• In-destroyable, un-harmable. You get the point. He couldn’t be hurt. Some say he was indestructible, others say it was just fake. There was something strange about him; the eerie silence and the freezing cold air that could stop anyone’s blood. Yes, it was him, and he walked into the cafeteria like any other 8th grader, but something was strange. There it was, the way people would walk around tables to avoid him, the way people would end their conversations when he walked by and started it again when he was out of an earshot. This was it, the shunning from the rest of society, most people pretended that he wasn’t there, some asked for class schedule changes because of him. It was that he was different, he wasn’t very tall, he stood at about 5 feet tall exactly, and his midnight black hair covered his eyes as he ate, but that didn’t really matter. It wasn’t how he looked that scared everyone; it was what he could do. To be more specific, what he couldn’t do.
    The boy was amazing at everything, he could hurt himself so bad that it would make even the toughest kids cry, but all he would do is stand up and keep on going. There was that day so long ago when he transferred here. His name is Don Hearthswell. He moved from Canada, but he didn’t say where exactly from. All we knew was that there was something weird about him; being the new kid is hard, I was it for two years, in 3rd grade I moved here. I couldn’t fit in with the school; the other 3rd graders hit me with swords made out of Lego’s every time I would get near the slide at recess. So I spent most my time in the dark recesses of the library. Now what were we talking about?
    Oh yes, Don. Last year, the staircase incident proved what we doubted about Don. One of the many class clowns, Billy Bayer, tripped him while he was walking down to his locker. But instead of there being a bloody mess, we beheld dents on stairs 3, 7, and 9. A crater nearly 2 inches deep at the bottom of the steps is still there, and we are all still tripping on it. Even the teachers fear him. He has his hood up all day long, or he keeps his hat on, which is against school policy. The teachers won’t tell him to put it down.
    His signature hood was like a shark fin at the beach. When everyone saw it, there immediate reaction was: RUN! Its grey and green mottled color made him nearly blend into thin air. It was creepy how he seemed to appear out of nowhere. He had no friends, and didn’t really care what he was doing. There are many stories about him, but I’m here to separate fact from fiction.
    You see, my name is Klyde. Just Klyde. You can’t deny his existence, you can feel it, once you get near him it’s like someone put an ice cube down your pants (and as a constant bully victim it wouldn’t be my first time). Some people say your blood freezes in your veins if you get to close. This is just a myth, I would know, if it were true I would be a Klyde-sicle in the shop-right freezer section, aisle 7.
    Time for another flashback. It all started at the beginning of the eight grade year, when I went to my second period class. Right as I opened the door, I felt the cool, subzero breeze on my face. This wasn’t your ordinary breeze; it hung around like salmonella on post-thanksgiving and seemed to get colder as I got into my seat.
    “Hello.” the voice cut clearly through the air. It sounded like sand paper on piping.
    Startled. It seemed to be ages until my brain finally recognized the scene. A boy, sitting down in the chair, next to me. Good observation, Capitan Point-Out-The-Obvious I thought to myself. Did he say something or was it my imagination?
    “Hello.” I took the safe route; an easy hello can be imposed as a greeting and a response, right?
    Then the bell rang, the bell, the messiah of all students. It was like the rope hanging down to whisk us away from our troubles. Speaking of ropes, the gym class rope test is today. All I need to do is get to the 10th knot. Gym class, my nemesis, what poor moronic sap devised a class where many different people of different strengths and statures combined. The locker rooms were bad enough, towel whipping and all that, but I gritted my teeth as it was my turn to climb the rope. I clutched my fingers around the tight knots as I prepared to be “physically educated”. 1st knot, easy as pie, I jumped right over it. 3rd knot, a little lactic acids burning but nothing much, my arms began to get the groove of it. 6th knot, wow, this was tiring. 8th knot, MY ARMS ARE GOING TO FALL OFF, CALL THE PARAMEDICS! 10th knot, thank god, I’ve made it. Only at the tenth knot did I notice that the sweat on my left arm didn’t just start to cool, it began to freeze. Blending into the rope next to me was Don.
    He released a big grin as he, uncaringly may I add, released one arm to wave to me from the top of the no knot rope. He ventured where the bravest fear to go, where angels fear to tread, the top of the no knot rope. Once there from inside his sweatshirt pocket he pulled out a black expo marker and pulled the cap off between his teeth. He took caution writing his name on the prestigious list of daredevils. His name was the most noticeable from the other three.



    The List:
    1. Joe Grander
    2. Godfrey Olives
    3. Jeana Helens
    4. DON HEARTHSWELL

    He began to admire every curve of the letters as the gym teacher yelled,
    “It’s time for another victim!” Or at least that was what I translated.
    And that was when Don just let go. He didn’t bother climbing down, he just let go and fell with a big grin on his face. He hit the ground with a thump the made the gym teachers jump at least to the top of the rope and back. But instead of the normal gory mess, he simply got up and brushed of the dust from the mats, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
    “See ya tomorrow,” Don said as we walked to the busses for the end of another day.


    You see, our school is Center Ridge Middle school. It’s a big city school, now three years ago there was a gunman, Paul Bertanski, you probably heard about. If you didn’t I will fill you in anyway, he was a murderer, went on really big slaughter fests. Well, it seems the astrophysics book is for more than wasting time and taking space. Because before you invade a school as a gunman, make sure their text books aren’t over 500 pages. The downfall of the mighty Paul was our astrophysics science book to the face. The book knocked out Paul long enough for two of the class bullies to hang his underwear on the flag pole and tie him to the jungle gym.
    It was good bye Paul from then on. But every good thing must come to an end, and after an accident free 360 days, something was bound to happen. It was seventh period, the intruder alarm went off and everyone dived into their class rooms like a nuke was going to hit the school. This nuke would be Nate Yurgo, the Transylvanian Terror. Responsible for more the 27 child deaths and was on the move. The alarm was going off and there was only one student in the hall, getting his English books. I wasn’t there but it probably went like this:

    Nate entered the hallway, his gun in his hand, and a thirst for blood on his mind. Fresh prey probably entered Nate’s mind as he saw Don at his locked.
    “KID,” he shouted right at Don in his thick accent.
    “MAN,” replied Don mockingly in the same accent.
    Nate wasn’t going to give this kid a warning, he pulled his trigger three times. The first bullet blew through Dons binder. The second pierced through his shirt and broke on contact with his skin and the third dented his locker.
    Don watched a piece of paper with a hole through it fly from his binder.
    “THAT WAS MY HOMEWORK!” yelled Don at the gun man, “AND THIS WAS A NEW SHIRT!”
    Don approached the gunman with rage in his eyes, while the gun man began to fire. Then he stumbled to reload, nearly dropping the bullets as Don approached relentlessly. But instead of punching the gun man in the face, Don stuffed his finger up the barrel while the gunman pulled the trigger. And the gun burst, pieces of metal flying, knocking out the gunman.
    “And how did you do it?” asked the T.V. reporter not to Don, to another one of the bullies who tied up the gunman.
    While he responded, I would bet all my allowance that the thought of telling the truth never crossed his mind for a second.


    It was the first dance of the year, three days to get a date. I was hopeless and so was Don, but I never told him. DAY 1: Don would give out pick up lines like greeting cards. “Do you believe in love at first sight, or do I have to walk by again?” he would say when he walked by a girl. A guy like Don might have not made it to high school if it wasn’t for his indestructibility. Even at that, his grades were slipping from C’s and B’s to D’s.
    DAY 2: This day Don was more careful with who he tried to pick, but there were so many kids at our school, you can’t know all their names.
    Day 3: This was the last day; I invited Don to my house before the dance, by the look on his face it was probably the first time he’s ever been invited to another person’s house. I kinda felt sorry for him.
    The night of the dance, Don came to my house. You should have been there to see that disaster. First, the oven stopped working, so my mom ordered Chinese. Don, as always, was wearing his mottled green-gray hood. My mom enjoys talking using her hands, and Don was always standing right behind her when she was. Blatantly, my mom kept hitting Don with her elbows.
    Well, this ended up freaking her out, how he was always there. She ended up telling us just to walk to the ten blocks to the dance. When we entered the dance room, I think the music skipped a beat and the entire room froze. Time stood still for a second, as we entered the room, everybody was with someone.
    All the girls who weren’t with anyone were in packs. Maybe I would ask one out, but their packs are so intimidating. It’s like a pack of wolves or lions, and if you go in you’re not going to come out. Don and I made our way to the snack room.
    “The roof!” randomly burst out of Don’s mouth.
    “ruhuh?” I said with an airhead shoved in my mouth. I would grabs the end of the wrappers and shake them so the air head got smaller and flavorful. Yes, its lame, but it’s what my friend Chris taught me before he moved in 6th grade.
    “The roof, let’s go there, there’s no one up there,” said Don.
    And through a serious of unexplainable events, Don stealing one of the janitor keys.
    “The master key is missing, that’s strange,” stated Don before he grabbed the key ring.
    “That’s not a problem is it?” I asked nervously.
    “Nope,” Don replied before running to the trap door.
    He jammed the key into the lock and had a surprised look on his face as he went to turn it.
    “It’s open…,” He said as the trapdoor fell and the ladder hit the floor.
    He climbed up quickly and shouted “HELLO!”
    The words echoed through the night into silence. But, as I look out on the roof top, I can make out a figure by the horizon’s light.
    “Nice out here, isn’t it?” Don said to me while I was off daydreaming about if I had a date.
    “Yea,” I mumbled back to him.
    I could hear the echo of a sob just beneath the noise of the wind. And then I saw it, as if in slow motion. Beside us, the sobbing figure was none other than Lisa Yeanor. Tears ran down her cheeks as she walked next to Don. She attempted to sit next to us, which was odd; no girl would want to sit next to us… unless. I didn’t even get to finish the thought as Lisa’s boyfriend climbed up the trapdoor as if on cue with a baseball bat.
    “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY GIRLFRIEND?” Yelled Jack Wetner, school football star, at Don Hearthswell, the most infamous boy in the entire school. Don just released a simple laugh, he was being used, Time to play along Don thought to himself.
    “Are you sure you want to know?” he said, his face taunting Jack to do something.
    “Come on Lisa, let’s go back to the dance,” he said as he grabbed Lisa arm and escorted her down the stairs, arms together as if they were at the Grammys. Lisa looked back and mouthed the words “thank you” to Don, and he mouthed back “No problem”.
    As Lisa went down Jack stayed up with us and told her to go back to the dance. He grabbed the baseball bat and started walking towards Don.
    “So. What. Were. You. Doing. With. My. Girlfriend?” he said, each time taking a swing at Don, having no effect on him. The last time, Don stuck his hand up and grabbed the bat; it crumbled in his hand like stale bread. He picked up Jack by his shirt collar and held him over the edge of the building.
    “I don’t think that’s any of your business, if you want to know, ask your girlfriend. She was the one sobbing up here,” Stated Don bluntly. I tell you, it was no easy task to pick up Jack Wetner; the 140 pound jock was struggling to be put down.
    “The more you struggle, the more likely I’ll drop you,” said Don before he put down Wetner, who darted faster towards the trapdoor than a rabbit could for its burrow.
    And that was the day I learned to never piss off Don Hearthswell.
    It was also the day I made eye contact with a girl. While I walked into the dance room, I looked around. Don was moving through the crowd like a wisp of smoke through a city. And then I saw it, it was a glimmer in the corner of my eye, and I stared directly into the eyes of a girl. For most guys that would be nothing, but (not counting family time) I’ve never made eye contact with a girl. Don was still moving through the crowed, they gray part of his hood glowed in the black light, so it was easy to identify him. Or at least what I thought was him, until he appeared behind me like a ghost out of its grave.
    “Well, let’s go to the snack room.” Don said in his commanding voice.
    And the snack room was where we stayed for the entire dance. We walked back to my house, where Don was staying for the night, until we heard it.
    Sirens of a fire, truck Don bolted after them only to find himself in front of a burning apartment. He pulled his shirt off and ran into the building without a care in the world. I sat there for thirty minutes, fingers and toes crossed. Not for Don, he could take care for himself, but for the people inside. But you probably want to know what happened on the inside; well I guess it went like this:
    Don ran to the top level of the burning building,
    “HELLO,” He yelled through the flames. In response, he got the crying of a baby and the baby’s mother praying.
    He smashed his way through the closed door.
    Then simply slumped the mother over his shoulder like a sack of rice and carried the baby in his left arm.
    Don worked his way from the top of the building down.
    “FOLLOW ME,” he would yell into the rooms.
    Before anyone else could pass them, Don stomped out the smaller fires and ran down the stair. He gave the fireman at the bottom of the stairs the baby and the child.
    He needed to take a second trip. He ran back up and down to find no one, and simply walked out the building like nothing happened. Bare-chested and covered in ashes, no one but Klyde cheered for Don when he came out.
    Before Don jumped into the pond to get the ashes off, he told me “I do good deeds so they can be done, not to be recognized.” Don came out of the pond as fresh as a summer rose, unlike the three dead fish floating stomach up in the water.
    Don stuck out his hand and said “Shirt please.”
    I threw the shirt at Don so hard that it would have knocked over Jack Wetner, but it didn’t affect Don. “We’re late; my mom’s going to kill us!”
    And we walked away from the pond in the park laughing about random things that we enjoyed talking about.



    His midnight black hair covered his eyes that day at lunch, while he ate. People walked around our deserted table like any other day, but now today we became our own level of the social food chain. Everyone heard about the Wetner incident, whether they thought it was good or bad, I didn’t know. But at least I’m on the chain, even if it means I’m far away from the rest of society, I’m stilled marked on it.

    That gym class we go a free period, and while Don was doing something on the rope, the rest of us were playing dodgeball. Wait, what was Don doing? He had his pen and a piece of paper and was…copying the other names on the list of prestigious daredevils. Then, once again, he dropped down and made another 1 inch deep crater.
    “Who are these people?” he asked.
    “Huh?” I replied
    “The list!” he said pointing to the list of daredevils copy in his hand.
    “Oh! Well you see, the list of prestigious daredevils is made up of now 4 people. One of them is you; the other three are now in other middle schools from the same county. In fifth grade, we had 3 of the county middle schools come here to test on our rope, because theirs had snapped and they needed to get a replacement.
    “The list started with Joe, who was the first to make it to the top. Then Godfrey and Jeanna.” I said while avoiding the incoming hail fire of dodgeballs at my face. Yes, I’m multitalented, dodging and storytelling. But it was Don who really started the game, the minute he picked up the ball; I sensed he had the gift. The gift of a thrower. This was realized by the other team after a ball had sunk into Billy Bayer’s skull. And then all heck (I censored this, if my mom read the real word she’d ground me for eternity) broke loose. It was like a World War Two battle zone. Many casualties were taken, but in the end, we stood victorious!
    “Having fun?” I asked Don while avoiding towel whips in the locker room.
    “Of course I am,” He answered.
    As we were talking, Billy Bayer walked by us, and he had a bruise the size of Everest and an icepack on it.