For Billy and me, our special game was always going wild.
I can’t remember when we started — it must have been when we were around nine. From the sure way Billy spoke when he started listing off rules, I knew he’d been thinking about it for awhile, but he pretended they were just coming to him out of nowhere.
“The first rule is, nobody else can play,” he said, and I remember feeling so special, being the only one Billy chose to let into his new world.
The other rules were as simple as the first. We had to strip off our real-people clothes and wear wildling clothes, which for me came to mean mud-drenched shorts and a dirty tank top. Billy went sparser; he fashioned himself a loincloth out of an old towel, which he latched at his hips with a rubber band.
We also had to speak to each other in weird, grunting sounds, as if we didn’t know English. I was worried we’d never get anything done this way, but it turned out pretty easy to understand each other through our grunts and pointing.
Another rule was that we could never, ever talk to anyone else while we were playing the game. Even if our own parents walked by screaming our names, we had to ignore them and peek through the brush like we thought they wanted us dead. Billy’s parents never really came looking for him, so he didn’t have to worry about that rule, but mine did once or twice.
The last rule was that the game kept going until Billy said it was over. He usually let it go on for a few hours and then called it quits, but one time, the last time, he wouldn’t end it even after the sun had disappeared under the hillside.
We’d been fighting that week — all summer, actually — but particularly that week. Caitlyn S. from our class had her twelfth birthday the Saturday before, and I went to her house instead of going to the woods with Billy. So the situation was bad to begin with, and then Mrs. Clark wasn’t there to hand out watermelons to the neighborhood kids like usual.
The watermelons were as much a part of our game as the grunting. We always ate the slices and spat out the seeds and ran, juice drying sticky on our faces in the sun, down to the woods.
“Do you think she stopped?” Billy said, picking up a rock and flinging it farther down the dirt road.
“Handing out the watermelon?” I asked. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s out of town.”
“Yeah, right. She’s so fat, I don’t even know how she leaves her house. How could she get on a plane?”
I always enjoyed Mrs. Clark’s watermelons and her sunny smile, and I didn’t find her fat at all — plush, maybe, like she’d be good for hugging — but I kept quiet. Billy hated being corrected, and I didn’t feel like making the weirdness between us worse.
“Did you hear me, Cindy?” he asked, angling his eyes toward me. I realized today was one of those days he wanted extra support.
“Maybe she drove,” I said, tapping my walking stick on the ground. I fashioned the stick myself a long time ago, on one of our first going-wild trips.
“Yeah right she drove. Have you seen her car? It barely runs. It’s gonna die any day now.”
“It looks alright to me.”
“Because you know so much about cars,” he said. Then he looked sideways at me, and I knew I was in for it for not agreeing with him. His eyes settled on my stick. I had carved crude patterns into the top and tapered the bottom out to a point, trying to recreate the one my granddad took with him all over until he died. “How about that stick? Does that look alright to you?”
Before I could answer, Billy grabbed the stick around the middle and tugged it out of my hands. I knew I could easily make another, but watching Billy yank it up over his head made me desperate to get it back, like it was the most important thing in the whole world.
“You give it here right now!” I shouted, chest heaving.
He lowered it a little, holding the tip directly over my head, but then he raised it again as I hopped up on my tiptoes to grab it. Furious tears welled up in my eyes.
“You’re such a baby,” he taunted, his common insult. Billy never cried, but I cried a lot, usually because of situations like these.
I don’t know what made me do it — I’d never done it before. But I was so mad, and this was also the third time this week he’d called me a baby, and I was so tired of always having to go along with whatever he said. So I just pulled my elbow back and knocked it straight into his belly. He choked on his laughter and doubled over, and the stick finally came back into my reach. I grabbed it, yanked it free of him — but now he was straightening up again, his face hot and furious. I was in for it.
“Billy…” I started, but didn’t say anything else, because he looked like a charging bull and anything I said would just wave a bright red flag in front of his face.
I braced myself for impact, for him to rear back and lunge forward, but nothing happened. He just turned down the path again and kept walking, kicking the stones under his feet.
“Come on,” he said, voice bubbling like hot water. “I want to play.”
•••
We got to the woods just when the sun was at its highest and hottest, and I couldn’t wait to get into the shade. Not that the woods were all that thick, to be honest. Just maybe half an acre of pine trees, which grew in these neat little lines so that there were paths darting all through. The only time we ever really had trouble was when a tree would rot and fall, its branches turning into spikes too dangerous to crawl over.
Billy had our wildling clothes in his bag, and he pulled them out and passed them to me.
“You should go behind the trees or something,” I said, pointing to a little group of pines about ten feet from us.
He looked at me, towel in hand. “Why?”
At Caitlyn’s pool party, the girls and boys had gone to completely different rooms to change. The girls acted like this was a really big deal, checking the door and the windows to make sure no boys were peeking. Apparently boys always tried to peek.
“It just seems… better,” I said, shrugging.
I waited, but he didn’t turn and walk behind the group of trees. He just tugged up his shirt and grabbed at the waistband of his pants, and I whipped around to avoid seeing anything.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
“Changing. You better hurry. I’m not waiting for you.”
Furious but unwilling to give in, I jerked my shirt over my head and pulled the dirty tank top down. I left my black shorts on, figuring I would just face my mom’s anger later for getting them dirty. When I turned around, I could tell by Billy’s expression that I half lost, but he didn’t say anything else.
I held my hands out for the shoes I was supposed to wear — thin sandals that Billy deemed appropriate for going wild. He dug through his bag, but his hands came back empty.
“I must have dropped them,” he said, his face blank as a peeled potato.
“You did not.”
“I bet real wildlings don’t even wear shoes,” he said. “Look, I’ll go without them too. See?” He picked up his sandals and stuck them back into his bag.
This was a test. I could put my real-people clothes and sneakers back on and walk home, and my mom would fix me some lunch and maybe talk to me about Caitlyn’s party and how school would be starting soon. But then Billy would gloat forever, and I’d never backed down from any challenge before. I didn’t want to start now.
“Fine,” I said, digging my toes into the dirt. “Let’s go.”
•••
The pine needles were really bristly and rough under my bare feet, making me even more lax in our game than usual. I used to be really into it when we were younger, but lately I was content to lie in the grey sand and stare up at the tops of the trees. Billy was really active today, darting around to collect sticks and shoot imaginary deer.
He came back from hunting after awhile, his neck heavy with the pretend deer. He waved his hands up and down in our symbol for fire.
I stood up, actually excited about this part. The fire had always been my favorite, and it was my special responsibility. Billy caught the deer, and I built the pretend fire to roast it.
I collected up branches and pine needles into a pile and struck two stones together. Billy watched me with somber eyes, shucking the deer off his back and settling it on the flames. Then he lined up facing me over the fire.
We stared at each other, and I could see the picture we created — the one Billy had in his head. The heat of the fire, the yellow-orange flame, the smell of deerskin mingling with the bitter taste of black smoke. I saw us as he did, separate from the rest of the world and self-reliant, needing nothing and nobody.
Inspired by the vision, I started dancing around the fire, doing all sorts of twists and whirls. Billy just watched me for a minute, and then he started too, his dance moves more deliberate and manly than mine. We chanted in our rough tongue as we danced, accidentally pulling out the same long vowel at the same time so that our voices mixed and clashed like off-key singers.
And then my inspiration burned away. I collapsed to the ground, but Billy kept on dancing, panting and circling the mound of sticks until I thought it would actually catch fire from the fury of his movement. Finally he fell flat on his back, his limbs a loose tangle around him, his heavy breaths pushing up toward the sky.
I grunted to get his attention, but Billy didn’t look up. I grunted again, and when he still didn’t respond, I crawled over to him. His eyes had slid closed, and I thought maybe he’d worked himself out of his anger.
He finally looked up. I pointed toward home.
He shook his head and closed his eyes. I grunted again, a low, angry hiss. He made the same sound back, but it was scarier when he did it.
I wanted to go home. He knew I wanted to go home, and he was prolonging the game on purpose to punish me some more.
“Billy, come on,” I said, standing up. I didn’t care anymore about breaking the rules.
He bolted to his feet and grabbed me around the shoulders, warning me back into my part. I pushed him off and crossed my arms.
“End this game right now, or I’ll never play again,” I said.
He stomped toward me and I took as many steps back, nearly tripping over my walking stick. I saw the look in his eyes and reached for the stick, but he got there at the same time and yanked it out of my grasp. Before I could say anything, he snapped my walking stick in half and threw the two pieces into the fire.
The tears started almost on their own, like I was outside of my body and just watching its reactions. They were embarrassing; big, heavy sobs that were too extreme for the situation. But I was tired, and frustrated, and I really did like my old walking stick. Billy stalked off, away from the fire and farther into the woods, in the opposite direction of home.
My cries hiccupped to a stop as I watched Billy’s figure retreat into the piney brush. Usually I would have followed him; we never separated while we were going wild. He didn’t say this, but I knew Billy always thought of me as his wildling wife, or his sister or his mother — always his family.
I got up and wiped my face, and then I followed after Billy. I found him in front of a fallen pine tree, its thick trunk rotting and crawling with all kinds of bugs. He was hunched over it, studying a line of fire ants.
I almost said his name, and then I stopped and grunted instead. He looked over his shoulder at me, and then he looked back at the fallen tree. As I watched, he took four big steps backwards and started running full-speed toward the downed tree. I shouted out but Billy sailed over it, legs tucked up under him and arms wrapped around his legs like he was doing a cannonball.
Somehow, he managed to land on his feet on the other side. He hooted and hollered, sounds I didn’t think were exactly in line with going wild, but I didn’t say anything. I even clapped.
He looked back at me and crooked his finger in another non-wild gesture. I started walking around the tree, but he gave a loud grunt, and I stopped and circled back. He curled his finger at me again.
He wanted me to jump over it. I crossed my arms over my chest again and shook my head. He pointed toward home and then turned his back on me. I imagined going back alone, rubbing my own arms to chase away the chill that always fell once the sun disappeared, even in the summer. Sometimes, on walks home when I shivered so hard my teeth rattled around in my mouth, Billy would put his arm around me or let me ride piggyback on his shoulders so I could pick up some of his heat.
I stared at his bare back, which was pale and dotted with new acne and old acne scars. His neck was a long, stretched column of resolve — he had no intention of caving. I either did this, or I walked home alone. And not just tonight, but every afternoon during the new school year.
I looked at the rotting tree again. Its bristles had turned brown and crunchy, and most of the branches had fallen off around it. One was still attached, and it reached straight up toward the sky like the tree’s last, desperate attempt at sunlight and life.
I backed up four steps and took a deep breath. Then I ran at the branches, keeping my eyes on Billy’s turned back. I tucked up my feet and leapt like Billy had done, but one of my feet didn’t get all the way up — pain exploded through the arch of my foot, and I was already screaming by the time I landed in a heap on the other side.
For some reason, even though the pain was real and right up close to me, I didn’t cry. I just made these weird, mewling sounds, like our cat the time she had kittens. I didn’t see Billy move, but suddenly he was right there.
“Cindy!” he said, and the panic in his voice only made me mewl louder. “Let me see!”
I uncurled my foot from the cradle of my hands, and there, running from the ball of my foot to my heel, was a long gash. I must have caught the branch on the way over.
“It hurts,” I panted, covering it up again. There was blood all over my hands, and it was also dripping into the grey sand. “It hurts so bad, Billy!”
“Come on,” he said, and tucked one arm under my knees and braced the other against my shoulders to pick me up. Now I really felt like a baby, especially since he was actually rocking me a little. “I’ll get you home.”
•••
The woods were half a mile from my house, maybe more, and Billy carried me the whole way. The tears finally started coming down my face, but they were a calm trickle. Billy had wrapped his real-people shirt around my foot, and since I wasn’t putting any pressure on it, the pain started to fade.
Halfway home, Billy’s chest started going all crazy, jerking up and down, and for a second I thought he was laughing. I was so angry I wanted to poke out his eyeballs — but then I looked at him, and I realized he was crying. He wasn’t graceful about it; the tears came out of his eyes like punches and his face went a bright, hot red.
That was my chance to do it — to call him “baby” and get back at him for all those times he was mean to me. I opened my mouth, but instead of saying anything nasty, I said, “It’s okay, Billy. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
He didn’t say anything for awhile, probably because his sobs would bust up his words and make it even more obvious he was crying. Finally he asked, “Will we play again next week?”
“Maybe,” I said, but I knew we wouldn’t. From the look on Billy’s face and the way a few more tears popped out of his eyes, I knew he did too.
We stayed silent as he carried me the rest of the way home.
This article appears in Dec 19-25, 2013.