I never would have thrown the rock if I thought I could hit it. Now these guys are hooting and hollering and running around yelling, Yooooooo, while this poor squirrel is dead at my feet. And I have no choice but to shake off this kill and run to my new almost friends with my arms spread wide and triumphantly say something like, That’s RIGHT, so they know I’m cool and ruthless and nothing phases me and that they should sit with me at lunchtime.

I do just that. I turn. I spread my arms. I howl like I’m supposed to and the boys howl back. They beat their chests and shout until the steam within us is boiling hot and shrieking. Nick, the walls of his container straining from the pressure, splinters off and sprints up the hill. We race after him. We push each other and grab at each other’s jackets because races have winners and losers, and you don’t want to be a clumsy, fumbling, slip and fall on your face loser. You want to be on the top of the hill because Nick decided that was the place to be and on that we all agreed.

At the top, Nick picks up the neck of a broken glass bottle and hurls it against the concrete feet of the bridge that towers above us. With telepathic understanding we scramble for the most complete bottles and begin throwing them into the wall. We throw and we pitch and we chuck until the bottles grow scarce and there are only shards of glass left to fling. It is quiet again. Snowflakes swirl at our feet. The boys kick rocks listlessly and I stand watching, waiting for the next among them to be tapped by inspiration.

The muse visits Anthony. He rushes back down the hill until his body can no longer keep up with gravity. He tucks his legs and arms in, careening down like a loose boulder. I could swear he’s bouncing five feet high with each slight bump and I watch in anticipation as he rolls to a stop. He jumps up and waves and whoops and yells, Come on! Without a second thought we tear down the hill after him, feet out to trip one another up, testing to see who can stay upright the longest.

The first roll demands a second and then a third and a fourth. Our creativity grows with each descent. We somersault down the hill or cartwheel down the hill. Some are taking running starts and diving headfirst down the hill, while others are using their backpacks as makeshift toboggans and sledding down the hill. Each trip wrings the energy from us until we’re bone dry. Exhausted, we cross the street to take a seat on the concrete fence and look out over the half frozen East River.

No one speaks. No one has anything to say. It’s all been said today with the dead squirrel and the shattered bottles and the rolls down the hill. I take the lead this time. I peel off from the fence, gather a snowball in my hands, and toss it over their heads, egging someone, anyone into a fight. But their steam has evaporated. Nick shakes his head and I sit back down, kicking my legs against the concrete balustrade. A cold wind zips up from the river flipping our scarves and ripping the jacket hoods off our heads. Let’s go to the deli, Nick declares, I’m hungry. 

Suddenly, we are all hungry too. Our stomachs growl and churn as we flip through our pockets, thumbing the dollar bills we grabbed from our parents’ junk drawers. We buy baconeggncheeses from the corner park deli and walk to a nearby bench. They are packaged in waxy baking paper and cut in half so that when you split them down the middle, one half in each hand, the steam erupts out from the center, and you are confronted with a boiling hot mass of meat and egg and cheese. We silently chew making sure to lick off any errant melted cheese that drips onto our fingers, letting the grease fall between our legs spread wide as we sit. One by one the boys finish and compress the aluminium and paper into a tight shiny ball. They take turns shooting them into a nearby garbage can yelling out, Kobe!

Then again, one by one, the boys starts to fracture and split. Our numbers dwindle until the group shrinks to that intimate size that we haven’t yet learned how to manage. After all the daps and see you at schools have been exchanged, I am left alone on the bench with my tight aluminium ball. I take a shot when no one is left to watch but it bounces off the rim and falls pitifully to the side. I dunk the ball with a flourish and set off. My feet carry me back to the start of the afternoon, the squirrel and that rock, and while I scour the hill for the devastated creature I can find no trace of it.