I don’t remember the last time I got along with someone unless I count thanking my mama for making dinner. Everyone says I got an attitude. I'm the problem child teachers complain about. I’m always raising my voice. I’m brash. All our expectations are at rock-bottom and none of us plan on raising ‘em, ‘cause if I didn’t learn my lesson by the time I was 10-ish, there ain’t no way I'm learning now.
I do raise a couple of reedy tree branches so they don’t smack me in the forehead. I’m spending my afternoon in the woods by myself again, on the path I created from exploring so often. The trees’ leaves block out the sunlight, but they don’t offer no protection against the blazing Tennessee heat. My mama’s probably gonna yell at me for being sweaty and dirty when I get back home, but I don’t care. I got a water bottle on me and I know how to take a shower.
My only concern is the cicadas. It’s cicada season and they’re coating every other tree, whirring at max volume so they can attract mates and piss me off. My footsteps are a crunchy mix of snapping twigs and brittle cicada shells. I dove into the woods specifically so I could prove a point. Niggas be saying I can’t handle the cicadas ‘cause I’m weak as fuck, but I know that ain’t true. They know it ain’t true. I win fights occasionally. I cause problems. I'm brash.
I stomp through the forest and try to tune out the endless whirs. I was gonna bring earplugs but that would make me look worse. The infinite buzz drills into my ears and makes me wanna barf. Maybe I can find a hollowed-out log to barf in so I don’t mess up my tiny path.
I feel a softer, benign buzz against my thigh. Someone is calling me, but I ignore it. It's only 3:00 PM and everybody knows that if I ain’t nowhere to be found I'm knee-deep in the woods. Ain’t nobody gonna look for me.
My tiny path intersects with the established trail, the one with neon markings on the trees ‘cause the park service manages it. I reach the intersection and come to a halt, frowning in confusion. I ain’t confused about where the path leads ‘cause I know these woods like the back of my hand, but I don’t understand why I’m at this fork already. It’s only 3:00 PM. I quickly glance at the time on my phone: 5:30 PM. My phone got 10% left, my water bottle’s empty, and the sun’s halfway set. I was too focused on marching through the cicadas to mind the time. I could turn back, but I ain’t done yet. To my left is the way back to a tiny nature reserve that gets three visitors per month ‘cause we in Bumfuck, Tennessee. I hang a right instead. I’d hear the faint murmur of flowing water by now if there wasn’t so many cicadas.
As I stomp towards the upcoming stream my footsteps’ crunches get a little softer. There are less cicadas here ‘cause the trees in this spot are a little younger; the insects ain’t had time to lay their eggs and burrow under the trees. My phone buzzes again, and since I don’t got earplugs I wanna focus on how the incoming call feels: cool metal that jostles up against my thigh and gentle vibrations to a rhythm that don’t blow up my eardrums. But I’m here for the cicadas; no distractions allowed. I decline the call without bothering to check who the caller is. I don’t need cool and gentle. I’m busy. I’m on a mission. I’m brash.
A few minutes later I arrive at the stream. The last rays of sunlight paint the water with yellow and white streaks. There are three stumps right next to the stream. Neither of ‘em are hollow, but I don’t mind no more ‘cause I ain’t gonna barf now that the cicadas are quieter. I sit down on the middle stump and stare at the water. There are dead leaves and rounded stones at the bottom. I reach a lanky arm out and dip my fingers into the water. Something tiny and smooth brushes up against ‘em, and half my brain lights up in recognition. I stick my other hand in, cup my hands together and carefully scoop up a half dozen tadpoles. Their half-formed hind legs kick about as they try to figure out what’s going on.
I can’t hear the cicadas anymore. I’m also tryna figure out what’s going on in my dark brown hands. Do the tadpoles know they ain’t in the stream anymore? Can they tell my gap-toothed smile’s a declaration of friendship, not war? They concerned about the fact that water slowly leaks out from the cracks between my fingers?
I don’t find the answers to none of those questions, but I remember other stuff instead. Sean, and later Christine, sitting on the other stumps and looking at the tadpoles with me. I tell ‘em what species each tadpole is and they try to draw ‘em even though neither of them can draw tadpoles for shit. They actually are looking for me, ‘cause we was supposed to meet up at my aunt’s farm and watch over her chickens to get service hours. I ditched ‘em ‘cause everyone says I’m brash. I ain’t that brash. I’m gently holding tadpoles.
I let the tadpoles flop around in my hands for a few more moments, then release ‘em back into the water. Now that I ain’t touching ‘em anymore, I can hear the cicadas again. I jam the palm of my hand against one ear to try and drown out the noise and check my phone with the other. Both my parents called me and in our group chat Sean texted, Landon if you don’t respond to this in ten minutes we’re gonna start looking for you. That was twenty minutes ago.
Tears creep out of my eyes and down my cheeks, and I heave a few sobs. I stuff my phone back into my pocket with a trembling hand, cover up my other ear, and curl up. I’m gonna try to get it together before Sean and Christine get lost in these maze-y woods, but for now I’m succumbing to the cicadas. I ain’t well enough to make it back right now. I cause problems. I’m gentle.