Picnic
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 5
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Sunday morning arrived soft and gray, the kind of light that promised quiet rather than heat. Val woke before the alarm, already smelling coffee in her mind. She slipped out of the narrow bed she still shared with Matty on nights when nightmares kept one or both of them awake, padded to the kitchen, and began packing.
A small cooler: homemade tortas de jamón, sliced mango sprinkled with tajín, two bottles of horchata she’d made the night before, a bag of pan dulce wrapped in foil so it wouldn’t get crushed. She moved with practiced economy, every motion conserving energy for the day ahead. Matty stirred when she set the cooler by the door.
“Buenos días, mijo,” she whispered, brushing hair from his forehead.
He blinked up at her, sleepy smile breaking through. “Morning, Mamá. We really going?”
“Sí. The river’s waiting.”
They dressed in silence—her in loose jeans, a faded pink tank top under an old button-down, sensible sneakers; him in cargo shorts, a plain black T-shirt that hung loose on his narrow frame, and his favorite worn canvas shoes. His long brown hair was pulled into a low ponytail; a few strands escaped to frame his face. Val caught herself staring, heart squeezing. He looked so young still, so fragile.
The old Toyota Corolla coughed to life after the third try. Val patted the dashboard like an old horse. “Good girl.” They pulled out of the cracked parking lot just as the first church bells rang across Havenridge.
The drive took an hour and change. Val kept the windows cracked, letting cool morning air mix with the faint scent of exhaust and her son’s shampoo. She asked the usual questions, voice gentle.
“How’s English class? You still like Mrs. Carter?”
“Yeah. She’s nice. Gave me an A on the essay.”
“And math? You said the test was hard.”
“It was okay. I studied.”
She glanced sideways. His answers were short, careful. She knew the tone—his way of building walls without lying outright.
“Friends treating you good?” she tried.
Matty shrugged, looking out at passing fields. “They’re fine. Ethan and Raj are… the same.”
She didn’t press. Not yet.
The nature reserve appeared like a secret: a faded wooden sign half-hidden by vines, a gravel turnoff almost invisible unless you knew to look. Val eased the car down the rutted path until trees closed around them. She parked beneath an oak, killed the engine. Silence rushed in—birds, wind, distant water.
They stepped out. No other cars. No voices. Just them.
Val smiled, real this time. “Our place.”
They shouldered the cooler and a thin blanket, slipped through the initial screen of bushes. The path narrowed, forced them single-file. Thorns snagged at Matty’s shorts; he didn’t complain. After ten minutes of careful stepping they reached the familiar thicket—their hidden corner, a small clearing ringed by dense green where the river bent slow and shallow, sunlight dappling the surface like coins.
But voices drifted out before they broke through the last curtain of leaves.
Matty froze. Val felt his hand find hers, squeeze once, hard.
They crouched. Peeked.
Four boys sprawled in their clearing. Hoodies, sneakers, empty soda cans. One tossed a football; another laughed too loud. Matty’s breath hitched.
“I know them,” he whispered. “From school. They’re… the ones.”
Val’s jaw tightened. She started to rise. “I’ll tell them to move. This is our spot—”
“No.” His voice cracked, urgent. “Mamá, please. They’ll see me. They’ll… they always find something. Names. Pushing. Pictures on their phones. If they know I come here…”
He looked small suddenly, eyes shining. Val sank back down. Rage flickered behind her polite mask, but she swallowed it—for him.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Another place.”
They retreated, quieter now, threading deeper into the thicket. Branches clawed. The path vanished. They wandered, directionless, until the ground sloped down and the sound of water grew louder. They pushed through one last wall of green and stumbled onto the riverbank—higher up, narrower, wilder.
A small pond lay just ahead, fed by a sluggish side channel. The water looked oily, faintly iridescent. A chemical stink hit them—sharp, metallic, wrong. Val wrinkled her nose.
“Factory runoff,” she muttered. “We should go back.”
But Matty was already staring.
Around the pond’s edge, strange plants had taken root—tall, thick-stemmed, leaves broad and waxy. At the top of each stalk bloomed something impossible: a large, taut sphere the size of a beach ball, shimmering in shades of violet, magenta, electric blue. They pulsed faintly, as though breathing.
“Qué es eso?” Val breathed.
Matty stepped closer, drawn. “They look like… balloons. But alive.”
Curiosity won over caution. They approached the nearest plant. The sphere swayed gently above them, colors shifting across its surface like oil on water. Val reached out, hesitated. Matty leaned in first, face inches from the glossy membrane.
“Careful, mijo—”
The sphere quivered.
Then it burst.
A wet, violent pop—slime erupted in a thick, glowing spray, arcing outward. Val yelped, throwing an arm up. Matty flinched back.
The viscous fluid splattered across both of them—face, chest, hair—cool at first, then warm, tingling.
They staggered apart, wiping at their eyes, coughing.
Silence returned, broken only by dripping and their ragged breathing.
Neither spoke.
They didn’t know yet which of them had taken the worst of it—or what the slime would do.
Who got hit?
A small cooler: homemade tortas de jamón, sliced mango sprinkled with tajín, two bottles of horchata she’d made the night before, a bag of pan dulce wrapped in foil so it wouldn’t get crushed. She moved with practiced economy, every motion conserving energy for the day ahead. Matty stirred when she set the cooler by the door.
“Buenos días, mijo,” she whispered, brushing hair from his forehead.
He blinked up at her, sleepy smile breaking through. “Morning, Mamá. We really going?”
“Sí. The river’s waiting.”
They dressed in silence—her in loose jeans, a faded pink tank top under an old button-down, sensible sneakers; him in cargo shorts, a plain black T-shirt that hung loose on his narrow frame, and his favorite worn canvas shoes. His long brown hair was pulled into a low ponytail; a few strands escaped to frame his face. Val caught herself staring, heart squeezing. He looked so young still, so fragile.
The old Toyota Corolla coughed to life after the third try. Val patted the dashboard like an old horse. “Good girl.” They pulled out of the cracked parking lot just as the first church bells rang across Havenridge.
The drive took an hour and change. Val kept the windows cracked, letting cool morning air mix with the faint scent of exhaust and her son’s shampoo. She asked the usual questions, voice gentle.
“How’s English class? You still like Mrs. Carter?”
“Yeah. She’s nice. Gave me an A on the essay.”
“And math? You said the test was hard.”
“It was okay. I studied.”
She glanced sideways. His answers were short, careful. She knew the tone—his way of building walls without lying outright.
“Friends treating you good?” she tried.
Matty shrugged, looking out at passing fields. “They’re fine. Ethan and Raj are… the same.”
She didn’t press. Not yet.
The nature reserve appeared like a secret: a faded wooden sign half-hidden by vines, a gravel turnoff almost invisible unless you knew to look. Val eased the car down the rutted path until trees closed around them. She parked beneath an oak, killed the engine. Silence rushed in—birds, wind, distant water.
They stepped out. No other cars. No voices. Just them.
Val smiled, real this time. “Our place.”
They shouldered the cooler and a thin blanket, slipped through the initial screen of bushes. The path narrowed, forced them single-file. Thorns snagged at Matty’s shorts; he didn’t complain. After ten minutes of careful stepping they reached the familiar thicket—their hidden corner, a small clearing ringed by dense green where the river bent slow and shallow, sunlight dappling the surface like coins.
But voices drifted out before they broke through the last curtain of leaves.
Matty froze. Val felt his hand find hers, squeeze once, hard.
They crouched. Peeked.
Four boys sprawled in their clearing. Hoodies, sneakers, empty soda cans. One tossed a football; another laughed too loud. Matty’s breath hitched.
“I know them,” he whispered. “From school. They’re… the ones.”
Val’s jaw tightened. She started to rise. “I’ll tell them to move. This is our spot—”
“No.” His voice cracked, urgent. “Mamá, please. They’ll see me. They’ll… they always find something. Names. Pushing. Pictures on their phones. If they know I come here…”
He looked small suddenly, eyes shining. Val sank back down. Rage flickered behind her polite mask, but she swallowed it—for him.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Another place.”
They retreated, quieter now, threading deeper into the thicket. Branches clawed. The path vanished. They wandered, directionless, until the ground sloped down and the sound of water grew louder. They pushed through one last wall of green and stumbled onto the riverbank—higher up, narrower, wilder.
A small pond lay just ahead, fed by a sluggish side channel. The water looked oily, faintly iridescent. A chemical stink hit them—sharp, metallic, wrong. Val wrinkled her nose.
“Factory runoff,” she muttered. “We should go back.”
But Matty was already staring.
Around the pond’s edge, strange plants had taken root—tall, thick-stemmed, leaves broad and waxy. At the top of each stalk bloomed something impossible: a large, taut sphere the size of a beach ball, shimmering in shades of violet, magenta, electric blue. They pulsed faintly, as though breathing.
“Qué es eso?” Val breathed.
Matty stepped closer, drawn. “They look like… balloons. But alive.”
Curiosity won over caution. They approached the nearest plant. The sphere swayed gently above them, colors shifting across its surface like oil on water. Val reached out, hesitated. Matty leaned in first, face inches from the glossy membrane.
“Careful, mijo—”
The sphere quivered.
Then it burst.
A wet, violent pop—slime erupted in a thick, glowing spray, arcing outward. Val yelped, throwing an arm up. Matty flinched back.
The viscous fluid splattered across both of them—face, chest, hair—cool at first, then warm, tingling.
They staggered apart, wiping at their eyes, coughing.
Silence returned, broken only by dripping and their ragged breathing.
Neither spoke.
They didn’t know yet which of them had taken the worst of it—or what the slime would do.
Who got hit?
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June 13
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