Though Piers had been invited to show up early for dinner, he arrived only shortly before six p.m. There had been many things to do that Saturday. He'd been to the hospital that day. The hospital always made Piers feel a little down, but when he knocked on the door and entered the Piccolo household, he saw the kind of family activity he'd wished he had at his own home. His house was excessively quiet, like a library. The Piccolo house seemed like a carnival by comparison.
Lloyd answered the door and ushered him in. "What's up, Piers?"
"Hello, Lloyd," Piers answered. It always gave Piers a pleasant little shock to suddenly find himself hanging out with one of the most popular kids (and still rising) in the 9th grade.
"Whatcha been up to today?" Lloyd asked.
"My grandmother had dialysis this afternoon. I had to help my mother take her to the hospital and back. Otherwise, I would have come earlier."
"Well, you're right on time, actually."
"Oh, good."
"It's a special night, tonight."
"Really?"
"My dad is revealing one of his new recipes. We get to be guinea pigs."
"A new recipe? Your father is a cook?"
"He's a veterinarian, actually."
"Oh, I knew that. I just meant..."
"I know you know. I'm just kidding. He's got a cooking blog."
"Really? Wow."
Lloyd shook his head. "It's not a 'wow' kind of thing."
On the floor, Bethany was playing with Diana, fooling around with her My Little Ponies. When Piers got too close it set Diana off like a bear trap. She ran at him and tackled him in the legs. "Chizzzzzbergerrrrr!"
Piers put up his hands like he was being arrested. He'd never spent much time around little kids. "What do I do?" he asked Lloyd.
Lloyd gave him a quizzical look. "Get her a cheeseburger, Piers. Jeeze. She came right out and asked for one."
Floyd came down the stairs with the huge Blame thumping behind him. "Hey, Piers," Floyd greeted.
"Hey," said Piers. Diana was eating one of his knees now, and he still didn't know what to do. Lloyd wasn't motivated to help him out, so Floyd stepped in.
"Hey, let's play with your ponies, Diana," he said. He bent down and started making one of her ponies dance. "Look at her go, Diana! Look at her go! She's dancing!"
Diana dove on the floor, throwing her body on the toy then rolling around with it. Bethany snorted in annoyance. "You're making her go crazy, Floyd!"
"Sorry," he said, stepping back.
Pauline came out of the kitchen, looking annoyed herself. "Your father's invention is almost ready."
"Jeez," said Lloyd, wincing. "What is it?"
"Oh, he's being secretive. It's an entree and dessert mixed together, apparently. Hello, Piers," she greeted.
"Hello," Piers answered. He seemed far more at ease without Diana eating his legs. "Thank you for inviting me to dinner."
"You're welcome. Lloyd, set the table."
Lloyd nodded then zipped off past the dining room table and into the kitchen, when he came out with a handful of silverware and napkins he was making a strange face. He looked at Floyd, his head gesturing at the kitchen. "I have no idea what's going on in there."
"Your father invents food?" Piers asked Floyd.
Floyd nodded, not with pride. "Yeah."
"What sorts of things has he come up with?"
Floyd crossed his arms, becoming pensive. "Hmm. Well, the one that stands out the most in my mind is Arctic Rice."
"Arctic Rice? What's in that?"
"Basically, white rice and vanilla ice cream. But there's a lot more in it that I never asked about. All sorts of things."
"Wow," said Piers. "That sounds interesting. We eat a lot of spaghetti at home," said Piers. "Spaghetti and meatballs. Sometimes I make the meatballs myself."
"You can make meatballs?" asked Floyd.
"Yes."
"That's cool. I didn't even know people made meatballs.”
“Where did you think they came from?”
“I just thought that you bought them. That’s where they came from."
"You can make a meal just out of the meatballs alone. There's so many things you can do with them. I've been watching cooking lessons on Youtube. I can make stuffed cabbage, too, now. Of course, there's a lot of things my grandmother can't eat anymore. I'm going to learn how to make a couple fish recipes."
"When do you have time to do this, Piers? You already do so much."
The boy fixed his glasses, again. "Oh, well, I find time if I have to. Anyway, I don't have to do it all the time. It's just sometimes."
Martin came out of the kitchen with a tray covered in foil. He looked immensely pleased with himself. "Here it is! Butts in seats! Butts in seats!"
Everyone got seated while Martin stood and waited, his arm itchy to yank away the foil and reveal his new creation. "Ready?" he asked.
Everyone nodded or did something to show consent. At least half of them were genuinely curious. Martin reached out and snatched away the foil covering. "It's New Orleans meets Betty Crocker. I give you...Barbecue Shrimp Brownies!"
Nobody reacted. That was a victory to Martin. It wasn't always the case. In the case of this meal, his family seemed willing to defer judgment until later, so he confidently slapped a brownie on each plate. The silence that followed the first few bites, however, made him nervous. There was a tense moment when Martin was certain he'd created another bomb. It was Bananas and Lox, all over again. Lloyd was the first to speak up.
"Thumbs up, Dad," Lloyd said. "I had my doubts. Thumbs up."
"Yeah, Dad. Me, too," said Floyd.
Pauline licked a finger. "I think you should let me help you with the brownie batter next time, Martin. The idea is solid, though."
Bethany picked at her food like it was a pile of spider legs. She was clearly not a fan. Martin was sure he'd end up whipping together some shells and cheese, later, as an apology.
Martin turned to Piers. "What did you think, Piers?"
Piers nodded. His glasses were far down on his nose now, which was a sign that he was at ease. "I like it."
"Well," Martin announced proudly. "It’s a hit!"
Three weeks after the first drama club meeting the Piccolo brothers arrived at school to find a commotion around the outside of the theater, right near where they happened to enter the school that morning. Kids were gathered around the billboard. There seemed to be some kind of bafflement in the air. The students were clustered into conversations. When they got there, Lloyd spoke to someone on the edge of the crowd. It was an African-American boy named Darryl. One of Lloyd’s many friends. “What’s up?”
Darryl turned around. “They changed the play.”
“They did?” Lloyd said.
“Now the play’s called Gladiator.”
Lloyd was surprised. “Gladiator? You mean that movie with Superman’s dad?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
The children absorbed this for a moment, their heads slightly tilted, like a dog’s when you do a magic trick right in its face.
“Do people even talk in that movie?” said Lloyd. “I just remember people being chopped up with, like, really short swords.”
Floyd was pensive. “There aren’t a lot of roles for girls in that. I think there’s only one girl, uh, woman, in the whole movie. It’s pretty much all boys.”
“I guess girls are going to have to play gladiators,” said Darryl.
Lloyd shook his head. “Nah. It can’t be that Gladiator.”
Floyd shrugged. “We’ll see, I guess.”
“That Gladiator’s got blood and guts flying everywhere. It’s way too awesome for theater.”
“Let’s look at the flier,” Floyd suggested. So, the brothers pushed through the crowd up to the billboard. The flier said: NEW PLAY BEING SCHEDULED! GLADIATOR! NEW AUDITIONS BEING HELD SOON!
“It doesn’t say Almost, Maine has been canceled,” said Floyd. Not that that would have bothered Floyd all that much, to tell the truth. As far as he could tell, everyone liked it but him.
“I’m gonna look this up,” said Lloyd, pulling out his phone. A minute later, he shook his head. “No play called Gladiator,” he said to Floyd. “Maybe Mr. Moderick wrote a new play.”
Floyd nodded. “Oh, I didn’t think of that. That’s probably it.”
“I bet it’s not even about gladiators.”
“Yup,” said Floyd. “You’re probably right.”
“Why even go through all this trouble? Why change the play?” asked Darryl.
“I don’t know. If it’s original, that would mean no licensing fee. Almost, Maine had a licensing fee.”
“You’ve gotta pay to do a play?” Lloyd asked.
“Yeah,” said Floyd.
“Jeez. Why do they even bother?”
“I like plays,” said Darryl.
“I like plays, too, but I wouldn’t pay so see one.”
Floyd made a doubtful face. “I think, maybe, you just don’t like plays.”
Lloyd shrugged. “I’m talking about school plays, though. I wouldn’t pay to see one.”
Darryl stuck up a finger, making a point. “Ah, but this is a school, and those are the only kinds of plays going on in schools.”
“Okay. Maybe I don’t like plays. I really just don’t know.”
“Actors get all the ladies,” said Darryl. “Even when they aren’t famous anymore. I saw that kid from Home Alone with a girl…waaaay hot.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think Gladiator’s going to make anyone famous. Not this Gladiator, anyway.”
“Maybe if you played the role Superman’s dad played?” said Floyd.
“That’s the lead part. They’ll give that to a senior,” said Darryl
Lloyd snorted dismissively. “What are we talking about. This play isn’t based on the movie Gladiator. That would be absolutely ridiculous.”
The boys all nodded in agreement. Lloyd was right. The world couldn’t possibly be that ridiculous.
Mr. Tiggs Flaggart, football coach and PE instructor, had always been in tune with people’s chakras. He took quite a lot of pride in it. He’d been watching a certain ninth grader very closely since the school year had begun, and he couldn’t tell which of the seven chakras was out of balance. It was possible, in this case, that it was all of them. The prospect kind of perturbed him. He smirked inwardly at all those stuck-up people online who told him he didn’t understand how chakras worked, and that you can’t just make up new ones. Who says?
On the outside, the boy looked goofy and befuddled, not the kind of kid Coach Flaggart usually got along well with. But there was something unusual going on underneath, Coach knew that for certain. Something about the boy was off. He knew the boy's twin brother, a kid that he very much approved of. That kid was exactly the kind of boy he wished his teenage daughter would bring home. He was all Sun Chakra. He preferred it to those band boys, the ones whose hands felt like a limp bundle of popsicle sticks when he shook them.
This boy named Floyd, however, wasn't a band geek. No. He was something new. Coach hadn't seen this before. No, this boy was something Coach Flaggart wouldn't have expected. He was tough. He saw him get his bell rung several times, some of the worst hits he'd ever witnessed. When it came to physical pain, and just outright misfortune, he'd never seen a kid have a harder go in Phys Ed. But time and time again, hit after hit, he took it like a man and kept going. It made Floyd Piccolo seem like he was made of steel. Last class, the kid took a baseball to the eye, and now the boy sported the most awful shiner coach had ever seen. There was no doubt about it, his chakras were out of alignment. Maybe all of them, even the ones the coach had made up.
"Piccolo!" Coach yelled across basketball court. "My office!" He pointed at the doorway with the staircase. Floyd nodded and began walking toward him. Coach Flaggart spun around and trotted up the steps. He sat down behind his desk. The boy entered the room looking nervous. "Have a seat, Floyd."
Floyd did. Suddenly, Coach couldn't remember exactly what he wanted to say to him. "That's uh...quite a shiner you got there." He gestured to the boy's black eye. It was grotesque, like a monster living on the boy’s face. Mentioning it made Floyd touch it for some reason. It was tender.
"It's not too bad,” Floyd said. “I'm good with face bruises."
Coach had never heard anyone say that sentence before. "What do you mean by 'good'?" he asked.
"I heal them really quick. Bruises, anyway. Scalp tears I’m worse with. I'd give this one a four out of five."
"Really? I'd give that a ten out of five," said Coach. He meant it.
Floyd shook his head. "Oh no. Not me."
"You've had worse than that?"
The boy nodded. “Oh, yeah. There was that time a tractor ran over my face. That was a lot worse than this."
Coach’s Heart Chakra froze. "Huh? What? What do you mean it ran over your face?"
"Well, that makes it sound a lot worse than it is.”
"I see. There’s a less serious way to have your face run over by a tractor?”
The boy shrugged. “Not that I can remember it.”
“Okay.”
"Yeah. A petting zoo was being built nearby my grandparent's house."
"A petting zoo? A tractor? What? I don't understand."
“Well, basically, I was buried alive when a small mountain collapsed on top of me.”
“A mountain? A whole mountain?”
“Yeah, I pretty much avoid parks and zoos now. And mountains. There's just no way."
"I see. Well..." Coach couldn't think of a thing to say. He couldn't remember what he meant to ask him. Could he have called the boy to his office just to gawk at him? "I just wanted to see how you were doing." Which was true, for the most part. Although, he was gawking.
The boy pointed at his eye. "This was probably my eighth worst Tuesday."
Coach nodded. The boy had spooked him. Now he just wanted to be alone and nurse his Anahata back to health. It’s too bad he was in a school with hundreds of people, it threw off his Root Chakra. “Well,” said Coach. “I guess you can do a lot worse than eighth."
After school, when Floyd arrived at drama club, he noticed that all the props and scenery they made had been removed. The Northern Lights were gone, probably packed away in a dark room somewhere. For a second, he wondered if it had all been thrown out. It seemed kind of sad to waste all that work. Peyton walked in and smiled at Floyd. Richard Sato walked right beside her. Floyd thought that Richard’s presence cast a shadow over everything. He was, in fact, the only one who thought that.
“Hey, Floyd,” she said.
“Hey.”
Richard nodded at him. “Mr. Manse and Mrs. Roberson have quit, apparently. So, Mr. Moderick’s going to be supervising the set building for the new play himself. He’s gonna direct the play, too.”
“They quit?” asked Floyd, trying hard to find this interesting.
“Yeah. I don’t think they were very happy about changing plays half stream,” Peyton added.
“I can’t believe we have to start all over,” said Richard with a sigh.
“They didn’t throw it all away, Richard,” soothed Peyton. “They’re gonna do something with it.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Richard smiled at her and she smiled back. Floyd noticed they were holding hands, now, and it felt awful. He felt small. Like a bug. She was the queen bee and he was a drone. No, they weren’t even the same species. He was a lousy bee, she was something way better.
“What is that?” Peyton asked. She pointed at an opposite wall. Floyd and Richard both looked. There was a giant, blank scenic drop fixed to the wall. Usually, backdrops were laid out on the floor, but this one was too large to be laid out without moving some tables and things off to the side. Floyd supposed they were going to paint this thing like it was a mural.
A moment later Mr. Moderick walked in, and all the students turned his way. He seemed very excited. “All right, guys,” he said. He had a stack of manuscripts. “The work you did for Almost, Maine was fantastic, and we have kept it all to be used at a later date. Maybe next semester, I’m not sure. Eventually, though, it will definitely get used. All of it. That’s guaranteed. Here...” He started handing out manuscripts. Students took them and flipped through the pages curiously. Peyton got one and she shared it with Richard, holding it up higher to accommodate his extra height. Floyd didn’t get a script, he just stood there with his arms crossed.
Mr. Moderick stood at the center of the room. “Okay, I have identified all the sets we are going to build. You will see them highlighted in every manuscript. Most of the sets are just standard interiors and exteriors. However, there is a main set, the ultimate set, that is somewhere in between interior and exterior. Feast your eyes on this...” The teacher turned toward the huge background canvas. “You see? Are you wondering what’s going to be on here? I’ll show you.”
With a snicker of anticipation, Mr. Moderick ran out of the room. He came back about thirty seconds later pushing a cart. The cart had a sheet draped over it which hung almost to the floor. He rolled it to the center of the room, and the rabble of students of all ages gathered around. Some out of curiosity, some having nothing better to do.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, a feast for your eyes!” Mr. Moderick said, having real trouble containing his enthusiasm. He swooped the sheet off the cart, revealing a structure, some kind of stadium carefully made out of matchsticks. It was impressive, meticulously detailed, looking like it would have taken years to build. “What do you think of that, eh?” the teacher asked.
Nobody said anything, at first. There was a short but telling silence. After about eighteen seconds, a senior named Sam spoke up. “Is that the...the...Colosseum?”
Mr. Moderick was in ecstasy. He pumped his arms excitedly. “Yes! Sam! It is! The Roman Colosseum. The greatest playhouse in history!”
Sam seemed flustered. “Um...didn’t people, like, get hurt here?”
The teacher shook his head. “Sam, what you are looking at is drama central. Every day was jam packed full of human drama. Romance! Danger! Excitement! Everything that makes us human, rolled into one! How could the imitative arts ever compare to the real thing? Well, we’re gonna find out.”
“There were animals, too, right?” said a younger student. “They had elephants and things, didn’t they? That got hurt, too?”
Mr. Moderick nodded enthusiastically. “Everything that can happen, happened! It was television! It was the movies! It was video games! It was everything possible!”
“The animals and the people hurt each other, too?”
Mr. Moderick rolled his eyes. “Look, let’s not get hung up on the hurting things part of it. All drama involves pain and loss. Conflict is what drama is made of.”
One ninth grader raised his voice. “Are there going to be animals in the play?”
“There aren’t going to be animals in the play,” said Mr. Moderick. “It’s about people. Plays are about people.”
“It costs a million dollars a day to feed an elephant,” said an eleventh-grade girl.
“When I say no animals, that includes elephants. All animals. Listen...” said Mr. Moderick. “They used to fill the stadium up with water and wage sea battles. Can you imagine what that must have looked like? A sea battle right in front of your eyes. Fifty-thousand people cheering!”
“Did they put sharks in the water?” asked Darryl, finally getting interested.
“Sharks need salt water,” answered another.
“Did they use alligators, too?” Darryl asked. “Alligators will eat anything. When we lived in Florida, an alligator ate my dad’s car.”
“No, it didn’t!” some snotty kid tossed in.
“You’ve never been there. Anything can happen in Florida.”
“I have been there.”
“You never lived in North Port!”
Mr. Moderick walked toward the wall where the blank backdrop was. “I draw your attention to this,” he said. “This is where, soon enough, the Colosseum shall come to life. Right here.” The teacher opened his arms wide. “As big as life. Richard, will you come here?”
Richard Sato, still leafing through the script with Peyton, looked up. “Sure thing,” he said. The tenth grader walked across the room.
“We all know that you’re a prodigy, Richard. What do you think you could do with this?”
“You want to draw the Colosseum?” the boy asked.
Mr. Moderick shook his head. “Not the whole thing.” The teacher walked up to the matchstick representation. He stuck out his hands bracketed about six inches of seating. “Just about that much.”
Richard nodded. “Oh. Okay. I’ll draw the outline in marker, first. Or chalk. No marker. I don’t know, yet.”
“Don’t forget, it’s not just the structure, there will be spectators, too.”
“Yeah, I know that. The spectators will be a little difficult. I’ll know more when I’m done tracing.”
“Well, don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to draw fifty-thousand people, that’s for sure.” There were some soft giggles, mostly out of politeness.
“Oh, good,” said Richard with a smile. “That would be a lot.”
“Yeah,” said Mr. Moderick. He put his hands back on the matchstick Colosseum, showing the same rough estimate of space he did before. “That much of the Colosseum wouldn’t seat any more than five or ten-thousand, anyway.”
Richard’s smile vanished. “Huh?”
“I won’t expect you to show too much detail on each one. They will be very small.”
“Ten-thousand people?”
“Richard,” Mr. Moderick said with a smile. “This is going to be the heart of the play. The big scene. The final fight between Maximus and Commodus. We will use it for other scenes, too, but that will be the big one.”
“Um...that’s a whole lot of people, Mr. Moderick,” Richard said.
“Well, you’ve got a whole lot of talent, Mr. Sato. I’m depending on that. We all are depending on that.”
Richard took the compliment like a punch to the gut. He nodded without enthusiasm. “Got it.”
The Fab Four: Lloyd, Melanie, Peyton, and Floyd - were standing around Peyton’s locker, leafing through the manuscript for Gladiator.
“I don’t understand this play at all,” said Lloyd, shaking his head. “These scenes make no sense. Why are people talking while they are in the middle of a gladiator fight? You can’t just stop and talk while you’re fighting. That’s not how fighting works.”
Melanie looked a bit spooked. Her eyes expressed concern for them all. “Ten thousand spectators? Mr. Moderick is craaaaazy.”
“Could be,” said Floyd. “I don’t know.”
“There’s no ‘maybe’ here, Floyd. He’s out of his mind.”
“Maybe he was hit on the head when he was a boy,” said Peyton.
Melanie shook her head. “He would’ve had to have been hit pretty hard.”
Peyton shrugged. “Well, he wasn’t necessarily hit just once.”
“Yeah,” said Lloyd. “Recent and often.”
“Can I have this?” said Floyd, reaching for the manuscript. Lloyd handed it over.
“I wanna be Commodus. The bad guy,” said Lloyd.
“You’d be great!” said Peyton. “Perfect! Although, I haven’t seen the movie.”
“It’s definitely a guy film,” said Melanie.
“Is that a large role? You think they would give a large role to a 9th grader?” asked Peyton.
“I don’t know,” Lloyd answered. “He’s supposed to be younger than Superman’s dad. I remember that much. Maybe it’ll help that I’m younger?”
“It might,” said Floyd. “I wouldn’t mind being Cicero, I guess. He’s the slave guy.”
“You’ll be great, Floyd!” said Peyton. “Although, I still haven’t seen the movie.”
Brooding in the darkness of your bedroom can be a lonely occupation. Lately, Floyd had a lot to brood over. Even more than usual. The Peyton ship was pulling out of the harbor. He knew that. Soon she would be Richard Sato’s girlfriend and that would be the end of the world. He felt the universe laughing at him, again. He could hear it snickering today when he saw Peyton’s hand in Richard’s. They were holding hands. Does holding hands make you boyfriend/girlfriend? You wouldn’t hold someone’s hand if they were just a friend, would you? Floyd didn’t think so. He was going to lose this fight, he knew that. Once again, the galaxy was passing him a note.
Don’t bother, Floyd.
“Don’t bother, Floyd” had become his motto. He had scribbled it countless times in books, notepads, on his skin in pen or marker, and once he’d even carved it on a park bench. “Don’t Bother, Floyd” summed up his entire life in three words.
As usual, he wasn’t going to argue with the universe, but there was one person he knew who would. One person who didn’t take crap from the universe, who bickered with reality constantly. He picked up his phone and texted Piers.
FLOYD: Hey
PIERS: Hey.
FLOYD: Wake you?
PIERS: No, I was up.
FLOYD: Cool. Listen, what does holding hands mean?
PIERS: That depends whose hands are holding whose hands.
FLOYD: A girl holding a boy’s hand
PIERS: Well, that generally means they are more than just friends. It can show a kind of casual intimacy, or something more than that.
FLOYD: Casual intimacy?
PIERS: It doesn’t show intimacy, necessarily, but it suggests it.
FLOYD: So, it definitely means something?
PIERS: Something, but not everything.
FLOYD: Could it mean just a little? Like the hand holders aren’t necessarily going to get married someday and destroy the universe?
PIERS: Why would they destroy the universe?
FLOYD: They just would
PIERS: Ok.
Floyd didn’t know what he really wanted from Piers. Piers didn’t know about girls. He just wanted to feel better. Probably not any more than he did. Piers was pretty smart, though. He spoke very well, and that had to mean something.
FLOYD: I’m just wondering if I should give up on something. Something really good
PIERS: A girl?
FLOYD: Yes
PIERS: Why give up?
FLOYD: Because it hurts to try
PIERS: I understand.
FLOYD: I don’t know. It’s not like anything else. I don’t know what to do
PIERS: She was holding someone’s hand?
FLOYD: Yes
PIERS: Hmm. It’s not necessarily the end of the world.
FLOYD: The universe
PIERS: Oh yeah. It’s not necessarily the end of the universe.
FLOYD: Why not?
PIERS: Because girls change their minds a lot. I’ve been led to believe that, anyway. They change their minds and we just have to learn to live with it.
FLOYD: So… if I wait, she might lose interest in him?
PIERS: It’s likely.
FLOYD: Okay
PIERS: I wouldn’t wait, tho.
FLOYD: Why not?
PIERS: If she’s going to change her mind about a boy, you want her to change her mind to you, not someone else.
FLOYD: Yeah. That’s true
PIERS: So anything you can do to endear yourself to her, you should go ahead and do it.
FLOYD: I wouldn’t know what to do
PIERS: I’m not sure I know, either.
FLOYD: Okay
PIERS: But you have a lot of good things about you Floyd. You just have to show those things.
FLOYD: Okay, goodnight piers
When the conversation was over Floyd realized he really did feel a little better. It was only a little little better, though, not a lot little better. It was nice to have someone to talk to other than Lloyd. Not that Lloyd wasn’t helpful, but it was nice to have someone who was more like him to advise him. Piers was more like Floyd than his brother was. It hadn’t always been that way, but that’s the way it was now.