Richard M. Barlow Jr.'s Story

"Alright, here's a high one!"

After the brief warning, he threw the ball, a little bigger than his fist, into a high arc. He watched Ian see the flying ball, and move to catch it, holding out his glove. Even at that distance, he still heard the tremendously satisfying thwack as the ball landed squarely in Ian's glove. "Nice catch!"

A moment later, another ball came from behind and flew past him, missing him by a foot. He jumped and turned around to find out who in the heck would be so reckless. Before he even had finished turning, he realized who it had to be, and immediately started thinking. As he turned around and focussed his eyes on the advancing figure, he began backing up, having confirmed two things: one, Tom Reed had shown up, and two, Richard Matthew Barlow Junior really needed to get away. He only took five steps back before he turned and started running.

A moment later, a baseball hit him straight in the small of his back. He felt the impact hard against his spine, and a moment later, he was looking at a plain drywall ceiling. He blinked, tried to swallow with a dry mouth, felt with his hand at the small of his back. No pain, only the memory of an impact that had never happened. He was under covers, in bed, at home. He wasn't in middle school anymore. Ian was gone. In a way, Ricky was gone too. After all, everyone called him Rick now.

He shoved the covers off his bare torso and sat up, confused. He remembered that game of catch he had played with Ian, and running away after Tom showed up. He didn't remember any ball in the back; indeed he knew for certain he had gotten home with no incident after he started running. Why had that changed? What was it supposed to mean?

He glanced over at the alarm clock by his bed. 6:25 AM. Five more minutes of sleep. Worth it? Not with dreams like that, he decided. He reached over and fiddled the alarm off, then eased himself out of bed. Another day, another dollar. What was that even supposed to mean?

Nonsense ran through his head as he made his way through the drawers that held his clothes, picking and choosing the day's outfit with little regard for anything. Having done this, he made his way to the shower, still wondering at the weird dream. He showered a bit faster than he had expected, going a bit into autopilot as he pondered the dream, and whether he would have to deal with Tom today.

After he dressed, he left the bathroom door open to vent the humidity the hot shower had caused. The rest of the apartment was empty. Mom must be outside, he thought to himself. She was usually out when the weather was nice enough. Grabbing a slice of bread from the cabinet, he popped it into the toaster, then picked up a banana for while he waited. The toaster popped just as he finished the banana, much to his delight. He carefully took the toast out and spread peanut butter over it, then picked up his bookbag, keyring-wallet combination (only two keys, apartment and bike lock), and phone. Dropping each in different pockets smoothly, he then left the apartment, not locking the door. As he predicted, Janet Putnam-Barlow, his mother, was standing out there, looking out on the parking lot with a touch of sadness in her face. She seemed to have that touch of sadness a lot lately. Rick wasn't sure why.

She turned to him, and the sadness vanished in a maternal smile. "Got everything?"

"Yup." The interaction was always the same, and to anyone else it would look uncaring. Rick and Janet both knew better; they both had problems left unspoken, but no matter how little they spoke, they had the unspoken bond of family. Besides, they spoke more at dinner-time.

"Okay, have a good day. Stay out of trouble," she reminded him, inviting him in for a hug.

Rick accepted it as he responded, "I will." He released the hug, then bounced away with a quick word of farewell.

The walk to school was uneventful. He arrived early as usual, still chewing the last bite of toast. He saw a few figures tossing a football around. He picked up his pace to a jog, and joined them. He didn't know them terribly well, but a friendly game of catch never went amiss. A few minutes later, Aidan arrived with a lazy "Mooorning."

Rick tossed the football, then turned from the others to his friend. "Morning yourself, Aidan," he said, before noticing a certain redness in Aidan's cheek. He looked closely at it before seeing the fading outline of a hand. "You look like you had a fun night," he quipped sarcastically as he finally realized what it was. He wondered who had inflicted the slap this time.