Fireball by Tyler Keevil

jackasses. I guess they thought he was all done. So did I, for that matter. They only stopped laughing when Chris moved. He got a hand beneath him, then a knee, and sort of peeled himself off the ground. Real blood dribbled from his mouth, smearing his make-up and covering his chin. All of a sudden he actually did look like a zombie, like something you couldn’t kill.
    Pat said, ‘You’re kidding me, right?’
    In answer, Chris took off his hoody and tossed it aside, almost casually. He raised his fists and spread his feet slightly apart. I knew that stance.
    â€˜Okay,’ Chris said. ‘Let’s go.’
    They asked me – a bunch of times – why I got in the car with him that day.
    That’s why.

    When they took our photo for the paper, Chris wore that same outfit. Not the make-up, obviously, but the jeans and hoody. It wasn’t like he had tons of clothes or anything. Besides, having the jeans all cut up like that looked pretty sweet, even if he wasn’t trying to be a zombie. I still have a copy of the picture. I’ve handled it so much the clipping is getting tattered, and you can’t really make out our faces any more. Julian’s dressed in a suit. The medal is hanging from his neck and he’s beaming at the camera like a real champ. I’ve got mine around my neck, too. But I look uncomfortable and sort of confused about the whole thing. Then there’s Chris. He’s holding his medal at his side and looking off frame. The expression on his face is distracted, as if he’s seen something the rest of us haven’t. As if he already knows what’s coming.

    11

    Surreal. That’s the word for it.
    It was just like that Hayden song. You know – the one about the woman who locked her kids in their station wagon and drove it straight into a lake, killing them all.
    The car is rolling down to water…
    Why are we strapped in our seats…
    Except, in this case, it was the lady – not the kids. And she’d strapped herself in there. Plus, it was an accident. Or everybody thought it was. But basically, whenever I hear that song, I can’t help thinking about it.

    The beach at Cates used to be pretty sweet. It was never that crowded or anything, and the only people who went there were potheaded hippies and a few grimy beachcombers. But over the last few years it’s suddenly become the place to be, and all these treats have started turning up. I don’t even know where they come from. Probably Sentinel or Handsworth or one of the other shitty schools in West Van. It’s getting almost as bad as Kits Beach. The girls just lie there, oiled up with suntan lotion and trying to look like models. The guys are even worse. They’ve all got waxed chests, stiff limbs, and orange skin from popping too many tanning pills. They kind of look like department store mannequins, actually. The only difference is that mannequins can’t move. These guys are always moving. They prance around the beach, hucking frisbees and smacking volleyballs and laughing these super fake laughs. I don’t know why they drive halfway across the North Shore to show off at our beach, but watching them isn’t exactly an enjoyable experience. It wasn’t for Chris, anyways.
    Julian saw things a bit differently.
    â€˜What do you think, guys? Want to toss the frisbee?’
    He started bringing this beach bag to Cates, filled with power bars and bottled water and at least four kinds of sunscreen. He even carried a frisbee in there, hoping that one day Chris and I would change our minds and play with him. Or maybe he secretly wanted somebody else to ask him. Maybe he was planning on becoming a mannequin all along.
    I said, ‘I don’t think so, man.’
    â€˜Come on.’
    â€˜Fuck off, Jules.’
    Chris hated frisbee. He harsh sucked at it, too. He threw like a girl, with this very limp wrist. That’s because he never played. You