Lavender Boy

simone chaney

He was barely beyond his first birthday when his mother heard the crash and bang come from the bedroom, although she never would have guessed she’d find her son atop her dresser, a bottle of perfume in his little hands. The boy had tears streaming down his dark, chubby cheeks, so of course, his mother rushed to his aid, and placed him on the bed, fervently checking her son for injuries. None were to be found, but when his mother removed the delicate glass bottle from his hands, the boy let out a wail unlike any he had before. His hands reached for the bottle but only found air, securing his tantrum’s place in the books.

Confused, his mother gently handed the boy the bottle, carefully watching her son’s reaction. A smile brighter than the sun spread across his face, a fit of laughter filling the room; a wholly different child from the one sitting on her bed mere moments ago. She couldn’t help smiling herself. But her concern quickly resurfaced when the boy turned the nozzle to his mouth and used all the might he had in his little hands to press it down. A spray of mist flew directly into his mouth, and the boy began to cry again. Smiling now, his mother gently took the bottle, sprayed it in front of her own face, and took a deep breath in, taking in the perfume’s floral scent. She saw the mix of despair and confusion in her son’s eyes but watched as it morphed into pure happiness and joy when the mist reached his nose. He giggled and clapped, trying to catch the mist in his hands, but was so content he didn’t care when he learned he couldn’t; he just loved the smell of his mother’s lavender perfume. 

*********

Now, his mother couldn’t believe that in just a few months her little lavender boy would be off to college. 

But first, they had to get through high school. 

“Jamal! You ready yet? I thought you said it started at 8:00.” It was far too late for her liking, but she supposed the sudden change in attitude towards parties came with the arrival of senior year; Jamal didn’t want to miss out. Still, she wasn’t a fan.

“Yeah! Sorry, Ma!” he yelled from upstairs, “I’ll be right down.” Before long, she heard her son lumber down the stairs, the wooden planks creaking beneath his feet.

“His father had said since Jamal was little that he was built like a football player, but Mrs. Green had always thought her husband was a bit biased. Mr. Green had played football all through college. But Jamal had always been a fan of soccer—or as he liked to refer to it as football—to show how “cultured” he was; but his mother believed that her son did it as a way to prove his father right. They were both football players, just maybe not the same sport. The two would spend hours watching the sports: soccer in the morning and American football in the afternoon. And don’t even get them started on the World Cup and Super Bowl; the world comes to a halt and revolves around the living room: decorations are hung, jerseys are worn, and most important of all, are their lucky rituals. Mrs. Green had learned her lesson years ago and had never since questioned the superstitions of the two. 

Jamal was beaming when he came downstairs; his mother knew how excited he still got whenever he went to anything. For the longest time, he wasn’t invited to anything. That’d changed recently, and although he wasn’t sure why, he didn’t question it. “Be careful, now. I’m not bailing you out if you do something,” Mrs. Green waved a pointed finger at her son, “They call me from jail, and I’ll tell them to leave you there.”

“Your mother’s right,” Mr. Green called from the living room, though his focus was still trained on the newspaper in front of him, “And I don’t want to hear about any foolishness with girls, either. I find out that you went and got some girl knocked—”

“Dad! Stop it, that’s gross,” Jamal shook his head, “Ick. I’d never do something like that.” He shivered in disgust but was smiling still. The idea was just so plainly absurd, it couldn’t be anything but laughable. Mrs. Green shook her head ruefully, chuckling under her breath; she thought the same thing. 

“Okay, okay, you two,” Mrs. Green intervened, “I think it’s time for you to get going. I wouldn’t want you to be late. But be careful on the roads, it’s already getting dark.”

Jamal waved his hand dismissively, “I’ll be fine.” He headed toward the front door, snatching the keys to his car from the bowl on the sideboard, a keychain bearing a small, purple flower attached to them. 

Mrs. Green pursed her lips, “Just be careful, alright? And while you’re there, I don’t want you getting into any trouble. Especially now, you’ve just got too much on the line.” Jamal had been offered multiple athletic scholarships for soccer, now he just had to take his pick.

“I know, I know.” Jamal had his hand on the doorknob now, but wasn’t in any particular hurry to leave; the party wasn’t going anywhere.

“Good,” Mrs. Green smiled, though she wasn’t entirely convinced. She didn’t know everyone who’d be there, and she could only assume they weren’t all upstanding students like her son. She didn’t know the host, either; sure, she knew the kid’s name, but who was he, really? And she didn’t know what they’d be doing, or if Jamal would be okay; what if he couldn’t reach his phone? Mrs. Green took a deep breath. She may not know the people or the place or anything, really, but she trusted her son. She trusted him, and that’s what mattered. “Oh!” Mrs. Green exclaimed, “One last thing before you go.” She hurried out of the room and re-entered with a small bottle in her hand. 

Jamal shook his head, smiling, “Really, Ma?” 

“Just indulge your mother, will you?”

“Alright,” Jamal took a step back from his mother and closed his eyes before Mrs. Green spritzed him with a bit of her lavender perfume. Jamal took a deep breath in, “I’m not sure why I didn’t do this in the first place,” he smiled serenely, taking in the scent of his childhood. 

Mr. Green piped up again from his place on the couch, “You two are obsessed with that stuff. Smells like an old folks' home to me.” 

“Oh, because your cologne smells so great?” Mrs. Green countered.

“Yes,” Mr. Green replied simply, straightening his newspaper, “Yes, in fact, it does.” Jamal laughed at his parents and began to open the front door.

“One last thing,” Mrs. Green began.

“You just said that, Ma,” Jamal replied, mocking exasperation.

“Yes, yes, I know that, but this is important. I’m not letting you leave until we review The Rules.”

“Ma, I know all that stuff already. We’ve gone over it a million times.”

“And we’ll go over it a million more,” Mrs. Green said simply, “A cop pulls you over, he’s walking to your window. What are you doing?” They’d been using the same script for years. The Greens made their son memorize it word for word. They could never be too cautious.

Jamal rolled his eyes, “My hands are firmly on the wheel and I make no sudden movements.”

“And if you have passengers in the car?” 

“Ask one to record the situation. If they don’t settle down, ignore them. Don’t move from the wheel.”

“Good. Now he’s at your window. What’re you doing now?”

“Slowly move one hand from the wheel and roll down the window. Then put the hand back on the wheel.”

“He asks for your license.”

“Calmly, respectfully ask if you may move your hands from the wheel to get your wallet. Tell him where you’ll be reaching, too.”

Mrs. Green nods soberly, “He goes back to his car to run your license. Do you move?”

“Absolutely not. Hands are on the wheel. Any movement could be seen as threatening.”

“He’s back at your window. Something went wrong, he’s tired, frustrated to be on such a long shift. He’s getting agitated. He needs you to step out of the car.”

“Don’t engage, keep a respectful tone. Slowly open the car door and step outside. Put your hands behind your head, even if he doesn’t ask. Never be seen as a threat.” 

“Good. He lets you go, and you’re free to drive away.” Mrs. Green could feel tears welling up in her eyes as she stepped forward and wrapped her son in a tight hug; she was infinitely proud of her son—the kind and caring boy she’d known his entire life. How could the rest of the world see him as some kind of monster?

“I’ll be fine,” Jamal mumbled. Mrs. Green nodded and reluctantly let her son go. He made a move for the front door.

“Jamal,” Mr. Green’s voice broke the somber silence, “Whatever you do, whatever happens, just don’t forget The Rules.” Jamal nodded and slipped outside.

Mrs. Green caught the door before it could close, “I love you, Jamal!” She yelled after him, “Now go and have some fun. Just text me, okay? And don’t forget your curfew!”

“Love you, too, Ma!” Jamal yelled back, “And I’ll text you when I get there.” Mrs. Green watched her son pull out of the driveway and disappear around the corner.

When Jamal arrived at Ryan Witherbee’s house, it was already packed. Cars filled the driveway and lined both sides of the street. He could see his classmates dancing inside, the music blaring so Jamal could hear the thumping bass from where he sat in his car. A sense of dread washed over him. He knew exactly what would happen when he walked in there. 

He'd find his friends after countless painful minutes trying to navigate the sardine can of bodies. Then he’d probably find a place to sit on the couch, squeezed in between a bunch of people he didn’t know, while his friends danced the night away, singing to thumping rap music they knew word for word (Jamal knew they didn’t hesitate to keep singing through the N-Word). A few might find a girl to sneak away with. If Jamal was lucky, he might stumble into a bit of excitement—someone might spill a drink on him or call him a racial slur (both of which had happened multiple times). But the bulk of the time, Jamal would be sitting on the couch, waiting for his friends to finally realize they needed a ride home after getting black-out drunk.

Jamal sighed and turned off the car, dragging himself outside and trudging up to the door. His hand was on the knob when he decided there were an infinite number of places he’d rather be, so he whipped out his phone, shot a text to his mom, made a quick phone call, and headed back to his car. 

He arrived at Vivian Park a few minutes later and found a place to sit in the middle of the grass. Jamal didn’t have to wait long for Colin to show up, which was nice, especially since Jamal had given him such short notice. Colin waved as he walked over, before putting his hands back in his pockets, “Hey, Jamal.” He sat down on the grass next to Jamal and looked up at the starry night sky. 

The two sat in comfortable silence for a few moments. They’d been friends since 1st grade, and Vivian Park had been their favorite hangout for just about as long. Since high school began, they’d begun to see each other less and less. Colin didn’t play soccer—or any sport, for that matter. And Jamal didn’t have an artistic bone in his body—let alone any interest in it, if he was being honest. But the two remained inseparable, meeting on nights like this. Just the two of them, as it had always been.

“Sorry to call you so late,” Jamal said quietly, “I just couldn’t go to another mindless party.” He laughed under his breath. What was he thinking anyway? Sure, Jamal liked his soccer friends, but he wasn’t close with them. He couldn’t talk to them; confide in them. It felt superficial.

Colin waved his hand dismissively. “You’re fine. I needed something to do anyway. If I have to stitch any more tulle I swear I’m gonna lose it.” 

“Wait,” Jamal said, confused, “I thought you were stage manager?”

“I am,” Colin smiled. “But half the costume crew dropped out, and opening night is less than a month away, so Miss Hatchet enlisted anyone who could sew, to any degree, to help out.”

“Jeez, that… that sounds… fun.”

“You have no place to judge, Jamal,” Colin laughed, “You run up and down a field, in the sun and heat, with a bunch of other sweaty guys, over a ball.”

“Okay, okay,” Jamal conceded, “I guess so.”

“You know so. They’re not really that different if you think about it.” Jamal considered and nodded in agreement, and the two fell back into silence. It’d been happening a lot lately, but that didn’t make the boys any less keen to see each other. They’d figure it out; they always did.

“Remember Pirate Planet?” Colin asked, knowing full well there was no way Jamal could ever forget.

Jamal looked at his friend quizzically, “I invented Pirate Planet. You underestimate the powers of the Treasure Tunnel, the wielder of the Golden Woodchip never forgets a thing. Ever. How do you think I’ve passed all my tests?”

Colin threw his head back laughing, “I forgot about that.”

“See? The Woodchip works wonders.” They both were laughing now, the two of them pointing out playground equipment, reminiscing about their riveting expeditions through the realms of Pirate Planet.

After a few minutes, Colin rose from his seat on the ground and extended a hand to Jamal, “One last expedition, matey?”

Jamal shook his head, smiling, but still couldn’t resist the offer, “Arrrrgh. Why of course, Captain Colin! I’d never give up a chance to sail the Seven Seas.” 

Colin broke into a grin, glad that Jamal agreed; for a moment, he thought he’d made a fool of himself. The two began to head to the playground, which was long abandoned by this hour. “I say we head East, to Parrot Place first,” Jamal said, who was miming a telescope with his hands.

“Of course, Captain Jamal! We can’t go anywhere without a mission from Queen Polly.” Colin mocked steering their ship, his hands shifting in the air as if he was turning the wheel. The two boys headed to the swings and began to pump their legs as hard as they could. Obviously, to set foot on the Kingdom of Parrot Place, you had to reach the birds’ level, so the swings were the best way to go. 

Over the next hour, the boys traveled all across the sea, exploring the Doom Slides, getting stuck in the Riptide-Go-Round, and, of course, paying a visit to the monkeys at the Monkey Bars (no name change needed for that one). By the end of their adventure, the boys were exhausted, trudging back to their place on the grass, collapsing on the ground in a fit of childish laughter.

“Hey! You two!” A strange voice interrupted, “What’re you doing here?” A beam of light cut through the darkness, getting closer by the second. Jamal and Colin looked at each other with a mix of confusion and fear. They scrambled to their feet just in time to see a uniformed police officer plunging through the trees; flashlight in one hand, his gun in the other.

“Freeze!” The officer demanded, his weapon still raised. Both boys complied with lightning speed, their hands springing to their heads, as well. Jamal and Colin each realized what this was about, what they were suspected of, and were now kicking themselves because they hadn’t remembered it earlier: over the past few weeks, there’d been multiple, vicious bouts of vandalism throughout the park. Of course, police would be looking for the culprits.

“W-we… we d-di-didn’t do anything, Officer… McClain.” Colin stuttered, his heart beating out of his chest with frightening speed, “I-I p-p-promise.” 

“Shut it,” The officer snapped back, “We’ve been looking for you for the past few weeks, and I’ll be damned if I’m letting you two get away.” 

“P-please,” Jamal ventured, “Let us expla--”

“I said shut up!” McClain bellowed. There’d been rumors the perpetrators were armed. He couldn’t take any chances.

Jamal stifled a wince, watching the man’s weapon waver. A tense silence set in, both parties unsure what to do. The boys had a gun pointed at their faces, and Officer McClain was waiting for backup. And so, the three remained in a strange sort of stand-off—not for long—but each second felt like hours. 

That was until Colin’s phone began blaring from his pocket. The boy instinctively reached down, and the officer cocked his weapon, pointing it straight at Colin. “Woah, woah, woah,” Jamal made a move toward his friend, moving before he could think, doing anything to get between his friend and the wrong end of a gun.

That’s when Officer McClain fired three bullets into Jamal’s stomach. The boy stumbled back, falling to his knees, too stunned to scream. But Colin did, and he began to cross to his friend, only to face the blunt end of the officer’s pistol, thrust back in his face again, still smoking. “M-move and I’ll shoot!” McClain roared. 

“Do something! Help him!” Colin fell to his knees and pleaded, helpless, watching his best friend bleed out before him. Jamal clutched his stomach, the only effort he could muster with his draining strength to stop the pain. 

The pain.

The metal had torn its way through his skin, shredding his insides, leaving Jamal mired in a sea of pain. And nothing to alleviate it. He didn’t want to die. He couldn’t die. What about college and soccer and everything else he’s ever wanted to do? “Ma… Ma…” Jamal croaked, barely more than a whisper, blood dribbling from his lips. He just wanted to go home. He wanted more than anything for his mom to wrap him in a hug and take in her sweet perfume and have her tell him everything would be okay.

But she wasn’t here. And Colin’s screams were fading in Jamal’s ears. The world began to swim, bright patches of light taking its place. He thought he saw a field of flowers, just like the one his mom had taken him to when he was young. He’d been so excited. The flowers blowing gently in the breeze, basking in the sun. Peacefully. Could this be heaven? Heaven couldn’t be that bad if it was filled with lavender. But he still wasn’t ready to go. What about all his friends and Colin and Dad and Ma?

His mom. The boy just wanted his mom. To curl up on the lumpy brown couch in the living room. Dad on one side, Ma on the other. Just like when he got sick when he was little. Dad would flip through channels with the volume on low and Ma would pat his hair softly until his eyes fluttered shut… and the chatter of the television faded to silence… 

The lavender was clearer now; Jamal swore he could smell it. Feel it. His chest began to slow, and his breath shallowed until Mrs. Green’s little lavender boy was finally with his flowers.

Simone Chaney is currently a senior in high school at Interlochen Arts Academy, enrolled in the school’s creative writing program. She is from Marshfield, Wisconsin where she lives with her parents, younger sister and hairless cat. Her work has been published by GenZ Critics and she recently earned six Silver Keys from the 2022 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. She enjoys writing short stories, scripts, and screenplays.