In a town split straight down the gut—geographically, ideologically, and economically—there were two types of kids: the Hilltoppers and the Hollowfolk.
The Hilltoppers wore shiny jerseys, ate lunchables for breakfast, and had names that sounded like inherited lawsuits: Chadford, Winny, Banksy (but not that one). Their water bottles were metal, their socks matched, and they all had private swing consultants.
The Hollowfolk? They drank from the cracked spigot behind the cafeteria. Their jerseys were hand-me-downs from a dodgeball team disbanded in 1987, and most of them had to share shin guards. They were called things like Javi, Nia, or Dev—names that didn’t look good embroidered in cursive, apparently.
Every day, both groups showed up to the Field of Fairness. It was neutral territory in theory, but in practice, it was ruled with an iron clipboard by Coach Chewmark, a bloated ex-athlete with a whistle lodged permanently in his neck fold. The Hilltoppers made the rules. The Hollowfolk followed them. And the games went on.
Until they didn’t.
The rupture began on a Tuesday—statistically the least heroic day to spark a revolution. Javi Hollow, tired of being picked last, tired of being benched, tired of playing with a ball held together by electrical tape and grief, stood up and said:
“We’re not playing today. Not until we get treated like real players.”
Coach Chewmark blinked. Richie Banks, captain of everything, dropped his energy gel. Even the wind took a break.
The Hollowfolk, maybe twenty of them, nodded. Quiet at first but growing louder. They walked off the field. No game. No practice. Just silence and principle.
For a week, the town buzzed with confusion. The Hilltoppers attempted to play amongst themselves but quickly realized that without anyone to beat, victory felt hollow. The games stopped. The scoreboards froze. The juice stands shuttered.
Worse: the Hollowfolk controlled the infrastructure. They were the ball inflaters. The chalk liners. The whistle retrievers. The Hilltoppers had the clout, but the Hollowkids had the labor.
For a whole month, nothing moved.
Posters began appearing on the playground fence:
“NO JUSTICE, NO JUMP ROPE.”
“EQUAL TEAMS OR EMPTY FIELDS.”
“WE’LL PLAY WHEN WE’RE NOT BEING PLAYED.”
Even Coach Chewmark started to look nervous. He began twitching. Not just from withdrawal, but from the realization that the system might actually collapse under the weight of principle. God forbid.
Then came The Return.
Ten Hollow kids, led by a perfectly average student named Marvin who once referred to Richie Banks as “pretty cool,” quietly rejoined the games.
“Why?” Javi asked, incredulous. “They haven’t changed anything.”
Marvin smiled with all the conviction of a wet sock. “They said they might think about treating us better. Someday.”
He held up his prize: a sticky, half-sucked lollipop and a note scrawled in crayon that read:
“Maybe later. Thanks 4 compromising! ❤️ - Team Hilltop”
On the back: two fingers were literally drawn crossed.
The games resumed. The Hilltoppers cheered. Coach Chewmark sobbed into his whistle with joy. And the Hollowfolk? They were still picking up trash, still benched, still background noise to the shiny charade.
But now they had a few defectors.
Marvin and the “Just Be Grateful” gang got special water breaks. Their jerseys were only slightly stained. They were given pep talks about “bridges” and “incremental change” and “being realistic.” All while Richie Banks stood behind them, holding a bullhorn that said MERITOCRACY in Comic Sans.
Javi stood at the fence. Watching. Still benched, still proud.
“They didn’t get change,” he said to no one in particular.
“They got candy.”
And the next time a Hollow kid got picked first?
Never happened.
But hey, at least Marvin got a sticker.