Nigel Law

            Regrouping Day came for Shawn and his mother on schedule, a few days after their next-door neighbors’. They’d had time to pack their possessions into boxes, most of which Shawn had labeled “To Give Away,” plus a couple “To Bargain For” which he was going to bring up with the Supervisor. They’d even managed to organize one last garden party with their remaining neighbors and a bonfire. Jessie from 612 had brought his guitar, and as night fell led everyone in an upbeat rendition of “They Can’t Keep Me (From Strumming),” though this made Shawn wish privately that Jessie had been Regrouped before the garden party.
           Now sunlight glared as the team of what appeared to be teenage boys, all dressed like a stage crew and all unnervingly thin, traipsed in and out of the house. In pairs of two they hoisted boxes, ignoring Shawn’s labels, into the lustrous black tank whose armored treads were parked neatly beside Shawn’s mother’s dahlias. The Supervisor addressing Shawn and his mother by the front porch had introduced himself as Mark, and was somewhere in his mid-thirties. Wearing a windbreaker, a whistle attached to a lanyard around his neck, and a baseball cap — all emblazoned with the #TeamLeadersToTheFront2038 logo — he looked like he could be the boys’ JV sports coach.
            “So, I think that’s about it, as far as forfeiture of rights goes…” Mark was saying, double-checking a clipboard. “You packed up, that was super-cool of you guys… And they’ll give you your work smocks over at your new digs… I’m thinking we’re almost done here!” Clicking his pen closed, he asked, “real quick, any questions I can answer?” though as he did so, one of the birdlike boys walking backwards behind him stumbled, and dropped his end of a “To Bargain For” box, spilling its contents all over the stone path. Sensitive Hank, a favorite toy soldier of Shawn’s as a child, lay on his side: eyes locked on Shawn’s, right arm in a permanent salute.
            Mark blew his whistle and yelled “Spencer! Pick that up, and then cross off your PB privileges for lunch today.” Spencer narrowed his eyes like he was thinking something spiteful, but exhaled through his nose and knelt to refill the box. Mark turned back, shaking his head, and said: “Geez Louise. You know, the amount of X’s on that chart — you’d think I looked forward to taking peanut butter from these boys! I am really sorry you had to see that.” He made a face like he was really sorry, then discarded it like a glove after surgery, and continued: “Anyway. So, just need to get your guys’ confirmaysh, then we can set you up with your swag bags. Hey, Chase, buddy?” he called over to the tank. A hatch behind the cannon opened, and a boy with dark overgrown bangs stuck his head out. “What’s in today’s swag bags?”
            “Phone poppers,” Chase called back, audibly annoyed to have been summoned.
            “What?” said Mark.
            “They go like on the back of your phone?” said Chase. “You pull them out like if you wanna hold your phone when you’re in bed or something?”
            “Ooh!” said Mark.
            “Are we allowed to keep our phones?” asked Shawn.
            “No,” said Mark sympathetically. “Okay, let’s just get it on record: can I count on you folks to pledge your life and labor to unifying this broken and overheated world under the benevolent vision of our Team Leaders?”
            Mark angled the top of his pen towards Shawn’s mouth like a microphone, and Shawn blinked. “It’s alright, Shawn,” said his mother quietly. It’s alright, Shawn said Sensitive Hank to just Shawn as his salute disappeared into Spencer’s box.
            “Okay,” said Shawn into the pen.
            “Nice,” said Mark. “And you, ma’am?"
            “Yeah,” said Shawn’s mother.
            “You guys officially rule,” Mark informed them. “High fives, let’s do it.” He high-fived Shawn, then high-fived Shawn’s mother, who missed. “Ope, one more,” said Mark. “Look at the elbow, look at the elbow…boom. Perfect.” He smiled and took a step back, as though taking a mental picture of the house that was now Team Leader property, its little front yard laden with heat and teen boys moving boxes like crumbs among ants. For a moment he looked deeply exhausted. “Let’s rock and roll.” ∆


Nigel Edwards Law is a senior at Oberlin College and Conservatory, located in Oberlin, Ohio. Founded in 1833 by two Presbyterian ministers, the town of Oberlin has since grown to just over 8,000 in population, and is located approximately forty miles southwest of Cleveland. As of the 2010 Census, 14.8% of Oberlin residents were under the age of 18, 37.4% were between 18 and 24, and 48.7% were 25 and older.