by R.E. Rowe
“Well, I wish I could. But—”
Aimee looks away. She doesn’t try to conceal a huff. “Don’t worry about it.”
Great, she hates me now. My coolness freezes. I’m an ass.
“No, I mean I’d help if I could. I, um...” I stammer like a damned fool. “The meds I take make it mostly impossible to sketch.”
Her brow furrows. “What meds?”
Meds are the last thing I want to talk about. I don’t want to tell her how the doctor’s meds take the edge off everything I love to do. Or how Stewart says the meds might have negative side effects like “lack of emotional expressiveness.”
Yeah right, that’d be really attractive. Hi, I’m Reizo, the kid that lacks the ability to express my emotions. You want to make out?
Even without Bouncer’s rants in my head, I feel like a loser. I want to run and hide rather than talk about it. I’m crashing and burning and I know it.
Just as I’m about to give up and walk away, I think of an alternative when I see a dirty piece of string on the pond’s bank. “Ever fish for crawdads?”
Aimee tilts her head. Then, as if an off-switch engages, she turns back to her painting and gracefully touches the paper with her brush. “Nope.”
I straighten out the string. “Got any hot dogs?”
Aimee shakes her head no and smirks. “Right. Like I carry around hot dogs.”
Hot dogs? Really? I’m a freaking idiot. I have no idea why I asked about hot dogs. I’ve totally blown it. I might as well just disappear into the pond and swim with the frogs. I force my fingernails into my palms.
After an awkward moment of palm pain, I see a slight hint of a grin on her face.
“Hot dogs?” she asks.
I act as if I’ve planned it all along and smile. Naturally funny, that’s me, Reizo Rush, Crazy Kid. The new show in town. I’ll be creating funny moments involving hot dogs all week.
I try a slight course correction. “Of course not, I meant—do you have any food?”
Aimee gestures to a small cooler. “A granola bar and an apple.”
“Can I?”
“Help yourself,” Aimee says, rolling her eyes.
She keeps focused on her painting and touches it with the brush again. Her movements are slow, but sure. I’m pretty sure she’s totally disinterested in me.
I find the half-eaten granola bar and break off a piece, then tie it to the string. It needs something to weigh it down. I use a small rock with a long, narrow shape to it and tie it to the string.
Aimee stops painting and studies the string. “You catch crawdads with granola bars?”
“Oh yeah. They love ’em.” My mouth is on autopilot. “Last few years all the crawdads have been watching their diets. I’m told most of them workout. If you listen close, when you see bubbles, you might hear their aerobics instructor yelling at them.”
I see a glint of curiosity in her blue eyes that causes me to tingle in unexpected places. My alien butterflies are roaring back.
She shakes her head. “Shut up.”
“Oh yeah, it’s a well known fact. Crawdads are nearly fat free now, the new Hillbilly sushi.”
Aimee laughs. “That’s gross.”
I wink at her while strolling to the pond’s edge like I’m some badass for impressing the hottest girl in Franklinville while simultaneously catching the most delicious crawdad in the entire pond. Of course, my stupid attempt at coolness is completely ridiculous, since I know nothing about talking with hot girls and even less about catching crawdads. But I fake it nevertheless and manage not to fall on my ass.
I hold one end of the string and toss the rock, string, and granola piece as far across the pond as I can. A skeeter bug changes direction and skips across the pond’s surface when the rock hits the water. Good move, Mr. Skeeter. The string floats on the surface for barely a millisecond, and then follows the rock in a hurry to the bottom.
I tug on the string as if my hand is a fishing pole.
“So taking meds prevents you from helping me?”
Talk about persistent. She’s relentless. Ah man. “It’s not that. I just ...”
I’m not about to go into the details about my life: visits to Willowgate, two relentless voices inside my head, barely able to pay our rent, no cable, Internet, cell phone, probation.
Nope. As far as this girl is concerned, I’m like all our other classmates, hanging out on a summer day at a pond where I’d planned to . . . exit. Hell. I focus on the string.
I really don’t understand her interest. Most people avoid me.
“It messes me up when I take them, that’s all.”
“How do meds mess you up? Aren’t they supposed to help you?”
Damn. This girl should be a lawyer or something. I peer towards the open field beyond the oak trees. Rancher Murdock leads a cow by a rope. I quickly try to decide how to tell her. How should I phrase it so she understands? What if she laughs at me when I tell her, like most kids do?
Suddenly, I feel a tug on the string. Saved by the crawdad.
I pull up the string and grab the wiggling creature clinging to the granola bar, determined to keep it. Pinching its body with two fingers to avoid its claws, I hold up my prize. “Hillbilly sushi. Hungry, Ames?”
Aimee’s eyes go wide. “Amazing! I never thought things actually crawled on the bottom of the pond. It’s totally gross.” Her face glows a reddish-pink.
I toss the pinching critter back into the pond. “Some people cook ’em. Not me. I’m all catch and release. Frogs and lizards too. But snakes, not so much.”
“That’s disgusting.”
My confidence has instantly spiked thanks to the mini-lobster. “With enough seasoning, everything tastes like chicken, right?”
She giggles. “I suppose.”
“I better go. Will you be here tomorrow?”
Aimee gazes at her painting. “Yep. I plan on painting everyday till summer’s over.”
Good. The meds will be worn off by tomorrow. I give her my lame half-wave. “Later.”
My original plan is temporarily on hold.
Reizo doesn’t act like someone who’d flatten a mascot.
I turn on my music and listen to a cello moan before changing it to something more up-tempo. I dip my brush and gaze blankly at the painting.
He makes me laugh. He’s cute too. Around school, he always keeps his head down and never talks to anyone. People make fun of how he talks to himself.
What does he hear that causes him to talk back to voices no one else can hear? How do the meds help him? But why couldn’t he help me paint?
My thoughts continue to go in circles.
After ten minutes, I’ve painted a small crawdad on the muddy bank. It looks real too, just not exactly 3D.
I can’t stop thinking about the mysterious boy. Reizo is so different at school. He’s not anything like the cute guy who showed up at Uncle’s pond with the magical energy.
Reizo is cool. Hunky. Charming. Shy, but funny.
I smile, thinking of the crawdad between his thumb and finger. Hillbilly sushi. The way his dimples appear and his smile goes sideways when he holds back a laugh. Kind eyes. I swear he’s curious about me too. He gazes at me with a mysterious twinkle in his eye. Then he looks away, like I’ll figure out some secret he’s hiding.
I love his smell. That sounds disgusting. But I do.
I wonder where he lives? What he does?
I’m turning into a psycho stalker. Stalker Aimee. I sigh.
Yep, that’s me. Maybe I’m the one who needs meds. Maybe I’m the one who’s going nuts? Obsessing about a boy I just met. Wanting to feel more of his energy rather than trying to run from it. Obsessing about Grams and my NDE.
Moving the brush faster, I blend in the sky colors.
I hope he comes back tomorrow.
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chapter twelve
I sit up in my bed and wipe the crust from my eyes. Most days, I grab my ears when I hear Bouncer start the day off raging.
“Why you sleeping all day, loser?” asks Bouncer, ranting. “Wake the hell up!”
But today, I stretch and think of the smiling girl at the pond.
“Ames,” I mutter to myself and grin.
“She’s probably painting,” says Honesti.
“A-meee! Blah,” says Bouncer.
“Can you at least whisper?” I ask softly.
“Shut up!” replies Bouncer.
“You like her, don’t you?” asks Honesti.
Bouncer whistles.
“She is sort of cute,” says Honesti. “You scared me when you went to the pond.”
“Don’t you love us anymore, brother?” asks Bouncer.
I normally scream to shut them up, but my mind dwells on Aimee. It’s as if thinking of her turns down the volume.
“Do you think he saw it?” asks Honesti.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” says Bouncer. He laughs. “He’ll dig his own grave.”
As usual, I don’t understand their rants. I don’t even try to make sense out of the noise. I just push myself out of bed and snatch my sketchbook. 11 a.m. I return to the mattress and began to sketch.
After fifteen minutes pass, I’ve drawn a 3D crawdad on a scribbled-out mud bank. Two-segment mini-lobster body, black beady eyes, dual probing antennae, four pairs of legs, and two oversized pinching claws. The small 3D creature on the page scurries off a mud bank toward the sketched out pond.
“It’ll impress her,” says Honesti.
“I hope so.”
My creative mojo is back.
chapter thirteen
His Saturday morning scent warms me. The day of the week when I used to do long distance training runs. Meandering two lane roads. Fresh cut grass. Noisy sprinklers. Cool mist. Rooster crows. The way the sunrise takes the chill out.
I can’t get over how different he is than the Reizo Rush who took down the grizzly mascot at school. It’s a nice surprise. His vibe is intense, but he’s not creepy.
“Once you finish the basic shape,” Reizo says, leaning in close, “just add another critter next to it, but at a slightly adjusted angle. Then blend them together and repeat.”
He touches my shoulder and shocks me. A breath catches in my throat.
Static electricity or was it a surge of energy? I don’t know. By the surprised glint in his eye, he felt it too.
Reizo leans in to the paper, drawing on my painting with his pencil. His eyes gloss over as his pencil moves. His hands move slow but sure. Energy radiates from him. It’s warm, kind.
He’s feeling calm today.
After Reizo is done sketching a second crawdad at an offset angle, I see how connecting multiple shapes turns it into a 3D image.
His warmth interrupts my crawdad gaze. I haven’t been so close to a guy from school since the last dance I went to during freshman year. That was two weeks before the relay race where my heart gave out.
“Use your paints now,” he says, taking a step back. “Right over the top of the pencil.”
I dip my brush and paint.
“More like this.” He takes my wrist and adjusts it. “That’s good. Add different shades of black around the edges.”
I dip and stroke, dip and stroke.
“Cool,” he says. “You’re totally getting it.”
I give him a quick glance. “Thanks to you.”
Wow. The crawdad is beginning to look as though it’s crawling out of the painting.
“I thought you said you couldn’t help me.”
“That was yesterday.” He pauses. “Let’s just say I’m med-free today.”
“You’re off your meds?”
“Yep.” He nods.
I stop painting and frown. “I don’t get it. Why’d you take the meds in the first place?”
“It’s complicated.”
Obviously, he doesn’t want to tell me about it. I decide not to press the issue. I’m enjoying how we’re painting together. “Can we paint the fish too?”
“Sure.” He pauses for a moment. “So Rancher Murdock doesn’t mind you coming to his pond everyday?”
I hesitate, then continue painting. “No. Why would he?”
“I don’t know. I just thought he had a “No Trespassing” sign up for a reason.”
“It doesn’t apply to me,” she says.
“Oh really. You’re above the law like I am, are you?”
She giggles. “Of course not. He’s my uncle.”
Reizo freezes and rubs his face. “No freakin’ way. Your uncle?”
“Yes way. He’s my great uncle, actually. My mom’s father’s brother.”
“Jeez. Say that three times fast.” He shakes his head. “I had no idea.”
“I don’t see him much when I’m painting. To be honest, I like the privacy.”
He takes a step back and stands straight. “Sorry.”
“I don’t mean you, silly.” I add in more color to the mud bank under the crawdad. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“So your uncle owns all this land?”
“Yeah, over sixteen hundred acres. My mom owns part of it, but Uncle Pete manages the entire ranch. It’s been in our family for well over a hundred years—ever since a man named Wesley something died. I forget his last name. My uncle says old man Wesley owned all of the land in Franklinville back in the old days. For as far as you can see.”
“Wesley?”
“Yeah, the story my uncle tells me is that the man had problems. He died in a mental hospital. The township took everything and sold it off after they’d committed him. My great-grandparents adopted his son, Thomas, and raised him.”
Reizo’s face has gone ashen.
“What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?”
He slowly begins to walk backwards. “I better go.”
“Reizo, are you okay?”
He shrugs.
"Tell me what's wrong?"
"I'm related to Wesley." Reizo turns around and abruptly walks away.
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chapter fourteen
Mom rushes around the apartment with her brunette ponytail bouncing behind her.
“Thank you for fixing the toilet today. It probably would have taken the manager at least another week to get to it,” she says as she wipes off the kitchen counter. “I’ll just vacuum real quick, then I need to go.”
“Mom, stop. Don’t worry about it. I said I’d do it.” I raise my voice slightly. “Would you please answer me?”
She stops and rubs her hands together. Her fingers look dry and ten years older than they should. I feel a tinge of guilt knowing how hard she works.
“You’ll vacuum?” Mom asks with a smile. She goes without make-up during her night job and hardly any during the day, but she doesn’t need it when she smiles.
I nod, peering into her eyes with intensity. “I said I would.”
“Okay. I’m late already. I’m in a new building tonight with two others. I might be later than usual.”
“Why didn’t you tell me Grandpa Wesley’s son was raised by Rancher Murdock’s family?” I ask again.
“Liar!” says Bouncer. “You hear me? She’s a damned liar. A liar. A dirty liar.”
I want to scream at Bouncer to shut up, but I make two fists and hold my tongue.
“I haven’t thought about it lately. Besides, there’s not much else to tell.” She folds the rag she’s been using and puts a drinking glass in the cabinet.
“Can you just tell me what you know? Please.” I help her put away a plate. I’m not about to let her run off to work without answering my question.
“You were there when I told Dr. Stewart.” Mom sighs. “After your great-grandfather Wesley was committed, he lost everything he owned. Rancher Murdock’s ancestors took in Wesley’s son. Let me think. What was his name?” She squints her eyes. “Ah, I think your dad told me Thomas was your second-great-grandfather. Wesley deeded some of his landholding to the Murdock’s before the Township took the rest. Then the Murdock’s raised Thomas as their own.”
Mom stands in front of me with her hands on her hips. “It was in the 1800’s. Wesley died not long after they committed him.” She frowns. “What’s gotten into you anyway? Why do you care so much about the 1800’s?”
Mom makes a good point, but I’m in no mood to tell her about Aimee. I wonder if Aimee thinks I’m crazy like great grandpa Wesley?
“I care, alright?”
“That’s right. Yell at her,” says Bouncer. “Show her you mean it.”
“Of course he cares,” says Honesti. “Will you leave him alone?”
With the dishes put away, Mom gives me a quick kiss. “Dinner is in the oven. I need to get going. Turn the oven off when you take it out. Will you be okay by yourself tonight?”