1: Jay

A Chapter by J_Star

1: Jay

The emerald spring-forest light on the movie theater screen fades as the credits come up, and darkness rides in on a morose note that floats from a French horn like a wisp of exhaled smoke. I lean my head against the back of the seat and let my eyes fall closed. My mind tries to hold onto the lush green, to stay in the welcome disconnect from reality the way I can sometimes grasp the edges of a dream I don’t want to leave.

Randy’s finger poking my shoulder yanks me back to the present. “So what was it? Cuz I know, but you’re gonna get it wrong.”

I shove his hand away. “God, don’t be so ADD. Let me process a minute.” I unstick my shoes from his spilled Mountain Dew and pull my skateboard out from under the seat. “You’re lucky you didn’t dump that crap in my wheels, slob.”

“Like it matters. Your board’s shite.” He grabs his board from under his seat and we merge into the line of people moving toward the exit, Randy flicking the back of my ear until I turn around and jab my knuckle into his ribs.

Outside, night’s rolled around and snuffed out the colors of day, leaving only patches of lurid radiance under the streetlights and signs. The absence of the sun has done nothing to cool the air. School’s only been out a week and already the weather’s like August, thick and still and sweltering. I pull my T-shirt away from my skin in the sticky heat.

Randy and I drop our boards and skate through the parking lot, then head back along the state route that separates his craptastic neighborhood from the upscale one where I live. “Don’t leave me hanging,” he says over the sound of our wheels.

I wait a minute before saying it, just to harass him. “Whiskey. Knob Creek, not that Wild Turkey bullshit you like so much.”

“No way! Totally gin, straight up. Beefeater.”

“You have no taste at all, you know it?”

“Whiskey? For real?” He squints at me.

“The part with the river through the valley, when the music went up and it showed the whole town with smoke over it. Whiskey. I’m gonna draw that tonight.”

“Did you see the same movie I saw? The cop scattering that dude’s guts over like twenty-seven zip codes, man, that s**t was bad a*s.” Randy pop shove-its over the thin strip of grass between the street and sidewalk, his trucks creaking when his wheels slam back onto the gray concrete.

I ollie up to the sidewalk after him. “There’s more to life than beating the crap out of stuff, thuglet.”

“Says the dude who’s never won a fight in his life.”

“I won one.”

Randy holds his hands up. “Well, touché!” He edges his board toward me, elbowing me off the sidewalk and shoving me onto the vibrant green grass beneath a streetlight. My feet scramble to catch up with my momentum and I grab my board and swing it at him, but he bats it away. “I’ll cut you a deal. Twenty bucks will buy you one five-minute lesson in a*s-kicking.”

“Save your breath. I could still take you down in a hot minute.” I drop my board and step back on.

“You wish, you featherweight punk.”

We cruise through the thick, hot night, arguing about movies and liquor, about which Batman is the most badass, about who gets to mow Grady’s lawn for cash tomorrow. My brain records and sketches the negative space around Randy as his arms hitch outward each time he pushes his foot against the concrete. He turns back and gives me a wicked grin that twists my stomach. Here comes a dose of stupid.

He cuts in front of me and ollies onto the white line on the edge of the street. I watch his arms come up and his legs tense, then hold my breath when he risks a quick heel-flip in front of an oncoming car. The driver swerves to avoid hitting him and the headlights outline Randy’s suspended body, blinding me for one frozen, terrified instant--

--and then I hear the smack of his wheels on pavement and his laughter through the blaring horn. He raises his arm and gives the driver the finger before he ollies back up to the sidewalk. “I think Dave’s coming over later,” he says like he didn’t just give me a f*****g heart attack. “He might have something.”

All the air whooshes out of me. “God, why do you do that s**t. You’re such an a*****e.”

“I know.” The grin again.

I wish I had something better to throw at him than an eyeroll. “Right, well, I’m gonna stop home and grab some drawing stuff. I’ll meet you at the Pit in a while.”

“K. I’ll try to stay sober till you get there.”

“Don’t put yourself out.”

Randy bends his knees and kickflips like a showoff, then bows when he lands it. “Anything for you.”

I can’t help smiling at his stupid goofy face. “See you soon.”

Randy turns right, tre-flipping over the crater of a pothole where Sixth Street meets the state route. I turn left and cross through the traffic, then scoop up a rock from the side of the road. I chuck it into the spot-lit waterfall spilling next to the “Welcome to Glenwood Oaks” sign as I pass it, missing the spotlight like always.

At home I flip my board into my hand and punch in the code to the garage door. Emma’s bike isn’t inside and neither is Mom’s car. I open the door from the garage to the house and try to ignore the sliver of silvery fear I always feel when I think about my sister riding her bike alone through the dark streets on her way home from work or her softball games.

Some sitcom’s playing on the TV in Dad’s den. I stay light on my feet so he doesn’t hear me as I walk by. He’s half-passed out in his recliner, still wearing his tie and the wingtip shoes he used to keep shiny. My foot lands on a creaky spot in the hardwood floor and he turns.

His drunk face hardens when he sees me.

A low orange flare of anger passes through my sternum. I tense and keep my eyes on him, waiting for him to make a move, impose some discipline on that boy. Ready for it if that’s what he wants.

But he turns back to the TV, melting down into his lumpy undrawable shape, colored by the ugly light from the screen.

The knot of tension unwinds. I walk away from Dad and go upstairs.

After I shower I open my laptop. While it’s starting up I dig through my desk drawer for the drawing I meant to give Emma at her graduation last week, a colored-pencil sketch of her on a tree swing in the sunlight with her long brown hair flying out behind her. I toss the drawing on the bed and log in to my email.

Couple of junk messages. Some forwarded joke chain crap from my grandma in Florida. A message from a sender I don’t recognize, sent four days ago. The subject line says “Miss you.” I click on it.

“Hey kiddo. I’m moving back to town soon, they’re transferring me to the main office and giving me a promotion.”

Oh God. No. No no no no no.

My eyes keep moving over the words.

“Montana’s gorgeous at first, but after six years I’m ready to be back home. Can’t wait to see you and your sister!”

There’s a picture under the words.

A picture, it’s--

All the air leaves my lungs. I blink in slow motion and something disconnects deep in my chest. A swirl of sickening grayish-green burns through my guts and skin and scorches every other color out of the world.

I delete the message and slam the laptop closed. Shove it, hard. It falls between the desk and the wall.

I can’t move. I can’t see anything in this room anymore, can only see that--

No. No. S**t!

I stand up, pick up the picture of Emma. I look down at it in my hands.

I can’t see her. I can’t see her at all. Can’t get air through my lungs, can’t feel the floor beneath me.

He’s coming back.

My feet tangle on the way to the door, I’m tripping--I tip forward and feel my face slow-motion smashing into the doorframe. An explosion of azure light flashes through my eye. I land on my arm and lift my hand to my cheek. Sticky. Maroon.

In the bathroom I press tissues into the cut. I can’t feel it. I look down at my fingers curled around the mess of red and white. I smear the blood off the sink, flush the tissues.

Back, he’s coming back he’s coming back he’s--

In my room I throw some clothes and my sketchbook into my backpack. I cross the hall to Emma’s closed door and tape the picture to it.

A ward. Against evil.

I grab my board and leave the house. Somehow make it to the Pit without wrecking. I climb the steps and trip through the dented door.

“Where the hell have you--oh, Christ.” Randy takes my board and grabs my arm. He pushes me into the room he shares with Joe, leaves. Comes back a minute later with an icepack and a joint and a bottle.

Delete.

next chapter

© 2013 J_Star

Author's Note

8/18 Updated

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Featured Review

KAOlmsted

Holy cats...you f*****g rocked this. Hard. Like a hurricane ;-) I love the idea of movie liquor personalities. I was like, what? *laugh* God damn, J...I can see you've been a busy little editor. This is tight, and technically perfect, and really well laid out. (Not that it needed much improvement) ;-) I like the carefree attitude you gave Jay in the beginning of this chapter, and that whole skater lingo vibe really added to his and Randy's character development (remember when I didn't know what Emo was xD) I also liked that you touched on the synesthesia with such a light hand in this chapter, so as not to overwhelm...it's just enough to make people go "huh...orange anger? Why would his hand be gray-green?" I love it...except I noticed a conspicuous absence of purple ;-)

You got this, baby...this is all f*****g you. And I am so damn happy you're here because for some f*****g reason I can't open the copy you sent me on my hard drive...b*****d thing...I'm still working on fixing that, but meanwhile...I'm going to enjoy you here ;-)

Superior write. xoxo