Ken's War by B. K. Fowler Read Free Book Online

wallop,
but instead his dad said, “When I was your age, I was smaller than
most of the other boys. In gym class I was the second to last when
we lined up by height. A kid named Donny Funkhauser and his goons
picked on me.”
    “They did?” He was lightheaded with this idea
that goons picked on his dad. Why, they must've just walked up
behind him on the ball field, tapped his right shoulder and when he
turned to the right, they flew in from the left and socked him in
the jaw. Ken could see it as clear as day, what he didn't get was
why his dad was telling him this embarrassing detail from his
childhood, especially since he didn’t tell other stories, even
self-flattering stories about the old days.
    “Those goons picked on me until I learned how
to fight back. Don't stand around like a dumb ox waiting to see
what they'll do to you next. Next time, stand up for yourself.
Defend yourself. If you don’t, you’ll be fair game for anybody and
his sister to pick on. Knock the bastard’s block off and he’ll
think twice about bothering you again. You gotta defend yourself.
That’s an order, soldier.”
    “Yeth.”
    “Yes, what?”
    “Yeth, thir.”
    “Yes, sir what?”
    “Yeth, thir. Defend mythelf.”
    The next day, with a stack of schoolbooks
wedged between his arm and hip, Ken leaped off the bus. The school
bus pulled away. The air smelled of diesel, ozone and earthworms.
It had rained on and off the whole day, drops streaming like tears
down the schoolroom windows. The clouds were filling up to rain
again. A premature dusk had descended, smothering wet black tree
branches and glossy leaves that released tiny showers with the
slightest breeze. The barracks’ red brick buildings were drenched a
darker shade of old blood.
    Timmy and Tommy, twins, both two grades
behind Ken, walked with him from the bus stop. Timmy's face was
rounder than Tommy's, and he was a better outfielder, but that
didn't mean Ken wanted to be seen hanging around with these two
doofusses.
    “Hey, Red!” The festive voice calling
someone's nickname came from the top of the library fire
escape.
    “Bombs away!”
    An orange orb hurtled downwards. A balloon
filled with mud burst on Ken’s chest, splattering brown muck on his
yellow shirt and schoolbooks and on the twins.
    David Marshall folded over with exaggerated
laughter. He stomped his feet making the third-story iron fire
escape clatter. Three more near-misses burst with sloppy, heavy
plops on the road.
    “Your dad eats your mother with a spoon!”
David hollered. He ducked into the building.
    “You gonna chase 'em?” Tommy asked.
    “Nah,” Ken said, “I’d only end up killing
him.”
    “He'll just be hair, teeth and bones when
you're done with him,” Timmy said. “Won't he?”
    “What happened to your lip?” Tommy asked. “I
heard David decked you.”
    “Bullshit. It's a football injury.”
    “Hurt much? Looks like it hurts.”
    “Nah.”
    “Then how come you talk like this?” Timmy
asked with clenched teeth and minimal lip action.
    “Buzz off.”
    “He got you but good,” Timmy said.
    “It’s nothing.” Ken dashed to the creek at
the bottom of the hill behind the library. He stripped off his
muddy shirt, dunked it in the chilly water and slapped it against a
large, flat rock the way pioneers washed clothes in the movies. The
wet smacking sound was the only noise he could hear.
    Ken wiped mud off his books with maple
leaves. Under the cold, clingy shirt, goose bumps rose on his chest
and arms. He selected a round, flat stone from the creek side,
threw it across the water, and counted six skips. “Act natural,” he
said.
    Tommy and Timmy, through telepathic
consultation, agreed that skipping stones was the most natural
activity to pursue here at the creek. The twins were on the alert
for an attack, but engrossed in finding perfectly shaped skipping
stones, probably forgot about David Marshall.
    Ken did not forget. He did not want to be
dilly dallying at the creek