Heroism for Dummies - Rewrite to Flesh Out

Rafe

All the bad decisions I’ve ever made in the 18 years since my birth flash before my eyes when the motorcycle’s front wheel hits a rock and loses traction on the tangled, barely visible forest path.

I feel the skid and the vibration of the engine’s unnatural whine through the faded black jeans covering my thighs as I finally admit to myself that this was a dumb idea and I’m falling. I’ve fallen many times in my life. These memory flashes of every time I did the opposite of what I was warned not to do are just being obnoxiously dramatic, taunting me.

Bastards!

I grunt, clenching my jaw against the pain when shrubs and thorny bushes tear at me. It hurts, but they gradually slow my slide over the rough terrain and stop me from being smashed to a pulp when a tree trunk finally halts my helpless skid down the steep slope on one side of the path.

Don’t ride your bike without a helmet.

Don’t take shortcuts through the forest; it’s unsafe.

Don’t mess with Lucan Summers’ girlfriend; he’s a spoilt brat with no sense of humour.

Don’t wear Daniel’s clothes; he will kill you if you damage them.

I did, of course, do all those things... today.

After a couple of minutes of lying still, trying to assess the harm done to my body, I groan myself into a sitting position, scanning the area for my bike. Following a path of destruction consisting of broken bushes and dislodged stones, I find it lying against another tree not too far from me.

I’m seriously glad we didn’t end up against the same tree. That would’ve been less fun, especially with a hot exhaust in the mix.

I’m relieved to see that the grey hoodie I borrowed from my brother’s closet is dirty, but the fabric is not torn. Fortunately, it got pushed up, bundling under my arms with my T-shirt, so my chest, stomach, and back took most of the damage. I’m bleeding from several scrapes, but my T-shirt will protect the sweater from the blood.

Yeah! I have priorities.

I will live to see another day if I can wash Dan’s sweater before he comes home this weekend for a few days between placements. This is his favourite hoodie; he wears it all the time when he’s home during autumn or winter.

My brother is in the army. He fights for our country and for brats like me to be able to muck around and break our bones by being idiots. That’s what he told me over our scheduled bi-weekly video call when I broke my arm last year playing paintball on inline skates with some friends.

I play with fake guns while he risks his life daily with real ones... that’s what he said.

My brother is a hero.

He is my hero.

I wear his clothes because I miss him. They are a bit too big for me because Dan is built like a bull, and I’m a much leaner athlete. I like running and swimming, not contact sports. I can run away from any enemy, and they don’t stand a chance of catching me if we end up in water.

Yup, I’m the opposite of a hero.

I’m the guy who taunts heroes and then runs away from them. That’s why I’m now sitting in the woods, feeling dazed and wondering how I’ll get my bike back up this slope. Down would probably be easier, but there’s a brook down there and not much of a path. The chances of both of us landing in the water are pretty big.

It’s not that I’m not strong. I can lift heavy things and open stuck lids. It’s just that the slope is pretty steep, and there isn’t all that much to hold onto to stay on my feet except thorny bushes and tree trunks. Adding a bike to the mix will be super fun. I should just slide it from tree to tree until I reach the stream.

What could possibly go wrong?

I’m currently struggling to my feet—stretching my legs and shaking my arms to see if everything’s working—because I flirted with Sunny-Jo Malone right in front of her boyfriend. I did that while knowing full well that he loses his nice-guy attitude in fits of jealousy when other boys just breathe in his girlfriend’s direction.

It’s not that I want SJ; I just like pissing off Lucan.

He and I are no longer bothered by each other’s existence in this world. We’ve known each other for most of our lives and have nothing in common. Lucan is an upstanding pillar of society, smiling dimples at the population of our farming community. Almost everybody happily falls at his feet, humbled by his blond hair and blue-eye good looks.

I’m the guy tying pillows to my buddies and rolling them down hills.

Well, they do it to me too.

I could’ve benefitted from some of those pillows just now. My butt hurts. I’m sure there will be a huge bruise when I check later, but I first need to make it to my bike without slipping on pebbles and tripping on roots. The palms of my hands are all scraped up. They’re burning as if I set them on fire.

Lucan is our high school’s rugby star and wrestling champ. He is also a spokesperson for various local charities (run by old women who adore him) and our school’s student council president.

He was also voted the most likely to stomp on your head and knock out your teeth if you go anywhere near his girlfriend.

So why would I do a dumb thing like that?

I could answer with “because I can”, but that would be a lie. I have some good personal reasons for wanting to irritate and frustrate the guy every chance I get. I’m trying to expose him for the bastard he really is. Clenching my teeth again while I stumble my way down the slope to my bike, I push all thoughts of what Lucan did out of my mind. I don’t have time for that now.

Earlier, when I told SJ she could butter my bread anytime, I actually meant it quite literally. I just used a come-hither tone of voice and added a wink for Lucan’s benefit.

Like most of the community’s kids, I was in the town’s food court. That’s the thing about small towns and farm life. Eating is our most fun recreational activity when it comes to doing things that are both legal and safe.

Briar Hallow, the bustling town serving the farming community, has multiple small restaurants, all sharing a large square filled with tables, umbrellas, potted trees and fairy lights. It’s a fun place to kick back with friends from different groups and just chat, eat and be stupid.

I generally drift from cluster to cluster, eating the snacks they offer, hearing their latest news and making plans to hang out. Then I move on to the next group.

Alex says it’s exhausting and he just tags along for the free food, and that’s probably true. Hey, it’s not my fault people like to feed me!

Today, that was not the case, though. I ran into SJ at the condiment counter of Jam and Brew, one of the three coffee shops—and she offered to butter someone’s bread as she’d scooped too much butter onto her knife, and her scone was already covered.

She couldn’t just wipe it off in the butter dish because J&B’s manager always monitors the kids using the butter, spices, jams and sauces set out for customers, and he becomes really mad when someone gets crumbs in the condiments.

Once you’ve taken it, you’d better use it.

Samuel Pritchart is a sour guy who doesn’t fit the place’s cheerful décor promising fun, sunshine, and good times at all. He loves banning people from enjoying any of that fun, sunshine and good times.

For some reason, I keep getting banned, but fortunately Samuel has a bad memory, or he just really likes that we spend money there, so…

I was back after a few days’ ban, and I had a fresh, hot croissant. I needed butter to make it perfect, so...

When Lucan suppressed a growl, letting me know he was about to lose it, I smirked at him while SJ passed the butter from her knife to my croissant. That obviously made the guy’s suntan turn red, so I glared at him to stop him from attacking me immediately.

I didn’t want to lose the buttery croissant I’d been craving all day and couldn’t have for three days, just because I got annoyed with a clogged bottle and pressed it too hard, causing a spray of mayo over the counter’s backboard.

Technically that was not my fault! It was Samuel’s.

Fine, adding some ketchup for colour and a sprinkling of mustard to round off the artwork was probably my fault.

That’s not important!

I was no longer banned—excessive, since I cleaned the mess—and had my longed-for croissant, and was trying to glare Lucan into submission since he could probably pulverise me with his fists if he wanted to.

I’ve been told many, many, many times that my glare is terrifying. According to my sister, Eliza, the fantasy lover, it conjures up images of raging bears and fire-spitting dragons. My friends banned me from glaring at them.

I obviously glare at them all the time now.

What is it with people constantly wanting to ban me?!

The glare is pretty effective in stopping people from messing with me. Unfortunately, Lucan knows that behind the glare is a mellow guy who is too cheeky for his own good. He also knows that, though my brother taught me some effective fighting techniques, I’m never keen on using them. That’s why I never get into fights despite the fact that many people often want to kick my ass.

My glare does not affect Lucan... ever.

So, I wisely dropped into a chair near the shop exit despite the place being a bit stuffy. I ate my croissant obnoxiously slowly, enjoying the extra spice provided by Lucan when he fell into a chair at the same table and tried the whole glare thing on me.

His glare is pretty effective because he can actually follow through with some torture… and he might.

SJ was hanging onto his arm, assuring him that I just made a stupid joke because I’m an idiot and that I didn’t mean anything by it. Lucan, ever the gentleman—at least in public—allowed his dainty girlfriend to hold him back long enough for me to finish my croissant and small iced coffee while she nauseatingly fed him pieces of scone covered in butter and jam.

She was grinning the whole time. I swear she secretly likes his jealousy even when she knows it’s misplaced.

I leapt to my feet and ran outside the second my glass was empty, and I’d swallowed the last bite of my croissant. Lucan followed me, and we had a spectacular chase scene, running over the paved square, weaving nimbly among the crowded tables with people cheering us on.

Some wanted Lucan to catch me and pummel me because they’re never able to do it themselves and really want to, while most people were rooting for me to escape.

I think…

Nobody tried to stop me, so…

Lucan could never catch me in a sprint. Not because he’s slow but because I can outrun anybody as long as I don’t run into obstacles or my pursuer’s backup. I made it to my bike in one piece, only to notice that Lucan was already on his. Instead of trying to catch me, he’d run for his motorcycle, about a block further up the road from me.

Clever guy.

And he knows me too darn well!

We raced out of the town’s centre, bustling with Friday afternoon fun-seekers, and the tenacious bastard wouldn’t let up even when we were far down the road, heading to my family’s farm. Eventually, there was nothing but forest and pastures on both sides of the country road, but neither of us was slowing down.

No, it wasn’t just my deliberately flirty answer to SJ’s offer that had the guy chasing me for miles. He’s not that petty or nuts. I’ve been poking the bear all week, and the bear finally lost his marbles. It was the last straw and all that.

I should be flattered that it always upsets him so much when I flirt with SJ, even if I am the only guy who dares to do that. He might actually see me as a real threat if he reacts this strongly. I mean, what could I possibly bring to the table that he doesn’t already provide in truckloads?

It’s just weird.

Aside from the fact that I have nothing going for me (except running and swimming), SJ’s family has been our neighbours since before my dad was born. Our fathers grew up together and are still best friends.

I thought Lucan knew that SJ and I are basically siblings. We’re not even exactly close, and there’s definitely nothing romantic under the surface for either of us.

I’m a loser, and she’s always had a crush on Dan, and—as she’d just stated again earlier—she thinks I’m an idiot. We’re like family. We’re used to each other and look out for each other. That’s all.

I only flirt with her when Lucan is around.

Honestly, I was glad when SJ started dating him three years ago because, like everybody else, I genuinely thought he was a good guy.

I might be able to outrun him since I hold the sprinting record for the entire district, but my bike is not as good as his. When I saw him closing in on me, I veered off the road onto the footpath through the forbidden forest on the state-owned nature reserve side of the road.

It’s an illegal shortcut to our property.

I’ve never been here with my bike before. I’ve walked it often despite all the warnings not to. It’s not fit for even an off-road bike like mine because of all the obstacles and the massive possibility of falling and rolling down the slope to the brook... as I’ve just demonstrated spectacularly.

Generally, venturing into the woods is dangerous because of limited visibility, hidden roots and holes. Hikers and joggers who dare to ignore the threat of fines by using the obscured paths through the reserve do so in groups. If you step into a hole and break your ankle, you’ll be stranded for a long time before someone finds you.

The paths on the other side of the road are much safer because the forest is less dense, and the wooded area forms the borders between farms by skirting large fields covered by grazing sheep, cows, and horses.

I don’t think Lucan followed me into the woods.

I think he kept to the road and will probably try to reach the end of my shortcut, where it will spit me out on our land, before I do. Waiting for me there would be brilliant and highly effective.

I should’ve thought of that!

Actually, I should’ve just pulled over and let him catch up and have it out with him once and for all, but I’ve been enjoying pestering him a little too much.

No, I don’t know why!

Besides, I’m really angry at him. I might actually fight him this time. Even if he puts me in hospital, I could do some damage to him first… probably.

My best mate, Alex, told me that I’m a suicidal idiot, creating many enemies for myself by getting on Lucan’s bad side.

He knows what Lucan did.

We almost came to blows when he suggested the possibility of misunderstandings being involved, and suggested that I should try talking to the guy.

So much for unconditional loyalty!

I stuck by him during the guess-how-many competition the math teacher hosted last year to encourage us to develop mathematical formulas to determine the number of jelly beans in her jar.

Alex was accused of eating many of the jelly beans in the jar because he wanted the number closer to his result. I steadfastly professed his innocence, despite knowing that he ate a massive amount of those jelly beans.

He just didn’t do it to cheat…

The guy loves jelly beans!

The teacher unwisely decided that the best place to display the bottle for the duration of the assignment was on a small table near Alex’s desk—within his reach.

That was just cruel and unusual punishment.

We bought packets to top up the jelly beans, but when the teacher gave the answer and the formula she’d used, the class counted the beans to confirm her outcome. There were a lot fewer than she’d put in there to start with, and Alex’s calculations produced one of the five closest results.

All coincidence!

After topping it up, we never counted the beans in that bottle, and Alex is not a mathematical genius. He just did some messy calculations and wrote the number on his favourite ice hockey player’s jersey —with an extra zero at the end—as his result.

Still, despite saying disloyal—probably reasonable—stuff like that to me in private, Alex always has my back in public. Sometimes, quite literally. When I’ve done something to piss them off, and he sees them coming, he often grabs me by my shirt and shoves me into a broom closet, the girls’ bathroom or any space at hand to hide me from Lucan and his posse.

He also brings the rest of our friends whenever I get trapped, and up until now, I’ve gotten away with no more than a black eye or a split lip.

Lucan will be thrilled to know that I’m spitting blood and mud from a cut on the inside of my mouth right now, and that the abrasions on my hands and torso are giving me hell.

After a torturous slip-and-slide down the slope, during which I try not to get crushed by the bike I’m bringing with me, I reach the end of the slope in an avalanche of tiny pebbles without breaking my neck. The motorcycle is scraped up, but the engine starts on my first try. There’s no way I’ll be able to ride it down here on the narrow, overgrown strip between the slope and the water, so I resign myself to killing the engine and pushing it in what I hope is the direction of our farm.

I’ve never been down here before, and the canopy of tree branches makes it impossible to tell where exactly I am. There are no familiar landmarks visible for me to orient myself by, and I’m not sure which way I came from. I could be wrong, but I think this brook is one of many run-offs from the vast lake intersecting our farm and that of many of our neighbours. If I’m right about that, our property should be upstream.

Today, my accumulation of bad decisions has led me here. I’m stumbling along a barely existing path through a dense forest, pushing a dented bike. Every step reminds me that my T-shirt is rubbing against raw skin and my palms are bleeding over the handlebars.

I’m Rafe Daring, and I’m a moron!