the tin man

the day that carson pummelled will over the head with a hockey stick, causing him to have to get stitches in the shape of a lightening bolt on his forehead, i decided he was dangerous. he and i had never gotten along, his volatile temper was apparent through our shouting matches at lunch, or in chemistry, or in the lounge after school. i couldnt seem to avoid him, and when we got started, i certainly couldnt seem to stop. he fought with everyone but there was something about me that made his face pinken and his eyes get beady. he had mustard colored hair- not quite red, not quite blonde, and it sat upon his head like a tuft of feathers, ready to ruffle and stand up if threatened.

they were just playing around during PE- it wasnt even a real game. but carson got angry because will was keeping the ball wedged between his stick and the dirt brown bleachers that screamed so loud when you rolled them out that you could hear it in the lunchroom, despite the din of everyone's voices.

will just stood there, eyes open, as a stream of blood dripped down his forehead and split in two when it reached the slope of his nose. i was walking out of the girls locker room when i saw it, and was sure it wasnt real- why was no one running around, trying to find coach patton, calling the school nurse? patrick walked steathily up to will as if he were the one to be afraid of, as if he were a rabid animal. and then, will cried. he dropped his hockey stick and he cried. and carson, after looking at will for a moment with his hockey stick still in hand, dropped it and ran away, through the back door by coach patton's office, and into the dense woods behind our school.

we were juniors and nothing like this had ever happened before. we werent the type of kids who fought, i couldnt remember any time i had ever seen blood at that school other than when tommy had a nose bleed that dribbled on his math quiz.
coach patton came out and saw will, crying, and patrick standing next to him looking disturbed and slightly disgusted, but also terribly embarassed. will, the stable social coordinator of our grade, the unwavering vortex of every 11th grade interaction, was broken and defeated. he was bloody and crying. and carson was gone.

carson stayed in the woods for the rest of the day, and no one even made a move to find him. will had gone to the hospital, gotten stitched up, and then come back right after the final bell rang to get his books but also, it was obvious,to show everyone his war wounds. no one was really angry at carson, just shocked, and thrown even farther into our confusion surrounding him. he could be nice- he and will hung out, he was pretty popular, but then he would just tear in two and all sorts of unrequited emotions would pour out of that chasm, like a dam breaking, knocking us on our backs and sucking us underwater for a minute.

this was the first year i drove. my car was parked by the soccer field in the lower parking lot, and that day at practice, people spoke under their breath about what had happened.

patrick said the look in his eyes was evil. pure evil. he wanted to do worse.

it was bound to happen sometime. im glad all he had on him was a hockey stick.

at 5, after soccer practice was over and earth was preparing itself for rain, still no one had seen carson. i could picture him in the woods, under the canopy of those huge, deep green trees, sitting on the ground picking apart some twig. the thought of it made me scared and it made me sad. he always seemed so unsure. like the times when he tore in front of us were only because he was trying so hard the rest of the time to keep himself sewn together.

i got in the front seat of my car and started taking off my cleats and my shin guards. rain began appearing on the windshield, and as i was starting the ignition, something hit the passenger's side window like a clap of thunder. it was carson, with is hands on the glass, begging to be let in.

i reached over and opened the door for him. he wasnt out of breath, there were no spots of will's blood on his clothes or his hands. he looked just like he did earlier- same khaki shorts he wore everyday, same heather gray t-shirt and tennis shoes with no socks. he looked straight ahead.

could you take me home.

his hands were folded in his lap. like when i imagined him in the woods, i felt scared and sad, i felt like he needed to be hit and hugged.

yeah.

he lived near me, right up the hill. as we were pulling out it started to rain hard, and the sky darkened immediately. i didnt put on any music the whole way to his house. we wove around the steep, curvy roads of forest park, my windshield wipers going at the fastest speed. i drove into his driveway and put the car in park. i looked over at him and at first, i thought he was sleeping. his head was hanging and his eyes were closed. without moving he said

i dont know how to do it. i mean with people- i just...dont know.

the rain was so forceful it made my roof sound like it was made of tin.

what do you mean carson?

he raised his head and looked at me. he had unevenly distributed freckles across his nose and cheeks, light brown ones that looked like dirt.

i dont know what i mean. its just really hard for me. its hard for me always.

i felt like we were in a carwash- completely consumed by water, completley motionless because of it. he opened the door and the sound of the rain was almost deafening compared to how silent we had been in the car. water attacked the inside of the door and the side of the seat.

i didnt mean to.

he looked at me. i nodded.

we know.

but i didnt. i didnt know that until now.