Forbidden Fruit

Sam sat there, ensconced in a cloud of stale smoke and with every round of marijuana, he lost count of the passing minutes. He had a tinge of a headache, the kind that makes one smile without reason. He felt an invisible hand, grasping his head and lifting him above the ground, high enough to see his own human form slouched on the desk below. It was as if his body was not his own anymore, and his shoulders felt awfully light. There was a certain twisted relief in absolute submission; a secret freedom in servile dependence.

He remembered being summoned to a classroom near the terrace a couple of hours after dinner, when the last of the wakeful eyes had drooped, heavy with fatigue. It was a call from the school ‘elite’, and when it came to the popular clique, exhaustion wasn’t an option. He tiptoed up the dark staircase, down the winding hallway, and crept through the deceptively open window at the end of it. The room was pitch black, and Sam couldn’t see a step in front of him except for the glowing ends of a bunch of cigarettes, a few feet away. It took a few minutes of getting used to and before long, the residual light streaming in through the open windows revealed a handful of smoky silhouettes. They were all hunched in a circle, making every effort to blend in with the darkness that surrounded them. The forbidden nature of their activity demanded them to be discreet, and addiction was surely not an excuse to get caught.

“Join us sir. It’s about time.” Rishi whispered out to him from somewhere. 

He followed the voice without question. He could tell that he was happy to see him, even from his whisper. Rishi handed out a burning roll to him. Sam nestled the stub between his practiced fingers and breathed in like a pro. The light at the end flickered briefly from the lengthy drag. The smoke hardly made him cough. The momentary burning in the throat was a fraction of what it used to feel like. Rishi looked at him with a sense of pride and adult satisfaction. He knew he had taught him well. 

This was not the first time that Sam was invited to join the ‘Royal Secret Society’ in their nightly trysts. They met once every two days, in the same cramped classroom near the terrace. Very few people frequented that room through the day, and if they left the windows open through the night, the leftover smoke made its way out silently, without raising a hair, carrying their adolescent secrets with it. It was a privilege to be invited to join the circle, and Rishi handpicked its members personally. They smoked weed, talked about the logistics of sex, exchanged rare rock ballads and dispelled myths about masturbation being unhealthy. Not everyone deserved to be included in these clandestine meetings, and whatever knowledge was imparted in that room was a gift. It was said that one entered the society as a boy, only to leave it as a man; enlightened and ready to take on the world. As a part of an elaborate induction ritual, members were sworn into secrecy and they were not allowed to discuss anything that went on during their meetings. If word went around that someone was disloyal, he was called out, stripped off his privileges, and subjected to months of public humiliation, so much so, that he would rue the day he had foolishly gossiped. 

Sam still couldn’t believe that he was sitting there, an equal part of the famed coterie. His initial days of torment didn’t seem too distant. Even after they had shared their first smoke and burnt their childish follies that cold night, Rishi took his time before he acknowledged Sam in full view.  He would continue to test his patience and mock him in front of everyone, as if nothing had transpired between them. Sam convinced himself that Rishi could never be his friend, and the slightest possibility was only a product of naivety. He tried not to think about it, but Rishi’s recurrent efforts at harassment made it incredibly hard for him to continue. And one day, it all stopped. Just like that. Rishi was a whole new person. It was as if an angel had kissed him on the forehead the night before. Sam was no longer ridiculed, and Rishi stood up for him every time someone dared to ridicule him. The tables of fate had been turned, and for once he was sitting on the other side, jeering at some new abandoned, unsuspecting freshman. Strangely, he liked raising the derisive finger. 

“What’re you thinking about? Please don’t tell me it has anything to do with tomorrow’s midterm”, laughed Rishi. 

Sam woke up from some sort of a trance. Infact he wasn’t thinking at all. He was busy trying to flesh out the patterns that the smoke trails traced in his brain. The foggy serpents coiled around his head, mapping contours down his spine stealthily. It was as if the world had come to a halt; there was comfort in its listlessness. Midterms were barely tangible. 

“Nothing really. I totally forgot about tomorrow”, he said.

“That’s my boy!” said Rishi, resting a congratulatory arm around his shoulder. “Midterms are stupid. This is real.”

Sam nodded in agreement. His tongue felt heavy.

“I wanted to tell you something. But you have to promise not to tell anyone”, whispered Rishi.

Sam looked at him, half listening. “Absolutely. You can trust me”, he said in a tone of absent reassurance. 

‘I think I like someone.”

“Really? Who is it? Is it a boy?” Sam lowered his voice at the end, not knowing what to expect.

Rishi laughed. “No it’s not a boy stupid. You think I’m a faggot?”

“Of course not. Sorry. I’m a bit wasted. Who is it?”

“Her name’s Noor. She’s the gardener’s daughter.”

“Wow. Congratulations! So, does she know?”

“No she doesn’t. I mean, not yet. I haven’t spoken to her.”

“Ever? So how do you know you like her?” asked Sam curiously. 

“You just know these things. You’ll know when it’s your time.”

Sam felt embarrassed having asked that. Of course you’ll know.

“So when are you going to tell her?” his voice ringing with excitement.

Rishi smiled wryly. “I’m working on it”, he said.

                                               ……………………………..

It was just another regular Sunday morning. Midterms were over, and most of the boys had gone home for the holidays. Sam never wanted to leave Glenwood. He was happier here. Sometimes he couldn’t remember what his father looked like. He never came to meet him. How was he doing? Maybe he’d married again. Maybe he had new children now, running around the house and drumming empty cereal bowls with metal spoons. Maybe he joined their impromptu orchestra, spontaneously breaking into song. Sam remembered him having a baritone to die for, but the last time he had heard him sing seemed like a distant memory. Maybe he doesn’t love Sam anymore. Maybe his efforts at building a new life had reduced his past to a few forgotten pictures, stashed away amidst a pile of nameless envelopes. 

Sam looked out into the distance; the silence in the corridor was refreshing. He noticed someone sitting at the end of the hallway, almost hiding behind the last pillar. He wasn’t expecting anyone there. As far as he knew, everyone had gone home except for Mr. Bentley and a few members of the staff. He walked towards her, curiosity egging him on. He stopped himself a few feet away from the bend, trying to figure out who she was from a distance. She was sitting there with an open sketchbook, unperturbed. She was drawing a boat. Each deft stroke breathed life into the thatched hood of the dinghy. She made it seem ridiculously simple. 

“How long will you be standing there?” she said, barely looking up.

Sam was startled. He didn’t realize how long he was staring at her. He felt the blood rush to his face. He said nothing.

“My name’s Noor.”

Sam knew who she was. “So you are the gardener’s daughter, right?”

Noor didn’t expect him to know her. She looked up, surprised. Her long wavy hair covered half her almond-shaped face. There was an inexplicable mystery in her eye. 

“I am. But how did you know?” she asked.

Sam didn’t have a good answer. Honesty was definitely out of bounds. He decided to be noncommittal instead. 

“I’ve been here long enough. You get to know people.”

“Sure you do. You can sit if you want.”

Sam hesitated for a moment. What if Rishi saw them? But he wasn’t doing anything. It was just harmless conversation. Either way Rishi had gone home. Maybe it would be easier for him to talk to her, if she befriended Sam. He felt his guilt leaving him. There was no need to overthink this. 

“Why not.” 

Sam went and sat next to her. He was careful not to sit too close.

“So what’re you drawing?” he asked.

“A boat. I love boats.”

“Me too,” he added simply.

In his mind, he raced back to the time when he would spend hours drawing boats, scribbling on scrap paper with wax crayons, unaware of the world around him. They danced on waves, bobbed in brimming tubs, lazed in puddles of filthy rainwater, sailing from one utopian island to another. They had hope; a hope to unearth new continents, a hope to find happiness, a hope to carry on.

Doll House

Meera could not see what lay before her. Needles of sunlight constricted her pupils to a dot. She felt like a misguided ant trapped in a brightly-lit room with unblemished walls of glass. She raised her little palm and squinted for some clarity. The blinding haze gradually cleared up to make way for tiny sunflowers; millions of them, swaying in the breeze, singing a silent chorus. Meera couldn’t believe her eyes. She pinched herself but felt nothing. She looked around. The ocean of yellow wreaths seemed endless. They looked at her with their brown faces and invisible eyes, and then turned to each other, talking in whispers and waving their leafy limbs animatedly. Meera felt a wave of cool air wafting through her hair, combing through the tangles hiding underneath the surface. She suddenly felt free. She lifted her arms, closed her eyes, and ran with the wind; no direction, no destination. In that moment, she was a bird; a bird in a field of sunflowers.

“Wake up Meera! The guests will be here soon.”

A voice called out to her from somewhere. Meera opened her eyes. She was not a bird. There were no sunflowers, only painted fluorescent stars hanging from her ceiling. It was infact a dream. Meera let out a muffled sigh of disappointment. She stretched her arms to shake away the sleep and walked up to the doll house for her morning ritual. It was time for her dolls to have tea. And what a lucky set of dolls they were! Meera took care of them like their own children. She braided their hair and put matching ribbons on them. She dipped their clothes in glasses of water and laid them on her desk to dry, after which she pressed them under her pillow and stacked them into neat little piles. She played doctor to them when they were sick. She scolded them for running down the stairs too fast. She switched the wooden fireplace on during winters. She tucked them under patched scarves and kissed them goodnight. She loved them like they were her own. To her they were real.

Meera set the plastic table out and propped her dolls around it. She laid out the cups and poured into them from the tiny red kettle. She sipped on some imaginary tea and pretended to like it. She asked her dolls if they wanted cookies. They sat their silent. She asked them about school and told them to be good.

“Meera?! Are you ready yet?”

Meera looked around startled. She knew the guests would be there soon. It was her eighth birthday and she had to be pretty for them. She told her dolls to be quiet while she was away. She felt guilty to be leaving them alone. She promised to get them presents this time.

                                                         -------------------------------

Meera walked out of the shower smelling like jasmine. She hopped on the rug a few times to dry her little feet and stepped into her room. She noticed a cardboard box lying on her bed. It had a large silver bow on it. It was her first present of the day. She read the note glued on it.

For my darling Meera. Love Dad.

The words were the same every year. It was the familiar lazy handwriting that she had grown to look forward to. Meera ripped the printed wrap in all her excitement and opened the box. She saw a dress nestled neatly amidst the folds of parchment paper. It was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. It was white with lacy patterns running along the collars and the cuffs. The waistband was a precious shade of blue. There were miniature roses embroidered along the edges. Meera couldn’t wait to put it on. She slipped it over her head and the fabric felt like feathers on her skin. She posed in front of the mirror and stared at her glowing reflection longingly, turning on one side and then the other. She knew she was beautiful. She heard the guests downstairs, streaming in slowly. She held the edges of her frock and spun around quickly one last time. The lingering frills danced all around her.

                                                                     

                                                        -------------------------------

The living room was brimming with guests. Meera looked around to see if there were any kids her age. She couldn’t find any. She pushed through the throng of gossiping adults, trying to garner their attention. They seemed all too busy with nothing. What could be more important than her? It was her birthday. She suddenly heard a familiar tune on the piano. The room fell silent. She made her way to the front of the crowd  and saw her thirteen year old brother Pavan sitting on the stool, his fingers running deftly across the octaves. ‘Rustle of Spring’ by Sinding. The string of hypnotic notes echoed across the room, while the guests stood still, gaping at him in awe. Meera inched towards him hoping that someone would take notice of her. No one did. As if sensing her intention, Pavan stopped playing right that instant. The trance was broken. The room woke up to resounding applause. Someone noticed her standing in the corner and wished her. But it didn’t matter.

“Happy Birthday Meera! You're such a doll.”

Meera slipped out unnoticed, pushing her way through the cloud of oblivion. “He’s a genius.” “He plays like a professional”. “And he’s only thirteen”. She ran up the staircase and slammed her door shut. You're such a doll. She’d never felt more humiliated. She walked up to the doll house, grabbed the nearest doll, and tore  her plastic head apart. A tear rolled out the corner of her eye.

The rest sat their smiling. 

Lights Off

It was only five o’ clock in the evening, an hour before sundown, but it strangely felt like midnight. The sky was dark; marred beyond recognition by vast expanses of grey encroaching upon it from all corners. The wind moaned as it made its way through the branches, crying like a lost kitten in the gutter. Giant bags of precipitation hovered threateningly as vendors slammed their shutters, in a hurry to get back home. The streets were bereft of humanity, while baffled birds screamed in fear of the apocalypse.

Sam remembered hearing about a hurricane in the news that morning. It was supposed to be the worst that hit the country that season. The meteorological department had issued warnings, requesting citizens to stay home that evening. They had predicted persistent thundershowers for the next three days. Children were celebrating, as schools across town remained shut. Sam didn’t pay attention as the newsreader read the words shooting across the teleprompter out loud; his eyes blank, his voice tinged with apathy. He couldn’t remember the last time when the weatherman was right. He chuckled over his morning bowl of cereal, as he skimmed through the pages of the daily, more out of habit than interest. He had only one thing on his mind. Tea at four. With Meera.

And there they were, walking down the cobbled pavement, an hour after tea, immersed in conversation, oblivious to nature’s hysterics. Meera was taking him to a ‘special place’, and he couldn’t wait to see it. He followed her lead, passing through silent alleys and dubious neighbourhoods, hanging onto every word that came out of her mouth. He had never met anyone who could gauge his attention that effortlessly. Meera walked on talking about her favourite movies and her strange obsession with suicidal heroines. She felt their loneliness calling out to her from the covers of shimmering gossip magazines, as they stood smiling on the red carpet amidst a frenzy of flashing cameras. She asked Sam if he thought she was insane and laughed carelessly. Sam smiled back sheepishly and asked,

“So how far is this place?”

“We’re almost there.”

Sam knew her disposition to tease. “Are we?” he said in doubt.

“Don’t worry. I’m not Jack the Ripper.”

Sam laughed at the thought of how ridiculous it sounded. They took a bend in the road and reached a clearing, and what seemed like a dead end. But that was not what Sam found disturbing. A row of unclaimed graves lay scattered before them. There were no names. No epitaphs. No religious signatures. Just a bunch of mounds with stark headstones. Sam had a million thoughts racing across his mind, his heart thumping in his chest noisily. Why would Meera bring him here? It seemed awfully morbid, and if it was her idea of a joke, it was terribly unfunny. He was dying to ask her why but couldn’t bring himself to do it. She walked by the graves, looking down at them wistfully; the melancholy in her eyes made it seem like she knew all those who lay beneath their feet. Sam followed her without a word. A plethora of weeds fed off the forgotten men.

They walked past the nameless dead silently and came to an opening in the wall. Sam wondered what lay beyond the moss-eaten bricks. Meera bent down and stepped into the gaping hole. Sam waited on the other side. His heart was beating too fast, and he wasn’t ready to see what was on the other side. Not yet. Maybe it was nothing and nothingness is terrifying. He closed his eyes for a moment to calm his nerves.

“Are you coming?” he heard Meera calling out to him.

He decided to take a leap of faith and walked through the crevice. A gust of wind struck his face. It was so strong that he could barely keep his eyes open. He looked into the distance and saw Meera, standing with her back to him. A vast expanse of raging water lay sprawling before her. The ocean thundered as they stood there paralyzed; humbled by its enormity. The waves thrashed against the shore like a caged animal, maddened by the call of the wild. They walked towards the water. The sand felt cold, as it nestled between their toes. It seemed like the end of the world, and they, the last two standing. Sam felt a drop of water on his arm, as if someone had pricked a brimming cloud. And then another one fell on his head. And as they looked up, the rain came cascading down; soaking their cotton shirts, seeping through their skin, invading their veins.

                                                    

                                            -------------------------------------

Sam handed out a towel to Meera. As he stood there dripping from head to toe, he observed her, bunching up strands of her drenched hair and coaxing the raindrops out of them. He had never seen anything so beautiful. Meera looked up and noticed him staring at her; one unwavering gaze. She went over to his bed and sat next to him.

“So what now?”

They hadn’t shared a word in the last hour. The moment was too big for banter. And now, that lone question hung awkwardly in the air. Sam had no answer. So what now? He bent over and kissed her softly. He expected her to hold back but she didn’t. She gave in; with gratitude. The room was too dark and Sam wanted to see her face. As he ran his fingers through her hair and down her back, he reached out for the lamp. Meera clutched his wrist to stop him.

“What happened?”

“Can we keep the lights off please?”

Sam didn’t know how to respond.

Meera sensed his apprehension. “It’s more gratifying to find each other” she said. 

The Bonfire

The angular hallway leading to the classroom echoed with collective laughter. It was peculiar for that time of day, as in between school hours, one could seldom hear the voice of a living soul except for the occasional gardener yelling instructions to his co-workers in the summer heat or a security guard sharing a boisterous joke over an afternoon game of cards. Sam wondered what it could be. Maybe someone drew an unflattering sketch of poor Mrs. Rosario with her pet parrot on the blackboard, while the rest chuckled in anticipation of how flushed her face would get when she saw it. Maybe the sycophants seated up front were being harassed with tiny paper balls from all sides, made from scrunched up notebook pages.  Whatever it was, Sam was dying to find out. Footsteps quickened. Heartbeat raced. He did not intend to waste one more minute being excluded from the joke that had everyone rolling on the floor in a fit. He felt the need to laugh with the rest and not be the reason for it. Just this once. 

Sam stood at the doorway trying to figure out what the ruckus was all about. The boys were all huddled up in the centre, peering over something inexplicably amusing. Some of them were laughing so hard, that they’re eyes were watering while others were holding their bursting stomachs in an effort to contain them. What were they all looking at? No one in class had noticed him yet. Sam gathered the courage to pat on someone’s back and ask. The unsuspecting boy turned around. He stopped laughing almost instantly; as if he had seen a ghost. He called out to a few others in a sort of urgency. They all turned to stare at him, their faces pallid with guilt. The laughter died down momentarily, giving rise to an eerie silence. Sam never wielded that kind of power over anyone before, and he didn’t know what to make of it. Curious, he asked in a jocular tone, “What’s going on?” A derisive faceless voice answered him from amidst the crowd.

“Do you still miss Mommy? I bet she’s coming over right now with a box of candies!”

In that second, the wave of laughter erupted again, flooding all corners of the classroom, making it impossible for Sam to breathe. Sam had never talked about his mother with anyone in school before and he was left grappling for answers in the dark. How did they know about his mom? He stared blankly at the boys around him looking to make sense of it all. They didn’t look like virginal school kids anymore. A cloud of darkness had shrouded their faces. Their lips had a cruel curl to them; their voices had a discordant ring - much like peasants clamoring for the blood of a gladiator, their eyes hungry for dismembered limbs. Sam wanted to run away that very instant, but his adolescent ego fastened his feet to the ground, making it impossible for him to move. He stood there paralyzed, befuddled; tears blurring his vision. Then he noticed something familiar in the midst of all the mockery. His leather bound journal was lying open on the desk. A boy was reciting passages out of it exaggeratedly; like he was reading Shakespeare. Sam’s tiny world of imagination lay prostrate on the floor, naked, while the savages in uniform stomped on it in a sort of frenzy.

And suddenly it all made sense. He remembered having scribbled some random thoughts in his journal the night before, leaving it out on the bed in a hurry instead of locking it in his trunk – a perfect bait for idle, uninspired school children. In fact he knew who it was. It was the boy sitting there reading it out loud in the midst of this circus, unfazed, with his pressed white shirt and perfectly parted hair. His name was Rishi. Rishi Vimani. Rich, spoilt, popular, arrogant, manipulative. Boys worshipped him. His wishes were worth more than gold. He would walk around school in a cloud, his cloak being borne by human pillars lest it gathered dust. He treated most like vermin deciding their fate with the flick of his finger. And from the day he laid eyes on Sam, he dubbed him the jester, calling upon him for entertainment when there was nothing left to capture his imagination. He would make him gyrate in a skirt. He would hide his toothbrush and threaten everyone else with dire consequences if they helped him. He would dump muddy water on his bed on a wintry night. He would hand him with pompoms during a game of football. He made sure that Sam was living his worst nightmare. The rest simply followed him without question, in a cowardly trance. Sam clung to his journal, praying every night for this ordeal to end. And now he even had that torn away from him. But strangely, he felt relieved, for he had nothing else left to lose. He looked at Rishi with pity. Rishi did not understand why Sam wasn’t bawling his heart out like a child. But he couldn’t look at him anymore, and turned his face away. Rishi knew that he somehow lost this battle and it made him uncomfortable. He couldn’t laugh with the rest, nor come up with an apt witticism. He got up from his bench and left the room. Sam proceeded to his seat quietly, as if nothing had happened and when no one was looking, he flicked Rishi’s metal watch from his desk and stuffed it in his pocket.

                                                        

                                             ------------------------------------

Sam couldn’t sleep a wink that night, tossing and turning, thinking about what happened in class that day. He wanted to write in his journal but somehow it felt tainted. He sat up in bed and looked out the window. The sky was beautiful with a smattering of twinkling stars; tranquil and listless. He decided to go to the terrace and absorb a moment of solitude. He tiptoed upstairs in his pajamas, leaving his slippers behind, lest they woke someone up. Cautiously, he pushed the wooden door and walked out into the open. The speckled concrete beneath his feet felt cold. There was a mild breeze from the west that ran through his hair, bringing in the scent of dew and the song of crickets. He closed his eyes for a moment and felt the pulse of the night. There was an invisible rhythm to it; slow and sustained, almost dragging. He looked over to the ledge and noticed a light from the end of a cigarette. It was like a prick of brilliant orange in a pitch black bubble. There was someone else there.

“Who is it?” he called out.

“Who do you think it is?” the shadow answered.

The voice sounded oddly familiar; one that often robbed him off his sleep. What was Rishi doing here?

“I’m having a smoke”, he said, as if he read his mind.

“I was just leaving,” said Sam hurriedly. He didn’t want to spend a moment more with his tormentor. Not that night.

“No you weren’t. Why don’t you come sit with me? I won’t push you off the ledge. I promise.” he laughed, sensing fear in his voice.

Sam didn’t have a good feeling about this. But somehow he didn’t want to flee like he always did. He walked over to the ledge and sat next to Rishi.

“Smoke?”

“No thanks.”

“Of course. I forgot you were a model citizen of the country.”

“I’m not scared okay? I just choose not to.”

“Then why make such a stupid choice? You don’t know what you’re missing.”

Sam wanted to prove that he was as much a man as Rishi. And in that moment, he dropped his guards, snatched the cigarette from him, and breathed it in. The smoke burned the insides of his windpipe down to his lungs and made his eyes water. He coughed it all out in disgust, while the cigarette slipped out from between his fingers and lost its way amidst the trees below.

“Well done sir!” said Rishi, his words dripping with sarcasm. Sam looked away without saying anything.

“So,” Rishi continued, “I’m sorry about today. I didn’t know what I was thinking.”

Sam couldn’t believe his ears. Is Rishi truly apologizing? This must be a joke. He did not know how to respond.

“It’s okay. It’s over.”

“No, I mean it. I’m terribly sorry. I did not intend it to be that way. I just got carried away.”

There was a brief moment of silence. “Also,” he said, “I know you took my watch.”

Sam wanted to jump off the terrace right that second. He knew what he did was wrong, but he wanted to punish Rishi for what he did that day. Embarrassed, ashamed, and almost choking, he managed a meek apology.

“I’m sorry. It was not intentional. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay. I guess I had it coming. I sort of deserved it” he laughed.

Seeing Rishi so calm, understanding, and almost amicable, he had an urge to confess. He wanted to tell him about all the other objects he had stolen in the past in an act of silent retribution. But he couldn’t bring himself to explain why. He simply needed to tell.

“I want to show you something.”

Rishi nodded and followed him downstairs to his room. Sam dragged his trunk from underneath his bed, careful not to wake the others up. He opened the lid of the trunk and took out a box, and held his flashlight over it for Rishi to see. He noticed quite a few of his things in it, some of which he didn’t even know were missing; a pencil box, a pair of gloves, a miniature Eiffel Tower that his father got him from Paris when he was a kid, a wooden chess set and his watch. Sam showed him some other objects that belonged to kids who harassed him no less – a ping pong ball, a blue striped muffler, and some twisted action figures. Sam looked away. He didn’t have the courage to face Rishi, half expecting him to change his tone, and report him to the Headmaster first thing in the morning.

“I have an idea.” he said instead.

Sam stared at Rishi; half-guilty, half-curious. What did he have in mind?

“Come with me. And get that damn box!”

Sam followed Rishi without question. He had resigned himself to his fate and was ready to face the consequences. He just wanted to stop but he didn’t know how. They walked down a flight of stairs, down the hallway and towards the playground. There was a clump of trees by the edge of it. It was rumoured to be haunted. They walked past a few bordering bushes until no one could see them anymore. Rishi took the box from Sam and placed it on the ground.

“What are you going to do?” he asked, not knowing what to expect.

Rishi took out a matchbox from his pocket. He lit a couple of matches with fast, swift strokes, revealing years of practice, and flung them towards the box. The arid wood crackled in the night, sending tiny flakes of glowing cinder hurtling through the air. The boys watched intently as the ascending flames devoured their childish failings, reducing them to nothing but an obscure, nameless stain on the ground.

“And this will be our secret,” he said.