The Trees in Winter

The kid from SoCal yelped the first time a tree threw a snowball at him, and he winged one back five feet wide right but hit one of the trees compatriots. The trees creaked with laughter. The kid shook his cold red hands and a different tree caught him in the back. He leaped and ran. Snowballs pelted around him. The sidewalk became a gauntlet.

He spent the next two days writing letters home with exaggerated tales that he milked for top brand winter gear. A hat with ear flaps that fit over his earmuffs. A scarf. A down coat, a flannel jacket to go under it, a fleece sweater, a wool base layer, bib snow pants, knee-high boots with gaiters for extra measure. It took three roommates half an hour to get him into it. When he returned to combat, he wore a full suit of armor. The only joint he could bend was his waist. Crossing campus he looked like a giant toddler.

The trees met him in a circular firing squad. He braced, but got six direct shots down his collar. All through calculus class he jerked bolt upright and bit his tongue whenever a snowball fragment melted enough to slip down into his underwear.

After that he was out for sap. He wanted a chainsaw, but the campus was a registered arboretum and he didn't want to be jailed for treeslaughter. He considered a more defensive hair dryer. Had to be plugged in. Impractical. In the end he resigned himself to wearing the gaiters with a pair of running boots. The trees might be taller and have better aim, but he would always be faster.

He battled those giants' skeletons all winter, textbooks damp at the edges, homework soggy. His aim didn't get better, but his footwork improved. By winter's end he said he didn't want spring. Said mud doesn't melt off your shoes. When the trees saw him and pulled back to fire a volley, he just waved, danced a two-step, and continued to class with a smirk. A winter survived. The exaggerations overcome.

He looked forward to joining the trees, next year, laughing at the freshmen.