Chapter Four: Not Water
To my delight, as we lined up from class to get dismissed to the busses, Olly was standing right near me.
“You take the bus?” I asked him. Stupid question. School had just dismissed all the bus students a little before carpoolers so we’d have time to load onto the busses.
“Yeah.”
“What bus are you?”
It felt like a miracle when Olly said my bus number. Before I could think it over, I asked, “Can I sit with you?” It had been fun hanging out and I didn't want that to be a one time thing.
I thought I saw Olly hesitate a moment. Of course, he was already so popular! He probably always sat with loads of friends.
“Yeah, sure!”
So I rode on the bus with Olly. This is how I met Liam too, Olly’s friend since second grade. We sat in the back and Liam and Olly pointed out random things outside the window as we drove. Like the knotted tree that Olly said probably had a skeleton buried beneath it. And the automotive shop with a life sized plastic gorilla dressed up in a baseball cap and a red t-shirt that read Kong Automotive: We Can Fix Anything.
“I call him Kong Jr.” Olly said. “Because he definitely isn’t King Kong. Or a queen. He’s like a baby.”
“I’ve never seen King Kong.”
“I haven’t seen the movie either,” Liam said. “But I know he’s a gargantuan gorilla that attacks New York and throws helicopters. Like Hulk but bigger and not Marvel.”
The bus hit some potholes that made us bounce in our seat.
“They need to make another Spiderman,” Liam mused.
We chatted movies for a bit before the bus stopped and Liam scooted over to stand up. “See ya.” He swung his bag over his shoulder and flipped his long brown bangs out from near his eyes.
“Where do you live?” I asked Olly, as the bus started moving again.
“A couple stops from here. I’m the third stop after we pass Kong Jr.”
“Have you always called him that?”
“Pretty much. We were driving one day and Liam told me there was a gorilla behind me.”
~
As August changed into September, I got to know both Olly and Liam a lot better. And Kong Jr., although he never seemed to change from giving me a stoic pose and never changed his bright red automotive t-shirt.
I learned, for instance, that Olly wasn’t initially from Texas either. He and his family had moved from New York. And Olly’s favorite restaurant was Texas Roadhouse.
“They have delicious steaks. And loaded sweet potatoes with marshmallows and cinnamon butter. And buns and peanuts for free on the tables. I actually first went to a Texas Roadhouse in New York, but it’s funny that I now actually get to eat at Texas Roadhouses in Texas.”
I, of course, then told Olly about the roll kids, which he found hilarious though he didn’t believe a word of it.
The weather was also slightly cooler - we had some days that were comfortably in the 70s - and Olly and I began going over to each other’s houses to ride scooters. It was maybe a 15 minute scooter ride between our houses, and mostly Olly came to my house since he knew the neighborhoods better. We drew lines on the pavement with sidewalk chalk and then played a game where we’d need to ride our scooters around without touching the lines. We’d weave in and out between them or jump our scooters over them like we were competitors in the Olympics. The road was bumpy and needed paving – kinda crappy for scootering – but traffic was pretty rare and the bumps were great to jump on our scooters and use for competitions.
Mostly, it was just us two, although Liam would join whenever he was visiting Olly's house. Sometimes I thought it would be cool if there were other kids in my neighborhood interested in scootering, but I’d only glimpsed one girl down the street one time, and then she went inside.
I was, however, very wrong to think nobody was interested in our scootering.
As Olly and I raced down the street, jumping cracks and sidewalk chalk, I caught the glimpse of a familiar movement by the Yellow House.
It was like they had just magically apparated – one second, they were completely out of my mind, next second I was remembering my first week in the neighborhood vividly.
They were exactly like I remembered. Nearly identical grinning faces. The boy and the girl just like they came out of a movie. Or fantasy book. Or hell.
And they had another bucket – this time full of water balloons.
The boy hopped out into the street. I scootered by him and then realized I didn’t want to run from these crazy kids. This time, I knew what to expect. I could handle these maybe second graders.
“Howdy,” the young boy said, the grin never leaving his face.
“We do think it’s a sweltering day,” the girl said, with a fake British accent, wearing a matching smile.
The boy picked up a big fat green balloon, palming it as Olly pulled up beside me on his scooter, looking incredulous.
“Wait. Are these the roll kids? Are you the roll kids?”
As if in answer, the boy threw the balloon. Or at least tried to.
It instead slipped out of his hand and hit the grass by his feet, bursting.
“Wow,” I said. “Nice shot.” The girl reached into the bucket to grab a balloon too, and instead, the balloon slipped out of her hand, flying sideways and landing in the grass five feet away.
These kids. They needed a serious lesson in throwing or something. It was kind of funny to watch them struggle. I remembered when they had so inadequately tried to throw the soup and the rolls at me. All wildly off.
Then, I noticed that something seemed off. The kids’ hands were oddly shiny. I mean, not like wet shiny, but, like, literally glistening. There was something all over their hands that was preventing them from throwing properly.
Olly was smiling beside me, rocking back and forth on his scooter, watching the spectacle as my mouth began to slowly fall open with dawning suspicion. The balloons – whatever they were – were not water balloons. The next balloon, a fat orange one, launched like a shot-put through the air by the boy, miraculously was mostly on target and managed to hit the front stem of Olly’s scooter. It burst, and shiny yellow oil erupted over Olly’s scooter and shorts. Olly looked stunned.
I couldn’t believe it.
Not so much because it wasn't water – they’d already thrown soup at me - but because HOW DO YOU FILL A BALLOON WITH OIL? Did they sit and watch YouTube videos about making prank water balloons to cause a fight?
But it was Olly they’d hit, not me, and since he didn’t believe the story until now, it was both horribly funny and mortifying at the same time.
Olly and I kicked off to ride our scooters out of range, but Olly’s – its wheel slippery with the oil that ran down its front handle – kicked out from beneath him and he ate the pavement.
The girl threw another balloon, a green one which bounced off of me, and then splat across the pavement.
Olly scrambled up and we sprinted away, Olly dragging his scooter scraping and bouncing along behind him.
“You take the bus?” I asked him. Stupid question. School had just dismissed all the bus students a little before carpoolers so we’d have time to load onto the busses.
“Yeah.”
“What bus are you?”
It felt like a miracle when Olly said my bus number. Before I could think it over, I asked, “Can I sit with you?” It had been fun hanging out and I didn't want that to be a one time thing.
I thought I saw Olly hesitate a moment. Of course, he was already so popular! He probably always sat with loads of friends.
“Yeah, sure!”
So I rode on the bus with Olly. This is how I met Liam too, Olly’s friend since second grade. We sat in the back and Liam and Olly pointed out random things outside the window as we drove. Like the knotted tree that Olly said probably had a skeleton buried beneath it. And the automotive shop with a life sized plastic gorilla dressed up in a baseball cap and a red t-shirt that read Kong Automotive: We Can Fix Anything.
“I call him Kong Jr.” Olly said. “Because he definitely isn’t King Kong. Or a queen. He’s like a baby.”
“I’ve never seen King Kong.”
“I haven’t seen the movie either,” Liam said. “But I know he’s a gargantuan gorilla that attacks New York and throws helicopters. Like Hulk but bigger and not Marvel.”
The bus hit some potholes that made us bounce in our seat.
“They need to make another Spiderman,” Liam mused.
We chatted movies for a bit before the bus stopped and Liam scooted over to stand up. “See ya.” He swung his bag over his shoulder and flipped his long brown bangs out from near his eyes.
“Where do you live?” I asked Olly, as the bus started moving again.
“A couple stops from here. I’m the third stop after we pass Kong Jr.”
“Have you always called him that?”
“Pretty much. We were driving one day and Liam told me there was a gorilla behind me.”
~
As August changed into September, I got to know both Olly and Liam a lot better. And Kong Jr., although he never seemed to change from giving me a stoic pose and never changed his bright red automotive t-shirt.
I learned, for instance, that Olly wasn’t initially from Texas either. He and his family had moved from New York. And Olly’s favorite restaurant was Texas Roadhouse.
“They have delicious steaks. And loaded sweet potatoes with marshmallows and cinnamon butter. And buns and peanuts for free on the tables. I actually first went to a Texas Roadhouse in New York, but it’s funny that I now actually get to eat at Texas Roadhouses in Texas.”
I, of course, then told Olly about the roll kids, which he found hilarious though he didn’t believe a word of it.
The weather was also slightly cooler - we had some days that were comfortably in the 70s - and Olly and I began going over to each other’s houses to ride scooters. It was maybe a 15 minute scooter ride between our houses, and mostly Olly came to my house since he knew the neighborhoods better. We drew lines on the pavement with sidewalk chalk and then played a game where we’d need to ride our scooters around without touching the lines. We’d weave in and out between them or jump our scooters over them like we were competitors in the Olympics. The road was bumpy and needed paving – kinda crappy for scootering – but traffic was pretty rare and the bumps were great to jump on our scooters and use for competitions.
Mostly, it was just us two, although Liam would join whenever he was visiting Olly's house. Sometimes I thought it would be cool if there were other kids in my neighborhood interested in scootering, but I’d only glimpsed one girl down the street one time, and then she went inside.
I was, however, very wrong to think nobody was interested in our scootering.
As Olly and I raced down the street, jumping cracks and sidewalk chalk, I caught the glimpse of a familiar movement by the Yellow House.
It was like they had just magically apparated – one second, they were completely out of my mind, next second I was remembering my first week in the neighborhood vividly.
They were exactly like I remembered. Nearly identical grinning faces. The boy and the girl just like they came out of a movie. Or fantasy book. Or hell.
And they had another bucket – this time full of water balloons.
The boy hopped out into the street. I scootered by him and then realized I didn’t want to run from these crazy kids. This time, I knew what to expect. I could handle these maybe second graders.
“Howdy,” the young boy said, the grin never leaving his face.
“We do think it’s a sweltering day,” the girl said, with a fake British accent, wearing a matching smile.
The boy picked up a big fat green balloon, palming it as Olly pulled up beside me on his scooter, looking incredulous.
“Wait. Are these the roll kids? Are you the roll kids?”
As if in answer, the boy threw the balloon. Or at least tried to.
It instead slipped out of his hand and hit the grass by his feet, bursting.
“Wow,” I said. “Nice shot.” The girl reached into the bucket to grab a balloon too, and instead, the balloon slipped out of her hand, flying sideways and landing in the grass five feet away.
These kids. They needed a serious lesson in throwing or something. It was kind of funny to watch them struggle. I remembered when they had so inadequately tried to throw the soup and the rolls at me. All wildly off.
Then, I noticed that something seemed off. The kids’ hands were oddly shiny. I mean, not like wet shiny, but, like, literally glistening. There was something all over their hands that was preventing them from throwing properly.
Olly was smiling beside me, rocking back and forth on his scooter, watching the spectacle as my mouth began to slowly fall open with dawning suspicion. The balloons – whatever they were – were not water balloons. The next balloon, a fat orange one, launched like a shot-put through the air by the boy, miraculously was mostly on target and managed to hit the front stem of Olly’s scooter. It burst, and shiny yellow oil erupted over Olly’s scooter and shorts. Olly looked stunned.
I couldn’t believe it.
Not so much because it wasn't water – they’d already thrown soup at me - but because HOW DO YOU FILL A BALLOON WITH OIL? Did they sit and watch YouTube videos about making prank water balloons to cause a fight?
But it was Olly they’d hit, not me, and since he didn’t believe the story until now, it was both horribly funny and mortifying at the same time.
Olly and I kicked off to ride our scooters out of range, but Olly’s – its wheel slippery with the oil that ran down its front handle – kicked out from beneath him and he ate the pavement.
The girl threw another balloon, a green one which bounced off of me, and then splat across the pavement.
Olly scrambled up and we sprinted away, Olly dragging his scooter scraping and bouncing along behind him.