Growing Up A Superhero (27)
“Go long! Go long! Go-oh, crap.”
His head cracked violently against the trunk of a tree, brown hair catching up with the rest of him as he yelped and rebounded, falling to his hands and knees in the soft dirt. “You could have warned me,” he grumbled, rubbing the back of his skull with one oversized hand. “After all-“
“Hank?”
“It wasn’t like you guys didn’t see-“
“Hank!”
“The oak standing right there, smack dab in my path-“
“HANK!”
“What?”
“The ball!”
That was when it fell free of the last branch and dropped with great velocity, landing right on his head. Hank ducked to avoid it, and ended up smashing his face right back into the dirt. “Oh, this is delightful,” he muttered between mouthfuls of moss. The football came to rest by a root nearby, rocking slightly as it settled into place. “I feel like something out of a slapstick comic.” He spat and plucked moss from between his teeth.
His buddies were giggling nearby, trying halfheartedly not to laugh. Hank couldn’t help the twitch at his lips, himself, though he was working at focusing on the pain and the entirely un-humorous aspects of the situation.
“At least we didn’t lose the ball like we did the last one,” Joey called, grinning widely as usual.
“Yeah. My mom would have killed me,” Hank answered, sitting back and eyeing the hole in his brand new jeans. Not that she wasn’t going to kill him for this anyway, but at least these hadn’t been a birthday present--they were just new. He stood with a cringe, feeling the raw skin on his knee pucker unhappily. It could be worse, he supposed, as he bent to pick the football up. There could be-
“Anyone hear anything funny?” Adam asked, pushing his glasses back up on his face.
Hank stopped, cocking his head to one side to listen. “Oh, the bees,” he said, shrugging and continuing to dust off his pants. “There’s a hive up there.”
It took him a moment to realize what he had just said, and what had just happened. The same moment, actually, as it took him to realize that the buzzing was growing exponentially louder.
“RUN!”
Dirt flew as he dug in his toes, taking off like a racer at the starting line. The earth zipped by underneath him as he passed both of his comrades, then jumped the root of a tree and nearly tripped when he landed and the ground caved under him, eaten away by gophers. He lost his shoe pulling his foot out, jammed as it was between the earth and the root, and his two friends raced by without stopping to help. He didn’t wait to pick up his sneaker; he just ran.
“Wait for me!”
“Hurry up!” Joey yelled back, while Adam dove under a tree branch and popped back up on the other side a moment later. Both boys disappeared into the brush that led down the path to the creek; the same creek his mother had forbidden him from going near. Hank took a deep breath and started down at a reckless pace, his body falling faster than his legs could keep up. It was only a matter of time, really, before he could no longer run fast enough and tripped, spilling down the path in a tumble of arms and legs, gathering up more teenage boys as he went, all three of them screaming and shouting as they rolled through, over and around bushes filled with flowers, berries and prickly thorns only to land in a splash of mud and grime as they finally reached level ground: the edge of the creek.
And hovering underneath the noises they made as they untangled and checked for broken limbs was the distinct sound of buzzing.
“Um. Move,” Hank said, peering up the hill at the swarm that was coming quickly toward them in an oily black cloud. “Move now.” And with that he dove into the creek, splashing across it toward the far bank.
“Dive! Dive!” Joey screamed, and Hank did as he was told just as the first of the bees struck the back of his head.
He had never realized the creek was so shallow.
He stuffed his shoulders underneath, and found his butt was sticking out into the air. He thought he could feel bees hitting it, but really wasn’t sure. In a hurry, he shoved his hips underwater, and found that his shoulders popped up. He slapped those into the water, and practically threw an underwater fit when his butt once more cleared the surface. His fit, however, was stopped when he realized he needed air. Hank wondered how long the bees would hang around after he and his friends had all ducked, and finally decided it didn’t matter; oxygen was becoming distinctly important. Bracing himself, he pushed back up through the muck-coated surface, gasped a lungful of air, and dove back down. He could feel something squirming in his hair.
Resisting the urge to scream, Hank frantically brushed it out and then dug his fingers into the creek bottom, pulling himself along toward the other shore. He couldn’t stay here.
The dirt felt like slime-coated mold. Well, actually, he didn’t know how slime-coated mold felt. In fact, he didn’t even know how mold felt. But he imagined it felt distinctly like this. Things were brushing past his legs, and he didn’t want to know what they were--there were no fish in this creek.
Finally, Hank made it to the other side and, with a heart full of courage and daring, managed to haul himself out of the water once more. Gasping, he looked around and realized that, for the moment, he was safe. The bees were hovering over the water, slowly dispersing in the search for their prey. There was no sign of either Joey or Adam. Panting, Hank scrambled up the incline, lunging and grabbing hold of a bush at the top. There was a distinct sucking noise as his feet tried to dig into the little cliff for any sort of purchase, and with a final pop the bush he was using came free of the mud.
Hank fell backward, tumbling over his own head and landing with a painful crash on his tailbone on perhaps the only rock within a half mile of the creek. Hank whimpered. Under the noise of his whimpering came the clear, less-than-melodic sound of bees approaching.
Hank stopped whimpering and scrambled back up the cliff, digging his hands into the mud and simply using that as a handhold. He nearly screamed when he dug straight into a worm, but it helped him get up the cliff that much faster.
His clothing was soaked and, worse by far, he thought there might be something living in his pants. Other than him. He tried to put it out of his mind and ran for his house, still almost a mile away. His shoe squished with every step, and his stockinged foot managed to find every rock in the plowed field. After he had run so far he had a stitch in his side and he was sure his foot would have to be amputated, the bees gave up on chasing him.
Hank slogged through the field--not an easy task, since it was dry, but he managed to slog somehow--and wasn’t at all surprised when the mosquitoes started declaring him a buffet. Slapping mosquitoes and watching muck slide from his hair, Hank pondered the reaction he would get at home.
His mother was going to kill him.
And his father might just help her.
New shoes, new pants, a new football-which had disappeared somewhere between the tree and the water--all either ruined or lost. And, worst still, he had obviously been in The Forbidden Creek. He smelled like rotten vegetation. There was no way he was going to survive this night.
There were two options. Either his parents couldn’t find out about this, or he would live a painful and horrible life, likely locked in his room until he died of sex deprivation. He was sure it could happen. Granted, he hadn’t had sex yet--but that just meant he would die faster.
When he finally reached the house he circled it three times before finally coming up with his entrance plan. He would vault to the roof, break open the boarded-over attic window, climb through, slip between the floorboards to the level below and run to the bathroom without getting any water or mud on the white carpet.
That, or he was going to climb in the kitchen window and somehow get from there to the upstairs bathroom. He decided to go for the kitchen window.
The rosebushes underneath the sill presented a problem, but nothing that he couldn’t handle in his parent-caused panic. He thrashed through them, trying desperately to get to the wall of the house, before he realized he was stuck. One leg over the base of the bush and the other stuck between thorny branches, he really wasn’t sure what to do. His problem was solved, though, when he lost his balance completely and fell right through, crashing to the ground between the rosebushes and the house. Awkwardly, he managed to turn himself until he was sitting the right way up. He was scratched and bruise, but at least he was out of the bushes and safe for the moment.
Panting, Hank stood and started pawing at the screen. It wasn’t possible to open from the outside. He scowled and considered. Maybe he could use something to lever it open. Turning, he eyed the bush before him, trying to find a stick to pull off. After tearing his fingers open on thorns, dried branches and biting bugs, he decided he didn’t really need to pry the screen open. It would be much better to just slit the screen itself and climb through--a nice, clean cut that no one would ever notice. Or hear.
At least, it would have been better to do that if he’d had his pocketknife, but it, like so many other things, had gone missing.
Hank sighed and sat down behind the rosebush, leaning against the wall of the house. A spout poked into his side, but he didn’t have the energy to move.
He was a genius. He did wonderful in school. He was a shoo-in for the football team next year. But somehow, he couldn’t quite open a screen. Hank tilted his head forward, then back quickly, bashing it against the side of the wall. This was ridiculous. He stood slowly, feeling his entire body covered in muck, and faced the window. What did they need a screen for, really? He fingered the little hole in one corner, chewed out by bugs and rot. He loosened it a bit, finally managing to fit his finger into it. He paused, listening closely. There was no sound inside the house. Hank held his breath, and pulled back with his whole body, muscles straining and torso leaning back.
The screen tore with the sound of a zipper unzipping, only about a hundred times louder. Hank cringed and waited again, holding what was left of the mesh, attached now only by part of the upper frame and one side. His finger hurt from the press of the screen, and his arm was sore from pulling. Or from swimming. Maybe climbing. Probably a bit of all three.
The house, however, stayed silent. Hank breathed a sigh of relief and eyed the window, placing both hands flat on the glass surface and pushing sidewise with as much pressure as he could. Thankfully, the lock had broken years ago and no one had ever bothered to fix it.
The window slid open reluctantly, stopping in the tracks several times. It took Hank six tries before he finally got it open far enough to slither through, and that was only sideward and holding his breath.
He hung in the window, the sill across his ribs, and looked down at a sink full of dishes. Well. This could get interesting. Grunting, he managed to lever his arm through the window and brace it on the far edge of the counter, then squirmed farther through until his hips were nearly in the house. Halfway there.
Hank stopped to pant, then got a knee on the sill and managed to pull his leg through, levering himself up with one hand on the counter and the other on the border around the window. In the family room, he heard the beep of the house alarm, warning him that there were only fifteen seconds left before it would sound. Hank froze, then realized that staying put wouldn’t do him any good at all. He got his foot on the counter, then somehow managed to shift his weight that way and pull the other leg through. Quickly, he jumped to the floor and turned to close the window, then bolted out of the kitchen and into the family room, punching buttons furiously. He waited, breath held, as the clock counting down stopped. Then continued. He swore. It was the wrong code. Muttering under his breath he started over, hopping from one foot to the other. This time, the code took.
Hank bolted for the stairs and into the bathroom, kicking his shoe into a corner and pulling his shirt off on the way before stripping quickly in the bathroom itself and jumping into the shower. Water--clean water--ran through his hair and over his body, washing away the grime and stink of the creek. He scrubbed vigorously with soap, shampoo, and anything else he could get his hands on. Briefly, he debated shaving all the hair off his body just to make sure there really wasn’t anything living in him, but decided that would be a little too obvious.
Eventually, he got out of the shower and saw the mud tracks all over the floor. Hank paled. After a moment he gathered up his clothes and ran downstairs, tossing them in the laundry and then diving for the old towels his mother kept for cleaning purposes.
He wiped off the windowsill in the kitchen, then the counter, sink, floor and started on the carpet before he realized he was only smudging things further. He pulled his hair away from his face, wracking his fingers through it in frustration. Then he stood, hurrying to the cabinets and pulling them open. Cleaner. He needed cleaner. Hank grabbed one at random, reading it first to make sure it wouldn’t do more damage, then set to work furiously cleaning the carpet.
He’d just thrown the last towel in the laundry and started it when his mother walked in the door.
“Hank! Doing your own laundry for once?” she teased, bumping against him as she made her way inside, arms full of grocery bags. “Take these to the kitchen, honey. I’ve got a trunk full of them.”
Hank smiled good-naturedly, his heart beating triple time, as he took the bags.
“You’ve got dirt under your nails, young man,” his mother said reprovingly as his hands wrapped around the bags.
“Sorry, Mom. I was, ah . . .” he stalled, no idea magically popping into his head about what he could tell his mother that wouldn’t make her wonder.
“Never mind. Just make sure you wash before dinner.”
He grinned. “Sure thing, Mom.” He turned quickly and headed inside, putting the bags on the counter and peering within. Nothing remarkably fun.
“Hank, would you grab the last bag for me?”
“Sure, Mom,” he said, and hurried outside to do as she asked, snatching his shoe on the way and tucking it behind the laundry basket, out of the line of sight. He breathed a sigh of relief once in the garage, knowing he was out of the woods. He’d have to find his other shoe later, but that wouldn’t be too hard. His football was somewhere around the tree, on the way to the creek, he was pretty sure, and all the evidence that he’d been “swimming” was gone.
His face cracked into a huge grin as he grabbed the last grocery bag out of the trunk and closed it with a slam. He wouldn’t die of sexual deprivation after all. What a relief. Hank sighed and let his heart finally slow after all this time as he sat back against the trunk.
It wasn’t until he actually leaned that he heard the buzzing, and by that point it was too late. Hank yowled and jumped away, dropping the groceries all over the floor as his mother came running from the house to see what was wrong.
She rounded the end of the car and stopped. It took a moment, but then her hands flew to cover her mouth, and Hank was pretty sure she was trying not to laugh.
She didn’t quite succeed. “Oh, Hank,” she said as he came as close as he ever did to cursing in her presence. “It was only a bee. You couldn’t possibly have felt that through your jeans!”
He scowled and snatched up the grocery bag. “You have no idea,” he muttered, storming into the house. Behind him, he could hear her laughing. “It’s not funny, Mom!” he shouted over his shoulder. “I really hate bees!”
*****
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