by M. Billiter
Aaron held up the phone and then shook his head.
“What?”
“The last time he was connected, he was at 260 North Central Ave.”
I shook my head. “I have no idea where that is.”
“Ma, it’s in Felony Flats.”
I jumped out of my chair. “What! What’s he doing there?”
Aaron gripped my shoulder and handed me my phone. “Relax. He’s not at Trevor’s. He’s at Dakota’s.”
21
Branson
“Dude, wake up.”
I barely opened my eyes and rolled to my right. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Trevor was dressed in his normal attire of a gray T-shirt and baggy jeans. I stood up and quietly ushered him into the kitchen so he wouldn’t wake Dakota.
“Dude, your mom’s been texting you all night. She needs you home. She called me to come get you.”
I held up my hand. “Stay here.” I snuck back into Dakota’s room and grabbed my cell phone. It was three in the morning, and the brightness of the screen lit up the room.
I ducked back into the kitchen as I saw a string of recent messages waited for me. I ran my hand through my hair. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah, you need to get home. You’re in deep shit.”
“Man, thanks a lot.” I nodded toward Trevor. “I’ve gotta tell Dakota I’m leaving.”
“Make it fast.”
I went back into Dakota’s room and grabbed my T-shirt off the edge of the bed, gently touching her shoulder. She turned and smiled with her eyes closed.
“Hey, I’m going to head home.”
She opened her eyes. “Why?”
“My mom found out I’m not at Trevor’s.”
Dakota blinked and rubbed her eyes. “Oh no. Is she mad?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll find out. Just go back to sleep.”
I kissed the top of her head and pulled the blanket back up around her. Finding my shoes under the bed, I headed toward the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
Trevor had a beer in each hand.
“Dude, you gotta put those back.”
“Oh, come on. Dakota’s mom won’t notice. She had like a thirty-six pack.”
“No, that’s not cool.”
“Dude, let’s just drink it. It’s only one. She won’t notice anyway.”
I shook my head. “I’ll drop you off and you can drink the beer.” But by the time we reached the bottom of Dakota’s stairs, I had already chugged half of the cold, hard-to-stomach malt liquor.
“How’d you get here?” I asked Trevor.
“I drove my car.”
“I didn’t know you had a car. Why am I driving you around all the time?”
Trevor gave me his standard shit-eating grin. “It saves me gas money.”
“So, dude, where’s your car?” I busted out laughing, thinking of the cheesy movie line.
Trevor laughed. “It’s right over here.” He nodded toward a pimped-out black Subaru Impresa with a decent-sized spoiler and chrome hubcaps. The car cost more than the entire apartment complex in Felony Flats.
Trevor reached under the front tire and grabbed a magnetic hide-a-key.
“Dude, why don’t you have a key chain?”
“What, so I can have a lanyard out all the time and look like every other jock on campus? No thanks.” He handed me the key. “I just chugged this entire beer. You gotta drive.”
I drank the rest of my beer and then tossed the can in front of the apartment complex. It blended in with the dozen others littering the yard. I slid into the leather interior, and the car purred when I started the engine.
The dashboard glowed three fifteen in the morning. I was tired and just wanted to get home and back to bed.
“Dude, I want to go fast. Go up to Wyoming Boulevard and hit it.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to get pulled over.”
“Dude, it’s my car. I’ll pay for the ticket.”
I shrugged. “All right. It’s your car and your money.” I turned onto Wyoming Boulevard and hit the gas pedal. The needle on the speedometer quickly passed sixty-five, the speed limit on Wyoming Boulevard. The highway markers flew by in a blur.
Trevor turned up the music, and the subwoofers in the back I hadn’t seen before blared and made the entire car vibrate to the beat of dubstep. A smile stretched across my face as Trevor rolled down the window and screamed. We looked at each other and smiled.
We passed a side road where a church stood, and the silhouette of a car caught my peripheral vision.
“Oh crap.” My heart skipped a beat. I looked at the speedometer and it was nearing ninety. My foot hit the brake instantly, slowing us down. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Hey, why’d you slow down?”
“Dude, shut the hell up and turn off the music,” I said through gritted teeth.
Red and blue lights filled my rearview mirror. “Fuck.” I pulled to the side of the road. “I told you,” I said to Trevor.
“Shut up. It was fun and you know it.”
I cut the engine and rolled down my window. The officer walked toward the car, his hand on his sidearm, and a cold sweat came over me as I watched him approach. The closer he got, the faster my heart beat. It felt like I'd just sprinted a four-hundred.
He leaned his head into my window. “Do you know how fast you were going?”
“No, sir.” I shook my head.
“If I had seen another car, I would've thought you were drag racing. You almost hit a hundred. Can I see your license and registration?”
My eyes started watering with the sudden realization that I had downed a beer and I was driving someone else’s car. “Officer, I just want to let you know that the registration isn’t under my name. It’s under my buddy’s name, Trevor.” I pointed toward the passenger side, not breaking eye contact with the officer. “I was driving him home. He had a couple of beers.”
The officer looked past me to the passenger seat. A look of confusion appeared on his face. “Where’s your buddy? Hidden in the trunk?”
I turned to my right. Trevor wasn’t there. It felt like someone pulled a plug in my body and drained all my blood.
“What the hell?” I looked back at the officer. “I swear he was just there.”
“Son, there’s nobody in the car. Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle for me?”
My whole body trembled and my fingers fumbled with the seat belt. Where’d he go?
I stepped out of my car cautiously like this may be a joke and Trevor was hiding. But all I saw was the police car with its lights blowing up the side of the road. There was a chill to the air that bit through me and I couldn’t stop shaking.
The cop stood with his arms on his hips and a concerned look on his face.
I’ve got to get my shit together.
“All right, I’d like you to take nine heel-to-toe steps along this line.” The officer pointed his flashlight toward the solid white stripe that ran the length of Wyoming Boulevard.
I had to piss, and I knew if I didn't, I'd have jumpy legs for sure. "I've really gotta take a leak."
"Make it fast." He cocked his head toward the sagebrush that bordered the side of the road.
The moon cast light while I urinated on what looked to be former grass. Where'd he go? I can't believe Trevor would leave me like that. It's fucked up. Doesn't matter now, because I'm the one who's gotta walk the line. Fucking asshole.
When I returned, I looked at the officer. "Nine heel-to-toe steps on this line?" I repeated. I'm not going down as the joke of the senior class because I couldn't walk a straight line after one beer.
I carefully took even heel-to-toe steps, not losing my balance, even when he stopped me on step seven.
"Okay, turn around and repeat it going the opposite direction."
"But I haven't taken nine steps yet." Yeah, Johnny Law, I'm operating on all cylinders.
“Yes, please repeat the process goi
ng the opposite direction.”
I turned on the heel of my Nike and began the heel-to-toe walk while staring into the lights of an oncoming car. It slowed down.
Great. Probably some lookie-loo.
When the car pulled over behind the officer's, my stomach dropped. Is that Dakota?
The officer approached the car with his flashlight aimed at her Jetta and his hand on his sidearm.
Dakota stepped out of her car. “Hello, Officer,” she said cheerfully.
One of the guys I’d seen hanging out below her apartment climbed out on the passenger side. What the hell? Is that Scotty?
“I think there’s been a little bit of a mix-up,” Dakota said.
Mix-up? What is she doing?
“Yeah, I loaned my buddy Branson here my car,” Scott said to the officer.
I stared at the car on the side of the road and suddenly realized it wasn’t mine. Worse yet, I had no idea whose car it was or how I'd ended up with it. It was like waking up from a dream—only this was a nightmare.
Oh fuck.
“What’s your name?” the officer asked the guy standing way too close to my girlfriend.
“Scott Nelson.” The twentysomething-year-old with a sleeve of tattoos shook the officer’s hand. “I should've driven Branson home myself, but it was late and I was tired.”
“Your friend claims he was driving Trevor home and that it was registered in his name?” The officer kept his hand on his firearm.
Scott threw his head back and laughed. “Well, that’s Branson. Always messing up people’s names. Didn’t he call you Cheyenne for the longest time?” He turned to Dakota, who smiled.
“Yes he did,” she squealed.
I smiled. It was true. I knew her family derived from the Dakota tribe, which I think originated out of Cheyenne. I could never remember. But when we were first dating, I’d call her Cheyenne, not Dakota.
“Branson does that all the time. My brother is Trevor. I’m Scott.” The dude looked at me and smiled. “Scotty, not Trevor, you goof.”
The entire world felt like it was spinning.
“So this is your car?” The officer looked at Scott, who nodded. “Can you provide proof of insurance and registration?”
Scott nodded toward his car. “It’s in the glove box.”
The officer escorted Scott to his car and told Dakota to stay where she was. He was outnumbered. It had to be nearing four in the morning, and I had no memory of how I'd ended up in this dude’s car on the side of Wyoming Boulevard.
The flashlight shone on the paperwork and then Scott’s wallet. They must have lined up, because the officer then approached me. “I’d like you to take a preliminary alcohol screening test. It’s a portable breath test to determine the presence of alcohol.”
A cold chill crept down my neck and made me shudder.
“Officer, isn’t that a voluntary test?” Scott asked.
I looked at the officer, who reluctantly nodded. “Your friend said his buddy had a beer, but there was no one else in the car with him. I’d like to determine how much alcohol, if any, he’s ingested.”
“My brother, Trevor, was drinking tonight, and I think Branson just got confused. It seems like he was passing the field sobriety test, and the PAS test is voluntary,” Scott said.
I glanced at this dude who didn’t look like he could string together a cohesive sentence, let alone talk the same language of the officer, but fuck if he wasn’t, and taking the man to task to boot.
“The test is voluntary,” the officer said, “but your friend was driving close to ninety miles per hour when I pulled him over, and he appeared to be weaving.”
“Weaving,” I said wryly. “I don’t even know how to crochet.”
Dakota giggled, Scott laughed, and even the officer started smiling.
I started to regain my footing and my mind. “Officer, I didn’t realize I was driving so fast. I was just trying to get home.” Suddenly the texts from my mom flashed in whatever part of my mind wasn’t damaged. “I fell asleep on the couch at my girlfriend’s house, and I knew from all the texts my mom sent that she was worried.” I reached into my jeans pocket and withdrew my phone. “I was already past curfew and I….” I shook my head. “I should've been more responsible.” I purposefully sidestepped the entire issue of beer because I honestly didn’t even remember drinking.
What the fuck happened?
“If you drive him home, I won’t cite your friend for driving past curfew.” The officer looked at Dakota.
“Thank you,” she said.
“And it’s probably not wise to ever loan your car to a teenager after curfew,” the officer told Scott.
He nodded. “Understood. Thank you.”
I glanced at the officer and expected a verbal beatdown. Instead, the look in his eyes reminded me of Clive. “Get home, son, and get some sleep.”
I swallowed hard and nodded. “I will. Thank you.” As I walked toward Dakota’s car, heat crept up my neck. I couldn’t look at her.
“I don’t know what happened,” I said to the ground with my hand on the passenger door window.
“It’s okay.” She paused. “Branson.” I glanced up, and a gentle, loving smile greeted me from across the roof of her car. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out later.”
I barely nodded.
The car ride to my house was quiet. She placed her hand on my knee. “I’m not mad.”
I puffed out a mouthful of air. “Well, you’re probably the only person. That guy Scott looked like he was going to rip my head off.”
She shook her head. “He was just concerned. He’s not mad either.”
“I really don’t know what happened.” I sounded like a pathetic idiot, but the last thing I remembered was falling asleep next to Dakota.
“No one’s mad,” she said.
“Why?” I looked at her. “I’d be pissed.”
She softly chuckled. “It’s not your fault. You weren’t being malicious to hurt me or Scott. I think you just got confused when you needed to go home and took Scott’s car instead of mine.”
I had to laugh. “Yeah, because they look so much alike.”
Dakota’s giggle was really high-pitched and girly. “Okay, they’re not alike, but his car was parked beside mine, and I told you about the hide-a-key. Plus you know I have a hide-a-key on my car.” She shrugged. “It was an honest mistake.”
I don’t deserve you.
She drove slower than the posted speed to my Eastside neighborhood, pulling into my driveway a few minutes later. “You’re home safe. Get some rest.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
I held onto her tightly, like it might have been my last time.
“Branson,” she said in my ear. “Don’t stress. Everything’s alright.”
I wasn’t into baseball, but it didn’t take a diehard fan to realize I had two strikes against me. Strike one, blacking out and coming to in the school’s restroom with bloody knuckles. Strike two, coming to on the side of the road with a stranger’s car and no clue how I got there.
If fear had a feeling, it was like diving into String Lake, where the water was so dark it was hard to find the way back up. I didn’t know if I was sinking or swimming toward the surface.
What’s happening to me?
I climbed out of her car and walked toward my house in complete shame and total disbelief.
Strike three and I’m out.
22
Tara
I couldn’t sleep. Even though I knew Branson was at Dakota’s house, that he had lied, but that I should've been relieved he wasn’t at Trevor’s house, whoever he was, none of those revelations made my restless mind relax. His journal entries alone had me fearing for my son’s sanity. Worry had a vise grip on my brain and filled my every waking thought.
How is my son? Where is my son? What is he hearing? What is he seeing? What is he thinking? How can I help him?
I grabbed my iPhone and scrolled
until I found the music app, paging down until I located a long, lost favorite. The string of the guitar was a salve.
I tapped my foot on the stack of decorative silver and cream-colored pillows at the end of my bed. The southern jam rock of the Allman Brothers Band had a smooth sound that went down easy.
“Somebody’s Calling Your Name,” was filled with heartbreaking lyrics that fit my mood. Somebody’s waiting for you. Does my son know I’m waiting? And that I’d always be here?
I walked toward the kitchen, palmed the wall for the light and turned on the overhead. A pile of unopened mail scattered on the kitchen table. An ivory-colored envelope that looked collegiate caught my attention, but when I fished it out, I quickly realized it wasn’t from an Ivy League university.
First, it was addressed to the parent of Branson Kovac. And anyone worth their salt in academia knew better than to mess with the educational privacy rights of a student. FERPA ensured that a student, and only a student, would receive the letter that either accepted, rejected, or waitlisted them into college. Now, whether their nosy mother opened said letter was completely a separate matter.
The second telltale sign was that the return address bore no name, simply an address. Gotta be medical. With HIPAA regulations on privacy, physicians didn’t even stamp their envelopes with their name anymore, lest someone file an invasion of privacy lawsuit.
I slid my finger through the back flap of the envelope.
* * *
October 1, 2015
* * *
Dr. Tyler Washburn
* * *
Referral: Branson Kovac
DOB: 03/12/1998
* * *
Branson is a 17-year-old who presents with both auditory and visual hallucinations. I would like to have him evaluated neurologically with a sleep-deprived EEG to rule out organicity. Branson is currently taking Paxil, and I will suggest he start Geodon as soon as possible at our next appointment.
* * *
Thank you for your help.