THE MARKS BOY’S ROCK
Life’s Hard Places Series – Book 1
A CHRISTIAN/COMING-OF-AGE/FANTASY NOVEL
BY
Copyrights
THE MARKS BOY’S ROCK By Lee Wimmer
Copyright© 2024 by Lee Wimmer
Published by Hightower Publications
All rights are reserved. No part of this work may be used in any way by any artificial intelligence program. No duplication, storage, or transfer by any means, including electronic, is allowed without written permission by the author or publisher.
This is a fiction work. Any similarity to actual people, places, businesses, schools, events, or any other similarities is purely coincidental and should not be taken or interrupted otherwise. The Marks Boy’s Rock novel is a work of fiction in the Life’s Hard Places series.
Prologue
Two summers ago, my life changed. Now, no matter how I look at it, everything is upside down. I had begun noticing small changes before then. But I shrugged it off, not realizing how everything was about to change. It’s often said great things happen all of a sudden. Well, so do bad things.
Lily’s words—“Do you wanna play?”—still rattle around my brain like BBs in a matchbox. I’ve heard and said those words thousands of times. I can’t remember when that stopped exciting me. The fun we had and the closeness we forged, playing together almost every day for eleven years, once seemed an unbreakable bond. Why? Why did it end?
The memories linger. They start with blue skies and a young Lily—the all-smiles-and-giggles Lily—knocking on my door. We were always playing in our yards, up at the tree house, or on one of our porches. I especially remember her porch.
My thoughts progress to playing house, to missing-teeth smiles, and to the question “will you dance with me?” No, I’ll never forget those days and the Lily I love remembering.
We played until our moms called us in for dinner. Oftentimes, we ate together. After dinner in the summer, we chased lightning bugs, laughing until dark. Chris, my twin, played too most days, though he claimed we teamed up on him. A girl our age, Emily, from down the street a couple of houses joined in sometimes. That’s when Chris had the most fun. But that’s a different story.
Now, today, there’s the high school Lily, the no-more-games-of-tag, cocoon-busted Lily. The prettiest-girl-you-ever-did-see Lilly. And here I am—stuck. My life’s become all about keeping on, keeping on, slogging on, fighting the whispers in my head. I don’t know whether the whispers are friend or foe. Or if they’re just part of the craziness getting in my way.
As a result of the whispers and what Mom calls “natural,” my troubles have built a mountain I can’t descend. I struggle, trying not to allow any outward signs, once hiding them well. Natural? It sure doesn’t feel that way. I’m ashamed of it… all of it and myself. I haven’t told Mom about the hiding-in-the-bathroom thing, not yet.
I’ve come to the point of desperation, beginning to admit most, if not all, of my struggles to Mom and Gramps. Some are fueled by what I want, what I need—I want and need to be a good man—not like my deadbeat, never-been-in-my-life dad.
Yes, I wanna play, but something keeps stopping me!
Sometimes, I call out loudly to myself when I’m alone. That’s something else all this “natural” stuff has caused more of, me… alone.
Mom calls what I’m going through cocoon busting. She says every boy and girl goes through it to become an adult. It’s the phenomenon called puberty. She says, “Sometimes, it takes years for the brain to catch up. Don’t be ashamed.” And, “Everyone experiences it differently, some having it easier than others.”
I’m one of the others, something no one wants to be. Another reason I’m usually alone.
At least, I have a nosy mom. She hovers over us, Chris, Abbie, and me, making sure we’re all right. She spends hours talking with each of us about what we’re experiencing, how the natural process of growing up with other teens in high school can get messy. But she says not to worry, we’ll all survive, soon figuring things out and forgetting all about it.
I hope so.
Chris mostly finished his cocoon busting over a year ago before he turned fifteen, no slogging for him. Abbie, my fun-loving little sister finished hers too as she turned fourteen this past summer. Her interest in boys and theirs in her drives Mom mad. So, as the oldest, why am I the late bloomer? That’s what Mom affectionately calls my struggle. Experts call it delayed puberty. Apparently, it affects 2 to 3 percent of us.
With my delayed cocoon busting come a cracking voice, bad mood swings—really bad, the shaking kind of bad—swollen breasts, and uncontrollable acne. Oh, and not to forget, sweaty palms.
This wouldn’t have been so bad had I gone through it at the same time as most of my classmates, like Chris. But doing it later, alone, and isolated is terrifying and embarrassing. I don’t want anyone to notice, especially when my emotions melt down and erupt like a volcano—my feelings, moods, and anxiety going all over the place as my voice cracks. So I run and hide.
I’m an other. At fifteen, it’s not a fun place to be. Everyone else has moved on, working on their brain part, girls liking boys, boys liking girls—and here I am. I wonder, does anyone else hide in the bathroom?
In school, I’ve had to run crazy fast five or six times, hiding so no one sees and makes fun. My anxiety becomes too much for me to function properly. Then emotions overflow the floodgate, melting down, and all I can do is blubber. I don’t know why or what triggers it. So I run to the restroom, stand on the commode seat, and hide in a sometimes smelly stall, waiting for the eruption to stop, go away, or whatever it does. All while hoping no one sees me or my foot doesn’t slip into the commode.
“Why me, God? Why me?” I often ask. Crickets.
Each time, I contemplate whether I should take the meds I’ve been prescribed. The meds have their fun side. They make me feel heavy, like I’m behind some sort of evil veil, seeing but only vaguely. I don’t like that feeling, so I tolerate the mood swings. After all, Mom says they’ll go away one day.
My friends add to the dilemma of late blooming. They’re taller and bigger than me now, both the boys and girls and Lily. I used to be that kid, the one who seems so good at everything, at least in my own mind. Now those days are over. I’m not so much anymore. I was good at most sports, girls-be-watching-me good, especially when Chris and I played football in middle school. High school once looked like it could be fun.
Some days, I sneak over to the practice field and watch, hiding—again. Wondering what high school could’ve been, mine now a life full of could’ve beens. Thanks to this, there’ll be no football or basketball tryouts for me, at least not for a couple of years, not until I grow more.
At five feet and a couple inches, I’m barely over a hundred pounds. There’s only one thing I can do—wrestle. I can’t stand wrestling. Who wants someone’s smelly armpit in their face? No thank you. I’ll pass. Chris has given up sports too, by choice, his pacifist side having gained control. “He’s more of an academic,” Mom says. Sure, but he’ll fight me like a raging lion.
Maybe I’ll try out when I’m a senior, if I grow, but not likely, especially after sitting out two years. Blooming late messes everything up.
Yes, I wanna play! A part of me cries out—desperately—deep within myself. Only, no one can hear me.
Chapter 1
Today is Sunday, a beautiful early October afternoon. The river down below the hillside must be glistening, sparkling, and cool as it roars over the flat moss-covered stones by the broken-down iron bridge. Gramps lives here, and they’re the same stones he reminisces about in this story he’s told Chris and me at least a dozen times. It borders on bizarre and quirky, the stones becoming part of a magical journey as he crosses the river on them.
Gramps leans back into the bench. “Feel that? The air is heavy, the weather changing. Soon, this old bench will be covered in snow.” Reaching down, he rubs Butch’s head. His old coon dog usually lies tight against our legs, the suns rays warming his tired old hide. He’s almost a hundred in dog years.
“Yes, sir. Football is already on television.” Sitting here with Gramps and Butch, I feel love, peace, and tranquility—things I need most. But tomorrow, that’ll probably all change.
“I miss watching you and your brother play. I understand why you didn’t. You must miss it, your friends and all, but there’ll come other things—you wait and see. God has a plan just for you.” Tussling my hair, Gramps curves his side to mine and adds an encouraging jostle.
“I’d love to play, but I’d have to be desperate.” I sight a chipmunk scurrying under the nearby shed.
“Extraordinary things can happen when belief is born out of desperation.” Gramps braces his elbows on his knees, hunkering forward, smiling and dreamy-eyed. “There’s a place where the elements around you appear to melt away, meshing colors so intense with sounds that not only provoke fear but also inspire excitement.”
He stands and holds his hands and arms out wide, using them like balances helping him cross the river. Suddenly light of foot, he twists and turns like an acrobat, at times wobbling, and shaking on one leg, all while he shares the adventure of crossing those stones. Then he puts one hand on the back of the bench to steady himself. The gleam in his eyes ignites as his intensity overflows, so much so that in the past I’ve seen Chris moving his body like he was crossing the stones.
Gramps winks at me. “Are you desperate, Nickie? I’ve been desperate before. Everyone has a time or two.”
Yes, I’ve been desperate. I am most days during his storytelling, just like now. But I won’t ask him today why God let all this happen to me. After all, he’s always telling me how much God loves me. Is this cocoon busting love?
I’ve always counted on Gramps for his wisdom and support. I need him now more than ever. When Chris and I were younger, he regaled us with stories of fantastical places, mystical beings, and harrowing adventures. Some, if not most, were from the Christian fantasies he likes to read.
The back screen door slams shut. Granny and Chris cross the thirty or so yards to our bench by the woodshed, our hangout. “Is he going off again, Nick?”
Gramps and I walk around the bench to meet them.
Chris snorts and moves to the side of the bench where Butch lay. “You’d think he was a circus ringleader.”
Granny kisses Gramps’s cheek. “Your grandpa’s always been like that. He eats up attention like candy, and he loves make believe and fantasy. Don’t you, dear?”
I fend off Chris over the bench, who starts picking on me right away. “He’s the best storyteller. Sometimes I think he’s reliving his tales while sharing them.”
“Can’t deny it, Gramps.” Chris stops messing with me and grabs a handful of Butch’s neck skin, causing Butch to stand up. “You sure make it real. A person wouldn’t ordinarily feel anything in just any old story.”
Granny hugs Gramps’s waist and pushes him with her hip. “He should’ve been an actor.”
I agree. “He kinda makes me believe his story about the stones.” Okay, so I completely believe it, mostly because I need it, the Sea of Life that is.
“Leave us be, Helen.” Gramps shoos her away, looking over his shoulder as Chris leaves too. Then he reaches over and pats my hand as we sit back on the bench. “This is one of my favorite spots. How many times do you reckon we’ve sat here just talking the hours away?”
“A lot. I like it here too.” My chest warms. Most of them spent leaning against one another. My fingers stray to the woodgrain. The bench’s wood has become dark brown and shiny from the years of wear.
Gramps takes a deep breath, eyes closed, and exhales soft and slow. It relaxes him more than anything, like singing his favorite gospel hymn. The bench overlooks his garden down the hillside, right beside the Roanoke River. That’s where the stones are.
“O’Hanahans have gardened here for four generations. Bottomland, where we plant, has the best soil for gardening. It’s richer than the soil up here, less rocks too.” He scrapes the ground with his boot. “It all starts with good soil.”
What would it be like to feel as peaceful as he looks? It helps me understand that “peace that surpasses all understanding,” the one the pastor always talks about. The one I need to find, the sooner the better.
The wind’s gentle most times when we’re sitting here. Occasionally, like today, it gusts all swift and chaotic. Seeming to carry an urgency that can’t be explained away as if there’s a secret to be found and understood, a secret we can’t quite grasp any easier than those pieces of cattails flying by.
Gramps catches one of the twirling pods falling from nearby trees. They’re blowing throughout the valley, searching for a resting place, somewhere to settle. “Fall will begin in two weeks.” He hunches his shoulders in. “The wind’s already becoming brisker, the heavier cold air roaring down off the nearby mountaintops, picking up speed as it reaches the valley floor.”
I scoop his catch from his weathered palm. Gramps calls them helicopter seeds. Anyone who’s ever swept a porch in the spring knows the ones. “I love watching the spinners come down off the maple trees in the spring.”
Sitting on Gramps’s bench, it’s easy to tell when the seasons are changing. In the fall, pumpkins get cut loose or rolled off their vines. Once they’re ripe, ready to become pies or jack-o’-lanterns, that’s how I know fall is here. Spring has its signs too.
“People have seasons too. You boys are in the spring of your lives.” Gramps sinks back against the bench, arms crossed over his wide chest. I hear him breathe in the fresh air.
“I hope this season I’m in hurries up and ends.” Thinking that explains some of my dilemma. When spring comes out here in the country, there’s the smell of manure being turned into the ground, yuck. Maybe cocoon busting is like spring. It sure stinks.
“Shh, listen,” Gramps whispers. “Hear that? That’s a momma deer calling for her babies.”
“I don’t hear her. I can sure hear the river today, though.”
“Yep, she’s going strong today.” He kicks his long legs out, crossing his ankles. “All depends on how much water the dam keepers at the reservoir release upstream. Most days, the river barely has enough water to meander through the valley. Mind you, remember it can become deadly.”
Several times it washed away the lower part of Gramps’s vegetable garden after too much water was released.
“I hear you and your neighbors talk, saying all your gardens will end up over in Roanoke someday if dam keepers aren’t extra careful.” I slide my foot over a clump of grass that somehow managed to survive us sitting on the bench.
Roanoke. That’s where we live, Mom and us kids. We also live near the river. Roanoke was first called the “Big Lick.” I know, it’s a funny name. Now, it’s called the Star City, because of a big star high on one of the mountains facing the city.
Gramps’s feet rock side to side, digging his boot heels in. “The dam’s destroyed the natural flow of things.”
His feet keep rocking. He lives in the moment, having told me at his age he’s learned to appreciate the little things in life. He is my rock, my role model.
Simple things can be calming, even comforting. It’s nice to have unchanging things in your life, things you can count on, people who are dependable. Kind of like the old oak tree beside their driveway where we sometimes swing. It’s been here for hundreds of years. Gramps swung there too as a child.
“Doesn’t take much to alter the flow.” Gramps’s voice flows around us. “Our surroundings, people, and things, sometimes lead us to make decisions that alter everything.” His shoulder bumps mine. “Believing is the most important thing, especially when cocoon busting. Not making rash, impulsive decisions or doing things that alter the normal course of one’s life.”
Now’s when Gramps starts talking to me about girls like he’s been doing lately, how to respect them and enjoy their presence, but not get carried away. Sometimes he talks about how he met Granny, how she swept him off his feet at hello.
He leans over, a gleam in his eyes. His smile says it all. “Good people in your life are a blessing. I got the best in mine. You, your brother, and your sister. Your mom and her sister and…” He slaps my knee, then tugs Granny’s picture from his chest pocket. “She’d just turned nineteen.”
The age my mom married my deadbeat dad. “Granny was so pretty.”
“That she was.” The fire still burns hot in Gramps’s eyes for her. “I’d have done anything to have her hand in marriage.”
I believe he would’ve too. They’re always holding hands, and he’s always opening doors for her. It’s the way I want to be.
“We grew up in a time when girls and boys didn’t do the things they do now.” He pats Granny’s picture face, then tucks it back in its secure place over his heart. “We respected our partners and ourselves. There wasn’t anything but holding hands, and as far as I’m concerned, that was enough. Our wedding night was magical, and it couldn’t have been any other way. Your grandmother is a special woman, so are your mother and sister. Lily is too. You should always look over them, protect them, and love them—no matter what.”
“I will Gramps. I promise.” We sure need each other, though sometimes I wish Mom wasn’t quite so overbearing. Nothing misses her scrutiny. Most times, that’s good, but I’m at the point now of liking some privacy, especially with all these changes happening to me.
“Keep God first.” Gramps rubs his hands and wrists. “And everything else will work its way out. You’ve got a lot of living to do and no need to do it all in one day.” His smile flashes wide, the leathery wrinkles on his face full of years and confidence. “Experience is an excellent teacher.”
He grips his knees, and gnarled fingers dig into denim. “So…”
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