Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 

“For everything you have missed, you have gained

something else, and for everything you gain,

you lose something else.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 ~Chapter 3~

 

  

Lucas.

 

 

September

 

Time passes, pretty quickly now that I think about it. I think Mr. Reynolds, the old man that always hangs out by the grocery store, told me that once. Before you know it, you’re old and wondering where your life went. Mr. Reynolds himself is a perfect example. At sixty-seven, that man does nothing but sit with a bottle of beer outside the supermarket with his bulldog that is too aged to bother barking at passing customers anymore perched at his side. He wasn’t always like that, but he figures he has nothing to look forward to anymore and didn’t live up to his potential when he had the chance, so he spends his time mourning and watching other people and wondering what it would be like to be them, or if he’d made different decisions in his life and became successful.

        “Always think before you act, boy,” he used to tell me. “The future you can change, but the past is eternal. Things’ll be gone before you have time to adjust.”

        And now that April was gone, it seemed to clear up everything I never understood, including Mr. Reynolds’ eccentric words.

        When my eleventh birthday came, I didn’t have a birthday party. Mom had insisted that I throw one with a hesitant look in her eyes, so that convinced me. I knew what had run through her mind: I think we’ll be able to do it.... maybe if I take an extra shift.... we’ll have to cut back some more....

        But I didn’t want to make everyone even more miserable than they already were. I didn’t need presents or a cake to celebrate my birthday, like people who go to church don’t need the church to pray. I was perfectly fine where I was.

        When January came, a few weeks after my birthday (New Year’s was no different than any other day), Dad announced we would be moving during dinner.

       

        “So,” he sighed, scratching his grubby beard as he talked. There was a worn-out look in his eyes, like he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in ages. “The deal on the house is done, and we’ll need to be out of here in two weeks.”

        “Where are we moving to?” I muttered flatly, taking a bite of my food and then a sip of water.

        “Wherever it is,” my mother said promptly, giving me a look, “It’ll be fine. As long as there’s a roof over our heads.”

        A joyous yelp came from Tyler, who had just stuck his face in his bowl of cereal and emerged with his hair sopping wet with milk.

        “Tyler!” Mom exclaimed, and hurried around the small dinner table to wipe his face with the most available thing at the moment—Dad’s napkin.

        “D****t, Erin, I was using that!” he growled.

        His mood swings always baffled me—one second he was his normal cheery self, and the next I was afraid he’d turn green and burst out of his clothes.

        Mom didn’t respond, continuing to clean Tyler, who didn’t look at all different than he had before he’d gotten a face-full of milk. hTyler was soon to be three, but I had to admit this behavior was abnormal even for a three-year old. Unless he enjoyed torturing himself, or just liked disaster, he wouldn’t act like that.

        Dad muttered something I couldn’t understand under his breath and pushed away from the dinner table, striding to the living room. He threw himself onto the couch and grabbed the remote, angrily flipping the channels and settling for wrestling. This was the way he usually spent his evenings.

        I continued to eat, but suddenly wasn’t hungry. I put my plate in the dishwasher and was hoping to creep back upstairs, before Mom stopped me.

        “Where are you going, Lucas?”

        I sighed. “Upstairs. I’m not hungry.”

        “Did you finish your homework?”

        “Yes,” I lied.

        She narrowed her eyes, but let me off. “Don’t need any help with it?”

        “No,” I muttered irritably and quickly snuck upstairs and into my small room. It was a mess of clothes, DVDs, video games and god knows what else. I cleared everything off my bed before sitting down and looking gloomily out the window. I searched for the moon, but I couldn’t find it.

        I looked around at my room that was probably smaller than a rich guy’s closet, at the clutter of possessions scattered everywhere—a blanket over my TV, an old Halloween costume draped over the desk in the corner, my backpack on the ground with its contents spilled all over the floor. My eyes came to settle on the pile of envelopes in the corner of my room, at the foot of my bed.

        I took a deep breath and slid over to them, resting my chin on my hands. A feeling I couldn’t describe came over me. How many times had I written to April? And I hadn’t received not even one reply. It had been nearly a year now. Had she forgotten about me? Did she simply not care anymore? Was she having so much fun in her new home?

        Whatever the reason, Dad seemed to think I should give up. If she didn’t respond to my most recent letter, I would have to stop writing—the money we were wasting on stamps probably equaled half the rent of the house.

        I picked up an envelope in the corner, one of the letters I hadn’t sent yet, and probably wouldn’t get to send. I tore it open and read through it once more:

 

      Dear April,

      Things around here aren’t getting any better. It seems like you took all the happy with you when you moved. Nobody smiles anymore, only Tyler. Mom and Dad have been fighting a lot, and I’m sure they’re getting a divorce (I’ve heard them talking about it). Dad’s been crabbier, and is staying out later than he usually does.

      School’s the same, except nobody but me really misses you anymore. They all say a year is long enough to get over someone, but I don’t listen to any of them. When are you writing back? I’ve been waiting forever to receive a reply.... Are you mad at me? I told you I was sorry, for the hundredth time, in my last letter. Please write back.

            Your best friend, (still, I hope)

                                    Lucas

 

        I flipped onto my back and stared up at the ceiling; trying to imagine what it would be like if April hadn’t moved away. Maybe I’d be happier. Maybe I wouldn’t notice how my parent’s had been fighting, how things seemed to get more and more difficult as the day’s progressed. She would certainly clear my mind from any of that.

        Closing my eyes and wishing I was in a happier place, I dozed off.

 

*   *   *

School was always a drag.

        Sure, I had friends, but none appealed to me anymore. I found myself wanting to be alone, or, more than a few times wanting to take something from Mrs. Foster’s desk and throw it at her head. I didn’t understand half of what she said, only the word’s “let’s go to lunch.”

        I didn’t realize how tedious the sixth grade could be. It really wasn’t as fun as movies made it seem—where you see kids pulling pranks on other kids, bullies beating up nerds for lunch money or throwing them in dumpsters. When in reality, nobody really carried around lunch money anymore. So there was nothing to be excited for—when you turned the corner you knew you wouldn’t see a clown juggling bowling pins, you’d probably see Mr. Welch, the assistant principal, who these days wandered the halls and corridors more than usual for no apparent reason. The one thing the movies and tacky television shows did get right was the mean snobby rich kids who seemed to take pleasure out of making others feel self-conscious. That was probably as close to a bully I’d ever get, though I had no intention of ever coming across one anyway.

        In the morning’s, when Mom took Tyler to daycare, she would ask me about school, and again when she picked me up. She’d press for details on my day, asking how gym was, who was chosen for the Citizen of the Month this month. And I’d shrug and say it was fine, because I really didn’t want to talk about it.

        Something was missing. I knew what it was, but I didn’t want to think about it. I remembered how, a year ago, I used to love when the teacher called recess. Now I sat in the classroom and watched everyone else run around and have fun.

        After one night at dinner, when my father was his alter-ego, I stopped at the foot of the stairs at the mention of my name.

        “Phil,” said Mom, there was an undertone of hesitation in her voice.

        “What?” muttered Dad, and I heard the clinking of his fork hitting the plate.

        “Doesn’t Lucas seem.... different, to you?”

        There was a long pause, and I strained my ears in case I was missing anything. I was sure I wasn’t visible where I was, so I didn’t worry if they’d noticed me or not.

        “Just the hormones, Erin,” he said gruffly, and I heard him slide his chair and put his plate in the sink.

        “I’m worried about him, Phil. I think it’s.... that girl....”

        There was a heavy sigh from my father. “Just leave the boy alone. That was nearly a year ago. He’ll get through it,” he muttered.

        I knew they wouldn’t say anything more, but mostly because I heard my father plunk down on the couch and heard the flipping of channels, followed by his booming voice.

        “There’s nothing to watch on the damn TV, Erin.”

        “We can’t afford cable anymore, Phil. You know that.”

        There was a resigned grunt from Dad, followed by Tyler’s baby voice as he threw his toy car against the wall.

 

        After that night, there was no more mention of me at dinner. Mom seemed more apprehensive than usual around the house, but it wasn’t because of me. I knew it was some other problem; maybe we weren’t able to make the rent this month. Whatever the reason, I was some childish eleven-year old who couldn’t help with anything, so I didn’t bother offering.

*      *      *

I was sitting in class one dull Tuesday afternoon, my head resting on my folded arms, my eyes following the figures of my classmates as they walked around the playground. I thought it was a little weird we had a playground in the sixth grade, but I guess this age is still considered immature.

        I could hear a faint scribbling that could only be Mrs. Foster’s pen against her paper, probably grading the spelling test we’d just taken. Over that I could hear the tick of the clock, which was numbing my senses and drooping my eyelids. Once my eyes fluttered shut about five minutes later, a hand touched my shoulder, and I flinched instinctively, jerking upright instantly.

        It was Mrs. Foster, looking down at me with worried eyes, the stare Mom sometimes gave me when she wasn’t sure if I was telling her the truth.

        “Why don’t you want to go outside, Lucas?” she asked quietly.

        I shrugged, putting my chin on my arms and staring out the door. The gray overcast sky was a tedious background for the atmosphere of the sixth graders; they all looked excited and energetic.

        “You should go join them,” Mrs. Foster advised.

        I didn’t reply or look at her, but mumbled something incomprehensible under my breath and stood, tugging my black sweater down and running a hand through my hair. I stuck my hands in my pockets and walked outside, feeling my teacher’s gaze burning into my back.

        Nobody noticed me as I walked, they just kept talking and laughing, valuing their time away from tests and lessons. I walked disregarded towards the swing set, where only a small, scrawny boy sat. He had glasses and was reading out of a thick book, and his hair was damp. I ignored him as I sat down, though he looked up. He didn’t say anything either.

        I recognized him as William Peterson, or “Willy the wimp,” as he was called by his well-known tormentors. He was the epiphany of a nerd, or that’s the way he was thought of by the class.

        I looked around, ignoring William. The faint gray sunlight shone over the drenched playground and field; it had just stopped raining. There were a couple girls sitting on the monkey bars, one with big front teeth, another with a mane of soft blond hair and the other had on a very tight jacket. All three were giggling at something I didn’t hear. Farther away there were a couple kids playing dodge ball, and beyond that were other students just plainly enjoying themselves.

        I didn’t see the point in coming out here; it was no different than sitting inside and watching them all with a blank stare. I sighed after a long, endless minute, and stood, stretching. I sat on the ground, my back against one of the poles that supported the swing set, and stared quietly up at the sky, and the dreary clouds shifting over and under each other, creating shapes only I could see.

        There was what looked like a boxing glove, and a frowning man’s face looking down somberly at me. There was a huge book in one of the puffy cotton clouds, and in another was a gavel. I wondered what it all meant.

        Then I heard the three girls I’d seen by the monkey bars sidle over, close enough for me to hear their hushed comments.

        “... just so cute. He’s all mysterious and... uncaring,” the girl with the soft blond hair said, and cast a sneaky glance in my direction. She met my gaze and her face turned a deep red, and her head jerked away.

        The girl with the big front teeth giggled. “Come on, Brenna, you can’t hide forever. Just ask him.”

        She grabbed her friends shoulders and spun her around, so she was facing me. I watched them warily, confused and a bit annoyed. The blond girl looked about to pass out; her face was white and her palms were sweating.

        “Brenna wants to ask you something,” the girl with the tight jacket said, and I stood up, brushing my jeans off and looking at her, one brow raised.

        “Yeah?”

        Brenna gulped, and after two seconds turned to her friend and shook her head violently, whispering something in a low voice.

        The buck-toothed girl sighed and looked at me. “She wants to know if you’ll go to the carnival with her this Saturday.”

        The blond girl smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand, looking dully down at the ground, her face a deep crimson. The girl in the tight jacket was smiling.

        I racked my mind for an excuse. “Uh... I can’t,” I said quickly. “Sorry,” I added, seeing the blond girl had looked up, forlorn. “I have something to do that day.”

        The blond girl nodded quickly, accepting my excuse entirely without question. “That’s okay. Come on Carmen, Danielle,” she said hastily, grabbing each of their arms and towing them away from me, while I watched with a vacant expression.

        I watched until they were under a thick tree, and then sat down on the swing by William again, who I’d assumed wouldn’t speak to me again. Evidently, I was wrong.

        “Those girls were talking to you,” he said.

        I glanced over at him. He was looking me over with an expression I didn’t recognize, something like suspicion and uncertainty mixed together. “So?” I questioned.

        “You said no to Brenna Jane,” he informed me.

        I shrugged. “So?” I asked again.

        William stared at me blankly, like I was an idiot, and then shrugged as well. “Well, I dunno, I just thought you’d say yes,” he mumbled, looking embarrassed.

        At that moment two guys came over: Jack and Rick.

        I watched them cautiously. Their eyes seemed to be glued on William, and they completely disregarded me as they approached. William quickly dug his nose in his book, trying to look busy.

        “Studying, Willy?” Jack asked. He was a tall, leonine guy with tawny hair. Rick—a muscled guy that was nearly a head shorter than his friend—snickered quietly.

        William pretended not to hear them. I sat on the swing just two or three feet away, watching Jack and Rick with an acid gaze. I’d heard of these guys before, I just didn’t pay attention anymore. It looked like my view of bullies and nerds was starting to change.

        “What book is that, Willy?” Jack asked, snatching the thick novel out of William’s hands. He held the book up to the weak sunlight, grinning widely. A couple kids were edging over, trying to listen in on what was happening.

        “Guide to the Ocean?” Jack scorned, laughing.

        William stood, drawing himself up to his full height, which wasn’t past Jack’s shoulder. “Give it back,” he said quietly, though I heard a defiant edge to his tone.

        Apparently Jack didn’t hear it, however, because he just barked another loud laugh and held the book up higher.

        “Want it?” he chanted, as William reached up for it.

        His thin arms were inches away from the leather-bound book, but he didn’t manage to steal it back.

        A couple more kids were sauntering over now, their eyes alight at the sign of a dorky boy being taunted by two others. A sudden fury overwhelmed me, and I stood quickly, nearly stomping over to Rick and Jack. Rick was standing by with a smug expression, watching amusedly as William struggled to retrieve his book back.

        “Hey, Jack, give it back,” I said to him, my voice flat.

        Jack glanced quickly at me, his probing gaze browsing over my scruffy appearance: unkempt hair and black sweatshirt and worn jeans.

        “Defending your friend, Johnson?” Jack asked mockingly, chuckling.

        “Just give him back the book,” I said, a bit of my anger piercing through my voice.

        Jack let go of the book and it fell to the floor, and he rounded on me. I stood my ground, not moving an inch, my hands tightening into fists in my pockets. I stared wordlessly up at him, at his sharp eyes and the derisive twist of his mouth, aching to punch in that face of his.

        “You should stay out of what’s not your business,” Jack warned in a low, dangerous voice. Nearby, there was a crowd forming around us.

        “Standing up for others isn’t such a noble thing to do. At least, you won’t think of it that way when you look in the mirror and see a bruised face looking back at you.”

        Ferocity overwhelmed me, and it took everything I had not to just pounce on Jack and start throwing punches at his face. Inside my sweatshirt, my fists shook, dying to clench something in their grip, to knock Jack’s teeth out. I watched Jack wrathfully as he smiled a small, contemptuous smile, and then he walked past me, making sure to shove my shoulder as he did. Rick followed behind him, while the rest of my classmates watched me avidly, as if expecting me to start shouting curse words.

        “What’s going on?” asked a loud voice from behind, and the circle around me broke to reveal Mrs. Foster walking towards us, her black hair coming loose out of its bun.

        “Nothing,” I mumbled, walking past her inside the classroom. I stormed wordlessly to my seat, and it wasn’t until I sat down that I realized William was following me.

        He was clutching his thick book to his chest, looking down at me warily.

        “You didn’t have to do that,” he mumbled.

        I shrugged. “Those guys need to stop thinking they’re so much better than everyone else.”

        “Thanks... for what you did.”

        “Just stay out of trouble,” I said in a low voice, and picked up my pencil and leafed through my notebook, hoping William would take the hint that our conversation was over.

        And like almost everything else in my life, he walked away.