I. Any Way You Want It
Someone once asked me if I ever dreamed of going back in time to my youth to change things. While some would say to go for winning lottery tickets, invest in Apple Computer or become a successful writer by writing a story about a lovesick Vampire and the human he falls in love. No, none of that would feel right. I’d go back to fix one thing: stop the death of someone I called my friend from ever happening. She was found dead in a stony field: amongst weed flowers and wild grass. She didn’t have to die. I only wished I could have tried to stop it.

I would have loved to own a DeLorean, even if it’s only remembered today as a movie prop for a certain time-travel movie series. I could drive in style, and with gull-wing doors to boot…but, no, I had a VW bug that was handed down to me from my dad. In the winter you’d freeze and in the rummer you’d fry, no radio, barely any floorboard on the passenger side, and it was a terrible shade of baby blue. Dad said it was a classic, which it was, twenty years prior, but in 1983 it was long in the tooth. It did allow me to get from point A to point B and if I didn’t want to drive it then I could take the bus or walk to school. I gladly took the keys as the bus ride was extreme torture and walking would take most of the day. I’d fix if up one day and put in a radio, speakers and maybe some gull-wing doors.

I would always try to get a parking space near the exit, so that I could drive out as soon as school ended to avoid having to sit in the southern heat. Arriving early allowed me to check over any homework I failed to look at the night before, which was usually all of it. I never fretted about it. I was a bookworm and had an excellent memory for school related subjects. Social subjects, well, not so much, and I usually ate alone in the lunchroom. More by choice. I preferred to be myself and not a part of any cliques, categories, or stereotypes. When you’re young, it’s like a rite of passage; where do you fit in? Which group defines you out of all the others? I never played sports, didn’t play an instrument, never touched a cigarette, and I didn’t fit in with the Fellowship of Christian Students due to a little but of hypocrisy a few of their members had.

Tuesday at noon, I once again at the lunch table in the back of the room. A location I was never bothered, molested or belittled. I had survived the gauntlet of the members of the football and basketball teams who’d go to every table and ransom your food in exchange for leaving you alone. I usually finished eating before they would come by, but on that day, I still had a container of French fries left on my tray.

“Are you going to eat that, Robison?” One of the larger football players, Mick, asked.
“No, feel free to take it. They’re a little oily.” I put my book down and pushed the tray towards Mick and his three wingmen. Of course, he didn’t want my fries. He just wanted to antagonize me. I waited for him to pick the container of fries and dump them over my head. Maybe I should have looked worried to satisfy his ego, but I just returned to reading my book.
There was a slight creaking of the bench as the three of them sat, with Mick to my right and the other two guys on the other side of the table.
“I need a favor from you.” Mick states as he took a fry and are it.
“Such as?”
“You know our English essay on “The Hobbit?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to write mine for me.”
“That’s cheating,” I replied. Mick was a great ball player, but he was a terrible student who felt the rules never applied to him. He violated the athletic code almost every week and his grades were usually pitiful, but there he was, playing in each game because the school wanted to win. He got away with it until our new English teacher arrived and threw down the gauntlet and would fail Mick in a heartbeat if he didn’t write the essay. “No, I don’t think I’ll do that.”
“Is that your final answer? It would be horrible if that little car of yours just upped and disappeared. You know?”
“You don’t want me to write your essay. Mrs. J. would never believe you wrote it.”
“I’ll just crib it enough to get a B. You don’t need to give me a Harvard thesis. Think it over. Let me know if I have to squash a bug.”

Mick’s expression was deadpan serious, and then it moved into a grin that would make The Grinch or The Joker crawl back in fear. I had a bit of fear, but I refused to show it. My fear was that he would do something with my car and there would be little I could do about it. I could find it in the gym or on top of the building or just flat out missing. I debated sitting in my car for the rest of the day or going home to avoid the situation.

But it would be the same thing the next day, and the next day. It was like dealing with terrorists and my high school did not have a Geneva code to stop Mick from doing whatever he wanted to my car. Yes, I felt afraid because I didn’t have a job to make any additional money to buy anything else if Mick decided to trash it. I couldn’t go to the principal as nothing would happen until something to me and by then it would be too late. I almost nodded to Mick, that I’d write the damn paper, but he would just pile on everything else.

“This guy bothering you?” A voice said from behind me.
The five of us turned to see a dark-skinned girl with red hair.
“You new here?” Mick asked. “Haven’t noticed you. And baby, you stick out.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” she replied as she threw her hair back behind her white sweater. “Is he bothering you?” She asked me again.
“You need to mind your own business.” Mick replied,
“You’ve made it my business,” the girl said with a wide smile as she grabbed my hand and pulled me out of my seat so fast, I thought I’d get whiplash as the lunchroom swirled around.
Mick moved his arms and threw a fake punch, but the girl didn’t flinch.
“Tough girl,” one of the wingmen, Lawrence, whistled.
“I don’t have a problem with hitting anyone. I’d prefer not to, but I’ll toss you across this table if you don’t get out of my way.”
“Try me,” the girl said with no emotion.
We had the attention of the entire lunchroom. Mick stared long and hard, at least longer than he ever had with any guy he tried to throw down. It was like there was something in his head that wondered if he really wanted to go down the road of hitting the new girl and then stealing my car.
“You’re going to leave Greg alone.”
“And if I refuse, what are you going to do about it?”
“Any way you want it, Michael.”
And with that, Mick’s hands moved to push her, but the girl sidestepped and kicked him to the floor. The sound echoed through the room as Mick’s chest struck against the lunchroom bench chair with a sharp thud.
The girl moved back in front of me.
“You good?”
“Yes.”
“How about you three?” She glanced at the other guys, who backed off.
“I hate bullies.”
I only nodded.
“This is a record for me. Gettin’ in a fight on the first day of school. I usually try to wait a week, but, when I see 'em, just gotta knock them down a level or two.”
Several teachers gathered around us. They all looked at the groaning Mick and then at the new girl and me.
“Are you okay, Michael?” A teacher bent down next to Mick as he hoisted his body up and off the floor.
“It’s Mick,” replied with a scoff.
“We’re all going to the principal and go over this incident.”
“Sounds fair,” the girl said with a nod.
“What is your name?”
“Anna. Anna Joel.”