"Snowball fight!"
The cry echoes across the barren wasteland. The powers that be refer to this god-forsaken taste of hell as the "Oakdale Elementary School Sports Field". My battalion and I know it as the Oakdale Battle Grounds, as it becomes called once the first snow falls. Rather, the first packing snow. When it's the kind of snowflakes that don't stick together there's not a whole lot you can do.
A sudden gust of cold stinging air whips mockingly across my cheeks, shaking me out of my nostalgic reminiscing of the days before the war. I need to focus. My troops and I are cut off from the home base. What had started as a reconnaissance mission to scout out the weaknesses in the enemy's fort had crumbled - like a snowball made with the wrong kind of snow - into a desperate scramble for survival. From the safety of their fort, the barbaric second graders hurl their supply of snowballs upon my regiment. We trip over ourselves trying to avoid the onslaught while hurling back hastily made snowballs of our own, along with a few hastily made insults to boot.
"Your fort sucks!" I roar proudly in defiance as I let loose with a snowball that I had hoped would connect with their general's face. It collides with the ground some three feet away from their fort, causing me to curse the sudden gust of wind that must have diverted the true course of my projectile. Another snowball connects with my chest, exploding against the puffy, navy blue protection that keeps me from succumbing to the bleak cold stillness of death. A shrapnel speck of snow from the ball hurtles into my eye, sending me reeling backwards until I lose balance and fall.
As I look up into the pitiless sky with my one good eye, I hear the cries of my battalion as they too suffer from the barrage from which we have no cover. I try blinking the snow chunk out of my eye. Though it falls out easily, the shock of the blast has forced the eyeball to water up.
"No," I mutter, gritting my teeth. No tears today. Tears were what made you a puny grunt, the kid who just makes snowballs for everyone else behind the safety of the fort wall without ever getting to throw any of his own. Tears were what kept you from earning the respect of your comrades. Do you think I came to be where I am today by weeping?! I have suffered through nine winters in my life and the only reason my men follow my voice is because I am the fourth-tallest in my class and because no snowball is going to make Brian J. Adamson cry.
With a roar of anger, I sit upright, a handful of snow in each of my light blue mittened hands. There was no time to sculpt. Now was the time for action. I hurl the poorly made projectiles one at a time, and though the first one breaks apart before even landing, the normally indifferent snow gods take pity on me and keep the second together until it smashes unapologetically into Sam Tompkins' face.
"Retreat!" I yell, stumbling to my feet as Sam drops the ball he was holding and begins to let out a cry of anguish. I can see it in his blushed-red face as the specks of snow slide down his cheeks. We're all going to die if we stay here. The tears begin flowing, and his cry turns into a blurting wail, the kind that will attract the powers that be. Once that happens, we had better be worlds away.
The second graders in the fort drop their snowballs as well, understanding immediately the gravity of the situation. A quiet crier is easily smothered. They can be coaxed into silence, or simply drowned out until the crying secedes. But the wailers...there is no silencing a wailer. No, the agonizing cry of a wailer rings out across the battlefield, its thirst to be heard only slaked by one pair of ears.
The recess monitor. I've heard in some schools these sentinels are teachers, but we have it slightly easier at Oakdale. The powers that be refer to him as Mr. Scotsmith, but we know him by a more apt title, Scrapes. Scrapes is a five feet tall walking moustache - short for a grown up boy. We call him Scrapes because his voice sounds like the bottom of your sneakers being scraped across the pavement. Mom says he talks like that because he smokes, but the fifth graders say it's because one time he got locked in the school over Christmas break and had to eat a rat to survive. No one's ever dared ask him.
My battalion arrives at our fort, guarded by two third graders we left behind and a handful of first grade girls who wanted to play. They're useless for combat, but are invaluable in strengthening the fort walls. Further, their screams carry across the entire field if intruders come their way.
"Saw the whole thing," Tom says as he places another snowball into the reserve. "They really got you, huh?" I have no interest in being debriefed. We have a bigger problem on our hands.
"Scrapes is coming," I say, and Tom's eyes go wide. We both look over the fort wall and see Sam still wailing from his fort across the field. Near the school's side door stands Scrapes, his neon vest a powerful symbol of authority. True, Scrapes is at the bottom of the grown-ups hierarchy, but even a ladder's bottom rung is connected to its highest by the frame. Getting in trouble with Scrapes at its worst can cost you an entire recess and make you one of the kids he keeps an eye on. If he tells a teacher...or the principal...that's another matter entirely. I've never been in the principal's office, but I heard that the reason Mrs. Saintsworth has so much tissue boxes brought into her office is because of how often she turns hardened veterans like myself into blubbering cry-babies like Sam.
"There he goes," Tom whispers. The first graders have stopped patting down the fort's walls and are now peeking over the top to watch as Scrapes marches towards the enemy fort. He's only moments away.
"He's gonna get us all in trouble," Tom says, looking over at me. "Sam's gonna snitch on you."
Though a tremor of panic runs down my spine, I suppress it. "No he won't," I deny, though I know in my heart that there's no way this will end well. And when Sam snitches, there's only one thing that will happen next. Scrapes will march over here and shut down the entire war.
If Sam realizes what he's doing, he doesn't care. Scrapes is now at the enemy fort, his hands on his hips and shouting something. Although I can't hear the words exactly I can detect the itchy rat-like texture of his words.
"I'm gonna run," I say to Tom. If Sam pins me and I'm not at our fort, there's a chance I can draw him away from spilling punishment onto my battalion. He'll come looking for me. And if I hide well enough - if he can't find me, then I've succeeded on both counts. I expect Tom to nod grimly, or to refuse and insist that we stick together, or to simply place his black gloved snow-covered hand on my shoulder and whisper "Go," but he does none of these things.
"Okay," he says lightly without looking, and goes back to making another snowball. Were I an unseasoned warrior I might take his curt response as a sign of indifference to my fate, but I know that in reality he is both preparing to act casual for Scrapes and distancing himself emotionally from me in order to spare himself pain should I be caught. I take off without another word.
Running in snow pants is a difficult feat, and stealth is practically impossible as every movement makes a violent 'shooping' sound. Behind me is Oakdale Battle Grounds. Ahead of me is the play structure. In spring, summer and fall it is the beating heart of the recess area. A center of commerce for the kids who come to trade their lunch snacks for something better. A haven of gambling for the kids with their card collections, ready to risk it all. The casual players will play anywhere in the recess area, but the ones who play for keeps stay covert under the structure's main frame, away from the eyes of Scrapes. Above all it is the place where kings are made and defeated. No great ruler of recess has ever existed without successfully climbing across the monkey bars in one try.
But here in the icy grip of winter, the play structure stands as a slippery, towering mountain. The uneducated have tried to climb it, but in the snow it only takes one slip and a bloody nose for them to wizen up. It is a frozen carcass in the winter, and while its usefulness as a 'recess nucleus' is gone, it remains a large object that I can hide behind.
I scramble around the massive metal structure, but slip on a spot of ice and collapse. My extensive winter wear absorbs most of the blow, so I quickly crawl underneath the skeletal play space. I know the spot to hide; most of the structure is riddled with intentional holes and windows. Only the rock-climbing wall is solid through and through, and I crouch into a ball behind it.
And I wait.
My breath comes out in short bursts of cold smoke, and I try to slow my heart rate. I listen for the sound of Scrapes, but some girls are playing tag nearby and their naive screams of joy make it impossible to discern my enemy's location. Part of me thinks I should take a peek around the corner of the wall and look. If Scrapes has been quelled, there's no sense wasting my recess in the shadows. On the other hand, exposing myself could prove catastrophic to my cause. If Scrapes finds me and makes me talk, I could put my entire fort in jeopardy. But I'll never talk. Never.
My curiosity wells up within me like a water balloon being filled up by a hose. I can't stand the suspense. For all I know, Scrapes is behind the wall right now. What's worse, I haven't gone to the bathroom all morning. When you're in a war zone it's easy to ignore but once you're sitting still, your bladder's voice exponentially magnifies itself.
I contemplate making a run for the school doors. If I can get inside, I can use the bathroom AND avoid Scrapes for the rest of recess. But it's risky. The path to the door is fifteen feet of open, exposed space. I'd be a sitting duck. In a moment of weakness I poke my head out to look for Scrapes.
Immediately I spot him heading right towards me, his moustache billowing in the wind like an ominous cloaked angel of death. I duck back behind the wall. Maybe he didn't see me. He probably didn't. No way he saw me. In any case, I prepare for the worst. There's no sense in running now. If he's seen me, all I can do is prepare. I lean casually against the wall and start picking icicles off of the underside of the play structure's first level above me.
"Alright, come on out, Brian," the angel of death beckons icily from behind the wall. My heart freezes solid but I slowly move to my feet. If this is to be my end, I would have it be an end worthy of legend. I step out into daylight and face Scrapes. I do not look him in the eyes. Partly because the sun is directly behind him and it would hurt, but also because the sheer force of his presence numbs me and keeps me rigid.
"Did you hit Sam in the face with a snowball?" he asks. I feel like a martyr standing before a court of accusers. But I know grownups. If there's one thing you can count on them for, it's that they never know the entire story.
"He hit me first and it got me in the eye," I say, though the boldness of my heart dies before it reaches my voice. Now Scrapes knows the truth. And if I'm going down, Sam Tompkins and his screeching whiny voice is coming with me.
"I didn't ask what he did," Scrapes says sternly. "I asked what you did." My rock-solid wall of defense shatters before my eyes like the window Sally broke playing baseball last summer. My mind works furiously. I need an alibi. I need an escape route. Anything.
"Can I go to the bathroom?" I ask innocently.
"Let's answer the question first," Scrapes says, folding his arms.
"I really have to go."
"Then answer the question." He's like a mountain. I can't shake him.
"Well I threw the snowball but I didn't mean to hit him but he moved into it," I say. There. Now the guilt is once more removed from me. I'm a free man. I can see the judge bang his gavel as my peers usher me out of the courtroom, cheering in victory.
"So you threw a snowball and it accidentally hit Sam," Scrapes says. I've won. I've twisted his puny mind.
"Yeah and he was throwing snowballs first anyway," I add to rub salt in the wound.
"Did you apologize for accidentally hurting him?" He asks. My eyes widen. No. I can't be beaten. I was so careful. Every logical hole in my argument I had covered. How could I have forgotten the staple weapon of the grownups?
An apology is really a formality. In a conflict out here, an apology forced by Scrapes is nothing more than a public political means of getting the grownups off your back while you plan your next move. But the public nature of the apology is the most humiliating factor. All the kids - even the second graders - know that Sam was taking it too far. Lots of kids got hit in the face with snowballs. It's a risk we all take in this bloody war of ours. If I were to apologize to Sam - even just to satiate Scrapes' nonsensical craving for imagined order - the whole school would know that I bowed to the tear-fuelled ravings of someone like Sam. That I submitted to an inferior. That beneath all the honour and pride that I carried as a third grader, really I was no better than the first grade girls who made snow angels instead of defending liberty. I'd rather spit on my own fort. I'd rather serve detention. At least with detention your spirit remains intact. You serve your sentence, nothing more.
"Well?" Scrapes asks. I've run out of time.
"No," I say, my head drooping. I've been defeated.
"If somebody hurt you accidentally, wouldn't you want them to apologize?"
"Yes."
"Well then, let's go apologize to Sam and you two can get back to playing," Scrapes says mockingly. As if this was all a game.
The death march back to Sam's fort is as long as it is brutal. Other kids stop their games to watch me walk alongside Scrapes. I force myself to keep my head up. I must show strength. Strength demands respect and respect is power. Without power, I am nothing.
Scrapes is silent as we walk. I wonder if he was ever a child. I know that the grownups say everyone starts out as a baby, but I've seen babies and I can't imagine Scrapes ever being one.
We arrive at Sam's fort and for a moment it seems like the world has stopped. The soldiers are waiting. What happens next will determine the fate of this war.
"Alright, Sam, Brian here has something to say to you," Scrapes says. Sam looks at me with his bleary red eyes. Though his face looks distraught I can see the sinister smile within him. And in that moment, I remember what can save me. The great equalizer. Lighting up, I turn to face Scrapes.
"Sam has to say he's sorry too," I whine to him. "For hitting me with a snowball."
"No I didn't!" Sam blurts, pointing a mitten accusingly at me. There's a chance he's right. I didn't see who threw the snowball that hit my chest and bounced a speck into my eye. But it might as well have been him. And besides, it's my word against his.
I catch a glimpse of Scrapes' mouth twitch under his enormous moustache. I've gotten to him. Good.
"Yeah you did," I said to Sam. "And it hit me in the eye."
"No I didn't!" Sam insists.
"Alright, settle down," Scrapes barks with a wave of his hand. "Sam, when somebody gets hurt, we should feel bad for them, right?"
"But I didn't-"
"Answer my question!" Scrapes interrupts. I can barely keep from smiling.
"Yes," Sam says glumly.
"So maybe we should be sorry that Brian got hurt, while he's sorry that you got hurt. Does that seem fair?"
I knew what Sam wanted to say. I could see it in his eyes. But he didn't say what he wanted to say.
"Yeah," he said.
"Alright," Scrapes muttered. "Brian, apologize."
"I'm sorry for hitting you with a snowball," I lied.
"I'm sorry you got hurt," Sam lied.
"There," Scrapes said with an air of satisfaction. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
The only thing that can save you from the humiliation of an apology is by dragging one out of your enemy. If they apologize too, then it's clear that neither of you are truly sorry, and neither of you have been publicly humiliated more than the other. It's mutual assured destruction.
Scrapes says something I don't listen to and then he marches off, his boots crunching deep into the snow. I stand there triumphantly as Sam stares from his fort. No words are exchanged. Nothing needs to be said. Without so much as a smile, I turn and head back to my fort. Recess will be over soon. But there's one more recess before the end of the day. And then the war will continue.
I stop halfway to my fort and instead start dashing for the school. I really have to go to the bathroom.
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