Javi and Pol walked to and from school together every day and talked about how hungry they were. They used to talk about other things, like Barça, but now Messi was gone and, since turning thirteen, the boys were always hungry, and it wasn’t fair. In the mornings they talked about what disaster they’d been served for breakfast—usually yogurt and muesli or some nasty wheat bread, never with Nutella—or made predictions about how much ass the lunch at school would suck that day, a game always followed un-ironically by moans about the tiny portions the lunch ladies dished up. After school, on their walk home or to soccer practice, they complained about the disgusting snacks their moms had packed them, or how when they got home for dinner it was always the same crap, and it was never enough, and there was never dessert.

They didn’t talk about how they had both started to sprout armpit and pubic hair over the last year, or how each boy had a secret and intense crush on Aina Navarro. Javi could’ve shared how he’d stumbled upon masturbation that summer—a genuine accident that happened in the shower while cleaning his penis—and had been doing it twice daily ever since. Pol was familiar with the concept but had never tried it, and since Javi was still ashamed of this new hobby and didn’t talk about it, Pol had no idea what he was missing. Pol could’ve talked about how his parents weren’t speaking with each other, how even though nothing at home had changed on the surface—they still lived together, ate together, and even went on family vacations in the summer and for Christmas—everything was tense, always. Or they could’ve talked about how since going to his first funeral that spring, Javi couldn’t stop seeing his grandfather’s casket being lowered into the ground, and how the rushes of abstract fear that always followed that image seemed to punch him in the stomach. If Javi had said something, Pol might have realized that his friend was describing the very same type of fear that he himself had felt that autumn in science class when Ms. Bosch explained that one day, long after they or anyone they would ever know had died, the sun would explode and destroy the Earth, along with the rest of the solar system, just like that.

The boys’ walk to school overlooked all of Barcelona as it led them from their housing development on the base of the Collserolla mountain down to their school in Sarrià. Mostly they took residential streets lined with big houses, but a shortcut they had discovered when they first started to walk alone put them on a shrubby dirt road for two hundred meters. They were on this shortcut one Monday morning when Pol told Javi to watch out. He pointed at the bushes. Something rustled. They saw it from time to time, the jabalí that lived there. Wild boars like that one are common sightings in Barcelona, comfortable in the city because of the abundance of food on the streets and in dumpsters.

It’s not gonna do anything, Javi said.

My mom said one of them attacked Shakira, Pol said.

It was true. Shakira had been attacked by two jabalí that same year; somehow they got ahold of her handbag and she had to fight them to get it back. Thankfully Shakira was okay. So were Javi and Pol, that Monday. Their jabalí stayed in its bush. It also gave Javi an idea.

The boys were sitting on the curb outside their soccer club’s complex that evening when Javi made his pitch: Let’s kill the pig.

Pol laughed and Javi whacked him on the knee with a shinguard.

I’m serious! Kill it and cook it. No one wants to give us enough food, so we’ve gotta get it ourselves.

Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, Pol said.

Javi shrugged. My grandpa used to talk about eating jabalí in his town. He said it’s a shame we don’t do it anymore, that we don’t know what we’re missing.

A honk. Pol’s mom, arriving in her BMW. Pol’s older sister sat in the front wearing headphones. Javi and Pol climbed into the backseat and Pol’s mom waved at them through the rearview mirror without missing a beat in whatever gossip session she was having over the bluetooth. The boys waved back and then Javi leaned into Pol and whispered: So you in?

The jabalí that lived in the bushes on Pol and Javi’s shortcut had been there for three years, never straying further than the line of dumpsters a hundred meters up the road. She was born on Monjuïc years earlier and, after leaving her mother, had made her way bit by bit across Barcelona over several months before finding a permanent home at the city’s edge. During her journey she had been wounded by a motorcycle in the Raval district and had walked funny ever since. After settling, she got pregnant and had four babies, who she reared until all four were killed by traffic over a six month period.

The boys watched her Tuesday morning through a gap in the bushes. She lay on her stomach, resting.

It’s so big! Pol said.

It’s not that big, Javi said.

How will we kill it?

It looks like a fucking idiot.

And it did, the animal looked like nonsense. All head, and its head was all snout. Like a creature designed by a portrait artist for tourists on Plaza Cataluña. Nose nose nose. All that nose leaves very little room for brain, plus just look at those tiny little legs carrying that giant fat body. Killing it would be easy.

The boys stepped away from their peephole into the middle of the dirt road. Pol kicked at the ground.

Actually though, how?

Javi bent down and picked up a chunk of broken concrete. He held it up and grinned. We’re gonna be like modern day neanderthals, eating our own hunt, like real men!

Javi walked back to Pol and handed him the piece of concrete. Pol rocked it in his arms, testing its weight. The surface was rough and had small, sharp-edged rocks jutting out from all over it. He stepped forward and dropped the chunk onto another one like it, breaking both and spraying bits at his feet. 

This afternoon, Javi said.

Fine, Pol said. 

The boys shared a gangly handshake and continued on to school.

Neither Javi or Pol had been able to concentrate in class that day, and they were both full of jitters as they stood over the pile of rocks they had run to make as soon as the bell dismissed them. It was time. Pol picked up the two sharpest rocks from the pile; he would launch first, which would send the jabalí running away down the hill, where Javi would be waiting to finish it off. Javi knelt down and put four rocks in the marsupial pouch he made by holding his shirt a certain way, and took position down a bit from Pol, who was having fresh doubts.

Any day now! Javi yelled.

Pol shushed him furiously through gritted teeth. You’ll scare it away!

Throw the fucking rocks!

Pol arranged his feet into a battle stance and did it. The jabalí squealed when his second throw made contact. But the boys had miscalculated. The boar didn’t turn and run down the hill. As Pol readied his next wave of ammo the wily beast burst suddenly through the bush with a second shriek and ran her awkward run straight towards her attacker, causing Pol to drop his rocks, turn on a swivel, and take off up the road yelling to Javi for help. When he looked over his shoulder and saw the animal gaining on him he turned quickly and leapt in front of a parked car, squeezing himself into the small space between the car and the scooter in front of it. The jabalí stopped and watched him, turning only when Javi came running behind letting out a pubescent scream and throwing his rocks towards the boar. They clacked on the pavement. Out of weapons, Javi yelled at the creature: Get out of here! Go away! Go!

The boar turned and took one step towards Javi, sending the boy squealing himself behind the shelter of another parked car, where he stayed panting until the jabalí lost interest and trotted calmly away. 

The boys leaned separately against their cars and glanced around before quickly wiping at their eyes.

You okay? Javi finally said without getting up.

Pol stomped at the ground.

Now Javi stood up and looked back towards the dirt road. The jabalí was gone. Javi went to Pol and sat down next to him, between the car and the scooter. He put his arm around him. I guess the rocks didn’t work, he said.

Pol stood up and Javi’s arm fell. Idiot! Idiot idiot moron idiot!

Now Javi stood up. Relax. Are you full?

I’m pissed.

That’s the adrenaline. I promise you, you’re still hungry. We can’t give up. Just because a jabalí almost ate you doesn’t mean your mommy is gonna start magically packing you enough food.

Pol walked away.

Javi called after him. Just think about it.

Javi walked to school alone the next day. Pol’s mother had sounded rushed on the phone when she called early to say that her son would get a ride with his dad, and Javi’s mom didn’t ask if hers could go with. So Javi walked alone and talked to himself. His voice squeaked as he impersonated Pol.

It wanted to eat me, it tried to eat me!

Ahhh, the scary pig!

I’m Pol, I’m hungry but I don’t wanna do anything about it.

Javi stopped at the dirt road and looked for the jabalí. He jumped when he heard the rustles but flicked himself between the eyes. Don’t be a Pol. But then she stuck her gigantic snout through the bushes and Javi took off running towards school. Once he hit the asphalt he let his momentum carry him skipping down the hill as his fear became happy delirium and he sang to himself in time with the sound of his heavy skipsteps: Gotta get it gotta get it gotta get the piggy pig, piggy piggy piggy pig, I gotta get the piggy pig. Gotta get the piggy pig and eat the piggy piggy pig. Gotta get the piggy pig so I can fill my bel-ly.

Javi stopped the singing and skipping abruptly when he saw the green Citroën that he knew carried Aina Navarro in its backseat. He walked very normally while it was in view and when it turned a corner he started a new, silent chant: She didn’t see me she didn’t see me she didn’t see me. And then: I love her I love her I love her.

*

That day was one of three that school year that Pol got a ride with his father. His dad also drove a BMW, a more macho one than his wife’s SUV, and Pol rode shotgun in silence as they rushed down the hill towards school. It was early and Pol would have to wait around before class, but his father had to get to work, and there was no way he was going to walk with Javi after what had happened Tuesday afternoon. The car’s cabin was silent except for the awful classical music radio station that was always on in there.

There were no Thank yous or Have a good days when they rolled to a stop outside the school. Pol just got out and closed the door and his dad drove off. The schoolyard was empty and Pol went to sit on the steps outside the cafeteria. He scratched his always-itchy balls as students and teachers streamed in, slowly at first, then all at once, watching the gate for Aina and Javi’s arrivals with boyish lust and boyish dread, respectively. Aina came in first and paid Pol no mind as she walked straight past him. When Javi followed five minutes later, Pol made sure his so-called friend saw him frowning before getting up and walking into the school building without a hello. 

Pol left alone that afternoon, but Javi caught up quickly.

I’m still not talking to you, Pol said.

Just listen. We’re gonna try again. I know you’re gonna say we’re not gonna try again but I’m telling you right now that we’re gonna try again. Tomorrow morning you need to bring the pool net from your house.

The pool net?

Oh, now you’re interested!

Never mind.

No, please, I’m glad you asked. You can even take the net off, we just need the long stick. You bring the long pool net stick and I’m gonna take one of the knives from my house. And some of that really strong tape, the grey kind, you know? To tape the knife to the end.

Pol started walking faster to get away from Javi, who quickly caught up again. Trust me, it’s gonna work. This way we have a real weapon, and we don’t even have to get close to the thing.

Pol stopped and turned and put his hands on Javi’s shoulders. A knife? A spear? Stop! It’ll be bloody, we’ll get caught, if we don’t get killed.

Javi took Pol’s face in his hands. So dramatic! We won’t get killed. And we won’t get caught. Besides, you think there wasn’t gonna be blood if we had killed it with rocks? Don’t be such a baby.

Pol shoved Javi off of him. How am even I supposed to get the pool net out of my house? What am I supposed to tell my mom?

Just go down the back stairs. All she does is talk on the phone.

And kill the pig before school? Makes no sense.

No, dumbass, we’re gonna leave the weapon hidden there and get it on the way home.

We have practice tomorrow.

Dude, what’s more important? Soccer practice or our nutrition? Soccer practice or becoming men? You really think either of us are gonna play for Barça?

Pol would one day think of this moment as the final death of his soccer dreams, a reality that he had begun to entertain but had yet to accept. But even as something clicked in his head, he told Javi to go to hell, shoved him again, and took off running home. Javi didn’t chase him. No need.

Javi had been right. Pol’s mom was on the phone Thursday morning and didn’t lift her gaze from the hummingbird she watched hover at the kitchen window when her son opened the sliding glass door and went into the backyard, and she kept staring at the little creature during Pol’s minute long struggle to unscrew the pool handle from its net, so by the time she did finally turn around Pol had long since gotten the rod free and escaped down the seldom-used backstairs, overgrown with bougainvillea, to the road below. Javi had been waiting at the bottom of the hill and grinned when he saw Pol approaching with the two-meter-long metal rod. 

Shut up, Pol said. Let’s go.

They went. Pol felt suspicious carrying the ridiculous object and walked quickly. You’re making us look more suspicious, Javi said. He jogged ahead to face his friend. If someone stops we can just say it’s for a science project or something.

That’s stupid, Pol said, though he knew it was an ingenious excuse, unimpeachable. He slowed down.

Soon they were at the dirt road, where they executed the plan Javi had crafted late Wednesday night. They hid behind the area’s lone tree, and Javi took the knife and duct tape out from his backpack. Pol arranged the pool net’s handle so that one end lay at their feet, where he could hold the knife in place, handle matching up with handle, blade floating free, and Javi could wrap the tape, tighter, tighter, overdoing it, one more, to be safe, good. Eye contact. Secret fear. They covered the spear with some branches and leaves and went to school.

In the afternoon the boys walked up the hill eating the dry sandwiches their moms had packed them to eat before practice. They discussed strategy.

You have to do it, Pol said.

Obviously, Javi said.

Why obviously?

Because you’re a pussy.

You’re the pussy. 

Pol never swore. 

Javi burst out laughing. 

What? Pol said.

It’s just funny, you know, you, Pol, Pol the pussy, calling me a pussy.

You’re the one that didn’t do anything last time when it was chasing me.

I came right away and scared it away.

Maybe with your ugly face.

But Javi wasn’t listening. He had stopped walking. Dude, he said.

Pol kept speaking, now to himself: Calling me a—you’re just scared. Seriously, Javi, calling—

POL!

Pol turned.

Look, Javi said. He pointed ahead. Pol shut up when he saw it. There, on the edge of the road, where the shortcut ended or began, where the asphalt met the dirt, next to the barrier of shrubs, straddling the painted white line that marked the road’s edge, she lay. The boys stood and watched her, stealing glances at each other, never matching up, never making eye contact. Javi thought of his grandfather’s casket as it was lowered, of the buffed wood, the way the sun caught it on that day in the summer, not unlike the glare that now came from the white car bumper left dented and discarded in the road next to the boar’s body. It was Pol that took the first step. He dragged his feet, scraping pebbles, moving slowly. His eyes were locked on the motionless jabalí and he stopped when he was in front of it. He gripped his backpack straps. Then Javi was next to him, and Pol kicked at the carcass with the toe of his sneaker. Both boys flinched but the beast didn’t. Dead. Dead dead.

Pol looked at Javi who looked like he’d been punched in the stomach. They were quiet for a moment and then Pol spoke. This is what we wanted, right?

Javi didn’t reply.

Pol held up the end of his sandwich. Look! Will this fill you up? He threw the sandwich butt emphatically down the hill.

Javi crumpled the empty tinfoil he had in his hand.

Come on, Pol said. Let’s bring it home. He bent down and gagged when he touched the spindly hairs on the boar’s leg. Help me!

Javi dropped the tinfoil, spit on the ground, and stepped forward. He took the hind legs and the boys tried to lift the carcass. It wouldn’t move. She weighed at least as much as the two of them put together. They tried to lift and then they tried to drag. Neither worked.

Javi threw down the legs he held. Fuck this, he said, and made to go home.

No! Pol dropped his legs, told Javi to wait, and took off running up the dirt road. 

He returned two minutes later, skidding to a stop. In his hand was the kitchen knife, its handle covered in the sticky backing of duct tape. Javi’s eyes got wide.

We just need a piece. Pol waited for a reply and he shrugged when it didn’t come. Leave if you want, he said, then he knelt down and though he was jarred when he touched the dead animal for the second time, he closed his eyes and felt around the body for somewhere to cut in. The knife felt heavy in his free hand, and for a moment he reconsidered, even opened his mouth to say No, no, never mind, but changed his mind again and shut it quickly. He liked the way Javi had looked at him when he came back with the knife. How quiet his loud friend had become. He imagined it being like that from now on. Pol made many decisions in that moment. He was done letting Javi make him feel weak. He would tell his mom that she needed to get him some boxer briefs, he was way too old to keep wearing tighty-whities, and while she was at it, she could get some real bread to eat. He wouldn’t let his sister always ride shotgun anymore and, on the topic of car rides, next time he rode with his dad he would turn off that horrible classical music station that made him want to open the door and just fall out into the road. He also tried to decide that he would say something to Aina next time he saw her, but he could only commit to seriously considering it. When he finally stuck the knife into the jabalí’s belly it wasn’t so much a decision but a reaction to having made all the other ones. 

The boar skin was tough. Pol’s stab had cut it some, but was nowhere near the deep plunge he had expected. He tried again, this time lifting the knife up over his head before swinging it down, but this time it bounced off the carcass and sent Pol off balance and tumbling backwards. Without looking at Javi he got back up and into position. This time he would be precise. He aimed the knife’s tip onto the small mark it had made before, and as he arranged his body over the blade to put his weight into the movement he suddenly felt Javi behind him, his friend’s chest on his back, his hands wrapping around Pol’s, which were wrapped around the knife’s handle, and without planning (and this is true) they counted down in perfect unison from three and after their harmonically cracked One! they pressed their combined weight into the knife, plunging it for real now into the dead boar’s belly, opening a deep gash and with it the floodgates of the animal’s plum red blood.

Once they were in they didn’t stop. The boys took turns sawing, lengthening the first cut, turning it up towards the boar’s head, and once it was long enough in two directions they tugged at the new flap of flesh until the slit was a real hole. Despite talking all week about killing the pig, neither Pol nor Javi had managed to come even close to visualizing this moment, the carnage of it, it was the kind of thing that they didn’t see even in movies, the type of scene that was truly prohibited, and now, as its actors, doing it justice was their only option. So they reached in. Their arms were already stained with blood, and now they pulled out guts and gore like buried toys in a sandbox, tossing them back and forth, smearing stains onto their own clothes and each other’s faces, and as they got nastier they became both less and more recognizable to one another and this change made them laugh harder and harder as it became more and more true, and these laughs were not maniacal, but their regular, innocent laughs, cackles that cracked into high pitched screams that on the schoolyard would be swallowed in shame but here were allowed to echo through the valleys. 

So wrapped up in their butchery the boys didn’t notice the green Citroën cruise past them on the road. Lucky for them, Iker Navarro was too invested in his sport radio to notice the carnage outside. Less lucky for the boys was the fact that Mr. Navarro’s daughter, Aina, wholly unamused with her father’s commute entertainment, had her nose pressed against her window and did see the scene. Her father drove fast, and though the glimpse she got was long enough to identify her bloodied classmates above some kind of body, it was too short to see much else. Her imagination ran. By the time she got home she was pretty sure she had figured it out, and she sent a string of messages to her best friend, Alba Muñoz.

craziest thing ever

I just saw Javi and Pol on the side of the road all covered in blood

there was something under them, something dead

I think they were eating it!!!

I know this sounds crazy but I think Javi and Pol turned into zombies

I’m freaking out, call me

Oblivious to the bizarre conclusion their mutual crush was in the process of coming to, the boys kept at with the carcass. The original goal of cutting a piece for cooking had long been forgotten, and Pol and Javi played in the sinews and tendons and veins and viscera and the waxy membranes of organs and flesh and bone, grey and purple and brown, objects and textures and sensations totally unrecognizable from anything once living, until they were exhausted, and when they were they fell panting, covered in the jabalí’s juices, the color of dirt, into the dirt. The knife dropped next to whichever boy had been holding it last, it didn’t matter anymore. They lay on their backs and looked up. Two planes made an X in the sky. The Collserola radio tower zapped waves of information over their heads and into the city.

---

Arel Wiederholt Kassar lives in San Francisco. More of his work is linked at arelwk.com