Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 44
First Blood

The problem started with Jake Morrison.

Jake was new to St. Catherine's, having transferred in at the start of fourth grade from some school across town. He was bigger than most of the other nine-year-olds—already hit a growth spurt that put him at almost five feet tall. Stocky build, the kind of kid who looked like he should be playing football.

And he had a chip on his shoulder about smart kids.

"Teacher's pet," Jake muttered the first time Mrs. Anderson called on Ash in class.

Ash ignored it. He'd dealt with worse than some insecure kid's comments.

But Jake didn't stop.

When Ash got his math test back with another 100%, Jake leaned over from the next row. "Must be nice being the teacher's favorite."

"I just did the work," Ash said quietly.

"Yeah, I bet. Nerd."

Ash had been called worse things. Much worse. This was playground insult stuff, barely worth acknowledging. He went back to reading his book.

But Jake kept pushing.

At recess, when Ash was playing basketball with Marcus and Tyler, Jake walked past and deliberately knocked the ball away.

"Oops," he said, not sounding sorry at all.

"What's your problem?" Marcus asked.

"No problem. Just think maybe the smart kid should stick to books instead of sports." Jake smirked. "Leave the real games to real athletes."

Tyler bristled. "Noam's better at baseball than you'll ever be."

"That so?" Jake stepped closer. "Maybe we should find out."

"Jake, man, just leave it," said one of Jake's friends, a kid named Brett. "Come on."

Jake let himself be pulled away, but threw back over his shoulder: "Yeah, run along to your little nerd friend. Probably need to do his homework for him anyway."

"What's his deal?" Marcus asked when they were gone.

Ash picked up the basketball. "No idea. Maybe he's having a bad day."

But it wasn't just a bad day.

Over the next two weeks, Jake made it his mission to needle Ash whenever possible. Comments in class, "accidental" shoves in the hallway, making fun of Ash's answers during group work.

"Must be exhausting being right all the time," Jake said during science class when Ash correctly explained photosynthesis.

"It's just the answer," Ash said, trying to keep his voice even.

"Yeah, well, nobody likes a show-off."

Mrs. Anderson glanced over. "Jake, is there a problem?"

"No, ma'am. Just discussing the lesson."

Ash felt the familiar tension building—that adult awareness that this was petty bullying, that Jake was probably dealing with his own insecurities, that the mature response was to ignore it.

But he also felt something else. Something newer, more visceral. The nine-year-old reaction of I don't want to be pushed around anymore.

His previous body had been small. Weak. He'd learned early to avoid physical confrontation because he'd always lose. Had developed other strategies—sharp words, avoidance, making himself invisible when necessary.

This body was different. Stronger. He played baseball and swam competitively. Had muscles from constant training. Wasn't the biggest kid in fourth grade, but wasn't the smallest either.

For the first time in both his lives, physical confrontation was actually an option.

Not that he wanted to fight. He was thirty-one years old mentally. He knew fighting solved nothing. Knew it was immature, pointless, exactly the kind of thing that got kids suspended.

But knowing that didn't stop the part of him that was tired of being shoved.

It came to a head on a Friday in late September.

Lunch recess. Ash was with his usual group, sitting on the grass near the basketball court, trading baseball cards. Marcus had just gotten a rare rookie card and everyone was examining it.

"No way! How'd you get this?" Tyler asked.

"My uncle collects them. He gave me some of his old ones," Marcus said proudly.

Jake walked past with Brett and another kid. "Hey look, the nerds are playing with their little cards. How cute."

Ash didn't look up. "We're just hanging out, Jake. Leave us alone."

"Make me."

Now Ash did look up. Jake was standing over them, arms crossed, that familiar smirk on his face.

"Seriously?" Ash said. "What do you want?"

"I want to know why everyone thinks you're so special. You're just some kid who thinks he's smarter than everyone else."

"I don't think that."

"Yeah you do. Walking around like you know everything, raising your hand in every class, showing off on the baseball field—"

"That's not showing off, that's just playing the game," Marcus interjected.

"Nobody asked you," Jake snapped. Then back to Ash: "You know what? I think you need to learn some humility."

And he kicked Marcus's baseball cards, scattering them across the grass.

"Hey!" Marcus scrambled to collect them. "What the hell, Jake!"

"Oops." Jake's smirk widened. "Guess your special cards aren't so special now."

Ash stood up. He was shorter than Jake by a few inches, but he stood anyway. "Pick them up."

"Or what?"

"Pick them up," Ash repeated, his voice steady despite the adrenaline starting to pump through his system.

"Make me," Jake said again.

Ash felt his adult brain screaming at him to walk away, to get a teacher, to de-escalate. This was stupid. This was exactly what Jake wanted. Getting into a fight would solve nothing and might get him suspended.

But his nine-year-old body was flooded with anger and adrenaline and the visceral need to not back down.

And when Jake shoved him—hard, two-handed push to the chest—something snapped.

Ash shoved back.

Jake stumbled a step, surprise flashing across his face. Then anger. "Oh, you want to do this?"

"I want you to leave us alone."

"Too late for that, nerd."

Jake swung first. A wild, looping punch that Ash saw coming a mile away. He ducked, and Jake's fist sailed over his head.

Then Ash was moving on instinct—not adult calculation, but pure physical reaction. He grabbed Jake's shirt and shoved, using Jake's own momentum against him. Jake stumbled backward.

"Fight! Fight!" someone yelled, and suddenly there was a circle forming around them.

Jake came at him again, this time managing to grab Ash's shoulder. They grappled, neither really landing any solid hits, just pushing and shoving and stumbling around the grass.

Ash felt Jake's fist connect with his ribs. Pain flared but it wasn't as bad as he'd expected. He swung back, more reflex than strategy, and felt his knuckles scrape against Jake's cheek.

They were on the ground now, rolling, hands grabbing at shirts and arms and faces. Ash tasted dirt. His lip was bleeding—he'd bitten it or Jake had hit it, he wasn't sure which.

His adult mind was screaming at him that this was ridiculous, that they were two nine-year-olds wrestling in the dirt over nothing.

But his body didn't care. His body was fighting, and some primal part of him felt alive in a way he hadn't in years.

"BOYS! STOP IT RIGHT NOW!"

Mr. Davis's voice cut through the shouts. Strong hands grabbed both of them, pulling them apart. Ash found himself being lifted bodily by Mr. Davis while another teacher—Mrs. Chen from third grade—grabbed Jake.

"My office. Both of you. NOW."

Ash's heart was hammering. His hands were shaking. His lip was definitely bleeding, and his ribs hurt where Jake had punched him.

But he'd fought back. Had actually physically fought back.

And he'd held his own.

Principal Hernandez's office was small and stuffy. Ash sat in one of the chairs facing her desk, Jake in the other. They'd been kept separate until now, each waiting in the hallway while the other got questioned first.

Now they sat side by side, both dirty and disheveled, while Principal Hernandez looked at them with that particular expression of disappointed authority that principals seemed to perfect.

"Would either of you like to explain what happened?"

Silence.

"No? Alright, then I'll tell you what I saw on the playground camera." She turned her computer monitor so they could see. Security footage showed the whole thing—Jake kicking the cards, the confrontation, the first shove.

"Mr. Morrison, you initiated physical contact. That's clear. But Mr. Walsh, you chose to escalate rather than get a teacher. You both made poor decisions."

"He wouldn't leave us alone," Ash said quietly. "He's been harassing me for weeks."

"Is that true, Mr. Morrison?"

Jake shrugged. "I was just joking around."

"Kicking someone's belongings and shoving them doesn't sound like joking to me." Principal Hernandez folded her hands on her desk. "Here's what's going to happen. You're both suspended for the rest of today. Your parents are being called to pick you up. When you return on Monday, you'll each serve a lunch detention for the rest of the week."

"But—" Jake started.

"No buts. Fighting on school grounds is not tolerated, regardless of who started it. Do you both understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," Ash muttered.

Jake nodded sullenly.

"Good. Wait in the hallway until your parents arrive. And gentlemen? Stay away from each other."

Mom arrived twenty minutes later, her face tight with concern. She thanked Principal Hernandez, signed the necessary paperwork, and walked Ash to the car in silence.

Only when they were both buckled in did she speak.

"Are you hurt?"

"My lip's a little cut. Ribs are sore. I'm fine."

"What happened?"

Ash told her the whole story—Jake's constant needling, the scattered cards, the shove. She listened without interrupting, her hands tight on the steering wheel.

When he finished, she was quiet for a long moment.

"You should have gotten a teacher."

"I know."

"Fighting solves nothing."

"I know."

"You could have been seriously hurt. You could have seriously hurt him."

"I know, Mom."

Another silence. Then: "Did you at least get a few good hits in?"

Ash looked at her in surprise. Was that... was she almost smiling?

"I mean, not that I condone violence," Mom added quickly. "Fighting is wrong. You should never resort to physical confrontation. But hypothetically, if one were forced to defend oneself..."

"I held my own," Ash admitted.

"Good." Then she seemed to catch herself. "Not good. Bad. Fighting is bad. You're suspended and grounded for the weekend."

"Yes, ma'am."

But there was something in her voice that wasn't entirely disappointed. Something almost proud.

When Dad got home that evening and heard the story, his reaction was similar—concerned and stern on the surface, but underneath... something else.

"You're too smart to get baited into fights," Dad said, examining Ash's split lip with a critical eye. "That kid was trying to get a reaction and you gave him exactly what he wanted."

"I know."

"Fighting doesn't prove anything."

"I know."

"You're better than that."

"I know, Dad."

Dad studied him for a moment. "But you weren't going to let him keep pushing you around, were you?"

"No."

"And you weren't going to let him disrespect your friends."

"No."

Dad sighed. "You're grounded this weekend. No TV, no video games. You'll write an apology letter to Principal Hernandez and think about better ways to handle conflict."

"Okay."

"But..." Dad paused. "Between us? Sometimes standing up for yourself matters. I'm not saying fighting is the answer—it's not. But I'm also not going to pretend I'm upset that my son wouldn't let himself get pushed around."

After Dad left, Ash sat on his bed thinking about the day. His lip throbbed. His ribs ached. His knuckles were scraped and bruised.

He was suspended. Grounded. Had lunch detention all next week.

And he'd been in an actual, physical fight—something that had never happened in his previous life. Something he'd never thought would happen in this one.

"My name is Ash," he whispered to his room. "I'm thirty-one years old. Today I got into a fistfight on the playground like an actual nine-year-old."

The absurdity of it almost made him laugh.

Almost.

Because underneath the absurdity was something else. Something unexpected.

He'd stood his ground. Had fought back when pushed. Had defended himself and his friends.

His adult mind knew it was immature and pointless.

But his nine-year-old body felt something he'd never felt before in either life.

Strong.

Capable.

Unwilling to be pushed around.

Not a victim.

That night, despite being grounded, despite the suspension, despite everything—Ash fell asleep with a strange sense of satisfaction.

He'd crossed a line he'd never expected to cross.

And he'd discovered that he could hold his own.

Four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-six days to go.

But today he'd learned that this body—his body—was stronger than he'd realized.

And that sometimes, just sometimes, standing up to a bully meant standing up literally.

Even if it meant a split lip and a suspension.

Even if it was immature and pointless.

Even if his adult mind knew better.

Sometimes being nine meant acting nine.

And today, for the first time, that had felt exactly right.