The ELI Event B007R5LTNS

it in his fist. “Falls for it every time,” Mike loudly said to Tom. “What a bird-brain! Get it? Bird -brain!”
    “I don’t know,” the other boy said, stopping. “Maybe he’s not as dumb as he seems.”
    “You gotta be shittin’ me,” Mike chuckled. “He’s for real, all right—nobody could act that dumb on purpose!” Tom watched Mike walk away, still laughing. “C’mon, let’s hang.”
    As the other boys gathered into cliques, Tom drifted away. He approached Robin, looking back at Mrs. Faraday’s office on the way. Positioning himself to put Robin between him and the building, he pulled a half-smoked cigarette and an old, battered Zippo from his pants pocket.
    “So, Bird…” he began.
    “Robin,” the other boy corrected hesitantly. “My name is Robin.”
    Tom put the butt in his mouth, keeping his head down. “Oh yeah, right. Sorry, man,” he said through his teeth. “Anyways.” Tom flicked the lighter. It sparked, but didn’t light. “So, um, Robin, do you always fall for that lame crap?”
    “Yeah,” came the languid reply.
    Tom shrugged and spread his hands, mumbling around the cigarette. “But don’t you get it? Wise up; he’s jerkin’ your chain, man. Don’t you know the dime’s worth two nickels?”
    Again, slowly, “Yeah.”
    Tom flicked the lighter; still no flame. He shook it hard and looked quizzically at Robin again. “Okay, so why do you keep takin’ the nickel, then?”
    “Because,” Robin almost whispered, looking directly at the other boy, “if I ever take the dime, he’ll quit doing it.”
    Tom blinked hard at that, shook his head a couple of times, and flicked the lighter again. It finally came to life. He lit his cigarette and took a drag, absentmindedly letting the flame burn as the true nature of the gag dawned on him.
    Tom began to laugh, letting out the smoke in a great gray cloud. “Oh shit, I love it! Dude, that is messed up,” he smiled. “These nozzles think you’re a moron, and you’re playin’ ’em like a fiddle.” He snorted, the Zippo still alight in his hand. “Man, that’s classic.”
    Robin stared intensely at the lighter’s flame and seemed not to hear.
    Tom tried again. “Hey, I said, that’s classic. Dude, you’re bustin’ their chops at their own game. I love it!”
    No response. Then: “Ow!” Tom snapped the hot lighter shut and tossed it into his left hand, back to his right, and back to his left until it was cool enough to hold. He stuffed it into his jeans pocket. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I think it’s funny as hell, but I won’t rat you out.”
    Still no reply. Tom bent closer, put his face near Robin’s. “Hello? Hey! Testing, one two three! Anybody home?” Silence. He passed a hand in front of the other boy’s eyes; Robin didn’t notice. “Uh, hey man, you okay? Bird? I mean, Robin?”
    Robin stood stock still, arms at his sides, face blank, eyes vaguely focused where Tom’s lighter had been.
    Tom looked around nervously. “Hey, man, c’mon,” he pleaded through a puff of smoke. “Hey, this ain’t funny any more. What’s wrong? What’s the matter with you?”
    Robin’s arms began to quiver, the fingers flexing spasmodically. Tom threw the butt down and waved both hands in front of Robin’s face; nothing, not even a blink. He shook Robin’s shoulders and returned the blank expression with one of his own for a few moments, then let go, fear gathering in his own eyes.
    Robin stood expressionless, staring into space. The trembling spread; his whole body was now rippling in tiny jerks, making his features seem to blur. Slowly, his head tilted back until it was almost perpendicular to his torso, his mouth open wide, the quivering now in full control of his thin body.
    Tom’s cigarette dropped from his hand. “Oh, shit,” he said quietly; then, louder, “Oh, shit.” He backed away, stumbling, unable to take his eyes off Robin. “Oh, shit!” he cried again, then wheeled around and bolted for Mrs. Faraday’s office.
    Every suppressed trauma has something that swiftly and unexpectedly brings it to the fore, an initiating event, a trigger. Robin’s trigger was fire. Tom’s cigarette lighter had sent him off to his own private hell, to a world of five years past, to an event blanked out of his conscious mind, but brought to life all too vividly whenever he saw a flame, however small.
    And now he was lost, back again in the small frame house in Oberlin, just northeast of Colby. He