the roc

The new kid, Jacob, my neighbor, finally grows some balls today. He trudges across our yard, hands in pockets, and stands watching while Tristan and I shoot HORSE in the driveway. “What’re you guys doing,” he says. 

We’re quiet for a while, just the pinging of rubber on asphalt. Someone has to say something, like a ball that’s getting pumped and pumped. “Playing HORSE, Dumbo,” says Tristan, my twin brother, who’s started calling people “Dumbo.” 

I hope Jacob knows to laugh it off. His parents introduced themselves and Jacob when they U-Hauled in last month. 

That’s how I know his name. 

He hasn’t started at our school. So, I figure he homeschools. He’s our age. I only see him in his yard, playing fetch with a little orange and white dog. It’s possible he goes to Cornerstone Academy, the Christian school in town. We’re not supposed to play with those kids. But, he wears button down shirts when it’s hot out, and doesn’t look you in the eye, ever. Waves from the street like he’s seen how on TV. Tristan says he’s definitely homeschool. 

“Do you play basketball,” I say, and he nods. 

“Can I play,” he says, meaning join.

“I don’t know? Can you,” Tristan says, bounce passes the ball across the drive. Jacob catches the ball with a smile. I’m glad. Mom says Tristan’s flame and I’m flowers. Tristan gives me shit. Says I’m a pussy. I remind him that both are equal in His eye.  

We shoot. Jacob eases up, though he’s still got garbage hands.

Tristan wins, like always with sports, and suggests another game so he can win again. 

“I’ve got to walk Rosie,” Jacob says, and nods at his house. 

I tuck the ball into my armpit. “Watch for the Roc.”  

Tristan snorts, sneer, and echoes me, “Yeah, watch for the Roc.” 

Jacob’s hands dive into his pockets. He shuffles like you do when you’re getting teased. “Ok. I’ll watch for the Roc,” he says to his dress shoes.  

I point down the street. “Don’t walk your dog past Father… Mr. Cheney’s house–that two story blue one down there. There’s a giant bird who eats dogs.” Again, Tristan adds, “Eats dogs.” 

Jacob frowns and half turns, nods, then gives us a big, fake smile. “Okay. I’ll watch for birds.” 

Tristan slaps the ball out of my hands, dribbles around, and shoots a lay up, calling back, “You do that, Dumbo. You ‘watch out for birds.’” 

It’s me and Jacob now because Tristan can’t stand still. He stops at our chalk line, sheds his shirt and wipes his sweaty bulk, begins launching penalty shots. 

“The Roc’s a big motherfucker,” I say, friendly, “It got my old dog when we first moved here.” I make a swooping gesture. “Boom. Like that. Scared the shit out of me.”  

Jacob heads back for his porch, sniffling. “I love Rosie; she’s my best friend.” 

I take a step after, “I can tell. Just stay around here and you’re good.” 

He disappears inside his house and returns with the dog tucked, just like I held the basketball. He walks without looking at us down his own drive and to the street. He hooks its leash and they begin to walk.

 Our front door opens and brings a breath of charred meat and honeysuckle. Mom steps halfway out, scans the yard and finds me and Tristan. She’s wearing her tiara of orchids and thistles. “Boys, it’s almost time for Sunset Worship.” 

Tristan chucks the basketball into the garage with a boom, points to Jacob who’s walked a ways down toward Allfather Cheney’s house and has begun slowly circling back. “Dumbo talked the new kid out of making a sacrifice,” says Tristan. He twists his body to scratch the three sweat-glistened talon scars that run the length of his back. 

Mother smiles at me and folds her robed arms, hands lost inside the sleeves of lavender silk. “Kindness is weakness, dear,” and in her eyes I see not flowers but flames.