Chrysalis

Devan sat toward the front of the school bus, and his backpack took up the window seat next to him. He could see the bus driver’s eyes floating in the rearview mirror, keeping watch of the small bodies that moved like heating corn kernels. Devan turned to look behind him while the bus sat at the stoplight across from the only gas station in town. A game of keep-away had started between two squirrely boys and a younger girl with pigtails in her hair; her face was turning pink from her efforts for the yarn-haired doll she’d held close just a moment ago. Some middle-school girls in matching cut-off jean shorts sat on their heels, reaching over the seat between them to practice a version of ‘Miss Mary Mack.’ She combed her hair (hair, hair) and broke her comb (comb, comb) She’ll get a whoopin’ (whoop, whoop) when her mamma comes home. Their hands smacked the rhythm between them.

A clump of five boys Devan’s age sat in the back row closest the emergency exit. Devan gave a little nod and a wave to one of them, a gangly boy with blonde locks that were much longer than the other boys’ hair. Even from the length of the bus, Devan could see an undiscovered galaxy of copper freckles pepper his cheekbones. The boy shot a smile back at Devan just as the bus passed over a rumble strip, warning of a steep incline up ahead— the pit, as many of them referred to it. Devan quickly turned his face forward, pressing himself and his backpack close to the window. Some teasing hoots came from the back seat.

“Look out, splash zone,” called one of the boys from the group, “Devan’s bound to blow chunks over there.” He gave a clipped laugh and got a couple chuckles from the others. Devan looked out the window, his head angled toward the sky like his dad taught him to keep from getting ill. He noticed the clouds formed a popcorn ceiling above them all, like the one in his bedroom that he often picked at from his top bunk. The bus slowed to a crawl as it angled awkwardly around the first bend, hugging the ugly brush of the woods and carefully maneuvering to the shaded bottom of the gulley.

“You shouldn’t tease him, Jackson; he can’t help it,” said the freckled boy. He gave a loose grin. “Plus, he’ll really turn green if he’s gotta come back here to whoop you.”

“I’d like to see him try,” Jackson puffed his chest. Devan pretended like he couldn’t hear either boy and pressed his face to the cool, tinted glass.

Despite the steep incline and tight corners, the average driver took this road too fast. The town government had finally installed metal railing along the spots people most often had accidents, but already there were dents angling parts of the otherwise fluid curves. The steep valley, partially obscured by tangles of trees and brush, plummeted behind the arcs of ribbed steel. Interspersed along the road were several wooden crosses with bundles of time-stained, dollar store flowers. Devan swallowed hard as the bus passed the bundle that marked where his mother had been bucked from her car the previous winter; she’d hit a patch of black ice on her way home late one night and the empty husk of her car had been found peering over the edge hours later. The vehicle had teetered there for over a day, cradled by boughs that were perpetually reaching up to catch a tendril of sunlight from their position far below. Something in those trees beckoned him—called to him in a voice he both recognized and couldn’t quite place.

His stomach lurched and he searched for gaps of sky within his scope as the bus climbed back up the steep incline. The patches of blue and white got wider and wider until it was all he could see within the thin metal window frame he pressed his face to, cold and sturdy. Most of the road ahead was straight until the first stop at Jackson’s house. Everything around here looked lonely from afar. Nearly every home in the area was tucked far enough from the road that they were barely visible, and family dogs stalked long driveways. Open fields of hay rippled in the breeze; a couple of pastures were already baled, and the tight rolls sat on the range like clenched fists. Clusters of beef cattle cooled themselves under groves of sweet gum trees or stood knee-deep in the occasional small pond, green with scum.

“Did you ask your dad if you can come hang out with us today?” asked the freckled boy, Jonathan. Devan lowered his eyes from the popcorn clouds, unsticking his forehead from the glass, and twisted to look at him. His long hair fell into his face, and he reached up to push it back with the palm of his hand.

“He don’t mind,” Devan replied. In truth, his father hardly acknowledged the question when he’d been asked that morning; he’d looked up for a moment from the kitchen table, grumbled something about getting home before dark, and then curled back into the newspaper he’d been reading. Something seemed fundamentally mismatched between the two of them; or rather, his father perhaps sensed something in Devan he didn’t care to understand. A profound silence had settled on their house the day Devan lost his mother, one that had yet to be broken. He looked around at the other boys—Jackson and the two who followed him like disciples of boyhood, and Jonathan who could make friends simply by proximity—and felt a similar sense of difference. He held onto the straps of his backpack and his hands sweated a little.

“D’s in,” Jonathan announced enthusiastically, his smile open and soft. Devan was grateful for him, the only boy he knew in the group—Jon was in the same class as Devan, and he was well-liked by other boys for his amiable nature and deadpan humor. Devan had always been shy, but his loss had alienated him even more from the others his age. Jackson nodded absently.

“You got any good snacks at your house? I’m starving,” squeaked a skinny boy wearing pointed-toe western boots.

“Nah,” Jackson drawled, a sneer creeping up one side of his face, “My mom’s too fat. She won’t keep anything good in the house anymore, just a bunch of rice cakes. That’d probably just make you even scrawnier than you already are, Will.” The boy gave an exaggerated groan.

The bus’s stop sign swung out to the empty dirt road as it scraped to a halt; the four boys grabbed their backpacks from beneath the seat in front of them and tussled each other out the accordion door. Devan swung his over his own shoulder and followed a little behind them. Their bags all looked slightly too big on their backs as they raced up the long driveway to Jackson’s house. One big oak tree sat square in the middle of the yard so that the house was hardly visible until you got up close enough. A tire swing swayed from a bright red rope that’d been looped around a low, broad branch. Jackson jumped to it and launched back off toward the house in one fluid motion, peeking back at the others as he kept walking. Will tried to follow suit and got one foot caught in the open maw of the tire.

“It’s those long spider legs that got you,” Jackson cackled, stopping to watch him clumsily detangle himself.

“Jackson Arnold.” His mother didn’t shout, but her stern, sharp voice carried all the way across the yard. She stood inside the frame of the screen door and the mesh made her outline soft, lit from behind by the dim lights of the living room. Her hair was twisted up in a bleach-stained towel and aluminum foil peeked out at the edges, glinting in the orange four o’ clock sun. Her white tee shirt was several sizes too large and had honey-blonde blots on the shoulders. She squinted over to the group of boys and looked back at Jackson who stood before her on the porch. She spoke rigidly as he nodded, inaudible from the boys’ spot under the tree.

“I don’t think we’ll get to play his Xbox today.” Jonathan hung upside-down from the lowest branch of the big oak. His arms and long hair dangled toward the earth as he grimaced playfully. Devan sat near him in the dusty shade, making designs in the ground with a sharp twig and watching the delicate sway of Jon’s dirty blond tresses in the breeze.

“I don’t want to be stuck outside all day,” lamented a husky boy, his dark hair cut straight across his forehead. He sat cross-legged and hunched over in the patchy grass.

“You want to walk all the way home instead?” Will snickered pointedly.

“I could if I wanted to.” The boy, Hudson, furrowed his brow as he sat straight up.

“I don’t think so, Porky.”

Hudson pulled up a clump of grass, mud fixed to the dense roots, and chunked it at Will’s collar. Will snickered and plucked a handful of acorns from between the oak’s gnarled roots.

“Sum-bish!” Hudson yelped as the sharp projectiles thwack against his tummy. “Truce!”

“That’s what I thought.” Will’s spindly form leaned satisfied against the tree.

The blood was rushing to Jon’s face, his freckle constellations disappearing into one pink mass. He grabbed a hold of the branch and swung his legs down, dropping the final couple of feet. Jackson shuffled back across the yard.

“Y’all getting picked up by suppertime?” His mother called from the porch.

“Just tell her so,” Jackson grumbled under his breath, “Get her to leave us alone.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Jon hollered back. She nodded and closed the door behind her. “Outside time, I guess?” He looked to Jackson.

“Yeah. Let’s go out back.”

The boys gathered at the back fence, taking turns to maneuver over its splintered wood. They passed a sprawling garden to their left, carefully gated but months overgrown. A tree spread itself low in front of them. It was heavy with cherries that had been picked at by the starlings who nested in a cranny of the tin shed roof; a small group of them swooped into the higher branches and trilled vehemently. Devan followed a little behind the other boys, stopping to search for a few untouched berries from the tree and watching the territorial choreography of the birds above him. He bit one of the crimson berries, and its sour juice made him pucker his mouth. He chewed absently and let the little stony seed roll around his cheek like the last bit of a jaw breaker. Just as the juice of one ran out, he’d spit the seed from a gap in his teeth and pop in another. An invisible trail of small red pits followed the boys. As they moved through the open pasture, Jackson angled widely around a lush, swampy patch. Muddy fluid pooled and seeped there; the grass grew taller and thicker. A breeze converged on them, and the sulfuric smell of raw sewage made Devan lurch—such a sudden change from the tart pleasure of the last cherry. He looked closely and saw small swirls of flies above the quagmire. Hudson veered toward it but stopped in his tracks to feign puking. He turned toward the boys beside him and waved his hand in front of his face teasingly.

“Jackson, that smell,” he breathed through his mouth as he spoke.

“Septic tank’s leaking,” Jackson said in way of explanation, “Just walk around it, you big baby.” He made a show of not going any faster to outrun the odor. Hudson fell back in with the others, cowed slightly.

They passed by a pond not much larger than an oversized puddle; scum gathered along the edges and a scattering of hard cow patties were molded to the lip. A dogwood stood a little ways off, the branches low and thin. A few of its white, four-petaled flowers curled open to the sunlight and seemed to float on the air. Devan couldn’t help but watch a pair of butterflies flitter through the branches; the violet, ocular designs on their wings seemed to wink as they passed through shadows. He heard a stifled snort from Will and realized he and Hudson were watching him. Hudson whispered something in Will’s ear, and he guffawed. Devan looked to the ground to hide the pink that he could feel rise from his neck right up to his cheekbones. Jackson instructed the boys to stay put, and they perched restlessly in a loose clump—Devan stood a little apart from the others. Jackson stomped through some brush to a small thicket of trees, and the boys could hear his sneaker soles rasp against bark. His face appeared in the web of greenery overhead; his thumb and forefinger pointed, and he squinted to look down the pretend gun barrel at the four of them.

“My fort’s up here, but you gotta be able to climb to get to it,” he called down. Will waded through the thick grass first, his cowboy boots raised high to maneuver through a couple of thorny spots. Devan glanced over to Jonathan’s wiry body, much more capable of making it up a tree than Devan’s own short frame. He caught Jon’s eye and turned his gaze back the way they had come. Hesitation made his body feel heavier than usual. Jon sidled up to him grazed his shoulder against Devan’s reassuringly, then pulled away with a little jerk. He shifted this physical contact to a boyish punch to the arm before shuffling a couple steps away.

“I’m glad you could hang out today,” Jon said softly as he kicked at a rotted stump. Shards of bark broke off from the impact and exposed a porous, rusty interior. He shot Devan a small grin that filled Devan with new resolve.

“Me too,” he smiled back. “I’ve never climbed a tree though; I’m not sure I can get up there.” He looked apprehensively at the low, warped branches of the sycamore, partially obscured by undergrowth.

“Oh, don’t worry, that’s not so hard—Jackson is full of it. I’ve climbed it before and there are footholds and a rope you can use going up. He just likes to sound tough. Plus, I can help you get started—if you want.”

“Okay, then,” Devan said.

A little pink bloomed under Jon’s high cheekbones. He snapped a large stick from a fallen branch to thwack it through the high grass like a cutlass. Devan looked over to where Hudson was hoisting his ample behind onto a low bough. Jackson and Will searched the limbs for the tree’s fuzzy seed balls and aimed at Hudson from their higher position. He raised his arm in self-defense, slipping a little before he regained his footing and pulled himself out of their range.

“Hey girls,” Jackson hollered toward Devan and Jon, “Y’all coming, or are you too sissy?” Hudson snickered comfortably, having heaved himself onto a wide seat just below the other two.

“Yeah, hold on.” Jon tossed his switch and powered through the thicket toward the base of the tree. Devan followed more carefully, picking his way around the denser brush. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks, looking down at the place his foot had just landed.

“Dev, what’s up?” Jon called with a hint of unease; he had one hand on the knotted rope that dangled from above, waiting.

“I heard something in the grass—I’m not sure what.” Devan lifted his leg, but the grass sprung back up to obscure the impression of his foot. He bent over uncertainly.

“What, you hear a snake or something?” Jackson jumped down from the slender platform that ran between two catty-corner branches, took a couple quick steps to regain his footing, and pulled a black handle from his pocket. He flipped a wide, half-serrated blade out from within it.

“Whoa, where’d you get that thing?” Will pulled the rope from Jon and swung down, his long legs flailing awkwardly until they found ground. He scrambled to admire the pocketknife as Jackson held it closer.

“Nipped it from my brother’s stuff on the front porch when my mom wasn’t looking. This thing’ll slice the head right off a snake,” he boasted, trying to get a look at the spot Devan had gestured to.

“No, not a snake—like a weird shriek.” Devan took a step back as Jackson bent down to push aside some grass beneath him.

“Oh, man,” he chortled, revealing a fist-sized, bumpy form in the flattened weeds.

“Shit, dude—did you do that? Its whole back leg is totally squashed,” Will said, leaning over Jackson’s shoulder. Jonathan’s face twisted into an expression between disgust and pity.

Devan slowly leaned forward to get a look at the unfortunate critter. The toad, caught in some tangled vines when Devan walked through, got its back leg crushed by his footfall. It was alive but could barely move and laid vulnerable in the center of the five boys. Jackson kneeled closer and the others followed suit, all taking a closer look at the way the bubbly skin peeled away from the musculature of the broken hind leg. The rest of its body was so dense and compact, the one splayed leg almost looked like it belonged to a different creature entirely. Devan felt sick to his stomach as guilt bubbled up inside him. The toad’s eyes scanned around it in a panic, trying to pull itself along with its functioning legs to no avail. One of Jackson’s hands moved to hold it firm against the earth, and his other brought the knife closer to the toad. Devan’ throat caught—Jackson was going to slice the broken leg from its body. Jackson paused.

“Do you think it can still feel its toes?”

He sneered back at the other boys for a split second before the knife cleaved the longest gray toe from its crushed foot. The toad squirmed fruitlessly. They all squatted around it, transfixed. Jackson picked up the tiny sliver of flesh, staring at it in his palm. Will moved to take Jackson’s place holding it still with his open palm, looking to Jackson for instruction as he bent to take another digit. Jonathan made a small, choked cry but did not move from his crouched position. Devan stood, trembling, and tripped backwards into the woods beside them.

“Hey, wuss,” Devan heard Jackson shouting behind him, “What are you running away for?”

The sound hit Devan’s ears all wrong, like his head had been submerged in water. He glimpsed behind him and saw strips of the scene between trees. The boys had all stood up and were watching him run. Jackson’s hand was still open, presumably now holding two of the toad’s appendages. Jon’s eyes were trained on the ground beneath him.

Devan saw a dug-out path that cattle had made and followed it, stumbling through the thicket as far as he could before stopping to heave; fat tears formed on his cheeks. He set off running again, stumbling over stones or ragged roots that jutted out of the dirt trail. He ran until his legs no longer felt like they would run off without him if he stopped. He bent double with his hands on his knees to catch his breath, which came in jagged gasps. He raised his head at last. All around him a network of kudzu and thick layers of foliage stretched up to what seemed like heaven. Popcorn clouds with fingers of late evening sunlight appeared through the gaps. His heartbeat slowed. The white noise of cicadas numbed his mind in the most gratifying way; he wanted to burrow into that sound. A massive magnolia with thick, glossy leaves towered before him. It seemed to him that one of the lowest branches lowered a bit each time he blinked his eyes, coming closer and closer to the earth. He could hear it groan as it moved, as if it was having a pleasant stretch of its limbs. He approached it cautiously as the branch kissed the dirt, reaching his hand out to touch the rough bumps of the bark. He felt the tree beckon him to climb atop; the sensation of its voice was not quite aural, but Devan recognized it as the same from the trees of the pit. He swung his leg over and wrapped his arms around the bough.

“Thanks,” he spoke softly to the tree that was now all around him.

He could feel it slowly straightening back up, creaking as it moved. Devan was lifted with the branch, watching the ground below him get farther away and more obscured by foliage. He lost track of how long he was carried upward; everything shifted into shades of blue as the sun dropped behind some hills. When he felt for certain it had stopped moving, he unlatched his arms and looked around himself. The only thing he could see were the fat, dense leaves that shielded him from any possible view. Large white flowers with bulbus middles filled the space with the dizzying smell of honeyed citrus. Some birds were just barely audible through the insect hum in a neighboring tree. He raised his hand to the branch above and pulled himself to a standing position. There was another bough just above his foot and he stepped onto it, his hand on the sturdy trunk to steady himself. With each step up, another rung appeared to form the next. He followed it incrementally upwards, his feet steady on the wide branches as the strange staircase unfurled itself before him.

As the sun pulled the last of its flares below the horizon line, Devan stopped and sat with his back nestled against the trunk. So little light filtered into the dense foliage that he could only barely make out the contour of his palm as he waved it in front of his face. The cicadas and neighboring birds went silent; the only sound that remained was the clatter of the leaves that surrounded him brushing against each other. It sounded as if the tree was speaking aloud to him—just quietly enough that he couldn’t make out the words.

“If it’s alright with you,” Devan whispered to the strange, botanic entity that surrounded him, “I think I’ll rest here for a while.” The tree clattered back at him in approval. He stretched his legs along the broad bough, his body shimmying into a reclining position. His eyes strained to find a glimpse of the sky above him, but not even a grain appeared in the thick darkness. When he closed his eyes, it seemed to him the same as when they were open. His body felt heavier as he began to doze. Something cool knit itself over the tops of his ankles, warming to his body temperature as it bound his feet to the branch beneath them. As he slipped into sleep, it seemed to him that the clatter of leaves said to him, We will not let you fall.

He dreamed of falling, nonetheless—that while looking up at the sky from the school bus window, the unknown depths of the gulley rushed into his view and filled his vision. He fell headlong into tangles of kudzu that slipped through his panicked grasp. He could feel his head rushing with blood, unable to right himself. His feet were immobile, trailing behind him uselessly. The light from the rim of the chasm constricted slowly above him as he fell, until it was not much larger than a quarter. The vines began to constrict around him too, closing the space between his body and their intricate, green lacework. He realized he was no longer falling, though he still hung upside down. The kudzu tightened around his form and held him aloft, upended, above what Devan felt was endless depths. His head swelled with the pressure until he felt sure he would pop like a full, fat deer tick.

When he woke, the feeling that he was hanging by his feet didn’t leave him but the intense pressure behind his eyes had faded. The air around his face was heady and herbaceous. It overcame his senses and filled him with a feeling of utter weightlessness. He tried to wiggle around a bit and found that he couldn’t; while he slept, an elastic membrane had grown from his ankles, folded around his narrow hips, and enclosed his head with just enough space to expel his breath. His body ached as if he’d been asleep for too long, his limbs craving a good stretch. A bit of light penetrated the substance that swathed him and made the small space illuminated in mossy green. His body felt different than before, unfamiliar and gawky as a newborn lamb—but he was bundled so closely by the dense, leafy flesh that he couldn’t crane his neck to see himself. He recalled retreating into the woods and the strange tree that had held him as he fell asleep; a feeling of panic began to tickle at the back of his neck.

“Where am I?”

He meant to speak his query aloud, but his voice didn’t come out of him the way he expected it to. He tried again, but still no sound came crawling up from his throat. The rattling of magnolia leaves resounded outside of his strange casing, and the familiarity soothed him for a moment. Just as he was about to attempt speaking again, he heard the voice from before.

You are safe. He heard it clearly, as if it spoke from within his own head. He knew somehow that the voice came from the tree—it was as if all the leaves with their rusty undersides and slick, shellacked surfaces synchronized their rattle to form the breathy voice.

“I can’t move, though.” Again his voice failed to sound, but he knew the tree understood him. He squirmed a little, pushing outward as much as he could. Something between his shoulders felt tender and sore as he strained. He felt as if his form had folded in on itself, like the pop-up books his mom used to read him before bed. He knew if he could only break through the film around his body that he would be able to expand.

Be patient. You are becoming. The words rippled through him.

“Becoming what?” His heart thrummed uncomfortably with anticipation of the answer, but he sensed none. He started to ask again; the question echoed within him as if his body was a vacant cavern he’d shouted into—until it was the only coherent thought in him. Just as he began to believe the tree no longer understood his new silent voice, he heard the rattle of the leaves around him once more. The places where the cool, green casing touched his form suddenly felt static-charged. A current seemed to seep into his flesh, infusing his body and filling him with a steady strength.He thrust his bottom half outward again, feeling the material strain and finally tear. The puncture brought a rush of fresh air, and it smelled sweet against the spicy musk that filled the small space. The dull flux of cicadas thrumming their music to each other rose again, a familiar southern refrain. As he gained some mobility, he felt his own muscles maneuvering a body that was entirely foreign to him. His spindly legs pushed through the opening and widened it until the gaping seam reached his middle. He tensed his arms against the wrapping that pressed into his sides and watched the ragged tear come closer to his face. He teetered, gravity pulling him toward the ground below, and he found himself gripping the remains of his encasement with his strange new legs. He dangled there, awkward, uncertain, and tender as a seedling.

“I’m so crumpled up,” he cried, silently.

He tried to stretch the new limbs he felt unfolding at the curve of his shoulder blades, but they only flailed helplessly. He climbed up until he could swing himself onto the branch he’d been hanging from. He looked down on himself—his legs were impossibly thin, and his torso was covered in downy hairs.

Give yourself time, the voice vibrated through the leaves; it no longer felt interior but seemed to quiver in the air around him. He sat in a patch of sunlight on the branch and warmed himself, realizing how cool the interior of the casing had been on his skin. He looked up at the sky above him; the clouds were fat and opulent, sailing easily through the blue expanse. He could feel the sun opening him up, and he gained more control over his new form. He flapped the appendages that emerged from his shoulders and craned his head to catch a glimpse of them—they were fringed with the same orange that fell on him from the sun; violet pupils coiled in gold gazed back at him. The leaves rattled an encouragement. He dove from the safety of the wide branch, opening himself and surging on a breeze.