Paper Caps
Young love can be cruel...
In primary school, I knew a curly haired boy named Marcel. His dad was British, but his mum was French, and because she wasn’t completely fluent in English, Marcel would sometimes call her a ‘cunt’, or a ‘dumb bitch who can’t drive’ to her face, and she wouldn’t get upset because she didn’t know what it meant. That’s what I thought was happening at the time, anyway.
I think Marcel was quite well-off, because his house was big, and he seemed to have all the new Playstation games, like Tony Hawk 2 and Gex. For years at school, Marcel didn’t pay any attention to me, whatsoever. I wasn’t the sort of kid someone like him would want to be seen talking to. Marcel was athletic, excelling in rugby before any of the rest of us even knew what it was. He was boisterous, and unapologetically mean - your tormentor one day, but someone who could be quite sweet the next. He wasn’t unintelligent, either. He knew about the internet, and adult things, and had visited far-off places.
I, on the other hand, was quiet, and awkward. Terrible at every single sport they threw at me. I ‘walked like a girl’ according to my classmates, and ‘talked like one too’. Both were intended as insults, of course, but I found them secretly affirming. Even so, I learned pretty quickly how to mask those parts of myself out. To rigidify just enough to feign an interest in activities, and get through the day without too much isolation.
One day though, Marcel started talking to me. I don’t know what caused this sudden change in interest, probably boredom, but I welcomed it all the same. Marcel, as cruel as he could be, was a beautiful boy. I tried not to think about it, believe me, but some facts are just inescapable. I think it might have been a shared love for South Park that initiated our first conversations. I was good at voices, and could do a mean Cartman. I was discovering that being funny could endear me to people. Sweet.
Marcel invited me to his house. It was a Saturday, and the plan was for me to be there all day. Play some video games, have some dinner… When I arrived though, Marcel wanted to show me something. He had a game he liked to play, which he called Snail Time. What he’d do was, take a roll of paper caps, little explosive strips of paper intended for a cap-gun, and he’d wrap the entire roll around the shell and body of a snail. He’d place the snail carefully down onto a wall. Grabbing a brick, he’d wish the snail ‘good luck bitch’ before hitting it as hard as he could with the brick. The caps, and the impact, would cause the snail not only to be crushed, but also to explode. The death was quick, and dramatic, and the least-cruel way, he assured me.
Marcel liked games which involved punching, also. Fire, too. His favourite though, was one he called ‘James Bond’. In his garden, he explained the rules to me.
“You run around on the grass,” he said, serious-faced. “And I’ll throw these darts at the floor, just missing you. It’s like dodging bullets. It’ll be cool”.
Young love can make you do silly things. What we would now call ‘red flags’ were, back then, just known as ‘boy stuff’. To me, the equation was simple: this is what I needed to do to ensure Marcel liked me, so this is what I was going to do. I started to run around on the grass, Marcel laughing, I expect because I ‘ran like a girl’. He threw the first dart, which pierced the grass by my feet. Marcel was laughing, which meant I was doing it right.
Suddenly, I feel an added weight to my right ankle. Then a hot stinging. I look down, and see that one of the darts is sticking out of the back of my leg. The entire metal tip is completely submerged in me. Marcel is in hysterics. Have I won now? Surprisingly, even to me, I pull the dart straight out. There is blood, but not as much as I was expecting, and forgoing a bandage (which would require Marcel’s mum finding out, and him getting in deep shit) I instead just pull up my sock and walk it off.
Marcel generously decides that ‘James Bond’ is enough torture for now, and we settle into a game of Tony Hawk 2 on his Playstation. It’s not long however until we are interrupted by a strange man entering the house. Marcel’s dad. I realise that I have never seen his dad before. Never in the playground to pick Marcel up. Never at the Christmas Fayre. He looks just like Marcel, except longer. And uglier. He has cauliflower ears and a nose that’s clearly been broken several different times, in several different ways.
Marcel is excited to see him, and I put it together myself that his parents must be divorced. He tells Marcel that he is here to take him to rugby, which he had clearly forgotten all about. Marcel doesn’t apologise to me about the mix up, he just starts to grab his kit. Marcel’s dad sits down next to me, disrupting my Tony Hawk run, which I’ve waited so patiently to get a go on. He asks me if I play rugby. I tell him “not really”, but he sees through it immediately. He knows that there’s no ambiguity. He knows I don’t. He knows what I am.
I can feel Marcel’s dad’s judgement and disdain for me, thick in the air like burnt hair. I can tell he’s surprised; that his son would befriend such a person. Such a wimpy girl. Halfheartedly, Marcel asks if I want to come. I do him a favour, and say no. I can feel both his and his dad’s relief. Mine, too.
“You’re gonna stay for dinner though yeah?”
I’m not sure how this is supposed to work, exactly. Do I just stay here, in his house? I tell him “sure”, and before I can think any further ahead, they’re gone. I’m left sitting in Marcel’s living room alone, Tony Hawk all to myself, imagining the conversation Marcel and his dad must be having in the car.
“Why are you hanging out with that little poof? What are you playing at?”
Marcel’s mum enters the lounge, and offers me a drink. She asks if I want anything to eat - a sandwich? Some crisps? Her English is good, actually. Far better than Marcel would have you believe. I turn off the Playstation, and decide that I should probably go home. She hands me a can of Coke and sits down on the sofa next to me. She turns the TV over to some daytime Australian soap opera. We don’t talk too much, but it’s a relief. The most at ease I’ve felt all day.
Marcel’s mum says Marcel and his dad might be some time. They might also eat dinner out. She offers to drive me home, if I want. Marcel’s mum is beautiful, I notice. Her black bob, neat and elegantly chic. Her slip on brown mules, clearly from somewhere expensive. Her dark shade of lipstick, in perfect sync with the rest of her outfit. Something on the TV makes her cackle, and as she does, she places one hand on my shoulder - inviting me to laugh along too.
She starts up the car as if it’s the first time she ever has, searching exasperatedly for the right levers and buttons to make it ‘go’. On her face, a large pair of glamorous sunglasses which make her look like an old Hollywood starlet. As we set off towards my house, the energy in the car is so different to back at the house. Unlike Marcel’s dad, I can feel that his mum actually likes me. The weaknesses his dad sensed in me, and hated, are invitations to fun for her. While Marcel was home, she hid away. Here though, she’s in her element - singing along to music on the radio and laughing at silly dogs she sees along the way.
As I get out of the car, I thank Marcel’s mum for having me - something my parents always taught me to do. As small a gesture as it is, she seems genuinely touched by it. I wonder when the last time was that someone thanked her for anything? Outside my house, I watch as she drives away. I can’t help but feel sad that I’ll never get to hang out with her again, but I’ve decided already that this’ll be the last time I visit Marcel’s house.
Because I’m sure that, next time, those paper caps, and that brick, are going to be for me.