Tiny Firecrackers

2025:

The instant Atreus walked through the front door, Kiki knew there was something wrong with his grandson. The black Spider-Man sweater Atreus wore, hung so loose, it appeared to be hanging on a department store’s clothing rack rather than on his petite shoulders.

“What’s wrong, Champ?” Kiki inquired.

“I’m fine…”

“Oh, don’t give me that, A-tray. I can tell there’s something wrong. What is it? A bully?”

With his sagging eyes, Atreus answered with affirmation.

“Who is it?”

“This boy, Darwin, he keeps taking my lunch. He messes with me and my friends. On Monday, he tripped Corey and yesterday, he chased Jared to give him a wedgie. I don’t wanna be next. He’s big and all but I gotta do something about it.”

“What are you thinking about doing?”

“I don’t know, Grandpa. I mean, even though I’m scared of him, I think if I kick him in the privates…”

“Look, A-tray, you can’t always solve your problems with your fists.”

“Then what should I do?”

“Talk to a teacher…”

“But…”

“Or the counselor…”

“But I don’t wanna be a rat.”

Oldman Kiki looked at his grandson and chuckled.

“You’re not being a rat. You’re being smart. You’re being the big man.”

“But I don’t get it, Grandpa. Weren’t there bullies at your school?”

“Are you kidding me, Champ? Of course there were bullies at my school.”

“And how did you deal with them?”

“I did what I told you to do. I told the teacher.”

“And you never got in a fight?”

“Nope. I was smarter than that. Fighting will only get you in trouble.”

With moistened reminiscing eyes, Kiki made the woeful observation of how his grandson’s thin frame could indeed make him a school bully’s target in the same manner he’d been forty years ago.

He’d advised Atreus to take the high road and be the big man by talking to a teacher, but…would that really put a stop to Darwin’s tyrannical ways? Forty years ago, that would’ve just made him the biggest snitch in the school. And snitches got stitches, right? What Darwin needed was that swift kick in the nuts Atreus had in store for him. It’d certainly be more satisfying.

“Champ…”

“Yes, Grandpa?”

“Maybe you should…”

Plus, it’d also send a message to other bullies: CHERISH YOUR TESTICLES.

“Should what?”

“Maybe you should consider…” Oldman Kiki closed his eyes. What the heck was he doing? Endorsing violence to his grandson? What if he got in trouble? Suspended from school? Or worse, what if Atreus got hurt? He shook his head. “You should consider talking to the principal. Maybe she can bring you boys together. Who knows, maybe you’ll end up becoming friends.”

“But I don’t want to be his friend…”

“Look, Atreus, fighting is for losers. And you’re no loser, now…are you ?”

Silence.

“Look at me, Champ. Are you a loser?”

“No, Grandpa…”

“Good!”

1985 (40 years earlier):

“You didn’t think I had fists,” twelve-year-old-Kiki told Ryan as he pummeled Ryan’s mutating face from his mounted position. Half their junior high school surrounded the performance taking place at Kennedy Park. “I hope you learned a lesson.” Pummel. “Never underestimate…” Pummel. “…someone smaller…” Pummel. “…shorter…” Pummel. “…skinnier…” Pummel. “…than you.” The order on Ryan’s face changed with every strike. One eye shifted upwards slightly. Strike. The bottom lip spread the joys of red confetti all over. Strike. The other eye began to hide under an enlarging brow. Strike. Volcanic lumps rose from a once flat topography. Strike. And Ryan’s face, a long lost Picasso painting now recently discovered. A final strike.

Kiki rose and stood before the eyes of half the school. He found the T he’d discarded twenty feet away, slipped into it, grabbed his backpack he’d tossed by the concrete table under the pavilion and hung it on his back where it looked to be hanging on a department store’s backpack rack rather than on his scrawny shoulders.

“Let’s go,” he said to his best friends, Ben and Mikey.

Ryan remained sitting on the grass patch. His nose, an open faucet of blood. His lips, a pair of torn and deflated rafts. His left eye peeked from within the crater of a purple volcano. The lumps that sprouted all over his face exhibited bipolar mood swings. And a crazed hamster ran marathons in the miniature wheel inside his head.

What had happened? The little twerp had sprung out like a spring-loaded boxing glove in a box and…POW…had humiliated him before his schoolmates. He couldn’t let him get away with that, now could he? Of course not, BUT…deep inside his gut, a subtle fear crescendoed.

Kiki, Ben and Mikey paralleled the wash that separated Kennedy Park from Marshall Middle School and took Glen Avenue to Orange Grove Street like they did every day. What were the eyes of half the school just minutes ago, dispersed into small groups of students and went their separate ways. And a forgotten Ryan pondered on the valuable lesson he’d just learned: even the tiniest of firecrackers can take a finger or two when popped.

Bio: J. Marquez Jr. has never been interviewed before. However, if he’s ever interviewed, he will be happy to divulge that he likes Pink Floyd. One can find some of his riffraff on recent issues of The Literary Hatchet, The Yard: Crime Blog and/or at The Literary Garage. He sends his regards from Los Angeles with love.