The drummer boy was the terror of Monkshood Drive. Us kids called him Red because Frederick sounded old, Fred wasn’t cool enough, and Freddy—despite being a serial killer—rhymed with teddy. When he wasn’t around, though, I called him the drummer boy. Partly because he had hard tight fists like the tip of a drumstick. And partly because I thought his real name might have the power to summon him or something.
There were seven other kids in the neighborhood, but the drummer boy was the boss. He was pale and lanky with black hair that hung in his face, and he passed out threats like a kidnapper with candy. I was the only Chinese kid in the neighborhood, and the butt of his favorite joke. Say he had a new pair of shoes. He’d strut outside, elbow the other kids, and throw his arm around my shoulder.
“Hey, guys?” he’d shout. “Guess what my shoes and Ralphie have in common? They’re both made in China!”
He was even mean to Mr. Pan, the Vietnamese guy with a peach tree in his backyard, who let us get peaches whenever we wanted. One day, we were stuffed in Mr. Pan’s backyard, high on vacation energy and the knowledge that we’d start middle school in the fall. I was on the edge of the yard, pressed against the peeling white picket fence, while the drummer boy and two other kids clustered around the tree. The drummer boy had a new pocketknife, shiny and blue with his name on it, and I saw him take the knife and start carving “Red” into the tree. He was halfway through when Mr. Pan came out.
“Frederick!” he exclaimed. “Stop that!”
The drummer boy stopped, jerking his hair out of his eyes. The kids around him backed away, and I would’ve too if I hadn’t already been back against the fence.
Mr. Pan looked around at all of us. “You probably don’t know, but cutting a tree is just as bad as cutting someone’s skin. The tree gets its nutrients through the bark. You carve it up, you block those nutrients, you let in disease. Understand?”
He said it in a friendly way, but as soon as he left, the drummer boy glanced around and jabbed his knife into the trunk. I gasped—I couldn’t help it. Of course, the drummer boy heard. He shut the knife, dropped it in his pocket, and looked around. He wasn’t very big, maybe two inches taller than I was, but I felt like I was facing a giant.
“Who made that noise?” he asked. “No one’s going to squeal, are you?” He looked straight at me, patting his pocket. “Whoever squeals, I’ll pin your foot right where you’re standing.”
My hands clenched into fists, and in my head I yelled all sorts of things: it wasn’t right to cut the tree, I didn’t care what he said, I’d tell Mr. Pan anyway. In real life, I shuffled behind Avery, the tallest kid in the group, and said as little as possible as we left to play four square. Ten minutes later, twenty minutes, thirty, my head still buzzed from guilt and wouldn’t stop no matter how hard I hit the ball. When Mr. Pan drove by, I couldn’t even look at him.
But all the drummer boy cared about was the crappy ball we were using.
“It hardly bounces,” he complained, kicking it against the wheel of Avery’s sister’s car. “My brother just got a new basketball. I’ll see if he’ll let us play with it.” And he went running up the street. “You can keep playing,” he yelled over his shoulder. “I’ll be back!”
We kept playing, and when the drummer boy didn’t come back we assumed his mom had chores for him or something. But we took a break, and I started thinking about it. The drummer boy had run the wrong way. He didn’t live up the street.
But Mr. Pan did.
My stomach flipped like I was on the Mega Drop at the county fair.
I told the other kids I’d be back too, then ran as fast as I could to Mr. Pan’s house. The gate to the backyard hung slightly open, just enough so I couldn’t see the other side.
My hands started shaking, and I had trouble swallowing. I stood there for at least two minutes before I made myself step through the gate.
The drummer boy stood in the backyard with his back facing me, carefully carving the side of the tree. There were patches where the bark had been sliced away, and carved words that I’d seen in the bathroom stall at school. My eyes and mouth were so wide, I probably looked like a goldfish. That’s when the drummer boy looked back.
“Hey, Ralphie,” he said with this sharklike grin. “I’m doing a little decorating, wanna see?”
My mind boiled, I was so mad—at him, and at myself. In my head, I’d roar, “Stop!”, and the drummer boy would drop to his knees like he was made of playdough.
“You—you—cut Mr. Pan’s tree!” I choked.
“Yeah,” the drummer boy said, flipping hair out of his face. “Isn’t it nice?”
His voice, so rotten-sweet, made me see red. I swallowed hard, hiked up my shoulders, and tried to speak louder. “You shouldn’t do that.”
The drummer boy kept staring with that jack-o’-lantern smile. “Why not?”
Because it’s not your tree! inner me screamed. Because Mr. Pan said not to! Because you shouldn’t be writing the f-word on things!
“It—it’s not good for it,” I said, balling my hands into fists. “You heard Mr. Pan.”
“Oh, yeah,” the drummer boy sneered, dragging the blade across the trunk. It left a thin, jagged line. “I think I’ve decorated enough, though. Don’t want to hurt the blade, you know?” He flicked the knife shut and peered at the branches, heavy with peaches like Christmas ornaments.
“Just leave it alone,” I said, whispering like I had a bad cold.
The drummer boy stuck the knife in his pocket, took a handful of branch and leaf, and pulled. The branch sprang back, leaves tearing away in his hand with little bits still on the branch. Two peaches thumped to the ground and split. I stood there, frozen outside, red-hot inside, while the drummer boy grabbed the trunk, and shook it. Peaches fell and burst like sweet-smelling bombs. The drummer boy tore out another handful of leaves and looked at me again.
“You’re going to squeal, aren’t you?” he said, flipping back his hair. “You know what you have in common with a dog toy? You’re made in China, you squeal, and you can be popped. That’s what I’ll do if you squeal, Ralphie.” He pulled out his knife.
My stomach knotted, and my head pounded. I wanted to stop him, and I wanted him to stop so I wouldn’t have to stop him, and the graffitied tree made my eyes sting.
“I don’t care,” I whispered.
The drummer boy stared at me, flicking the knife blade in and out. “What did you say?”
“I don’t care,” I said, clearing my throat. “You’re probably going to kill me anyway. I don’t care.”
The drummer boy took a step forward, hesitated, took another step, glanced down at his knife. That was it, I decided. Before he could take another step, I charged forward and slammed straight into him. He went down hard with me on top. We lay there for several seconds, staring at each other.
“I can’t believe you did that!” he said, sounding as awed as if it were Christmas morning. Then his hand, wrapped in a fist around the knife, was flying at my face. My hands sprang up to block it, and I grabbed his hand, pried at his fingers, tore the knife out of his grip.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he grunted, and shoved me off. I fell back in the grass, landing with a squelch on a peach, and rolled over quick, scrambling to my feet. That left me with my back to him—I couldn’t see if he was up or not, and I didn’t care. I dashed for the gate, clutching the knife.
“That’s not yours, Ralphie!” he shouted behind me.
I looked back in spite of myself. We were less than a foot away from the gate. My feet pounded toward freedom. But he pounded along after me, close enough to touch. He reached out, fingers pinching my shoulder.
I slammed my elbow back, hard, and hit something sharp.
The drummer boy howled like a dog.
I stopped in my tracks, right at the gate, and whirled around. The drummer boy stood there, shoulders heaving, hands clamped over his mouth. His hair hung like a black curtain over his eyes. Slowly, he pulled his hands away from his mouth. Blood pooled and beaded on his top lip, dripping down his chin.
“Ah,” he gasped, voice trembling. “Ah!”
The world went a little wavery with shock. This was the first time I’d ever seen the drummer boy be hit. And I was definitely about to die.
Except the drummer boy just stood there, holding his mouth.
I took a step backward through the gate. He didn’t follow. I took another step, then turned and ran pell-mell and didn’t look back until I reached the sidewalk. He still wasn’t there.
“Bye, Fred,” I whispered, my legs shaking so bad I thought I might fall. Nothing happened. I uncurled my fingers and stared at the knife, then dropped it in the storm drain by the sidewalk.
“Bye, Fred,” I said again, louder, and I made myself walk away without looking back. A plastic water bottle stood upright on the sidewalk, empty and missing a lid, but still relatively in shape.
I squished it flat.
Cover art by Levi Matthews
Connect on Instagram @levimatthews.artist or on his website, LeviMatthewsArtist.com.
Ah this story is so good, Sarah! Felt like I was there.
Such a great story Sarah!