Silly Band-Chapter Three

Chapter 3

Brian skated ahead of Wesley past the bank, across a one way street, where he stood next to a building that held two things- a pawn shop and his school. Wesley thought the connection of these two entities was a perfect example of the way the world worked.



The bank-well that was where respectable men got their money- the kind of men that wore suits and ties. He often saw ladies in skirts and matching jewelry sets, the kind he’d always wanted to buy for his mom, walking in and out the front doors. A narrow street separated the bank from the pawn shop, the place where ‘other folks’ got their money.



Wesley had written a short essay about the pawn shop when he first started at the alternative school. The teacher told him to pick something that was easy to write about. As he stood and looked at worn bricks, the words came back to him.



Folks who were behind on rent, ‘cause their car broke down and they had to spend their whole paycheck to get it fixed, went to the Pawn Shop. You don’t always have a lot of choices. Sometimes people have to sell things just to get by. They have to dig in their closet for some family treasure, like your dad’s collector Les Paul guitar, and sell it for a fraction of what it’d cost. You didn’t want to, but you were desperate to help your mother keep a roof over your head. As you handed over the guitar, and took the cash, you hoped that in month or two, you’d have enough money to buy it back. But somewhere, deep inside, you knew that it was never really going to happen. You knew the guitar was gone. Forever.
 But pawn-shop-people were used to losing things. Only you lost more than a guitar. You lost your dad. That was six years ago, though. But sometimes it felt like only 6 minutes.”The teacher had sat with him, and reviewed the skeleton of the essay, told him that it was “compelling.” It created tension in the reader. “I hope you’ll write more on this, Wesley. It’s got potential to be a really strong essay.” She called it ‘creative non-fiction’. He wasn’t sure what that meant. But he didn’t care enough to ask. “Everyone has a story to tell.” She added. “But some people don’t need to tell theirs. Others do. From the looks of this last paragraph, Wesley, you are one that does.” Then she welcomed him to the school, gently smiled, and left him alone to do his first assignment. Trigonometry.






He had wanted to say, “Everyone here knows the story. So, I don’t need to write it down.” But, he didn’t really feel like talking about it anymore. It didn’t do any good. Everyone in town knew that his dad had lost his life in the service. He had been an army reservist and called up for a one year term at a supply base in Iraq. The official report talked about dying in combat, which made it sound like he’d died in some huge battle. The guys in his dad unit had given his mother the details, though, and she didn’t hide them from Wesley.
“The truck your dad was driving was hit by a home-made explosive, made out of a coke bottle and a torn t-shirt. It was thrown by an 11 year old boy.” Sergeant Washington had explained, standing in their kitchen. “That’s how old I am.” Wesley responded, without thinking. He was in a state of shock, and didn’t feel anything until he saw the man in uniform place the silver dog tags in the palm of his mother’s hand. No one said anything. Not even, “I’m sorry.”
As soon as the tags were in her hand, it was like she melted. She put her other hand on the back of the chair, as if she were blind, feeling for it instead of looking, and slowly slid down into the seat. The Sargent pulled up a chair and sat right in front of his mom, but didn’t say anything. And he didn’t seem to care that tears were streaming down his cheeks. When Wesley saw this, he felt like he was watching a movie, or an introduction to one of his video games.


They sat like that, no one talking, for about fifteen minutes. During those minutes, Wesley changed from boy to man. It happened that fast. After the sergeant left, he held his mother while she sobbed. He put her in the bed, and walked around the house, which all of a sudden felt really empty. Later, when he went to bed he cried. He wasn’t really crying for his dad, though, or even himself. The tears were for his mom. He couldn’t explain it even to himself. He just felt like she had gotten broken and he knew he couldn’t fix it. He cried a lot at night, after his mom went to bed. He didn’t want her to see it. Sometimes he even had short conversations with God about the whole thing. One word conversations. He’d lie in his bed, staring at the blades on his fan, and ask, “Why?” over, and over, and over. He believed that it was a mistake, and that one day his dad would walk back in the door. Well, he believed that until last year. That’s when all the trouble started.

He started hitting things, inanimate things. He’d walk by a car, and feel the urge to kick the tires, and if no one was looking, he’d do it. If he was walking through the woods to go see a friend, which he didn’t particularly like to do, cause he hated snakes, he’d find the biggest stick that he could pick up, and do one of two things. He’d either hurl it through the trees, and enjoy listening to it snap off branches on its way down, or he’d stand next to a big hardwood and smack the stick as hard as he could, feeling anger rush through his arms. When the stick snapped, he’d feel victorious.

“You can’t just be hitting things, Wesley.” He mother tried, fruitlessly, to explain to him.

“Yes, I can. I have to hit something mom, or I’m gonna go crazy.” He got up from the table and walked to his bedroom. She sat at the table, tears silently streaming down her cheeks, because she knew he was right. She’d seen her son transform himself from a quiet, broken person, into someone who would stand his ground, soon after he got the job of splitting wood for Mrs. White. She thought his sense of self was coming from helping someone else, instead of sitting in his room reading comics and feeling sorry for himself. But one day, Wesley told her straight out why he was feeling better. “Mom, when I split wood. I have control of it.”

“Of what? Wesley.”

“Of everything.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I can chop it all up. The terrorists. The boys with the home-made bombs. The guys at school who are a foot taller than me. The dripping faucet. Our shitty car.”

He saw the look on his mom’s face and knew that it stung, but it was the truth. “Well, as long as that’s all you are chopping, I’m fine with it.”

Mrs. White was on a fixed income, but she paid him $5.00 for every load he split. For a 12 year old boy, in the little town of Buchanan, that went a long way. It was enough for two packs of cigarettes, which is what some of his friends tried to get him to buy. But he was staying away from tobacco. His dad had prided himself on staying away from that stuff, kept himself clean, so he could be a top-notch soldier. Wesley knew that one day he’d serve too, and wanted the chance to graduate top of his class in boot camp. He knew that smoking would make it impossible run without a hacking cough, so it was easy to turn down that temptation.

After each load he split, he took his five dollars, and put it in his sock drawer. One afternoon, when his mother was sitting at the kitchen table looking through her wallet for gas money, he walked in on her. She was crying. “I’ll just walk. It’s only two miles.” She said to Wesley. The problem was, it was pouring down rain, and Wesley couldn’t let his mother walk in that weather. It was tornado season. He didn’t say anything back, he just walked into his room, opened his sock drawer, and pulled out fifteen dollars. He came back, and without saying anything, he laid three five dollar bills on the table, beside his mother’s coffee cup. He leaned over, kissed her cheek, wiped the tear from her other cheek and said, “It’s gonna be O.K. mom. You got me.” She didn’t argue. All she could manage to say was, “Thanks, Wes.” It was then that she and Wesley formed a team. She allowed herself to rely on him. And Wesley finally felt like he wasn’t trapped. They never talked about that day. They didn’t need to. They both knew what had happened. He saw himself as the man of the house from that point forward. He’d check the doors at night, making sure she’d remembered to lock them. Many times, she’d be asleep on the sofa, half covered with an afghan, and a library book in her lap. After he’d lock up, he’d wake his mother, “Mom, hey, it’s bed time. I’ve locked up.”

“Oh, I wasn’t asleep.” She’d say every time. Then she’d stand up, take her coffee cup to the kitchen, rinse it out, and head to bed.

The school was right next door to the pawn shop. They were connected in more ways than one. The kids who’d lost something, well, they didn’t mind leaning up against this building between classes. It was their place, in the eyes of the townspeople. Wesley thought it ironic that he’d overheard one of the high school counselors refer to him as one of the ‘lost kids.’ He laughed, and had wanted to say, “Yes, I’ve lost a lot.” Because she’d only been at the high school two years, she didn’t know that his dad had died a hero. She didn’t see the City Council Members hand Wesley a certificate naming a day for his father. All she’d seen was the anger seeping out. Anger at death. Anger at smart-ass teenagers who didn’t know when to keep their mouth shut. He’d only been defending his family’s name, his father’s memory, when Jake said, “You’re a wussy just like your dad!”

The principal privately told Wesley that he understood the reaction, and would have done the same thing in his shoes. “But”, he added, “I think you need a break from this place. I’m gonna recommend you spend the rest of this semester at the alternative school. If you finish all your classes and keep your anger under control, you can come back in Janurary. Deal?” He held out his hand and gave Wesley a warm, secure shake. Something in that handshake made Wesley feel like he was respected.

“Come on Wes!” Brian hollered, as Wesley stood on the other side of the street, reliving the day he got sent here- to the alternative school. He was sure he was gonna hate it. And he did the first day. But when Brian came in the very next day, his best friend since 6th grade, a little spark of hope came into his being.

“Yea man. I’m comin’.” He jogged across the street, walked past the pawn shop, and stood in front of the plate glass door. Coach opened it up, greeted them and handed them the sign-in sheet. “You’re both here early today!”

“I’m gonna help Julie with her Algebra. Mr. Moon said I could.”

“Oh, yea, I forgot about that. What about you Brian?”

“I’m doing my community service hours here this week. Probation Officer said this would work. I’m gonna take out trash and clean the bathrooms. Then, I’ll sweep the front.”

“Alright man. I’ll get you the cleaning supplies.”

“Oh, I gotta clean something too, since I broke those pencils.” Wesley added.

“O.K. I’ll figure out something for you to do.” Coach replied.

Wesley walked right over to Julie, who was sitting with her back to the door and had headphones on. He stood behind her as she watched an ‘educational’ video about domestic violence. He knew she’d jump four feet out of the chair if he surprised her, so he walked around her desk, stood in front of her. He guessed it would take for her about 2 minutes before she noticed him standing there..

Two of her friends saw what was happening. They giggled, semi-whispered her name, and tried waving their hands to get her attention. She was glued to the video, and saw none of the flying arms and commotion around her. Wesley shook his head in their direction. A minute later, she glanced up and saw Wesley. A grin the size of Texas beamed across her face. She glanced back down at her screen while reaching out one of her hands towards him. He took the seven steps between them, grabbed a nearby a chair and slid it next to hers before clasping her hand. Then he leaned over whispered something in her ear. All eyes were on them for the next couple of minutes, even the teachers couldn’t help but stare. Wesley leaned over the metal arm on his chair to get as close as possible to Julie.

“Let’s do some math when you finish this lesson on verbs.” He said, with a tone of authority that even surprised him.

“O.K. Wes.” She responded, without taking her eyes off the screen.

“Transitive or intransitive?” She asked, leaning close to him, after reading the sentence.

“Don’t know that. Let’s google it.” He said, placing his hand on top of hers as it rested on the mouse. He guided the cursor to the “e” and double clicked it.



The first site listed was Wikipedia. Wesley always skipped Wikipedia. He didn’t trust it, because he knew that any human on earth could post on Wiki. He selected the second site, Chompchomp.

“I got it. It’s an action verb. Just think of me. Things I like to do.”

“Jump, flip, hit, smash.” She said, while smiling.

“I do more than that.”

“Eat, run, spin, kick.”

“Tickle.” He said, as he ran his hand up the middle of her back to her neck, which he knew drove her crazy.

“Stop it! Wes.”

The coach, just a few feet away, walked towards them, but before he got there, Julie said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be loud.”

“Wes, you know the deal, You have to be HELPING her, not distracting her.”

“Alright.”

“And take off your hat, Wes.” The coach added. “You know the rules. They are the same every day.”

Wesley took off his hat and put it on Julie’s head. She took it off and hung it on the computer monitor.While Julie finished her test on verbs, Wesley fidgeted with her silly bands, pulling them away from her wrist, and letting them pop back against her skin. After the third pop, she pulled her hand away. He pulled a green one off his arm, and put it on her left hand. She took it off, in a teasing way, and laid it on the desk. “I’m not gonna put this on if you are just going to pop me with it.” As the band took it’s shape on the desk top, Wesley’s eyes enlarged to the size of platters. Before Julie saw the shape, he swiped it up and shoved it in his pocket. He hopped up while raising his hand.

“Coach, can I use the restroom?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Once in the bathroom, Wesley got out his phone, selected camera, and arranged the silly band on the edge of the sink. “Death.” He snapped a shot of the band and sent it to Brian along with a text, “We gotta tlk.” He knew Brian never turned off his phone and waited for a response. During his wait, he rewound the past few days, trying to remember where he got this silly band.

Eve. He got it from Eve. Last night, while he was reading her a bedtime story.

“You want my new silly band?”

She usually got her silly bands from him. And that’s what he thought at the time. But now he knew that this was not the case. He was methodical in his silly band collection. He’d pile them up on his night stand before going to sleep. He never wore more than seven, since that was his lucky number. So, when Eve had given him a green one, he took a green one off his arm and slid it down onto her wrist. “You can only wear one at a time.” He had told her. The rule seemed crazy even to him. But after he heard about some kid who wore about 30 silly bands for more than a few weeks, and they had gotten embedded in his skin, he was a bit fanatical about Eve wearing one at time. “It can’t happen if you are only wearing one.” He tried to explain to her. “But I wanna wear four. I’m four. So I can wear four.”

Wesley’s mother didn’t intercede in this attempt at being a protector. In fact, she hid a smile, finding it humorous that Wesley was using the same argument with his little sister that she had used with him less than five years ago. “It’s just not safe, Eve. Trust me.”

His phone vibrated and he opened the text from Brian. “What the hell? Are you threatening me?” Brian always used ‘complete words’ when texting.

“No. Sum1 iz snding threats 2 me. It ain’t funny.” He heard a knock on the door just as he hit the send button.

“You done?” It was the voice of Buck, a typical rural hunting kid who always seemed to be on the verge of committing an act of kindness. In fact, Wesley was sure that Buck was the one who’d retrieved his cell phone one day, and slid it back into his pocket before anyone noticed. Buck didn’t want to be identified as ‘too nice a guy.’ It just wasn’t cool. Wesley respected that, and didn’t blow his cover. He figured he’d get a chance to pay Buck back someday. That’s the way the world worked, he recently learned.



“Just a minute, Buck.”

His heart was racing now. He felt like punching the bathroom door, or kicking in the sheet rock. Instead, he balled his fists up and shook them up towards God, just before he opened the door. As he stepped out of the bathroom, he made eye contact with Brian, who was pulling trash bags out of the trash cans. Brain did the ‘come here’ head motion which Wesley understood to mean, “Come outside with me.” He walked over to the coach who was helping another student with math.

“Hey, can I help Brian take out the trash? I need to get outta here for a second. I can’t concentrate.”

“Yea man. Go ahead.”

That was the cool thing about this school. The teachers weren’t really ‘teachers.’ Not the kind you’d had since first grade-the shaking a finger in your face and telling you to be quiet type. The coach and three other teachers listened to you. If you needed some fresh air, time to cool off, they usually gave you something to do. There were even some days when Wesley cleaned during his entire 3 hours. But then the next day, he’d get more work done than he had in a whole week at the ‘regular’ high school. One of his teachers, the one who always ran to grab the coach when anyone had a math question, told him that he’d done almost the whole trig class after three weeks. He didn’t really realize he’d done that much work. It had seemed easy. School had been easy for him years ago. But that was before his dad got killed. After that, nothing was easy.

“Wesley. What the hell is going on, man?” Brian said, as soon as they turned the corner of the building.

“Someone’s messing with me, dude. And it’d be fine if it were just me. But it ain’t like that.” He kicked the green industrial trash can as Brain lifted the lid and tossed the white sacks into it.

“Whadda mean?”

“They’re going through Eve.” Wesley reached in his pocket and pulled out the crumpled post it note and handed it to Brian. Then he handed him the silly band.

Brian studied the yellow paper for a minute, then shook his head. “Man, they’re serious, aren’t they?” he shuffled his feet back and forth, like he was practicing some new skateboarding move, before looking up at Wesley. “You know you can’t hold on to this. You gotta turn it over.”

“Yea. I know. But I wanna kill the guy who’s sending me this crap.”

“Well, that may happen. Maybe that’s your next assignment.” Brian chuckled, seeing the humour in the dark situation. He had a knack for that.

“I’m not that lucky. I haven’t been trained for that. Not yet, anyway.”

“Well, if you leave after this next job, then you won’t ever get trained for that.”Wesley reached his hand out for the note, but Brain shoved it into his pocket.

“Let me keep it for you Wes. I know it’ll just drive you crazy and you’ll end up throwing a chair through a window or something.”

“Alright man. We meet at 8. Right? It is 8, isn’t it?”

“Uh huh. Second Street. You already forgot the meeting time? Is this the only thing that’s been distracting you? Are things cool with you and Julie.”

“Julie and I are still the same. I bug her; she likes it, but she pretends she doesn’t. She lets me hold her hand sometimes, if she’s in the mood. When I tell her I broke something, she laughs. When I show her my bruises, she laughs.” Wesley liked it that Julie didn’t fuss over him like his mom did. At first, it bugged him. He wanted her sympathy. But eventually, it felt more like she believed in him, and his ability to recover. When she laughed at his injuries, he got this feeling that she saw inside of him.

She treated him more like a brother, at times, almost delighted to hear about his mishaps. Once though, when he saw Brian talking to her in front of the library, explaining that “Wesley’s gonna be late, he’s got this hamstring thing- from an accident. This had nothing to do with Wesley falling off the train.” It was that statement that sparked a look of genuine concern. From a distance it looked like she was wiping a tear. Later, Brian had confirmed that Julie did, in fact, show some minor grief at Wesley’s accident.



He’d also overheard her telling a friend that she didn’t know what she’d do without Wes. “It’s not just about getting an A in math. I really like him. He’s cute and he’s always saying the funniest things. And, you ought to hear the way he talks about his mother.” Julie had been coached by her dad, since the age of five.

“You can tell how a guy is going to treat you by the way he treats his own mother,” he’d said to her. She’d heard this phrase more in the last year than anything else. He must have noticed the way she tilted her head and smiled when she saw Wesley walking down her driveway.

The second day she and Wesley sat together, he mentioned that he was going to have to leave an hour early the next day to drive his mom to the doctor. That was the moment she took a mental highlighter, glided it over his name, then hit bold, italics and underline.