Sunday: The Kite of Death

I am twelve and three quarters years old, and I may not seem like much, but I’m saving the world. And not just by sorting my trash from my recycling.

Officially, I go to middle school, like a normal kid; I have problematic parents, I weigh a little too much, and I’m bad at everything. But, at least people don’t suspect me of anything. And that’s useful, given my secret second life: I’m a part-time super hero with amazing powers and a 28 year old assistant.

You think I’m crazy? I did too, that’s what I told myself at first to feel better. You know “It’s just a dream” kinda stuff. The problem is that the real nightmare? It’s reality. Or at least, what we believe to be reality. And I’m the only one who can put an end to this nightmare.

Everything began on a Sunday, thanks to XR9. XR9 is my one and only friend, and also a kite. The wildest kite on the whole beach, violet and scarlet, banded with black. It flitted like a hummingbird, soared with the slightest gust of wind, and let me feel every vibration through the strings that tied it to the control in my hands. It was freer than the sky, and yet I was its master. I loved it.

Together, we flew in any weather, through any clouds. We braved storms, and waited out calms, laid out on the sand together until the wind picked back up. We even shared blood: I wrote XR9 with a knife on my wrist, and I cut ‘Thomas Drimm’ into the apex of his sail. Except, I had to tape over the name, because it knocked the kite off balance. And so, we were linked by blood and tape, XR9 and I, and every weekend we were brothers in the wind.

When I fly with him, I forget all my troubles. The foremost of these troubles, until this Sunday afternoon, had been my mother – even if she had some extenuating circumstances. She works as head of psychology at the casino on the beach, and it’s an awful job. When people win jackpots on the machines on the lower floor, apparently it causes a terrible shock, and it’s her job to console these sudden millionaires and make sure they start their new life off on the right foot. She who keeps cramming in overtime to make sure I have enough to eat. And so, she’s always depressed around the house, but being a psychotherapist she’s not allowed to treat herself; it’s punishable by the law if they ever find her laid on a couch asking herself questions. So it falls on me. She says it’s my fault that she’s wasting her life. And it’s true in a way, due to a law called The Childhood Protection Act. Until you have children, you have the right to a divorce.

I used to have the Internet as a remedy for my mother, to chat with friends I didn’t know and take my mind off things, but ever since children were banned from the Internet for health reasons all I’ve had left is my kite on the beach, while mom works at the casino. The most beautiful beach in the World! claimed the signs hung above the trash can. Except, I was forbidden from swimming: the mercury levels were too high and the ocean was full of dead fish. The ocean has gotten so bad that, apparently, the other day a surfer went in to train and when he resurfaced it was just his skeleton standing on the board. Richard Zerbag told me that, but I think he was exaggerating. He is the Chief of Security. Either way, I’m not allowed to swim, so I fly. The kite is a gift from my father. He was very serious when he gave it to me. “It’s a symbol, you see,” he said. “Aspiration to freedom, the illusion of flying at the whim of the wind, and yet the simultaneous reality of the cord that binds us to the ground.” I got the feeling that he identified with it, either in his role as a professor of letters, or as mom’s husband. Perhaps as both. Personally, I really love my dad. I know I’m the only one, but I don’t care. I have my reasons.

Firstly, he has a terrible secret: He drinks and smokes. Except, it’s not a secret anymore since the Chief of Education found out, and she stuck him in a rotten middle school on the other side of the hood. We had to go with him, and mom has never forgiven him for this fall from the social ladder so the atmosphere at home is pretty dire. Only my kite allows me to forget the terrible life I’m living. My studies too, but since I’m an idiot that doesn’t help much.

In any case, having a dad who drinks means I have no future: it’s hereditary apparently. You catch alcoholism in your mother’s womb. Of course, he didn’t start drinking until after I was born but no one cares about that. It’s marked on my academic record, and with a stain like that I’ll never get very far. Some non-drinker’s son will always beat me out for any job I apply for, and, being refused at every turn, of course I’ll turn to drinking too; everything will fall in order, and the mark on my record won’t be a lie anymore.

Anyway, this Sunday afternoon started out like any other, and we were happy, XR9 and I, each on the proper end of our strings. But in less than 5 minutes, the worst thing in the world would happen to me.