Fuck you, Age! Stupid fucking traitor!”

“That's it.” Hank tightened his grip and yanked Danny toward the truck. He looked to Dad. “I assure you folks I'm gonna teach this kid some respect. Sorry 'bout the intrusion. Enjoy yer evenin'.”

Danny sneered at my father. “Screw you, old man,” he said and reeled again. “Screw your son and his little bitch of a girl!” He looked to Mara. He pointed at the smeared petals and broken stems. “I picked those for you! I was tryin' to be nice!” Hank covered his nephews mouth, but Danny spat and screamed between his fingers. “Fuck your stupid movie! Fuck your stupid friends and fuck your stupid cat!”

And then it was over. Danny was secured in the cab of the truck. Forward, reverse, forward, reverse; the brake lights washed our faces with crimson.

Mom joined the women at the garage door.

Livy ran to Ryan and touched his cheek.

My father sighed.

Trapped in the center was our wingless angel. We empathized her pain and shared the sting of utter abashment. We longed to hold her, to comfort her, to banish the hurt and defend her honor... but we were stuck. A dark revelation kept us frozen in the drive; the slow realization that our empathy for Mara was a paradox where the problem's solution was the problem itself. To give her comfort was to be like Danny; our words of encouragement would be nothing but a trampled bushel of flowers.

Mrs. Greenfield succeeded where the men failed. She hugged Mara, then ushered her on a stroll of the castle grounds. For thirty minutes they walked and talked while the parents picked up and the boys reenacted highlights from the epic confrontation.

“I've never heard such language on a twelve-year-old,” said Mrs. Bullard as she wiped sauce from the chili pot.

“It's the music they listen to,” replied Whit's Mom. “Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins; they're to blame for kids like Danny.”