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 ONE
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 sunrays 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 of 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?