Date: Mon, 19 May 2003 22:40:22 -0700 (PDT)
From: Phoenixboy <phoenixboy000@yahoo.com>
Subject: Martin Reinholt - Chapter Three

MARTIN REINHOLT

By Phoenixboy

CHAPTER THREE

It was not as difficult as I thought it would be to lived with this
new-found awareness of myself.  I had a job to do, and I continued to do it
to the best of my ability, regardless of how I felt about one boy.  In
reality, recognizing my attraction to Martin helped me deal with him a
little better.  As with anything, once the unknown is revealed, the fear
dissipates.

I really expected this "crush" to diminish.  I figured that it was a
passing thing.  Yes, this boy has had an unimaginable effect on me, but
surely it would wear off with time.  As the summer droned on, I kept
waiting for that feeling to go away, but it didn't.

Every morning I went through my checklist of duties, accounted for all of
the kids under my direction, and felt my heartbeat quicken when I laid eyes
on Martin Reinholt.  I know that I beamed at him any time he looked my way.
More times than not, his face would break into a big, toothy grin.  I felt
like an idiot gaping at him, but I couldn't help it.

That long, golden hair, twinkly eyes, and skinny legs shooting out of those
too short shorts were just too much for me to take, and I often had to go
in the back room just to cool down.  I wanted to just be able to go back to
my normal duties without being distracted like this.  Oh, but what a
distraction!  He made me feel good.  Just his presence was enough to lift
my spirits.  The odd thing was, I thought about him more on my off hours
when I didn't have twenty-odd other children to steal my attention.

I don't know if Martin picked up on my attraction to him, but somewhere
along the way, he became physical with me.  He thought nothing of touching
me with both of his hands on my arms and chest to get my attention,
sometimes rudely interrupting me if I was having a conversation with
someone else.  When taking a nature walk, he was always at my side,
sometimes even hanging onto my arms.  If I sat down, I often found him
squeezing into the chair with me or actually sitting on my lap.  These
actions were unprompted by me; he seemed to feel that he could do with me
whatever he wanted.  And I have to admit, I let him.

My comfort level with touching him in return increased.  It was not
uncommon for me to wrap my arm around his neck or place my hands on his
shoulder.  He was the perfect height for me to rest my elbow on top of his
head, something that he didn't exactly care for but tolerated.

I feared that some of the other kids would single Martin out as my favorite
and give him a hard time about it.  They already teased him enough about
being less masculine than the other boys.  He also had an irritating trait
of being self-righteous about certain things and he let other kids know
when he thought they were wrong; obviously, the kid did not care for this.
He was also a know-it-all and had an arrogance about him that annoyed other
people.  I thought that just added to his mystique.

"I am gonna be gone next week," Martin told me glumly one day in July.

My heart sank.  "Why?"

"I gotta go to my dad's," he said.  He was not too thrilled about this
prospect.

"You're just going to be gone a week?" I asked.  I went through withdrawals
from him over the weekends.  I didn't know how I would handle a whole week
without him.

"Yeah.  I don't want to go."

"You don't want to see your dad?"

"I do.  I just don't want to see my step-mom," Martin said.  "She's a
be-yatch."

I laughed at the hip-hop bastardization of that word.  "Martin," I scolded
softly.

"I didn't say the real word."

"Yeah, but the intention is the same."

"Well, she is!  I hate her.  And her kids."

"Oh, she has kids."  I started to understand.  Sometimes having
step-siblings can be difficult, in particular if their parent gives them
preferential treatment.

"Two of them," Martin explained.  "A boy and a girl.  They're both older
than me and they like to make my life miserable.  And my step-mom just
yells at me, like everything's my fault."

"What does your dad do about it?"

"Nothing."

"That's too bad," I said, squeezing his shoulder gently.  He looked up at
me with his golden-flecked eyes that seemed to plead with me, as if he
expected me to somehow save him from the horrid fate that awaited him.  I
could not say or do anything else, except impulsively I pulled him to me
and hugged him with one arm.  He wrapped both arms around my waist.  "It
won't be so bad," I told him.  "It'll only be a week, then you'll be back
here."

With me, I almost added.

Martin left that Friday with a sad look on his normally cheerful face.  It
was only then that I realized how much he laughed.  His laugh was hearty
and infectious, which rose above the usual din of the Youth Center and
filled the activities building with a joyous sound.  It would be sorely
missed.

Monday came and dragged on.  The entire week plodded by, but finally Friday
arrived.  Only two more days over the weekend, and then I would see my
Martin again.

"You seem in a little better mood today," Barb Gordon said to me as we were
getting rid of the last of the children.

"Huh?"

"You've been moping around here all week.  The job getting to you?"

"No, of course not."

"Don't worry about it," she said, patting my shoulder.  "Happens to us all
at some point or other.  You come into this job loving kids, you leave
wishing everyone would come out of the womb fully grown."

That made me laugh.  Barb had a way about her that made me feel good.  I
understand why she was good with kids, because she always made me feel like
a kid again--in a good way.  She somehow brought out childlike qualities in
everyone.  I have no idea how she did this, but I had seen it happen with
even the grumpiest of adults.  If there was a problem with any of the
parents, she was right there to straighten it out, usually ending up with
those parents leaving with big, loopy smiles.

"I think I might have a touch of a bug," I said.  I didn't want to admit to
her that I was feeling down because one of the kids was on a leave of
absence.

"I'm sure things will be back to normal come Monday," she said.  I gave a
start to this.  She simply held her gaze with a neutral yet friendly grin.
Did she know the real reason I was feeling glum?  How would I ever explain
myself to her?  The look she gave me said that no explanation was
necessary; she understood.

"Yeah, I bet you're right," I said.  She patted my upper arm twice, then
walked away.  Did she know how I felt about Martin?

That night, I began a science fiction story about an eleven-year-old boy
who gets whisked away from his bedroom to become involved in a harrowing
adventure fighting against an evil queen of a far-off planet.  I admit, it
probably wasn't the most original idea in the universe, but I was inspired.
I worked all through the night, finally going to bed around six in the
morning.  I decided to call it "The Dream Sweeper" after an abhorrent
weapon the villain of the piece had created.  Although the story wasn't
really about the weapon per se, it sounded good as a title.

I planned to meet my friend David that evening for dinner, so I did
something that I rarely did--I printed out my first draft without even
reading over it so I could hand it off to him.  I had no idea if it was
good or not, but I wanted to get his opinion of it in its raw form; from my
brain to the page.

David called me Sunday afternoon.

"It's brilliant," he said.

"Really?"

"Well, you have about two dozen typos, but I love the story."  He always
was a sucker for fantasy and sci-fi, especially rousing tales of danger and
bravery.  I thought it was very cheesy, but I was a sucker for that kind of
story, too.

"Thanks."

"I'm serious, Alan.  I think this is a keeper.  Clean it up and send it
in."

Out of all the stories I wrote and that he read, this was the first one
that he praised to this extent.  There were some he really liked, but he
always had problems with them, and he had no fear of telling me exactly
what those problems were.  That's why I appreciated him.

"To tell you the truth," David said, "I think you should expand this into a
novel."

"You don't think it'll come off kinda childish?" I asked.  I still had not
read the story, so I didn't know what to think of it.  When I write, I
often have no idea what exactly is being put on the page.  I see it as it
prints out across my computer screen, as if someone else is writing it.
Certainly there are times when I have to think hard to come up with that
perfect line, but other times I zone out and the story takes over.  It
literally writes itself, and I find myself surprised at how it unfolds.

"Listen to me, Charlie Bucket.  This is your golden ticket."

"Okay, okay.  I'll submit it.  How's your story coming along?"  I had to
change the subject, as adulation always made me uncomfortable.  He went on
to tell me about the problems he was having with his protagonist not being
fully convincing as a hit man and a circus lion tamer.  I zoned out on him.

Monday finally!

The day started out with a mini-staff meeting a half an hour before the
little ones came bursting in.

"How do you feel about having a lock-in?" Barb asked.

"Oh, awesome," said Jared, a seventeen-year-old who always seemed slightly
high.

"What do you mean?" asked Brad, a fifteen year old who was on staff for the
first time.  Last year, he was one of the kids attending the summer program
but now he was old enough to work it.  He was a husky, good-natured boy who
was one of my assistants.  Martin always liked hanging out with him.

"A sleep-over," Barb exlained.  "Friday to Saturday.  Any of the kids who
want to attend just stays Friday afternoon.  We lock the doors and no one
leaves.  They stay up all night just having fun."

"Sounds great," I said.  The idea of staying up all night with Martin had
my head reeling.

A couple of the staff members grumbled, but most everyone agreed that this
would be something that the kids would love.  We decided upon the first
weekend in August, since school would be starting soon after that.

The kids began arriving, and my heart was drumming in my chest.  After a
seeming eternity, I would get to see Martin again.  The flow of young ones
lessened, until only one or two walked through the glass doors at a time.
There was no sign of Martin.  Finally, the last one traversed the foyer and
there were no more.  Martin had not returned.

I was heart broken.  What had happened?  Where was he?  A sick feeling
overcame me, and I was certain he was not going to return.

The day wore on, and a grouchy mood befell me.  No one at the Youth Center
had seen this side of me, and they were all taken aback, children and staff
alike.  A number of the kids came up and asked if I was all right.  That
made me feel a little better, but I knew the only cure would be Martin's
return.

Several times through-out the day, I picked up the phone to call Martin's
house, but each time I set the phone down again.  How would it seem to his
mom if I called to check up on him?  Would she become suspicious of me?
Would she think I had ulterior motives with her son?  Ah, damn this
paranoia!

Around three in the afternoon, I finally dialed Martin's number, which I
looked up from the roster.  This was the first time I called his house, and
I felt jittery.

"Hello?" Martin's unmistakable voice said.

"Hi, Martin?  This is Alan, over at the Youth Center."

"Oh, hi."  I could not read any inflection in his voice, which was
disheartening.

"How was your trip?"

"Okay."

"You didn't make it in today," I said rapidly, "so I just thought I'd check
up on you and make sure everything was okay."

"I got in late and wasn't feeling too good today," he said.  "My mom told
me to just stay home today."

"Oh."  Relief swept over me.  "I hope you get feeling better."

"Thanks."  He really wasn't one for phone conversations, it seemed.

"Think you'll be in tomorrow?"

"Yeah, probably."

"Okay, good.  I've missed you."  Why did I add that last thing?  I was
certain he would think I was now a pervert.

"I missed you, too."  I couldn't help but sigh when he spoke those words.

"See you tomorrow."

"Yeah.  Bye."

The world was good again.

That night, I opened up the file with that story I wrote Friday night.  I
read through it and discovered that David was right; it was pretty good.  I
cleaned up a few sentences here and there, but mostly left it alone.

I printed a copy and scribbled across the title page, "To my buddy Martin,
from Alan."

The next day, Martin was at the Youth Center bright and early, smiling from
ear to ear.  I went up to him and stretched out my arm, intending to shake
his hand.  He fell into my extended arm, wrapping his own tightly around my
mid-section.  I could do nothing else but return the hug.

"I guess you're glad to be back," I said when I was able to breathe again.

"You have no idea," Martin said.  He weight in his voice sounded older than
eleven years old.

"Trouble with your step-mom?"

"I hate her."  The statement was blunt, with no emotion.  The lack of
inflection made it worse because it was a simple fact, not an exaggeration
children will say.

"What did she do?"  I was genuinely concerned.

"Just yelled at me all the time.  Her kids are perfect.  They run around
like wild animals and never get in trouble.  I say two words to her and she
says I'm being sarcastic and chews me out.  I wanted to come back home the
first day I was there, but noooo, my dad wouldn't let me."

"I'm sure he wanted to spend time with you."

"He had a funny way of showing it.  He was at work all the time.  I got to
be stuck home with my step-brother and step-sister.  They're..."  He let
the sentence dissolve into what sounded like a growl rather than say the
words that I'm sure were in his mind.  His fists clenched.

"I'm really sorry you have to go through with that," I said.  I realized
that my arm was still around his shoulder, but neither of us seemed to
mind.  "I know how it feels.  My parents divorced when I was a kid, and my
dad married a woman with a monster for a daughter.  Fortunately I was a
teenager at the time and didn't really have to deal with her much.  But my
little sister hated her.  Oh, they would have battles to the death!"

Martin laughed his infectious laugh.  I continued telling him stories about
my horrid step-sister, and I think he felt better afterward.  He went on to
play with the other kids as if he had not a care in the world.

I remember having that ability once.  I really loved being a kid, and I
never wanted to grow up.  I still don't.  Psychologists can talk all they
want about the Peter Pan syndrome, but why would anyone in their right mind
want to leave childhood behind?  I suppose that taking on responsibilities
deadens the child in us all, but why not fight it?  Why let age make you
forget the simplicities that childhood allows?  Why become cynical to the
wonders of the world that children discover every day?

I watched Martin, in many ways so mature for his small body, so intelligent
for his age, yet so innocent for all his bravado.  In a word, he was
wonderful.


TO BE CONTINUED


Copyright Phoenixboy 2003

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