I know we shouldn't have been doing it, and I knew it was wrong. Most things we did were “wrong” in one way or another. I guess none of us really knew the difference between right and wrong. I mean we all knew the basics, like killing and stealing were wrong, but we never really thought too much about what were doing before we did it. And if we did, no one ever said it. No one wanted to be the “parent” of the group. So I just kept my mouth shut, looked out the window, and didn't say a word about what we were doing.

“S***, Jordan! Stop moving, there’s barely any room back here,” Henry complained as he used his knees to shove Jordan's seat forward.

“Than maybe you should’ve called shotgun, but you were too busy stuffing your fat face with your Three Musketeer—” Jordan boasted until he got punched in the side of the head by Henry’s fat fist.

Henry is the type of kid who gets frustrated and punches, kicks, pinches, scratches, and monkey bites in order to show his feelings. Henry weighs 215 pounds, and is only 5 foot 5, so his weight isn’t distributed well throughout his body. He acts like he doesn't even notice his size, he even calls himself “tiny,” but we’d all just rather call him “fright train,” although he doesn’t like it very much. We don’t make fun of him for his weight too often, unless he really deserves it.

The rest of the car ride was filled with hitting, yelling, swearing, and speeding; the usual. Once we finally got where we were going I knew it was a bad idea. I had already used 2 out of 3 of my “chances” with my parents. Using the third would mean I’m off to military school like my brothers, but I still kept my mouth shut. We piled out of the ’04 green Ford Ranger, like clowns out of a clown car. Our empty Aroma Joe’s cups toppled out with us. We just tossed them right back in and shut the door so they wouldn’t roll back out. I guess you could say that we weren't really “riding in style,” but at least we were riding. Matter of fact, we were always riding. That truck had nearly 348,000 miles on it.

Josh walked first, he carried his black airsoft pistol with a pocket full of tan bio-degradable airsoft pellets. The rest of us had our airsoft guns, ranging from little $5 hand guns at Walmart, to the $65 US Marines airsoft rifle.

We went down the dirt trail. It was too narrow to take the Ranger down, so walking was our only option, but that’s okay, Henry could use some exercise. Once we got about 2/3 down the trail, we got where we were goin’. We hopped the fence and ran into her yard. We’ve been waiting for this old bat to leave for weeks now. Her name is Mrs. Stevenson, she's 73, and she's a b****.

Mrs. Stevenson always told us to quiet down whenever we were at Josh’s aunt’s house, who just happens to be her neighbor. She accused us of killing her flowers, and stealing her mail, and “ding dong ditching” her house, which we never did that I can remember. She's hated us since before she even met us.
We finally got news that her son-in-law was taking her to his house for the weekend, so we took our chances. We walked through her yard, past the shed and right over to the fence which enclosed her “prized possessions:” her fat pig and her ugly goats. The pig and goats had another fence dividing their pens so they wouldn’t “hurt each other.”

All five of us leaned, bellies touching, against the dirty white fence. Our guns were drawn and loaded, and we all just waited for one of us to shoot first. Jake finally sent one flying at the pig eating an apple. Jake screamed, “take that fat ass!” at the pig as it oinked in pain. I felt kind of bad for the animals, after all they're not b****y. Just Mrs. Stevenson is. Maybe we should be shooting her. But that’d probably get us in more trouble.

We were all excited, yelling, and shooting the animals, watching the dirt and dust stir up beneath them as they jumped with pain. Then a car pulled up: A 2009 blue Chevy Trailblazer. And out hobbled Mrs. Stevenson with a wrap around her leg, dots of blood were seeping through the white cloth bandage. We all took of running.

I could hear a voice in my head like I’ve never heard before. It was screaming at me, “Run Nate! Run!” I was obviously running as fast as I could, but the voice just wouldn't shut up! “Don’t let your parents find out Nate, you'll be on the next plane to military school. You’re just as much of a f*** up as your brothers. Who would’ve thought, your parents have four boys, and they're all disappointments.” Why am I being so hard on myself? I’m running my fastest. I’m ahead of the group, which is surprising because Josh has always been the fastest.

I approached the fence before anyone else. I’ve jumped this exact fence probably a good 30 times. But of course, this would be the one time that I have trouble. I grabbed the fence tightly with both of my hands, and threw my right leg over, and then my left. A loose wire of the fence ripped through the back of my Carhartt jeans, right on the back of my left thigh. I was stuck. I was panicking until I saw the rest of the gang run up to the fence. They hopped it as usual. I expected them to help me. I was screaming for help. They didn’t. Henry said, “sorry, but we can’t risk it,” and that’s what ended our friendship. I realized that we were never in this together, it was every man for himself. And then I watched the truck speed off back down the trail, and I coughed, as dirt and dust clouds rolled towards me.

That’s when I felt a hand grab my right shoulder through my thick Browning sweatshirt, and of course, the hand belonged to John, Mrs. Stevenson’s son-in-law. Apparently they cut their visit short, due to Mrs. Stevenson getting bit by her son-in-laws dog.

Within thirty minutes my Dad was there. He was standing outside of his ‘05 black Dodge Ram 1500, arms crossed, and face stern. He said he was “done” and I believed him. His back was leaning heavily against his truck. He apologized to John and Mrs. Stevenson. He didn’t apologize for my actions though, he apologized for me, he said, “I’m sorry for my son,” which hurt more than the fence scraping through the skin of my leg.

I climbed into the passenger seat of his truck and waited for him. Right when he get got in, before he even shut the door, he said, “get your ass in the back.” So I did. He explained to me that I have no more rights. I have no more freedom. He said that he’s given up, and that he doesn't know where he went wrong with me. With all of us.

•••

A tear fell from my Dad’s face as I boarded the plane to Wisconsin, to military school. He said that he was sorry, and that he’d see me when I know what it means to be a man. He also told me that we would not be in contact until then either, except for my 16th birthday, which was in two weeks. He told me that he’d call me just to wish me a happy birthday, and that was it.