The spring rain flooded the ditches. The snow that had been banked up on the sides of the street by snowplows throughout the winter began to melt, forming bridges over the ditches. Water running down the street ate under the sheets of ice, causing the plates of ice to crack and collapse under their own weight. David walked along the edge of these plates, stamping on the ice to hear that lovely crunch. When the ice and snow had completely melted Wilson and David placed Popsicle sticks in the rivers of water running through the ditches and imagined the sticks as great ships racing down the rivers of some alien planet. They tried to place crickets or worms on their ships but the small creatures were not good travelers and drowned. The boys ran beside the rivers, as their ships swirled in and out of obstacles, finally spiraling into the darkness of the sewers grates.

Psycho Bob patrolled the streets looking for cats that he threw into the middle of the swelling ditches. He laughed at the panic in the eyes of his furry victims as they struggled to keep themselves from being carried through the culverts, finally crawling out of the water like half drowned rats. Occasionally a mother would catch Psycho and scream at him but Bob would shrug his shoulders and move to another street and other cats.

As the days warmed, ants covered the walls of houses as if the bricks had suddenly begun to grow hair. Many of the ants had wings but seemed unable to fly. David’s mother would mix bleach and hot water in a pail and pour it over the sides of their house. How much assistance the bleach contributed to the eradication of these hordes was unclear, but the smell comforted David’s mother who saw bleach as one of the bulwarks against barbarism.

One year there was an infestation of June Bugs. Everywhere the boys looked there were June Bugs. Walking along the sidewalk the boys listened joyfully to the crunch of bugs beneath their heals. Within days the bugs would be gone.

“Where do they come from?” David asked.

Wilson shrugged his shoulders.

“Where do they go?” David asked.

Wilson shrugged his shoulders and asked, “What use are they?”

It was a mystery to the boys.

As the snow and ice retreated, the smell of dog shit was everywhere. Sidewalks, lawns, gardens were filled with the perfume of spring. And until the sidewalks were washed clean by April showers, they were a minefield of dog shit, which was inevitably tracked on, then carried into the school classrooms. It was one of David’s jobs each spring to clean up the front and back lawns from the gifts left by the neighbours’ pets.

“Why is it my job?” he complained. “We don’t even have a dog.”

“I’ll kill him one day,” Wilson cursed as he threw his penknife at his feet, barely missing his toes.

Wilson was referring to his father, who had offered any of the boys $50 if they could beat him up in a fight. Wilson’s younger brother had tried to earn the money and Mr. Wilson had bloodied his nose.

“Thinks he can push us around. We ain’t going to take it. We’ll get him. Some day we’ll get him.”

“My dad would never offer money so he can hit us,” David said. “He just hits us.”

“That’s because your dad isn’t a jerk,” Wilson cried.

One spring Dutch Elm Disease affected many of the original trees in the area. Trees were falling down everywhere. One flattened the Jackman’s garage on Prennan Avenue. As if by example, other types of trees began to collapse. A Weeping Willow fell over in the Gerard backyard just missing one of their young sons. All the Mountain Ash trees on Botfield began to keel over. It was like a domino affect. First the Parson’s, then the Gilpin’s, the Macdonald’s, the Martin’s. Almost every night when the neighbourhood was asleep, a tree fell over.

The boys put away their hockey sticks and brought out their gloves and baseball bats. Each recess the boys played 500 hundred pick up, a variation of baseball. Boys, who did not own a glove, used their hats to catch the balls that flew through the air. In the corner of the schoolyard, the girls began to skip or play games with coloured rubber balls against the school walls. Kids began to bring bags of alleys to school. Fierce competition ensued with fortunes in glass won and lost. Even the girls played alleys.

“They shine so pretty in the sunlight,” Sandra commented.

The schoolyard began to dry out. Weeds began to force their way up through the cracks in the asphalt that covered the entire grounds of the school. Bicycles began to be used again, dozens at first, multiplying each day, leaning against the fence that surrounded the yard. As the days warmed, teachers would appear more often in the yard. Classes were rewarded with a free hour in the yard playing softball.

Yoyos appeared in children’s hands. One year the hoola hoop was introduced. Kids brought magnets, and magnifying glasses to recess. Windows in the classes were opened. Seeds were planted in paper cups as class projects. Running shoes replaced rubber boots. Grade ones practiced the rituals for First Communion in the school library. Mr. Lavery, the school superintendent, would show up and make a speech before the graduating grade eight class. To the unsettling delight of the grade eight boys, when the grade eight girls shed their winter coats, many of them had become young women. At the end of each day, the sky was bigger, the sunlight brighter, the air warm. A wonderful thought swelled in the breasts of each of the children – can summer be far off?

It had become a spring ritual on Botfield Avenue to lure Psycho Bob up to Echo Valley, a thickly wooden ravine.

“We’re just going up to flush some rabbits out,” Steve declared.

“Maybe chase a raccoon up a tree,” Jimmy added.

“Let’s see if there are still any trout in the creek,” Kenny offered.

“You ain’t going to hide on me, are you?” Psycho Bob said. “My mom says I can’t go up to the Valley if you are going to tease me like you did last year.”

“Never,” Steve promised.

“Maybe we’ll catch a pheasant,” Jimmy ventured.

“We’ll have a ball,” Kenny predicted.

But once inside the wood, the boys would flee into the bush, hiding on Bob. At first Psycho Bob would laugh as if his disregard for the other boys’ actions would bring everyone out into the open again. But Psycho could not maintain this posture of indifference.

“You guys promised!” he pleaded referring to the pledge that all the boys made. Psycho’s greatest fear was to be left alone in the bush, a fear that the other boys loved to exploit.

“Bobby!” Steve would taunt from someplace near the creek.

“Bobby!” Jimmy would repeat from a treetop.

And so it would go on, taunt after taunt, until Psycho Bob was on the edge of tears. An enraged Psycho would pick up stones or sticks, anything and throw it into the bush hoping to flush the boys out.

Although the valley was not large, nor the bush so thick, still Psycho Bob would lose his sense of direction, walking in circles, pleading to be rescued. And as he walked around, the boys would throw objects at him.

“I’ll kill ya!” he would yell in a rage. “I’ll kill all of you!”

The boys would remain quiet for long periods of time. Psycho would start to whine.

“Somebody say something!” he would beg. “I don’t like this. All this silence is creepy. Are any of you still here? You didn’t leave me, did you?”

And the boys would laugh and Psycho would rage.

Eventually after stumbling half way around the valley, Psycho would find his way out, returning home in tears, taunted and teased all the way.

“What’s the matter, Bob?”

“You upset, Bob?”

“Hey Psycho, cat got your tongue?”

“Want to go back to the woods?”

“Mommy’s boy, eh little Bobby?”

Ernie O’Toole was adopted. Half Indian, Ernie had early been branded half-breed by the children in the schoolyard. But that was not the end of his misery. Barely able to read, he flunked two grades and was forced to sit in classes with children much younger than himself, in desks too small for his long legs. The older boys in the schoolyard constantly teased him. And when finally he lost his temper and picked a fight with an older boy, Ernie was beaten. But as the years passed, it was Ernie who began to initiate the fights, and Ernie who did the beating.

One day Ernie decided that it was David’s turn to be pummeled. In a gesture of disdain, Ernie warned David in the morning that he would be beaten that afternoon. Ernie also announced the fight to all the schoolyard, hoping to attract a large crowd to the exhibition.

David had three choices. First, he could complain to a teacher and be forever branded a suck. Second, he could stay at home that afternoon. But that would only delay the inevitable beating and perhaps further incense Ernie’s always volatile temper. Third, he could show up, fight, take his beating, and do his bleeding.

“Not much of a choice,” Burnham commented.

“What would you do?” David asked.

“I’d change my identity,” Burnham laughed. “Get a new name. Have plastic surgery.”

“I really don’t want to get beat up,” David said. “If my mother finds out that someone beat me up, she’ll have the police after Ernie. And then he’ll really have a reason to pound me out. There’s got to be some way out of this.”

“Would she really call the police?” Burnham asked.

David nodded.

“I’d rather get beat up everyday and twice on Sundays,” Burnham responded, “than have my parents call the cops. How could you ever live it down?”

When the recess bell rang, David reluctantly left the safety of the classroom and made his way out into the schoolyard. A crowd had already gathered.

“You’re going to get yours now,” Big Al laughed.

“I’ll go get the nurse now,” Penny said. “Might save you some blood.”

“Keep you hands up,” Flannery suggested. “And circle to the right. Ernie is right handed. And when he hits you, drop to the ground. And stay there.”

David stopped several paces from Ernie. The kids started to clap in unison. Ernie looked around and smiled. He stepped toward David. Just before Ernie reached him, David fell to the ground and curled up in a ball. Ernie looked down at him, gave him a couple of kicks in the ribs, spit on him, cursed his ancestors but eventually got bored and walked off.

“What a chicken!” Big Al cried.

Flannery shook his head.

“He may be a chicken, but he’s a smart chicken.”

The crowd of children that had gathered disbanded.

“Well,” Burnham shook his head with disappointment when David had risen to his feet and brushed himself off, “I see that you found a fourth alternative.”

“I feel completely humiliated,” David said.

“At least you’re alive,” Burnham laughed.

David sighed. “I’m not sure it was worth it.”

Jason Faresco was a shy boy. He hardly spoke to anyone, never raised his hand to ask a question in class, and seemed invisible in the schoolyard. There never was any question of Jason causing problems; he did his work quietly, and dutifully. But on this day, his number had come up.

Mr. Wickenhauser had a habit of strapping one individual each Friday afternoon in his grade seven class. It was not punishment. It was a warning. He said it gave the class something to think about over the weekend. This Friday it was Jason’s turn.

Brought to the front of the class, Jason was instructed to open his hand. Jason glanced at his classmates from beneath his lowered brow; there was sheer terror in his eyes.

“He ain’t going to make it!” Burnham whispered from the seat behind David.

“Put it out there!” Mr. Wickenhauser grinned wickedly.

The class laughed.

Jason shook his head.

“Come on, Jason,” Mr. Wickenhauser whispered in a voice only Jason could hear, “lets get this over with so we can all go about our business.”

“No!” Jason barked and stepped back toward the blackboard.

“Bad move!” Burnham whispered.

“You aren’t going to strap me,” Faresco cried. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Mr. Wickenhauser stepped toward Jason, grabbed his arm and swung. Jason pulled his hand away. The strap came slashing down on Mr. Wickenhauser’s leg. Mr. Wickenhauser cried out in pain.

“Oh shit!” Burnham cried in David’s ear.

A hush fell over the class.

Mr. Wickenhauser’s face had turned red. His eyes had dilated and the sly fox like smile that reigned over his demeanor had turned to rage. He grabbed for Jason.

Jason ran.

All the boys heads turned and watched as Mr. Wickenhauser, limping, chased the escapee to the back of the room. Cornered Jason turned and saw an open window. The class was on the second floor. Jason ran for the window and leaped. At the last moment, Flannery, seeing what was happening, tackled Jason, and held him as Jason hung out the window. Two other boys rushed over and pulled Jason back into the class. Jason began to sob with tears.

Mr. Wickenhauser was white, the anger drained from his face. He stared at Jason and then at the open window. The boys were sure that Jason’s days on this planet were numbered. Jason was taken to the principal’s office.

Monday morning Jason returned quietly to his old seat.

Sister Bernadette walked into the class with an adult the boys had never seen before.

“This is Mr. Walocachuk class. He is your new teacher.”