Chill by Colin Frizzell

Chapter One
    Chill’s foot dragged behind him like a murder victim being taken to a shallow grave by a killer too weak to do the job, but he still stood straighter than any other kid in school.
    His presence far exceeded his wiry five-foot-nine, fifteen-year-old body. Chill’s size didn’t matter because he was fast, and the speed was made twice as powerful because no one expected it from a guy with a bum leg.
    He held his head high and no one made fun of him. Well, except for that one kid.
    It was back in grade five. He was a big guy, new to Glendale Elementary. Kids are like wolves when they arrive at a new school; they look for the weakest in the pack and try to take ’em down. This—they hope—will get them the much-needed acceptance of the pack. You can’t survive in school on your own.
    It was the first recess and the new kid, Shane or Wayne, something like that, spotted Chill. Once he saw Chill’s leg, he made his move.
    â€œHey, hop-a-long,” he called out, though Chill didn’t hop. Hopping would have meant he was trying to appear normal, and Chill didn’t try to be anything but what he was, and what he was, was Chill.
    â€œHop-a-long,” the kid yelled out again.
    Chill stopped. He shook his head like he’d been waiting for it. Like somehow he knew, from the moment he laid eyes on this kid, that it was going to come to this.
    He sighed and turned but didn’t say anything.
    Chill wasn’t much of a talker. He didn’t have to be. His sharp eyes and multitude of expressions could speak volumes. On the other hand, I was a talker and often spoke for Chill.
    â€œWhat do you want?” I said, sticking close to Chill’s side.
    â€œI’m not talking to you. I’m talking to Hoppy here,” he said, nodding at Chill.
    â€œI don’t think he wants to talk to you,” I told him.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” he said. “His tongue as dead as his leg?”
    The kid laughed. He looked around, hoping others would join him. No one did. He turned back to Chill.
    â€œSo what happened? Your leg fall asleep in class and you couldn’t wake it up?” he laughed again and looked around again—nothing.
    The lameness of the attempted jokes aside, he should have picked up on the lack of reaction from the crowd. He shouldhave realized that no one appreciated what he was doing and that
this
wasn’t going to gain him any friends.
    Chill shook his head and turned to walk away.
    â€œWhere do you think you’re going?” the kid asked. “Nowhere fast, that’s for sure,” he added.
    As Chill walked away, so did everyone else.
    The new kid was losing his audience. He grabbed Chill by the shoulder and spun him around. Chill lost his balance.
    I went to catch him, but he caught himself before I could and straightened up proudly. Chill stared at the kid with a warning glare that would have made anyone with a lick of sense back off. This kid was not good at picking up on subtleties.
    â€œYou shouldn’t walk away when people are talking to you,” the kid threatened. “Didn’t your mom teach you that? Or did she give up teaching you anything when she saw you couldn’t even learn to walk?”
    It took a lot for Chill to lose his cool, but it was definitely going. He turned away again. This time the kid swung Chill back around with all he had, determined to take him down.
    But Chill was ready. He didn’t so much spin as pirouette, with his bad leg swinging like a club.
    Chill only meant to sweep his attacker’s legs out from under him, but the kid had stiffened his leg so he could get the full momentum in his pull. When Chill’s leg connected with the kid’s knee, it gave a sickening pop that made everyone in the yard stiffen. The kid dropped like a gummy bear from the ceiling after the saliva dries.
    Despite the pain, the kid tried to get to his feet to save face, but he could only