Punkinhead Salazar

Nobody knew how Punkinhead got his nickname.  His head wasn't particularly round or orange; he had not even a passing resemblance to a large, smooth squash.  He was, however, a somewhat naïve and innocent child.  He had the typical, slightly overprotective parents, who did all they could to keep his life comfortable and keep him from too much stress.  Although he had no close friends, he also had no enemies and everybody he knew had a vaguely friendly feeling towards him.

On one pleasant spring day, Punkinhead went down to the pond at the city park to toss bread crumbs to the fish.  Some people liked to feed the ducks, but he preferred the fish.  They were quiet, graceful, quite the opposite of those awful birds.  The ducks were loud, aggressive, not nice at all.  Punkinhead had never liked the ducks.

That day he didn't see any ducks hanging around the pond.  Good.  Sometimes they barged in and stole the crumbs from the fish.  He walked up to the edge of the pond and looked expectantly at the water.  Usually the fish would appear when somebody walked up to the pond, knowing crumbs were forthcoming.  Strangely, there was nothing moving in the water that day.  Punkinhead walked slowly around the pond, keeping his eyes on the water, searching for any sign of fishy life.  All the way around, and nothing.  It was very strange and disconcerting.  Then he noticed that the water was different.  It had a kind of oily shimmer on top that he didn't remember from before.  Curious, he picked up a sturdy stick and poked it.  The covering on the water fell apart immediately and offered him no clues, so in frustration he thrashed the pond with the end of the stick.  Foam boiled up like magic. Punkinhead ceased his punishment of the waters in astonishment.  It occured to him in a flicker of sharp-mindedness that it might be dish soap that had been poured into the pond.  But why?  Who would do such a thing?  He looked around, burning with suspicion and outrage.  The fish, his fish had been poisoned, or were staying away from the surface, disgusted by the soap.  Was it an attack on them?  Or on him?  His innocence throbbed with the sting of assumed insult.  He circled the pond again, slowly, looking for clues like they did on TV.  Nothing.  He sighed and hung his head, but at the same time promised himself that he would return every day until the crime was solved.

As he was walking home, brooding, lost in contemplation of the crime against his fish, he passed a pair of young boys.  At first he didn't pay any real attention to them, but something made him stop and look back.  There was something odd about their behavior; they were looking around in that way that children have when they're trying to be furtive and sneaky, but instead makes it obvious that they're trying to put one over on everybody.  Suddenly they noticed him noticing them and one of them yelled, "What're you looking at, jerk-face?" and they ran off, leaving Punkinhead perplexed.  At first he turned back to his way home, but then desire flared up in his heart to know what secret great or terrible they might be hiding, and he followed them.  He had a feeling in his gut that they were up to something.  He thought he would just follow close behind them until they got where they were going, but then one of those strategic ideas entered his mind, like a gnat through a hole in a screen door.  He slowed down enough that they didn't feel the pressure of a persuer on their heels, but remained close enough to be able to see them turn a corner or hear their fleeing footsteps.  Somehow, his plan worked.  Although he lost sight of the boys, he was able to track them, and heard their whiny, unpleasant voices from behind a thick, leafy rhododendron.

"What if somebody saw?"

"Nobody saw, and nobody cares about some stupid old fish anyway."

Punkinhead was filled with righteous rage.  It was them!

"I think my dad knows I took the dish soap though.  He kept asking where it was and then saying, 'Isaac?' like he knew I knew."

"Well, just don't admit to anything.  Those bubbles were cruddy, though.  Maybe we need to use bubble bath.  My sister has some and it even smells like bubble gum!"

Punkinhead stomped away, filled to the brim with indignation.  They weren't sorry for the poor fish, poisoned by their soapy prank, they just wanted to make the pond into a bubble bath.  A bubble bath!  You weren't supposed to go wading in it even, and they wanted to fill it with fluff!  Punkinhead arrived home and sought out his mother straight away.  She was always level-headed and knew the best way to handle his crises, whereas his father had a tendency to overreact.  She was examining some papers at the dining room table, chewing on her pen when he came in.  He explained the situation and she listened with a grave and serious expression.  "Alright, darling," she said when he had finished, "Just leave this to me," and she went off to the kitchen.  Punkinhead wanted to follow her, but he felt confident that she would make justice happen and he didn't want to spy on his own mother.

The next day he was walking by the park and saw the boys with several adults, their parents he assumed, being lectured to by a police officer.  The officer looked quite relaxed, actually leaning against the squad car as she talked, but she was waving her no-no finger, and the boys were red-faced and ground-facing.  Punkinhead felt jubilant.

Not so long after, he decided to go to the park and see if there were new fish in the pond.  He walked down the path, whistling and carefree, when he heard a familiar and grating voice: "There he is!" and a rock - a rock! - sailed through the air from behind him, just missing his right ear.  Punkinhead turned in disbelief, and the two snotty boys were just at the top of a small mound with a pile of child's fist-sized rocks in between them.  "This is for telling on us, you jerk!" and he threw a rock that went far over the top of its mark.  "Yeah!  Monkey-butt!" squealed the other, and he too launched a stone wildly.  Punkinhead stood in shock, paralyzed.  Then a rock, almost a perfect sphere of a rock, insultingly like the ones that lined his beloved fish pond, smacked him in the cheek and his daze was broken.  He ran home, tears of anger running down his face, but he allowed no sobs of frustration to express themselves, and went right to his room without letting his mother know what had happened.  This was the first time she had failed him, and Punkinhead couldn't let her have that disappointment so soon.  When he was older, maybe, they could afford to be honest with each other.  But for now, he hugged his pillow to his chest and wondered if he would ever be able to enjoy the darting fish again.