I don’t know when the decision-makers brought in two trailers and divided them in half to make four classrooms. They were like that when I arrived. Slapped between the main building and the ball fields, the big playground constantly beckoned to us. The bank of windows on the other side of the classroom faced the cafeteria. Isolated and tucked away from the watchful ears and eyes of the headmaster and administration at East School in New Canaan, Connecticut, some of the kids exiled to the cheap little trailers frequently misbehaved. 

If they chose the sixth graders for those temporary classrooms because we were older and more mature, it was an ill-formed decision. My side was civilized. Our teacher, a kindly old spinster named Miss O’Neill, liked reading books like James and the Giant Peach to us after recess. Maybe we were the smart kids. But chaos reigned next door—on the other side of that worthless accordion wall, were the troublemakers, and the tough-guy teacher who knew what to do with them. The disciplinarian with a scary reputation. Two weeks into the school year he had a nervous breakdown or some other super serious thing. So he was gone. After trying out a dozen substitutes, they finally hired a permanent one. Those kids tortured that sub all year long. We heard their outbursts, and Miss O’Neill, after a few weeks of trying to help discipline the kids on the other side, just accepted it. 

Sometimes, I thought it might be fun to be part of the bedlam next door, but mostly, I liked learning. I don’t think they did much of that. 

One of my best friends, Larry C, rarely got in trouble. He was my size, both of us smaller than average. His features were sharper than mine: ski-jump nose, gummy smile, and Dennis the Menace freckles. We were both athletic in a puny kid kind of way, neither of us very fast runners, but harder to hit in dodgeball. He was in that class on the other side of the wall. The other kids would’ve made fun of him if he complained, so he played tough, to fit in. When the new sub turned his back, Larry said it became a spitball battle zone, or books and pencils flew, and some kids even got regular wedgies. Hearing him tell the stories, I’m not sure how any of them made it to seventh grade.

One late afternoon in early spring, I put my uniform and my baseball mitt in a pack and rode my bike over to Larry’s house. Our team, the Swifts, was playing on our home turf at East School the next day, Saturday morning. He lived close to school, so our parents agreed to let us ride our bikes to the game. I was slated to pitch. Larry played outfield. 

We sat in his dad’s basement trophy room, not the tall first place championship kind of trophies, but zebra, leopard, bear, and tiger skin stretched out on the floor or draped over the arms of chairs kind of prizes. The stuffed heads of a boar, tiger, lion, and cheetah, all with frozen snarls and baring teeth to rip out my throat stared down at me. I knew my dad hunted too, back when he lived in Africa, but if he shot and killed exotic animals, he didn’t stuff them with fake expressions and hang them on the wall. Even in my twelve-year-old soul, it made me uncomfortable, and disgusted. Larry’s dad killed all these cool animals, had them transported to the U.S., and stuffed them. Why were they in attack mode? I was pretty sure he hadn’t killed them in self-defense. He probably shot them from a few hundred yards with a powerful rifle with a big scope on some expensive hunting safari. I wanted to ask Larry’s dad during dinner, “Hey, Mr. C, why do you like to kill innocent critters and show ‘em off in this weird room?” But I never did.

Instead, I took it out on Larry. I stood on the zebra-skinned chair and stuck my head in the tiger’s snarly jaw. It didn’t quite fit. “I hate this room. It’s dumb.”

“You’re dumb,” said Larry.

I stared at the lion in full silent roar, and suggested, “Your dad should make a soundtrack with scary jungle sounds for this room.”

“Haha, that’s funny,” said Larry, snickering, imagining the soundtrack.

“This room makes me want to hunt your dad and mount his head up there,” I said, pointing to the gnarly boar. 

“He’d kill you first cuz your stupid BB gun doesn’t shoot straight.” Larry laughed; he knew he was right. But I was pretty good at aiming down to the right at about four o’clock, especially because I could see the BB arcing through the air toward the target. 

“What are we even doing in here? It’s getting late. Let’s ride bikes. I’m creeped out.” I touched the taxidermied tiger’s tongue to see if it was gritty like a cat’s tongue. It wasn’t.

“Okay,” said Larry, heading for the door, “Let’s ride.”

We ran up the half staircase and right before we pushed through the front door, Larry’s mom yelled from the kitchen, “Be back for dinner, boys, I’m making lasagna.”

Larry yelled, “Alright, Mom” and pushed the screen door open.

She yelled back, “Don’t be late!”

We ignored her and let the door slam.

Outside, the snow had melted. Trees were budding. The air smelled refreshing after the stinky room full of old corpses. 

We hopped on our 12-speed bikes. Larry’s neighborhood was mostly split-level ranches or small colonials on half-acre lots with lawns people maintained themselves. Kids mowed the grass, while fathers clipped hedges. Pachysandra edged the houses. The roads were mostly flat, not winding and hilly like elsewhere in town. Where I lived, houses were hidden at the end of long driveways or behind stone walls. You had to search for neighborhood kids, but here, they were playing in plain sight.

We rode by Jimmy Forker’s house, always up for some half-court three-on-three, but he wasn’t out shooting hoops with his brothers in the driveway. We rode over to Jim Birchfield’s, sometimes he was fishing at his small pond, or rowing around in his dingy. But the place was dead.

 “Where the fuck is everybody?” I said. It sure was fun to swear like the adults and the older kids.

“Fuck if I know,” Larry said back.

“Hey, don’t cuss, you little shit,” I said, passing him as we searched for something to do.

Larry lived near the Merritt Parkway, one of the oldest highways in the country, known for its scenic layout and the lush, forested neighborhoods it slipped through, the almost mountain pass nature of the two lanes in each direction, and the treacherously short on and off ramps. The elaborate overpasses allowed no trucks. If you were driving in your friend’s dad’s van, sometimes it felt like the top edge would sheer right off. The bridges were designed to hide the parkway below from passing traffic, maintaining the illusion that no highway sliced through the landscape.

Larry and I stopped at an overpass to watch the cars zip by underneath. A raised sidewalk along each railing gave pedestrians a safe place to cross. A small, open space above the sidewalk allowed air, water, and any rock or stick to pass through if a tire hit it just right. The wall was the perfect height to lean against and look out. We parked our bikes and waved to the poor suckers trapped in their cars below

Life in the suburbs. No friends out. Bored with the usual pitch and catch. 

The light felt dimensional and shimmery, that magic light as dusk approached. It was rush hour. We stood over the southbound lanes. Most of the traffic headed north—commuters driving home from New York City, or weekenders fleeing the suburbs. Still, plenty of folks were southbound on their way somewhere. 

We kicked at little stones. They dropped over the edge and fell harmlessly to the highway. We kicked more. We heard a plink, the sound of a tiny rock hitting metal.

“Hey,” said Larry, his gummy smile lighting up his face.

“That’s what I was thinking!” Our shorthand.

I kicked a pebble. He kicked a pebble.

He said, “Points?”

I said, “No front windows.”

He said, “No windows at all.”

I said, “Negative points.”

He said, “One point for the roof.”

I said, “Two for the trunk. Hitting the windshield sends you back to zero.”

“That’s fair,” said Larry, kicking another. Hearing the plink, he said, “Two for me.”

“Fucking head start cheater. I’ll still kick your ass.” We had a new game.

Athleticism. Physics. Geometry. Good times!

The game escalated. No more kicking. Pick up the pebbles and toss them! With an upward movement of the forearm and a flick of the wrist, we kept our upper bodies still so as not to tip off drivers. The challenge was to time the approach and lob the projectile. Once the car passed below, we were invisible. We couldn’t see them as they sped farther south. They couldn’t see us. We kept at it. 

“How did all these rocks get here?” I looked down at the bounty around our feet.

“I dunno but we have ammo for days,” said Larry with his silly smile.

“What’s the score?” 

“Pretty sure it’s eight to six.” Larry used his fingers as if I wouldn’t know the difference without a visual aid.

“How’d you come up with that?” I asked, giving him double-fisted middle fingers.

“You hit a windshield. You had to go back to zero.”

“Oh, fucking shithole, I forgot.” I tossed a pebble, but it missed. “Let’s play to fifteen.”

“Okay,” said Larry, rattling a fistful of pebbly projectiles, “but we have to head home for dinner soon.” 

“We gotta play faster,” I said. 

“I meant maybe we should go now.” Larry leaned toward his parked bike.

“Come on,” I said, “we gotta finish the game.”

Bigger stones. Rocks. We searched for size and weight. Found plenty. An arsenal. Soon we raised our arms and heaved rocks, throwing with force at the speeding targets. We no longer cared if drivers or their passengers saw us, arms cocked. Horns honked. The Merritt Parkway, quietly snaking through the neighborhood, lacked enough shoulder for cars to slow down and pull over, let alone space for drivers to get out and give chase. The next exit was a mile or two away. Unless they were locals who knew the roads, reaching us would be difficult—if they could figure it out at all.

We raised our arms in unison and hurled two stones at a big dumb-looking Pontiac. The noise of the impact shocked our simian brains. I ran to the south side of the bridge, half expecting to see them swerve and smash into the median to the left or the trees to the right. 

“Holy shit!” I shouted. “They’re stopping!” 

“Oh, cripees!” Larry was on his bike in an instant.

I ran across the street, jumped on mine, and we peddled away. What a rush! We were accelerating and woohooing and laughing. We went from zero to sixty in two and a half seconds flat.

A couple hundred yards toward safety and dinner and the comfort of Larry’s house, I slowed down and stopped. 

“Why are we stopping?” Larry’s cheeks burned red, eyes wide with fear. 

“They didn’t pull over. I was fucking with you.” 

“You dick! You scared the crap out of me. I was two points from a win.” Larry was mad, but he punched me in the arm, so I knew he was relieved that no one had chased us.

The score was thirteen to eleven. Maybe I was trying to mess with his focus, making up the car pulling over to distract him. I was the pitcher. You need a good arm in the outfield, but I should have better control.

 “Let’s finish the game.” I turned my bike around and led the way. We still had plenty of light.

Why we didn’t go home, I’ll never understand. We had been at it for fifteen or twenty minutes, escalating to unapologetic full hurls. Drivers and co-pilots saw two young fools throwing things at them. Even if we were miming, it could still cause a reaction leading to an accident. Suburban boredom? Repressed rage? Dumb kids doing dumb things? Why did Larry agree to any of this? Why did he follow me back? Who cared who won the stupid game? Did I want to get caught? Why did I want more? Maybe it was the body rush, the unrecognized dopamine blast, a surge I’d later hunt in all kinds of ways.

We rained rocks down on the speeding traffic. 

On the bridge, a lone car, windows open, slowly passed us. We smiled and waved. A young mom and her daughter a little younger than us waved tentatively back, like the mom knew we were up to no good but couldn’t figure out what. They disappeared down the road. 

We heard another car approaching from the opposite side, the side heading away from Larry’s house. I turned again to wave and send a clear message we were just a couple of kids enjoying the view. My smile faded.

It was a cop. 

With no time to flee, I leaned back against the railing casually. He stopped his cruiser in front of us and rolled down his window. This was not Andy Griffith coming to reprimand Opie’s friends who’d misbehaved. This was a local New Canaan police officer, in his late thirties, with an official wide-brimmed hat, clean-shaven face, mirrored sunglasses, all business. Serious as all that taxidermy back at Larry’s house.

“What are you kids doing?” he said.

“Nothing.” I was pretty sure he saw my heart thumping. 

He shook his head slowly like he was sick of everyone lying to him all the time.  “Nothing. That’s not what the couple who called you in said. I’m going to pull my vehicle over. Stay exactly where you are.”

I turned to Larry, “The couple who called us in. Shit. I didn’t think about that.”

“We’re so screwed,” said Larry. His eyes changed from big saucers to leering slits. “It’s all your fault.”

“Whatever he says we did, we gotta say it wasn’t us.” 

Larry crossed his arms and harumphed.

Before I heard the cruiser door open, the cop yelled, “Hey, I don’t want to hear another peep out of either of you. Until I say it’s okay to talk, don’t. Got it?” He wasn’t kidding around. The cop got out, shut his door, strode over to us, and just like in the movies, hitched up his pants, and slapped his hands on his hips. He must’ve been seven feet tall and three feet wide. Our reflection in his mirrored shades made us look like little mice.

“You boys are in a lot of trouble. What are your names?”

Larry couldn’t get it out the first time. He had to try twice. His voice was so small. I’d never heard it like that—barely a sound at all.  He squeaked out, “Larry C—.” He said his last name, but I have to protect the innocent (or guilty in this case). Tears welled in his eyes. 

I said my name, too.

We were busted.

“Where do you live? I need specific addresses.” Those mirrored sunglasses reminded me of the soulless glass eyeballs of the creatures on the trophy room wall.

We gave him the information.

The officer looked at our bikes. He looked at us. His lips puckered up, and when he blew a big sigh, they flapped and made a farting noise. I would’ve laughed if I wasn’t so nervous. He told us to stay put. He returned to his car, left the driver’s side door slightly ajar, and hung one beefy booted leg out while he got on his radio. I couldn’t hear clearly but I think he was calling our parents or having someone at the police station do it. It was cocktail hour on Friday. Our parents were going to be pissed.

The giant officer returned, blotting out the sun behind him, shaking the ground underneath us, and his gigantic hands landed back on his hips which were covered with cop stuff like a gun, handcuffs, and mace. He stared down at us. After a pause that felt like ten years, he said, “Get on your bikes and ride to Larry’s house, slowly. I’ll be right behind you. Don’t try to disappear through a shortcut. I know where all of them are. I’ve already called your parents, and they know we’re on the way. Do not, I repeat, do not talk to each other on the way.”

And then to let us know he was serious and that we were pretty much under arrest, he turned on his crazy cop lights. At least he didn’t turn on his siren. Everyone and their brother and sister would’ve seen us riding to the pokey.

Larry and I barely made eye contact. We did not speak. We did not flee. We just rode slow and steady hoping Larry’s house had disappeared and we’d never have to face the consequences.

Were we arrested? He hadn’t read us our rights. How was I going to explain this foolishness to my dad? How did I end up throwing rocks at cars? Were our parents going to let us play in the game tomorrow morning? No way my dad would let me play. My poor mom. She’d be horrified, shocked, and saddened by her son’s abhorrent behavior. (She liked to use that word, abhorrent, when I was being a pain.) Who were the people who called us in? Had we damaged their car? Did we cause a heart attack? Other kids my age were into much worse stuff—stealing their parents’ cars and crashing them, pilfering their parents’ liquor cabinets, getting drunk and smoking cigarettes, and robbing Breslow’s, the convenience store downtown. This wasn’t me. I was a goody-goody student council kid. But it was me riding to my friend’s house with Johnny Law following us, his spinning blue lights drawing attention from nosy neighbors at their kitchen windows.

We abandoned the bikes on Larry’s front lawn. The cop parked on the street and turned the flashers off. Thank god for small favors. (My mom said that a lot even though we weren’t very religious and never went to church.) Mr. and Mrs. C met us at the door and told us to go sit in the living room while they talked to the officer. The lasagna smelled delicious. I wanted to wash up for dinner and be done with this.

Up the stairs and around the corner, I whispered, “Larry, we have to get our story straight.”

Instantly from below Mr. C bellowed, “I do not want to hear another peep out of either of you!” Mr. C and the cop didn’t want me peeping.

A few minutes later, through the window, I saw my mom and dad pull into the driveway and park behind Mr. C’s tan Corvair. The doors opened at the same time, and my parents emerged from the green Buick Electra 225 with a black soft top. No longer in his business suit, my dad wore a pair of khakis and a faded blue sweatshirt. My mom was in a dark blue pencil skirt and a white blouse. She was only five foot two, but she felt tinier tonight. Her usually kind, hazel eyes were crinkly and sad, and her thin lips turned down at the corners in a grimace. I gulped back an unfamiliar feeling trying to come out. My dad’s brown eyes were hard, his brow furrowed, and his jaw set tight. They didn’t see me looking down at them from the window. They were focused on the officer. 

As they approached, I heard the cop say, “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Routhier.” He pronounced the Rou like wow and hit the ier like ee-air. My dad didn’t correct him.

“We are. And you are…” 

The policeman introduced himself. I didn’t hear his name.

“We are so sorry for your trouble today, officer.” My dad’s voice carried. My mom said something I didn’t quite hear, followed by exchanges I couldn’t make out. I crawled over to the stairway, stopping behind the wall so they wouldn’t see me trying to gather information, but their voices were quiet, and I guess they didn’t have all that much to say to each other because, after a few seconds, my dad said, “Thank you, officer, we’ll take it from here.” 

Larry’s dad said, “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it, officer.”

I scurried back to the window so they wouldn’t catch me trying to listen. The cop walked to his patrol car and drove off. I heard a murmured conference below. Then the adults climbed the stairs. Larry’s father was skinnier than my father, a few inches shorter, and had a country club face: high cheekbones, blue eyes, and a full head of brown hair just starting to gray at the edges.  

The four of them stood in front of us. My dad asked if there was a room where he and my mom could talk to me alone. Mr. C said we could use the trophy room downstairs. Mrs. C was taller and younger than my mom. She was still in her white apron with a little flower print. She led us downstairs into that room with the skins and the taxidermy. My dad thanked her and shut the door.

My mom sat on the chair with the tiger skin. She turned green like she was sick that her good little boy was turning into a degenerate teen. I was hardly ever in trouble, let alone with the law. My dad told me to sit. A pause settled in the air. He took in the room. The boar screeched. The tiger and lion roared. The cheetah growled. Their volume increased in my brain’s echo chamber so much that I almost didn’t hear my dad’s questions. “What got into you, son? What were you doing? Do you understand how dangerous it was? What if someone had driven off the road? What possessed you to throw rocks at cars?”

I wanted to say I don’t know, Dad. What possessed Mr. C to shoot all these magnificent animals and have some asshole freeze their faces with fighting expressions, and tack ‘em up on the wall in this stupid trophy room? The poor critters were just living their lives. They didn’t need some shithead human to go shooting them up for no good reason.

I wanted to say Why are the kids in the adjoining classroom so nasty to their teacher? He’s just a guy trying to make a living. Why do they need to make his life hell all the time? I guess they think it’s funny, or they think they’re better than him. Maybe those kids didn’t get the attention they needed at home or had brothers that beat them up. Since my brothers were much older and always away at college, and my dad traveled for work a lot, I didn’t have those problems. 

Annoyed at the pause, my father raised his voice a little and repeated the question, “Son, answer me. What possessed you to throw rocks at cars?”

I looked at him square in his eyes and said, “I wasn’t. I was aiming at the white lines. I’m pitching tomorrow.”

He searched my face. 

My dad was an ambitious corporate VP for a big oil company. Maybe he knew the value of a good white lie. He turned away from me and stared at the cheetah who’d stopped growling. Silence. Dead still. After a moment, he sighed, opened the door, and told my mom and me to follow him. We walked quietly in single file up the stairs into the C’s living room.

Mr. and Mrs. C and Larry emerged from the kitchen. In every New Canaan house, including ours, the formal living room with its pristine couch and coffee table and overstuffed chairs, was rarely used. But here we all sat. Mrs. C brought out two chairs from the kitchen for me and Larry. I wondered if the silver case on the table next to the museum piece lighter had cigarettes in it. I didn’t smoke, never even tried it. At home, we had Parliaments, my uncle’s brand, in a box like that. What if I just grabbed one and lit up? 

My dad started: “Larry, how are you feeling?”

Larry squirmed. His hands were folded in his lap. He looked at the white semi-shag carpet. “Not great, sir. Ashamed.”

“You know you scared those people and who knows how many others.” My dad focused laser eye beams on Larry. 

“Yes, sir.” His eyes were lowered, voice still small like when he answered the cop.

My father moved forward in his line of questioning: “How long were you on the bridge?”

“Fifteen minutes?” 

“Son, look at me.” My dad was terrible with names. He probably didn’t remember the kid he was questioning was named Larry. After a pause, he asked, “How did you end up throwing rocks off the bridge?”

Larry tried to keep my father’s gaze, but it was hard for him. He shifted between the carpet and my dad. “We started kicking them. Then we tossed them. Then we threw them.”

I desperately wanted to catch Larry’s eye, to somehow communicate that he needed to say we were trying to hit the white lines in between the cars. But Larry was not looking to me for signals. 

My father asked him, “What were you throwing at?”

“The cars,” Larry said.

My dad looked directly at me. I shrugged—I don’t know what he’s talking about.

I wasn’t sure if my father was going to rip into me in front of everyone or save that for later. Maybe he wanted to save himself and my mom from more embarrassment. He said nothing. After a long pause, he looked at Mr. C. “The boys need to call the poor couple and apologize. Better yet, we’ll drive Mark to their home to have him apologize in person.”

Mr. C said the plan was fine with him, and they would do the same.

My father stood. “Okay, I think that does it.”

Everyone stood, except Larry, who sat there, staring at his feet. Maybe his parents told him this was the end of our friendship. Maybe he put all the blame on me. Maybe he was just really hungry.

After my father and I stuffed my bike into the Buick’s trunk, I slipped into the back seat. I imagined my dad palming the top of my head so I didn’t crack it on the door frame like the cops did on TV. I asked, “Can I play in the game tomorrow?”

My father looked at me in the rearview and said, “You’re supposed to pitch, right?”

I experienced a moment of hope that I’d resume my life as normal. I nodded.

My father said, “You will not be at the game.” He kept eye contact in the rearview. Something passed between us. Maybe he was protecting my mother’s already broken heart by not calling me out. He said, “The white lines,” looked deep into my lying, excuse-making soul, broke eye contact, and turned his attention to the steep curving descent in the road.

On Sunday morning, my mother and father drove me to the Petersons’ house in Rye, New York. We were welcomed inside. The house smelled of fresh coffee and muffins. They were an elderly couple with sweet faces, both white-haired and little, no more than five foot five. Maybe, in a different story, they’d cook me up.

They offered my parents coffee. We sat in a well-worn, cozy living room they clearly actually used. It was a crisp day, an unusual chill in the air. A fire crackled in their stone fireplace. Everyone was somber but a Sunday grace filled the air.

Once we were seated, I looked at the Petersons and said, “I’m sorry I scared you. I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. I didn’t think how frightened people in their cars would be. It was stupid. I don’t know what got into me. I’m glad I didn’t hurt you or cause an accident. Please accept my apology.” 

Mrs. Peterson said, “Mark, you gave us quite a scare. We called the police because we didn’t want anyone to be hurt. We were startled and we were very lucky that Pete didn’t drive off the Merritt Parkway into the trees.”

Peter Peterson? The old man’s parents must have had a sense of humor, and he seemed to have inherited it. His eyes sparkled, something of a smile in them. Both the Petersons had bright, compassionate eyes.

“I’m lucky that that didn’t happen.” My shame magnified in the presence of this magnanimous couple, but I felt forgiven. I thought about the unruly sixth-grade class on the other side of the trailer. I thought about wild animals getting shot for nothing. What was the difference between caring and not caring? How do compassion and sympathy work?

“I hope you never have the impulse to do that again.” Mrs. Peterson’s stare was penetrating.

“I think I’ve learned my lesson,” I said. 

“Okay, Mark.” The kindly old woman’s smile had a hint of sadness in it.

They offered me a warm blueberry muffin. Delicious.

---

After a career as a stage director and new play developer (Magic Theatre, Southern Rep, Orlando Shakespeare Theater, The NOLA Project, and National New Play Network among others), Mark Routhier lives and writes in Freeport, Maine. He recently received his MFA in Creative Nonfiction from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. An essay from his collection, Short Essays About Lost Friends, was recently published in Wilderness House Literary Review. It was his first publication. “White Lines” in Coachella Review is his second. He is a reader for Hunger Mountain Review and Fourth Genre. His full bio can be found at markrouthierdirector.com.