The Sun Dried Theatre

A short story by Third

George looked out the scratched car window. The setting zoomed past him, but he still caught the gist of where he was going. Forests and mountains. This place was so unlike his old home.
Not like he had wanted to go here in the first place. But things change, he had learned. Somehow, it seemed like they never changed for the good of him. George's luck never changed. It was always bad.
Someone with less sympathy for this young boy would have laughed at him. He had slept so little that he looked as if he had two black eyes. He looked like he was an old man. And the deep contemplating look appeared to emphasize that.
Indeed, he had not slept for many nights. He wouldn't sleep for days after now, either. Yet he didn't feel tired. He just felt depressed.
George's mother had died a month ago. She had suffered for breast cancer for so long, George caught himself wishing sometimes. Wishing that someone would take her out her misery.
George slumped down in his seat, feeling worse than usual. Remembering his mother did that to him.
He had been adopted when he was very young, but his mother had never tried to keep that fact from him. Nor that fact that he had no father.
"You're good enough to be my dad too," George would say to his mother, with a cheerful smile in the gravest of moments.
No. Thinking of that was wrong. George had been told over and over that she was gone, and he was not to cry nor fight about that. There was no more life for his mother. And there where no more smiles for George.
His mother had never had that much money, being a single parent. George used to ponder why she had even given her time to adopt him. Why she didn't discard him at her own pleasure, so that she could have more money. So she could buy peaches at the grocery store, or so that she could go shopping with all of her friends.
No answer for that question. No answers for any questions. Because questions attracted people, and people would want to know his story. But he would not tell it. He would never tell his story. No one would cry over his story like he had.
In George's mind, he was a bad boy. Wishing his mother's death was bad, and if he had had any sense at all, he would have never jinxed his family like he had.
This made George remember something else. His family. Or rather, his grandparents. Whom he was to live with. Where this car was taking him right now.
The young blonde boy peeked out of his window again. His dark green eyes were thrust open when he saw where he was.
Big, two story houses where planted here and there, each separated by a big forest backyard. George had never had a backyard before. He had never been inside a two-story house before either. His depression was swiftly wiped away by a steady excitement. Usually, new things frightened George. He didn't like to be noticed, and he didn't like big empty spaces, where people could see him. It was a fear he had since as long as he could remember.
"We're here," The driver said, quietly, craning his neck to look at the house whose driveway he had just pulled into.
George tried to pull himself up so he could see his new house too. Alas, he was much too short. The driver chuckled and scratched his poorly shaven beard.
"Let's get out and take a better look at this puppy," He said cheerfully, pocketing the car's leys and opening his door.

George stretched his arms to grab his car door too. But his arms were too stubby.
"You might want to unbuckle first," The bearded man said, swinging the boy's door open.
George quietly unbuckled, hiding his embarrassed emotions. He was always good at not showing how he felt.
The boy hopped out of the truck solemnly. The tiny U-Haul trailer he had taken to this new strange place had grown muddy and wet on the trip over. When the driver thrust open the miniature doors, mud splattered everywhere.
"Is this it?" The bearded man asked, peeking inside the U-Haul curiously.
All that George had brought along were his books, his money, and some toy trucks. There wasn't much else to take. His desk and his bed were sold because he had been assured a new set at his Grandparent's house.
George looked up at his grandparent's house. It was very big. Quite frankly, George had never seen a house so big where only two people lived. It seemed like a waste of space to him.
"I think we can handle all of this in one load. Could you go check if the door is open?"

George nodded and ran over to the steps up to the porch. He quietly twisted the door knob. The door swung open with the barest hint of a squeak.

It was clear that no one was home. How rude of them, to be absent at their first meeting. But George didn't care. It was just more time to himself.
The house itself impressed George, though. The hallway, which was the first room to the door, was made of polished hardwood floor, and he even got a peek of the tiled kitchen.
"Help me with this stuff here," The man grunted loudly from the truck. George left the door as it was, and raced back to the truck.

By the time the truck was empty, and nearly the entire wood floor on the entrance was covered in books and toys the two had unloaded.
"I have to go to the Center now," The bearded man said kindly, "You just wait here until your folks home."
George nodded and watched the man leave. Only when the U-Haul pulled out the driveway did the little blonde boy dash up the stairs, excited to see his new room.
He had just climbed halfway up when the front door opened. He dashed back down very quickly and made himself busy with cleaning up the books and toys scattered all over the floor.
The door opened exactly when George had managed to shove everything in a corner. Into the house stepped a man who couldn't be a day over sixty. But he was sixty-eight. George had memorized everything about his grandparents. From looking at his mother's old pictures of them, from simply reading their profiles, it seemed this man matched everything he had imagined his grandpa to look like. From the ever-baggy wrinkles to the extremely frizzy gray hair, even the tall skinny frame, George felt like he knew his Grandfather already.
The two simply stared at each other for a moment. Who said males were masters at communication? It took the short, bright eyed old woman that stepped into the house next to break the awkward silence.
"Why," She said kindly, placing her gaze on George, who was kneeling near, "You must be George. I'm Lila Satchel, but you may call me Gramma."
I'll as soon take my eyes off that ugly old fogey, George thought bitterly, still staring at his grandfather.
"I'm sorry we've never met before now. Your mother was very distant to us. We never thought she'd adopt a child. We never thought we'd have grandchildren, even if they were adopted. We're very ashamed to be so distant all of time. Your mother and us had some disagreements, and we never apologized before she died. We regret that every second of the day."
Yeah, Yeah, George thought, I've heard this all before. Better make a introduction.
"Thanks. I miss her too. Thanks for letting stay here, too."
"Oh there's no need to thank us," Gramma said, her eyes watery, "We wish we could have seen you before now. You're darling."
George fought his best ability. Rolling his eyes.
"Well, Otis, go show George his room. I'll clean this mess up and bring it up to George."
George followed his grandfather up the long staircase, and soon he found that the stair case was much higher than it looked. He stopped looking down at the messy living room when they came to the end of the stairways. A dark, dusty cobwebbed hallway was what they came to. George stared carefully down the foyer, peeking out from behind his grandfather.
"We haven't been up here in a time," George's Grandfather said finally while they walked softly down the hall, "So we haven't cleaned the hallway, but we did fix your bedroom up."
The two came to a halt at a wooden door. Slowly, the old man turned the doorknob, and George anxiously waited. He could have hid it better, but he was thinking about his room, so he was unable to keep the frown steady on his face. His eyebrows relaxed, and his mouth became thin. Not a smile, but better than a scowl.
"Make yourself at home," his Grandfather said, before leaving George to himself.
George slipped his head through the door. The room was the color beige, and rather big for a bedroom. A solitary bed sat up against the north wall, and a desk in the southeastern corner. An oak dresser next to the bed. A book shelf on the opposite wall as the bed. It was a plain bedroom, and it felt cold and forbidding to George. A door led out of the room, and George supposed, into a bathroom. He found himself mistaken when he opened the door.
A Ping-Pong table, a Foosball table, a Pool table, a train set (complete with the intricate scenery and realistic yet tiny buildings) all where laid down in the room. George marveled at them. They were all dusty and rusted. They hadn't been used in quite a while. He bent over to study the controller for the train. It looked equally as old as the other gadgets, but still, George was tempted to turn the set on.
A yell from down stairs interrupted George. It was his grandmother, calling that dinner was served. George looked at the front wall. There was a door, and George could only expect it to lead out into the hall.

The morning broke and George was awakened by the light shining through the windows. Today was Monday. George would be expected to go to school. He would be visiting, of course. He had no books, and no bag. He was sure he would go to the closest school, a public school, of course. He would be ignored, he would sit in the back of the bus, and he would have no friends. He wanted no attention, and usually, when one wants such a thing, one gets it.
He dressed quickly, but quietly. He wished not to wake his grandparents. He had been told that the bus met at the corner of the street, at 7:15. His clothes where simple, though it seemed his grandmother had had quite the time buying the latest fashions. Baggy pants, logo'ed t- shirt, and what George found as unnaturally puffy, yet comfortable shoes. In short, the eleven year old boy looked ridiculous. Though not without a sense a humor. In his bathroom, he used some gel to spike his hair. Perhaps people would avoid him even more this way. People often avoided people they thought looked strange.

He walked down to the bus stop. Several other children were there, talking amongst themselves. They took their glances at him, several of them greeted him, or smiled at him, but George kept his sullen look. He made his way to the stop sign, and leaned against it, trying to look brooding so people would avoid him.
But instead, after a few minutes, someone talked to him.
"I'd leave there if I were you."
George looked at the person that had talked to him. The boy was taller than him, with black hair and brown eyes, and dark skin. He looked the bold type, and George, though he had to look up to talk to him, talked in a superior way.
"Why?"
"Because that's Siv's spot," said the boy, with eyebrows raised, "Are you new? I haven't seen you before."
George silenced. He didn't want to be a rebel. He moved over a few feet, and sat down on the grass.
And still, the boy's eyes followed him, and continued to stare at him for several more moments, until George looked up and met his eyes. The boy looked away, quickly, and George continued to stare at his feet. He looked up again when the boy walked over to him.
"What's your name?" the boy asked.
"George. Satchel."
"Satchel, huh? What grade you in?"
"Fifth. I'm just starting here."
"Fifth? You look like a second grader, man."
"Thanks."
"Wait." The boy paused, looking up in thought, "You aren't that kid whose mom died, are you?"
George rubbed his eyes and yawned. He'd have to get used to talk like that. "Yeah, why?
"'Cause man. The teacher told us to be extra nice to you when you came."
George shrugged. "I don't care."
The boy looked at him for a few more seconds. "You okay? I heard she died of cancer, man. That's tough stuff. And you didn't have a dad either. I wouldn't be okay after somethin' like that."
"Well then I guess I'm not you," George snapped, looking sharply into the boy's dark eyes.
The other boy, to George's surprise, began to grin. "I'm Reame. Sidney Reame," He offered sturdy hand, "Just call me Rea."
George, against all of his instincts, took the hand. Sidney pulled him to his feet.
"Man, you should be glad I got here in time. Siv would kill you if he saw you in his spot."
"Say who in my spot?"
George and Rea turned around simultaneously. They faced a tall, brown haired boy. He had a grimace on, and a tough brow, but he didn't look stupid. On the contrary, he looked intelligent, and his hazel eyes sparkled with a devious cleverness.
"What's your name?" Siv asked George, nodding at him. George fought natural instinct to run from the predator.
"George Satchel." He was almost getting tired of saying it.
"You new here?"
George nodded.
"I'm James Sivler. Siv, for short. I don't wanna hear about you in my spot again, agreed?"
Nod, nod.
"What grade you in?"
"Fifth."
Siv raised an eyebrow, just like Rea. "Good luck at Pine Road Elementary," he said, almost sardonically, and walked away. Almost immediately several other boys caught up with him and started talking in stern voices.
"What was that all about?" George asked, looking up at Rea.
"He's surprised, man. Like me. I can't believe you're in the same grade as us."
"So."
"Man," Rea said, staring to walk toward the curb, "You're cool. You aren't like most of the snotty new kids who don't know their place. All moved here 'cause their parents are rich. Bet you wish you weren't even here, huh?"
George nodded, finding himself open up.
Rea smiled. "You'll fit in man, but not with a name like that."
"I noticed no one I had talked to was called by their correct names."
"They aren't correct if they don't fit you. You don't look like a George to me. I'm gonna think on that one."
"You do that."

The classroom was small and cramped, but George managed to find a desk that didn't look occupied. He was one of the first in the class, with nothing to put away and nothing to say to anyone, except a short 'see you in class' to Rea.
The classroom itself kept George occupied. It was full of bright and flashy posters, showing the planets, or physics laws, or math equations. The desks came with a cubby to put your books and pen, and though George had none, he found a chewed-on pencil and shreds of paper in that space. There was a long blackboard that expanded the whole length of on wall. Someone opened the door that led into the room. At first glance, George knew it was the teacher.
It was a young man, not over thirty, wearing a sweater and ironed kakis who walked typically into the room. George looked him over. He had dark red hair, and green almond eyes. He gave the essence of a foreigner, put George did not try to find his background. The man looked casual, and George could only expect him to act so.
It took a few minutes for the teacher to spot George. People where now piling into the classroom, and he greeted each one in turn. Once in a while he would scan the classroom. About his third time, he spotted George. He walked over to him briskly, and put a hand on the boy's desk when he came to a halt.
"Are you sure you're in the right classroom?" The teacher asked smiling kindly as kindergarten teachers often do, "This is the fifth grade room."
"Are you to say I'm not in fifth grade?" George said, teeth clenched.
"Ahhh. I see," The teachers said, blushing the smallest bit on already pink cheeks, "You must be George."
George nodded.
"Don't call him anything just yet," said someone from behind the teacher.
George had to stretch his neck to get a glimpse of Rea, who stood, looking up at the tall professor.
"Sidney. You've befriended George. I heard he was the one who suffered the loss.," The teacher turned to face George, "I was very sorry to hear that."
George tried not to roll his eyes. If he had a penny for every time someone said that.
"I'm Mr. Bancy, by the way. If you have any questions, come to me."
He walked away and Rea took the desk next to George's.
"Mr. Bancy?"
"That's his name," said Rea, "We try not to wear it out."
George relaxed, spreading his arms across his desk and placing his chin on the desk. "So what am I supposed to do?"
"I dunno," Rea said, taking out a few hard cover books, "Listen?"
So listen he did. Through Social Studies, Arithmetic and English, he listened. And he did not know, by lunch, how the children in this school could possibly survive for the whole day. In fact, he asked Rea that very question while searching his locker for his lunch.
"You get used to it," Rea said, before inviting George to sit with him at lunch.

The lunchroom was noisy and crowded, as children both younger and older made their way to a small window in the west wall where lunch was served. George, silently thanking himself for bringing a lunch from home, eyed the line that led out the hallway, it was so long. The peppery faces of children neither dampened nor lightened, for he was still afraid of having to meet Rea's friends
He sat down on the second table, where Rea told him to. He began to open the lunch when someone walked up behind him. George pretended not to notice, and continued opening his sandwich. The person behind him clucked their tongue.
"You're really starting off bad."
George didn't even look around. "Oh really?"
"Don't play dumb."
"What if I am dumb?"
"Sorry. Don't play dumber. Is that better?"
"Much." Best to start a reputation like this as soon as possible.
"Look, get out of here before I make you."
George turned to face the stranger. It was no other than James Sivler.
"Surprise, surprise," the stronger boy said, eyes cackling at the smaller youth.
George sighed, and scooted over.
"That's more like it." Sivler sat down.
A few minutes passed, while George un packed his lunch. Obviously his grandma had put a few extras in. Some cookies, a bag of hard candy, and a even a note had been added in addition to the sandwich and apple. George almost groaned. He had begun to eat his sandwich when Sivler interrupted him again.
"So, has Rea re-ed you yet?"
"Huh?"
"You know," said Sivler impatiently, "given you a new name."
"Not yet."
George watched Rea in the lunch line. "Is that what he's known for or something?'
Sivler considered it. "Yes," he announced finally, "it is. He re- names almost every person in this school, and the names stick. Good or bad."
Great, thought George sourly, watching Rea walk over to him, I can't wait to figure out what he's named me.
"'Sup?" Rea said, sitting down on George's right side.
George decided against the sarcastic answer. "It's my new parents."
Sivler looked at him sharply. "New parents?"
"Yeah," George sighed, "My grandparents."
Sivler looked at Rea, who mouthed 'I'll tell you later'.
"What'd they do?" Rea asked, poking his lunch food with a fork. George handed him the note. Rea gave a muffled snort.
"Lemme see," Sivler demanded, sorting through his own lunch.
Rea handed him the note. Sivler opened it. He took a bite of a cookie, and then choked on it.
"What's it say?" Rea said eagerly. Sivler shook his head and coughed. As soon as he had stopped choking, he broke out laughing.
"Where'd you get them?" Sivler asked George.
"Get what?" asked a confused George.
"Your grandparents."
"Where'd I get my grandparents."
"It's a joke," sighed the taller boy, taking a bite of his sandwich, "A joke."
"Oh."
Rea watched the two with awe. No one had ever spoken to Siv so freely. without getting pounded. Newbies always got pounded. This kid might have a tragic past, but Siv wasn't one for mercy. And where was Siv's gang? Those idiots who tracked him everywhere.
George left to go to the bath room, and Rea found it a perfect time to question Siv.
"What are you doing?" He hissed.
"Thinking."
Rea pondered giving one of his smart-alec answers, but then again, this was the toughest kid in the whole school. "About what?"
"Rea, I've always considered you to be smart. You have pride, you're a good judge."
"Tha- No, seriously. What's going on?"
"I've decided to reform myself."
Rea couldn't help it. He snorted. He expected a blow to the head but when he looked up, Siv's face was calm.
"Whoa."
"His mom died, right?"
"Yeah."
"So he's living with the Satchels?"
"Yeah."
Siv grinned wickedly.
"You're scaring me."