Beyond the Wicked Willow: Chronicles of a Teenage Witchslayer

Frankie's Life

Eight hundred years later, as Frankie Fretini stood in his bedroom, his scrawny arms trembled under the weight of a not-so-heavy barbell he struggled to curl. His eyes squeezed shut and his face turned red as he strained. Finally, having had enough, he gave up and dropped the barbell with a defeated thud. Frankie looked in the mirror, inspecting his frail shirtless physique. He struck some Charles Atlas poses, inquisitively searching for any sign of muscle growth. Disappointed, he shook his head and sighed. Lifting an arm, Frankie scanned his armpit for hair. He tugged on the three available sprouts.

"Ouch!" he said, pulling one free. Frankie frowned. "Great," he said, "Now there's only two." Continuing his survey, he pulled the waistband of his jeans open and checked things out. Annoyed, he curled his lip. "Anytime, puberty. Anytime."

Frankie's mother hollered up from downstairs. "Francis Flario Fretini, come eat your breakfast."

Frankie rolled his eyes and replied, "Frankie, Ma. Call me, Frankie. I'll be right down. Just give me a minute, okay?"

"Okay, but don't dillydally, because it's getting late," she called back.

Frankie looked to the digital clock on his nightstand: 6:45 a.m. Being sort of high-energy, a bit nervous, and scatter-brained, Frankie sometimes needed a gentle reminder in order to stay on track. Who doesn't need a little help every now and again, right? Picking up the pace, he yanked a shirt from a hanger in the closet and threw it on. He started for his bedroom door, but abruptly stopped and slowly turned back. As if reminded of a painful memory, Frankie returned to the foot of his bed where he stood over a blanket-covered box.

After a moment of peering down at it, he gently knelt before it. With sad eyes, he gingerly rolled up the front of the blanket to reveal an old, worn military footlocker. After a deep breath, he opened the lid just enough to slip his arm deep inside. He felt around for a brief moment then withdrew his arm, allowing the lid to softly clap shut. In his hand he held a small item neatly wrapped in shiny red silk. It measured about three inches by three inches, was fairly thin, and smartly tied shut with a crisscross of white twine. He stared at it reverently with longing in his eyes. Finally, Frankie stood up and slipped the item deep into his front pocket. He stepped thoughtfully to his door, hefted his overstuffed backpack off the floor, and headed down for breakfast.

Frankie's mother was standing at the counter pouring a glass of orange juice when he entered the kitchen.

"Morning, Mom," he said.

She turned to him with a broad smile. "Good morning, Sweetie. Hope you're hungry."

"I'm not," he said, as he dropped his backpack and sat down at the kitchen table.

His mother walked over and set down a bowl of cereal and glass of orange juice in front of him. "You need to eat something," she said.

Then she went on to wipe down the counters and straighten things up.

"Mom, do you think I'm a wuss?" Frankie asked, glumly poking at his cereal.

"No," his mother said adamantly. "Why would you say that? Is that Block character picking on you, again?"

"Brick, Ma. His name is Brick. Brick McDuddy and no, he's not. Never mind."

As she wiped the counter, she came to a family photo. In the snapshot she stood with Frankie's dad, who wore a Marine uniform. In his arms, he held a young, smiling Frankie who was sporting a tee ball uniform and baseball mitt. She picked up the photo and gazed at it wistfully. Her eyes misted up a bit and she turned her gaze to Frankie. He sat, elbows on the table, chin propped up on his hand. She nodded slightly, an expression of understanding. She set the photo and dish towel down and took a seat at the table next to Frankie. She clasped his hand and studied him for a moment.

"Sweetie," she said, "sooner or later we all have to face scary things in life, whether it's some dumb bully or anything else. But being scared doesn't make someone a wuss."

Frankie looked at his mom, still disappointed. "I feel like a wuss."

"People face their fears when the time is right, Frankie. You'll always know when that time is."

"Thanks, Ma. I'm glad I have you."

She leaned over and hugged Frankie tightly. "Glad we have each other."

Frankie looked over his mom's shoulder at the clock on the wall. It read 7:00 am. "I have to go!" he said urgently. He ate a couple quick spoonfuls of cereal, gulped down his orange juice, and grabbed his backpack.

They both hurried to the front door. Frankie swung the door open and gave his mom a quick kiss on the cheek. "Bye, Ma. Love you!"

"Love you, too," she called after him. "Have a good day." A twinge of sadness set in as she watched her fatherless son pass slowly through their barren front yard and fade off down the street.

Frankie trudged along the sidewalk with two out of three of his best pals at his side, Samantha "Sam" Armstrong, and Albert "Bookworm" Bookwell. All three were bent forward under the crushing weight of backpacks jammed full with way too many schoolbooks. Sam was a pretty girl who wore her brown hair in long straight pigtails, but don't let that fool you. She was definitely the toughest of the bunch and wasn't afraid to let it be known, especially with Bookworm. Sam had had a crush on Bookworm for a long time, and that crush usually manifested itself in the form of a headlock and a scalp-burning noogie. But Bookworm just didn't get it. If it didn't have to do with science or literature, it zipped over his head like a neutrino. Bookworm was more attuned to the language of his erudite idols, Einstein, Tesla, George Washington Carver, Neil deGrasse Tyson, and so many others.

"This can't be good for your back," Frankie complained.

"Definitely not," Bookworm agreed. "In fact, I recently read an article in the Journal of the American Medical Association a.k.a. JAMA—"

"You little boys need me to carry your packy-packs?" Sam asked, interrupting.

Frankie and Bookworm blushed, and exchanged looks of embarrassment. They stopped in front of a well-manicured front lawn with a quaint center path that led up to the front door of a tidy house decorated with pretty window boxes overflowing with vivid flowers. After about two minutes standing and waiting, Sam rolled her eyes. Frankie sighed. Bookworm clicked his tongue in disapproval.

"Beef!" they finally yelled in unison toward the house.

The front door slowly squeaked open and Mikey "Beef " Bovinski lumbered out. Beef was Frankie's third and final best pal. Though Beef 's backpack was as big as those of his three friends, his rotund build dwarfed it comically. The cargo pockets of his pants bulged with all manner of snacks for the day. He looked down to his pals on the sidewalk, took a sizable chomp from his foot long kielbasa hoagie, and muttered with a full mouth, "Hold your McNuggets, I'm coming."

They shook their heads as Beef descended the steps, but when he finally arrived at their sides, they grinned and patted him on the shoulders kindly. They stepped off down the sidewalk, Beef methodically devouring his hoagie, while Sam steadily shot him the stink eye.

"How can you eat that for breakfast?" she finally asked.

Beef gave her a look, as if she should know better and exclaimed, "Sam, you know I have to keep my blood sugar up."

Exasperated, Sam fired back, "Well, I have to sit behind you in math class."

Beef shot her a quizzical glance. "So?"

Frankie chimed in, "So, you know your kielbasa farts are deadly, dude."

"As opposed to my other farts?"

Sam answered without a second thought, "Yes."

"It's widely accepted science that flatulence varies immensely depending on a broad spectrum of factors, including, but not limited to—"

Sam pounced like lightning, throwing Bookworm into an inescapable headlock. She cranked his head downward and asked in disbelief, "Really, Bookworm? Fart science?" After a quick hair mussing noogie she released him and cracked an elfin grin. Just as fast she dashed toward Beef and hollered, "Beef vault!"

After years of conditioning, Beef knew exactly what to do: he bent over just in time for Sam to leapfrog high off his backpack and right over his head.