A Dance With Ghosts

The Boy's Floor

It was a toy truck. Red. Remote controlled. A gift from his brother for his thirteenth birthday last week.

A piece of its paint had already started peeling off due to several too many bumps and crashes into the walls, the desk, the bed. He picked at it absentmindedly.

Alone in the room, and relieved that his roommate wasn't back yet, he climbed into his bed. He had the upper bunk. Outside, the hallway was silent. He wondered where his roommate was.

Two months. Two months since he'd moved into the dorms, into this narrow corner room on this all-boys floor. A sigh escaped him.

Rolling onto his back, he raised the truck up in the air to eye level. The red of the truck was a dash of color in the otherwise blandly decorated room. He couldn't look away. Its redness was mesmerizing. It was so bright.

He had been working on his essay when his roommate asked to play with the truck. Next thing he knew, there was an entire group of boys, crowding into their room. It got too loud for him to keep on writing and so he stopped. He welcomed the distraction, because it was his truck and they were having fun playing with his truck and he felt included and not awkward at all, because it was his truck.

And when his truck crashed into the wall, flipping over with its wheels turning in the air, they'd looked to him. It's okay, it can still drive, just a bit of chipped paint, don't worry about it. And it was fine, because he'd said so and it was his truck.

It was his roommate who came up with the idea.

A simple game. Drive the car down the hall of the girls' floor one story below. Then go down and get it back. A venture into the forbidden realm – the truck was just the excuse they needed.

Laughter. What a great idea, what fun. Excitement was building. They could hardly wait.

"I think you should do it." Cutting through the chatter, his roommate's voice. "It is your car. You should have the honor." And it was quiet, all eyes on him. He could feel the heat of their gaze. He didn't know where to look.

"I should do it?" He repeated. His throat was too dry. He coughed to clear it.

"Yeah! You should be the one to go get the car!"

There was a loud laugh from one of the boys. He was shushed.

"I don't know." He was still the center of attention. "What would I say if I ran into somebody? It'd – I don't –"

"That's what makes it fun!"

He opened his mouth, closed it, tried to think of a response. They took his silence for agreement.

And he was swallowed up into the crowd. There seemed to be more people present than he'd thought. The truck was back in his hands. He was outside of the room. He was marched down the hallway. He was by the staircase.

"Go on!"

They were laughing now. Excited. Excited to watch someone break the rules and enter into forbidden territory. Excited to watch him do it.

Excited to watch him get flustered when attempting to explain himself to the girls below. Excited to watch him make a fool of himself. Excited to have him be the butt of this elaborate joke.

What are you waiting for? A shout. A push. It's gonna be awesome.

Even now, alone in his room, he could still hear the annoyance in his roommate's voice, saying that he was making a big deal out of nothing and that it was just a joke, why did he have to take it so seriously. The chorus of disappointed complaints echoed in his ears. Game ruined. Fun killer. Stupid truck.

When he had turned his back and pushed his way out the crowd at the stairway, there had been a brief moment of silence. He could feel their stares. He could feel the wheel of the truck digging into his palm. For a split second, he almost turned back, did as they wanted, drove the stupid truck down the stupid hallway for their stupid game. It would've been something he could've laughed about, with them, later.

But then the moment passed, and it was too late to turn back. His feet propelled him back, back towards his room. Too late to turn back.

He felt like he ought to go and apologize, though he wasn't sure what for. Maybe for ruining their fun. Maybe for agreeing to play their game.

The red truck felt small in his grip. It was barely larger than his hand. The piece of paint gave away under his fidgeting fingers. He flicked it onto the floor.

Except he hadn't agreed to it, and he didn't feel like leaving his bed.