9.19

When Terrance was twelve, he took to calling himself Slingshot. Not at home, not where his mother could hear (she was far too practical for such nonsense), but around his friends and the rough acquaintances that count for friends among children at the cusp of sentience. And perhaps that's exactly why he could get away with such a daring maneuver: none of the children he played catch with in the school yard were old enough yet themselves to understand the unmitigated gall of first giving yourself a nickname and on top of that choosing such a ludicrous concept as its basis. After all, you don't look askance at a Slingshot when you yourself are Riptide, Slashfire, Orca Commander, and Buck.

When Terrance was thirteen, his mother (ever practical, ever down-to-earth and a firm, foundational rock upon which to build a childhood) moved her small family in pursuit of a job. The company she worked for was willing to pay her nearly twice as much to do the same tasks in a decrepit corner of the state, far from any normal folks who might turn their noses up at a Slingshot wannabe, and in fact, far from anybody who might be interested in wanting to be a Slingshot, and in fact, far from anybody at all. Slingshot (please again remember, this name is not my work, but his) was not devastated because he didn't know enough yet to be devastated about such small things. Where once there were people, now there were new friends, but not of the sort that an older person might be able to comprehend. Our sometime child was even yet ante-sentient. He made good use of his limbo. If his mother chattered with the mile-and-a-quarter neighbors about the inconvenience of the small river separating their two properties, Slingshot made full use of its storytelling potential. If his mother sighed about the fallen tree blocking the majority of the tight, winding driveway, Slingshot saw the covert influence of a cabal of nettling enemies. If his mother complained about the long hours her son spent out doors, Slingshot wasn't there to hear it. In the forest that crept up to their timid lawn, his complete wasteland friendscape was forgotten, for a time.

When Terrance was twenty five, the thought occurred to him that perhaps he had not actually been friendless at any time in his life, but perhaps he had never had friends either. The treehouse pine and the gully with the fort in it and the culvert tunnel were, to him, the exact same utility as Riptide, Slashfire, Orca Commander, and Buck. Terrance was floored by this revelation in a conversation with his first adult friend, Corey, to whom he told everything and from whom he held nothing, and with whom he realized that at twelve, all friends are essentially trees.