The Song of David

“My mom’s got her.” Georgia pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “Moses didn’t tell me about the painting. Let’s go snoop, shall we?”

I didn’t really care about the painting—it was just the first thing that had popped into my mind—but I trailed after Georgia agreeably and kept a steady stream of bullshit coming so that she wouldn’t get too close.

It was David and Goliath, but lusty and lush, with bold colors and barely covered bodies, as if the biblical confrontation between a shepherd and a soldier had taken place in the Garden of Eden instead of on a battlefield.

Moses’s David was small and young. A boy really, ten or eleven, younger than I imagined he had actually been. And in the boyish face, I saw my own. The shaggy hair, the green eyes, the strong stance. I hadn’t looked like that at eleven. I’d been rounder, softer. And I’d been big for my age. My size had made me a target, the way physical difference always does.

Goliath was huge, towering over the boy like they belonged to two different species. His biceps and thighs bulged, his calves were unnaturally large, and his shoulders were as wide as the boy was tall. His head was thrown back, and his mouth was gaping, as if he roared like the beast he resembled. The fists clenched at his sides were bigger than the boys head, and young David stood stoically looking up at Goliath, his sling hanging from his hand, his eyes solemn. I leaned in closer, noting the detail, the lack of fear on the boy’s face. I looked at Goliath again, comparing and contrasting, and then my breath caught in my throat. I didn’t just see my face reflected in David. I saw myself in Goliath too.

David was me. And Goliath was me. They both had my face. I was the boy, and I was the giant. I stepped back, distancing myself from the suddenly disturbing image.

“Georgia? Am I seeing things, or did Moses put my face on David and Goliath?”

“Well I’ll be damned.” She was surprised. But she saw it too. It wasn’t just me.

“What do you think it means?” I pressed.

“Hell if I know, Tag. I don’t understand half of what Moses paints. He doesn’t understand it. It’s intuitive. You know that.”

“But it always means something.” And he’d seen Molly. Molly had inspired the painting.

“Maybe it means you are your own worst enemy,” Georgia said cheerfully and winked at me. I swallowed and looked back at the picture.

“So which one are you? David or Goliath?”

“Neither,” I said quietly, a memory resurfacing so swift and so sharp that it swept me away.



“Fight, fight, fight, fight!” The chant rose up around my head, the fact that they were children’s voices didn’t dull the roaring sound or the intimidating taunts. It didn’t ease the pressure I felt to swing my fist or give in to the curiosity to see what it would feel like. I’d never wanted to hit anyone so badly. “Fight, fight, fight, fight!”

“He’s a chicken! He’s a baby. You’re a baby, aren’t you baby Cammie?”

Cameron Keller huddled in a ball, his knees tucked into his chest. Cameron and I were friends. Cameron was small and sickly, where I was tall and heavy-set. Cameron was quiet, and I was the class clown. But we were both outcasts, teetering on the far edges of the spectrum, and normal and acceptable lay somewhere between us. I pushed my way into the circle, my size making it easier than it otherwise would have been. And people parted, more out of surprise than anything. I hadn’t ever gotten physical with anyone before.

Lyle Coulson leaned over Cameron’s shaking form and gathering the spit in his mouth, let it hang from his lips, dribbling in a long, phlegm-thickened strand, before it landed in Cameron’s hair.

With a roar, I shoved Lyle Coulson to the ground and pressed his sneering face into the dirt.

Someone pushed at my back, toppling me off to the side before Lyle was up, swinging and cursing. Someone else grabbed at my arms, trying to prevent me from slugging Lyle before Lyle could punch me. There was a roaring in my ears. Maybe it was my heart working overtime, maybe it was adrenaline dulling my senses, but whatever it was, I liked it. The roaring in my ears made the rage echo in my belly. It was the sound of finally fighting back. I took a hard punch in the back, or was that a kick? I turned, swinging wildly, arms pumping like pistons, landing a few, taking a few more, until suddenly kids were running away, scattering like wildebeest on the African savannah—just like the show on the National Geographic channel that I had watched with Molly on Sunday. This time, I was the lion. I was the predator. But Cameron didn’t run. Cameron stayed huddled like the wounded calf he’d always been.

“Cameron?” I knelt beside my friend. “You okay, buddy?”

Cameron peeked out from beneath the arm that covered his head. “Tag? Are they gone?”

“Yeah, buddy. They all ran away.” My chest filled with pride. I looked at my hands in amazement. I’d used my fists. One knuckle was bloody and torn and the pain was sweet.