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This is a story I wrote for sophomore English last year. It's the first original story I've ever published in any form, so comments would be greatly appreciated. Please R&R. Thanks for taking the time to read it!
No one knew when it had started. Certainly it had been generations, perhaps a great many of them. After so long, no one even remembered why it had started. But no matter the time or the reason, the fact remained. The Hardys and the Camdens hated each other.
This wasn’t, however, an ordinary family feud. The adults on both sides were perfectly amiable, even neighborly. They attended each other’s yard sales and chatted occasionally over coffee. They owned similar pieces of land that shared a side. Every so often the men would have a Saturday night poker game while the women played (high stakes) gin rummy in the next room. Yet, in all this, it was not the adults who mattered. It was the children.
Since before anyone could remember, the children of both households had been in conflict. The casualties lay scattered across the fields; kidnaped dolls, broken toys, rain-washed pieces of paper with insulting drawings or messages. The garter snakes had been transferred between the two properties so often that they kept homes in both. Between the ages of two and twelve, it was no-holds-barred, take-no-prisoners (except the occasional stuffed duck), merciless war. When they turned thirteen, their small rural elementary emptied into the county middle school. In the multitude of students, their paths no longer crossed. They drifted apart, going on to highschool and (usually) college. Eventually, they would return to the homes their parents had once owned, childhood hostilities forgotten, and revive the Saturday night poker.
Ms. Kazinsky. Old as the hills, meaner than a snake—the terror of Dalton Elementary. Her withered face was crumpled in an expression of permanent dislike. Giant, thick-lensed glasses perched on her beaky nose. A sharp blue gaze swept across the room, silencing even the most incorrigible of talkers. All trembled before her.
“Children, to attention.” Her voice was deadly soft, crackling like old paper. “We have a bit of a situation this year.” The students shifted uneasily. What could possibly unsettle the teachers?
Her reply to this unspoken question was swift. “The school has more students this year and less funds. As a result, there are not enough desks for all of you. I will pair you up now.” Suddenly every child in the room was keenly interested. Seating was vital. It could ensure perfect happiness or abject misery. Every ear was tuned as Ms. Kazinsky began rattling off names.
“Sara and Kelsey. George and Rochelle. Michael and Matthew. Damien and Robert. Becky and Galen. Andrew and Ida. . . .”
Becky dutifully made her way to the desk. Once seated, she immediately began organizing her things, putting the pencil boxes and notebooks in their accustomed places. She was so absorbed in this that she did not even notice the boy sit down next to her until he tapped her on the shoulder. She twisted sharply to face him, dark brown eyes flashing with annoyance. “What?” she snapped.
He smiled ingenuously. “Hi. I’m Galen. You’re Becky, right?”
“Who else would I be?” She studied the irritating boy next to her. He had grass-green eyes, pale skin, and a mop of curly blond hair. Becky stared. No, she thought. No. No, no, no, no, no! But it was. “You’re a Camden!” she spat.
The hated, vile, evil enemy blinked in confusion. Then, slowly, his mouth formed a silent O. “You’re a Hardy,” he murmured. “Well. I can fix this.” Immediately, his hand shot up into the air. “Ms. Kazinsky! Ms. Kazinsky!” he called.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Kazinsky, I can’t sit by her.”
The glare was deadly. Even though it wasn’t directed at her, Becky shrank a little. “And whyever not?” the teacher asked.
Galen blinked again. Surely everybody knew? But apparently not, so he endeavored to put it into words. “We don’t like them,” he finally replied.
Ms. Kazinsky raised one faded, ancient eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, maybe you can learn the value of cooperation. If she develops a contagious disease, then we may speak again. Now sit down and be quiet.” The last soft sentence had all the force of a hurricane, and Galen subsided. He and Becky traded a frown of mutual enmity, then made a point of separating their chairs. No one noticed, but it felt like the right course of action to take.
It was two full weeks before they spoke again. Both had returned home with the story of horrid abuse at the hands of the teacher, earning sympathy from their siblings and amusement from the parents. Somehow the adults managed to interpret every situation pertaining to their children as “cute.” Only those involved in the war knew what torment the daily presence of the enemy could be. The children regarded their parents with a mixture of pity and despair. How could they sit across a table from the opposing side and speak of the weather? This friendship was seen as treason of the very worst degree. Mostly, the children tried to ignore it stoically. But now, in a time of direct conflict between their forces, when their soldiers came face to face every day, the parents’ indifference to their war was unbearable.
By the time those two weeks had passed, Becky and Galen had received several demerits for their continuance of the war on school grounds. This was what finally got through to the grown-ups, and they inflicted liberal punishments upon Becky and Galen, causing the young soldiers to arrive at the same conclusion. At lunch, Becky made her way to Galen’s table. He nodded frostily. Tossing her short brown pigtails defiantly, Becky spoke. “School truce?”
“Truce.”
After that, things were quieter. Their grades began to improve, because Becky could not resist correcting Galen’s multiplication mistakes (in fact, she took great glee in it) and he could not bear to see anyone turn in an assignment in which they spelled “know” with neither a k nor a w. During free time, they began to trade stories of the war. It was surprising to hear how easily breached your impenetrable defenses were, or how (hilariously) well your traps worked. Galen was impressed with Becky’s sharp, decisive manner. Though it was abrasive at times, she knew what she wanted, and what she wanted, she got. From the opposite perspective, Galen’s quiet demeanor and subtle humor were a welcome change from Becky’s big, loud, brothers.
Some time passed in this manner. The young soldiers stopped complaining to their families. They started to play together at recess. Perhaps, they thought, the enemy was not so bad after all. Then came February 14th, 1989.
The class was having a Valentine’s Day party, as was third grade custom. Contented students lounged in their chairs, chewing their spoils absentmindedly. Ms. Kazinsky sat at her desk, having relinquished any last vestige of control to the sugar. In the far corner of the room, Galen was engaged in a spirited description of a midnight raid on the Hardy home.
“. . . and then we actually ran up to the house, all quiet, so nobody would hear. We opened this little window and went inside. Inside! Can you believe it? Anyway, we went into the kitchen, but there was nothing in there, so we went through this other door. Then there was the living room, and I found this little toy. I figured that was enough, so I sounded the signal, and we ran back home. No one even woke up! It was marvelous.” He sighed, leaning against the wall, lost in memory of his historic feat. In the house! No one had ever done that before.
Becky, always curious, wanted to know more. “What’d you take? Bet it was Emma’s doll. She was sooo mad when that was stolen!”
“What? Oh, no.” Galen shook his head slowly. “No, it was this little stuffed animal . . . a duck, I think.”
Dead silence. Then, an explosion. “What?! You stole Ducky? How could you? She was my favorite toy in the whole entire world! After I found out she was gone, I cried for—" She stopped, blushing through her freckles. “I mean—I didn’t cry, but—I hate you!” Throwing her box of candy in his face, she stormed out of the room, leaving chaos in her wake.
That night, Becky led a raid on the Camden property that resulted in not one, not two, but five garter snakes being thrown through Galen’s window. A multitude of toys that had been carelessly left outside were stolen. And, worst of all, they cut the rope for the tire swing in the barn. As a parting gift, Becky left a note in explanation. “What you did was wrong,” it read. “The houses are off-limits. Everybody knows that! So you deserve it.” The Camden retaliation was swift. Snow still lay on the ground, and the Hardys were ambushed in their field and so bombarded that some sustained small injuries.
This led to the clash of the opposing forces in what would come to be known as the Battle of Sled Hill. It lasted for a full two days, with breaks only when their parents insisted. It was eventually won by the Camdens, but only because of Galen’s advent of the snowball catapult. Its barrage of wet, stinging ice broke even the most determined charges. The Hardys surrendered on February 20, their white flag almost invisible against the snow.
Becky and Galen refused to speak for the rest of the school year. Their stubborn snubs defeated even Ms. Kazinsky, who was eventually forced to put them in separate desks. On the last day of school, Becky tripped over Galen’s casually outstretched foot. Pencils cascaded to the floor. She lept up facing him, and it would have come to blows had not the in-class parent stepped in. They glowered at each other for a moment. Suddenly, Becky spat on the floor. “I hate you,” she growled.
“That’s okay, because I hate you too!” Galen yelled at her retreating back.
He stood on the Hardy’s doorstep and knocked twice, firmly. The door was opened by an man about his age. Straight black hair framed his open, friendly face. He seems nice enough, Galen thought. The man extended his hand. “Welcome,” he said. “You must be Galen. I’m Matthew Drexel. Come in, come in.”
Galen entered, surveying the surroundings with a judicious eye. It was a nice old house, and he was studying the beautiful stone fireplace when Matthew called him. “Shall we make our way to the poker table?” he asked. Galen nodded, and they were turning to go when someone else entered the room. It was a woman. She walked across the floor to stand at Matthew’s side. He put an arm around her. “Galen, I don’t believe you know my wife. This is Rebecca.”
For a moment, she stared vaguely at him. Then, she smiled absently, her brown eyes warm. “You lived next door, didn’t you? I think we’ve met.”
