Foundation of Smoke and Steel

OFF TOPIC - The Series that has not been Named

"Hey, Wes! Earth to Wes!"I blinked.

The bus rumbled beneath me, transporting me back to reality and away from the battle I'd been buried in. Blue eyes, blonde hair, upturned nose, rosy cheeks. Emma. My childhood friend and neighbor, who I hadn't seen in months and who was looking at me right now with the particular brand of concern she reserved for moments when she suspected I'd lost the plot of being a person.

"Sorry," I mumbled. Caught daydreaming. Again. "Got pulled in."

"Of course you did, Wes." She slid into the seat next to me. "What are you reading?"

I shrugged. "Typical. High fantasy. Interesting one, where they don't really name the characters by their actual names. They just call them by their race. Like it's a title or something. Human. Elf. Dwarf. Beautiful Catgirl. The whole crew."

Emma smiled. "Sounds confusing. And racist."

"Racist against who, exactly?"

"People are not their race, Wesley. Even fantasy ones. And why is the description of the catgirl beautiful? Like it's a predetermined thing?"

"Because it is a predetermined thing. Who wants to write about an ugly catgirl? Obviously." I closed the book on my finger. "On a totally unrelated topic, when did you get back?"

Emma sighed. "Mom and I got back last night. It would've been earlier, but Mom and Dad got into it again. It was at a bowling alley this time, with my cousins around. Not fun. I bowled my high score, though."

"Twenty-three?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Twenty-seven. And shut up."

I chuckled. "What were they fighting about that kept you from coming home until right before school?"

She shrugged. "I lose track. It wasn't a total bust though. Look what Mom got me as an apology."

She pulled out a brand new smartphone. A fancy one too.

I put up my hands in mock fear. "Keep that thing away from me. I don't want to catch consumerism from you."

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"Okay, Marxist. Relax. You're not going to catch the TikTok bug."

"I think you mean Maoist. And that's incredibly rude to say."

Emma turned to look at me. "Why is that exactly?"

I laughed. "Honestly, I'm not sure. You'd have to ask my dad."

"I don't think I have time for another lecture on capitalism."

"Then take my word for it."

"Never."

Her eyes locked on mine and we both smiled. Emma had killer eyes and a great smile, and there was a reason she got her way with schoolmates and teachers alike. The eye contact went on a beat too long. Color started to creep up her neck, and I looked at the seatback in front of us until it stopped.

"I walked to the treehouse last night," she said. "You weren't there. Give up on living in it?"

I gave her a withering eye-full. "Of course not. There was no way my dad was going to let me sleep in the treehouse the night before the first day of school."

"Sure, sure." She turned to face forward. "So what did you do all summer? Besides read."

I gave her a pointed look and snorted.

She turned back. "You didn't?"

"I didn't what."

"You didn't spend the entire summer sitting in your treehouse reading and picking your nose."

"How dare you. You know I have kung fu twice a week."

"So you went to kung fu twice a week and then sat in your treehouse and read and picked your nose."

She glared. "Better?"

"Much better. Still not totally accurate."

She raised an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

"Just what I said."

Her gaze flicked to the spiral notebook sticking up out of my backpack. Spine cracked, pages dog-eared, sticky notes in three colors.

"So how does it compare to your book?"

My face went red.

She was talking about my manuscript, of course. The thing in my backpack. The thing I wrote on paper because the words flowed better that way, even though it meant the whole project was a disaster of crossed-out paragraphs, arrows pointing at sections that needed to be moved, and post-its with plot points and easter eggs stuck to pages they no longer belonged on. Less organized. Harder to track changes. But the story came to fruition in that medium in a way that it didn't on a screen.

"What do you mean how does it compare. Of course it's way better. This—" I glanced at the cover. "This gal is a published author. I'm a thirteen-year-old nobody. It's not even a contest."

Emma's expression was placid. "You know if you'd just let me read it, I could give you some feedback. I'm sure it's great."

"Actually," I said, before she could really land the request. She was going to ask. I was going to say no. It would make her sad. I'd rather skip the whole thing. "I should tell you about some annoying stuff that happened a couple weeks into the break. I was in the treehouse, minding my own business, when—"

The bus came to an abrupt stop.

A chorus of groans went up. Outside, Firelake Middle School's parking lot was the same disaster it always was on the first day. Yelling parents. Yelling teachers. Yelling staff trying to direct the tide of incoming cars and buses through the controlled stress of opening morning. The school had been bursting at the seams two years ago. It hadn't gotten any roomier.

Emma and I stood and shuffled into the line to exit the bus. A nice older lady with dark skin and white hair ushered us forward. Older but strong. I didn't know her last name. We just called her Ms. Constance.

She gave us a warm smile as we stepped down.

"Come now, children. This way. Don't dally. Oh, Connie, blessed child, it's good to see you again. No, no, darling, we'll catch up later. Hello, Collin. I swear, boy, you are growing like a weed. You make sure you behave today and make your sweet mother proud."

She caught sight of Emma and me and broke into a bigger smile. Emma slipped under her arm for a one-armed hug.

"Oh, dearest Emma. You get more beautiful every time I see you."

Emma beamed. "You hear that, Wes? More beautiful every time. You should be taking notes."

I sighed theatrically. "Take notes on what. How to lie effectively?"

Emma and Ms. Constance both glared at me, though Ms. Constance's glare lacked some of the sharper edges I knew she possessed.

She turned back to Emma. "We'll catch up later, child. You get yourself to the quad and stay out of trouble." Then she glanced at me. "That goes double for you, Wesley."

I put a hand to my chest. "Trouble? Whatever do you mean?"

"Get moving, boy."

We did just that.

The throng of students moved toward the playground area the elementary and middle schools shared. As is the natural inclination of twelve and thirteen-year-olds, most of the seventh and eighth graders talked, shared videos, and migrated into smaller cliques. Girls eyed boys. Boys eyed girls. There was a whole lot of tedium that came with the reaction.

I find the whole mess completely annoying.

Emma and I walked together, looking for an unoccupied piece of grounds to congregate, for lack of a better term. There seemed to be commotion everywhere, which was odd, because nothing ever happened here. We live in Washington. Not the cool part with billionaires and jets. We live near a rainforest. Yeah, you heard right. A rainforest in Washington. It's true. Look it up.

Anyway. Nothing ever happens here. So the fact that people were making a fuss at our middle school was unusual.

Granted, I think I knew what it was about.

That's when I saw Aiden, Samuel, Liam, and Beckett. Four boys. All in our class. Four... I don't want to say idiots.

But I'm going to. Four idiots.

They were crowded around Tate, doing something. I couldn't see exactly what.

There was a commotion. Some yelling. Something that sounded like a smack. Emma turned, and I watched her eyes narrow. She gripped the back of the bench beside us. I followed her gaze and saw what she'd seen, the four idiots tormenting Tate.

I knew Tate by name and not much more. Two seats over in fifth-grade math. Once, in fourth grade, he'd drawn a perfect map of Middle Earth on the back of a quiz. I'd never forgotten the map. He'd gotten the Misty Mountains right, which is harder than people think. I'd never told him I remembered.

He was small. Quiet. Held himself with the I-am-not-here posture, the one you used when being seen was the worst available option. I knew it because I used it too.

"Come on," Emma said. The determination was already in her eyes. She stood. "We're going to put a stop to this."

"Us?" I stuttered. The apprehension at confronting the bullies was warring with my desire to help Tate and not look like a total fool in front of my oldest friend.

"Yep, us." She pulled me to my feet. "If we don't stand up to them, who will?"

I ran after Emma.