“Yeah, okay.”
We put on our layers and trudged to the bottom of the Geigers’ cascading lawn blanketed in clean snow. By the time we made it down by the street, the sun had gone down and the moonlight made the white lumps sparkle; it was as if we were making snowballs from diamond dust.
I carved out a chunk of snow and molded it in my hands until it was thick and smooth. Karl did the same.
“Ya know, I’d really like to take this and smash it into George’s face,” Karl said, tossing the snowball up and down. “We’ve gotta get ’em back, ya know?”
“How can we do that? They’re older and better at that kind of stuff,” I said.
“Don’t worry, Vic. I’ll think of something. We’ll get ’em back. Don’t worry. Look, here comes a car. Let’s nail it.”
“Hold on, Karl. You sure we should be doing this? What if we get caught?”
“Caught? You’re the fastest kid I know. And me? I could fight any sock that tried to catch me. Shit, we should’ve brought weapons.”
“Hey, you idiots!” shouted George, wading down the front lawn with Tony.
“Oh, fuck, what do they want?”
When they got to us, their cheeks and noses were rosy from the cold. It was a biting cold, and I already regretted my decision to throw snowballs at cars; I just wanted to sit in the warm basement and drink as many Stewart’s Root Beers as I could before I had to return to my soda-less home.
“You idiots hit anything yet? I’ve seen you throw, Karl. You can’t hit shit.”
“Fuck you, George. I’ll throw this right at your face,” he said, presenting his white orb.
“Okay, okay, sorry. We’ll cool it. We wanted to come out here and help you… ’cause we felt bad.”
“Yeah? Okay, fine then. Grab some snow and get throwing. Here comes someone.”
A white Mercedes cruised around the curve in West Road that bent right at the edge of the Geigers’ property.
“Oh shit, I’m not ready,” said George. “Karl, give me one of yours.”
“No, make your own.”
“Here, here,” said Tony, handing his to George.
“Okay, I got this fucker.” George could throw really hard for a twelve-year-old, and he whipped the snowball from behind the bushes we were using for cover. The timing was right, but the snowball whizzed over the top of the Mercedes and landed in the yard across the street. “Fuckin’ A. Just missed the asshole.”
“You suck,” said Tony.
“Really, George. You can’t hit shit,” said Karl.
“Fuck you guys. Vic, why didn’t you throw yours?” asked George.
“Well… what if we get in trouble? Or… if… if it makes them swerve and hit something. They could die, you guys.”
“Oh my God, seriously? Die? It’s a fucking snowball,” said George. “And now look, we missed a chance at another one,” he said, pointing to a shiny silver Lexus SUV that glided around the West Road curve without noticing the four youths arguing over its demise.
“Okay, the next one is Vic’s. And make sure you get it, because it’s already dark and The Simpsons is on soon.
“Look look look. Here comes one now,” said Tony, crouching behind the bushes.
“Oh nice, a Beamer. Vic, you got this,” said George.
“A Beamer? That’s what my dad calls a poop. Tony, isn’t that what…”
“Shut up, Vic. You’re going to miss it,” said Tony.
“Go, go, now throw it.”
“Throw it!”
Scared I was going to miss it and then we’d have to stay out longer and George would miss The Simpsons, I turned and launched the snowball over the bushes on a perfect rope into the driver’s side window, and it smacked against the glass with a thud!
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” said George as he ran back up his driveway.
“Crap. Vic. Run,” said Tony, as he turned to sprint across the Geigers’ front lawn and onto our property.
The car had stopped and pulled over to the side of the road. I turned and followed Tony and looked back to see Karl lying facedown in the snow. The driver got out of his car. Karl didn’t move.
“Tony! Karl is…”
“Shut up. Come on.”
Karl still hadn’t moved. The driver was young and pale and wore a long black coat that reminded me of Dracula. He stomped across the road, screaming after George. “I’ve got a fuckin’ kid in here! You little shit!”
Karl was a rock. You see, he knew the snow was too high for him to run up the front lawn, even if he stepped in the tracks we already made. So, thinking on his feet (no pun intended), he plunged himself facedown into the snow and played dead. And it worked; the infuriated driver shouted a little more at George—who had already run inside, taken off his boots, and turned the TV to Fox—and returned to his car, slamming the door. He couldn’t see Karl lying in the snow from the other side of the bushes.
It made me sick, leaving Karl in the snow like that to fend for himself—I knew we should’ve brought weapons—especially after he saved me from Hell’s serpent in the woods behind Glenwood. But I ran home anyway and opened the back door to the basement and could hear Britney yelling, “‘And now, a special sort of death... for one so fair. What shall it be... ahhh!’” as my father tried to drown it out with Sinatra.
We had reached February and Paxton still refused to take the three bead columns of six beads each—green, yellow, black, green, yellow, black—out of his hair from his trip to Jamaica over the holiday break. I was jealous of kids from school who went on vacation to sun-drenched islands and came back with tawny tanned skin.
I inherited my mother’s Germanic skin tone and would get so white in the winter that my uncles said I looked Swedish. They called me “Hans” or “Anders”; Andrius said I looked like one of his cousins from Vilnius.
One time we had a substitute and I told her my family was going
