by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 31, Wednesday 28 September
The bike gave a weird sputter as I rolled to a stop in front of Mike’s house. I’d never been here before, and I felt a strange lump in my throat—nervousness more about going up to his door than about what I had planned for later that night. The plan that involved the tank of gasoline in my garage and possibly getting torn to pieces by sprawls, or maybe just arrested. I set the kickstand, hopped off the bike, feeling the pressure of the small velvet-lined box in my pocket.
Like all the houses on this street, Mike’s was set fairly close to the road, with perhaps a dozen feet of yard between the sidewalk and the front of the house. Grass grew in wild patches—some spots of the yard long and yellowed, while others were clumps of brown, or in some places, bare earth. One number on the mailbox hung at an angle, threatening to fall at any moment. Small, single-story, the ranch home had thick, wide siding—almost like shingles—and although it was difficult to judge in the amber light of the streetlamp, it looked to be a pale pink, or perhaps peach, in color.
Light shone from the windows, splitting the darkness into discrete lengths along the lawn. Through thin curtains I saw people moving in front of faux wood paneling. They held drinks, stood in small groups. I recognized almost all of them—kids from school. At that moment, Shane stepped right in front of the window, his face recognizable even in profile, and then Taylor stepped up to face him. If she had looked over his shoulder, she would have seen me standing on the street.
For a moment, panic almost won out. I didn’t want to go in there, not with all those people there. For some reason, it would have felt like betraying a secret between Mike and me. And I didn’t want to be the center of attention anyway. To walk in, in front of all those people. More than that, though, was the nagging question of why I hadn’t been invited. It was stupid; I knew Mike and I weren’t ‘school friends.’ We barely even talked outside of practicing with quickening. But a part of me was still hurt, and more than I had expected.
Each step up the driveway resonated in time with the low thud-thud-thud of the bass coming from inside the house. I had to talk to him; I didn’t know how much longer Olivia had, and I wasn’t going to let high school drama get in the way of saving her life. As I got close to the front door, it swung open, and Taylor stood there, framed by the light from inside. I noticed a ‘Happy Birthday’ sign hanging over her head.
“Alex,” she said. “I didn’t know you knew Mike!”
“Yeah, kind of,” I said. “I actually just have to talk to him really quick.”
“Come in,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here, the party is amazing! Mike’s mom has to work, so Chad and Jack brought beer, and Shawn and I brought some stuff from my dad’s liquor cabinet.”
“Wow,” was my response. I didn’t really care that they were drinking; under other circumstances, I probably would have welcomed a beer. Right then, though, all I could think about was what Mike had told me about his dad. I found myself getting angry with Mike—had that all been a lie, what he told me? Or was he really stupid enough not to worry about how he might react to alcohol?
Taylor stepped back, letting me into the house, and I caught just a whiff of her perfume—all fruity and light—mixed with the smell of alcohol on her breath. It made me grateful for Olivia, for the fact that she never had to try to make other people like her, or worry about impressing people.
“Do you know where Mike is?” I asked.
“Hey man,” Shane said, stepping in to offer me his hand.
“Hey,” I said. “Mike?”
Shane shrugged. Taylor said, “I think he’s in his room; Ashley came to the party, I think they’re talking.”
The words slid into me, razorblades under a flap of skin. So he was with Ashley—so what? I tried to keep my cool, but a deep, tight coil of anger burned in my chest. He didn’t owe me anything, I reminded myself. I had helped him because I needed help in return. Help destroying the grower’s tree. That was it—a simple, straightforward business relationship. And I still needed him, at least for tonight. Once the tree was destroyed, well, we’d just go our separate ways. I should have realized that before, I guess. But memories can make a man stupid.
Mike’s house was as small as it had looked from the outside. The front room, full of high schoolers that I knew, and most of whom I had never talked to. The kitchen, right behind it, full of the spill-over of the teenage delinquents. The noise was louder here, bouncing off cheap linoleum and washed-out, peeling turquoise paint. A hallway led back to the rest of the house—three doors, two on the right, one on the left. The wood veneer of the doors was split in several places, revealing the particle board underneath. In spite of my anger, I found myself taking everything in, assembling it in my mind. It was like adding a new layer to the person I knew as Mike—adding depth to an image that had been, while very, very interesting, somehow flat. This was where he lived, where he woke up every day. The worn, shag carpet of the hall, stained with memories, carried him out of bed and into the world. He had people over, so he clearly wasn’t ashamed of his house, but there was a part of me that wondered if he liked it here. If all the years of living built into the walls didn’t blaze with after-images, in the dark hours of the night. I wondered if he was happy.
All that passed in a few moments, though. The first door on the right was the bathroom, slightly ajar. A stout girl was throwing up in the toilet, while someone else—a guy with torn jeans and dark hair—sat on the sink and watched. As I passed the door, I caught a glimpse of the girl’s face, out of the corner of my eye. It was Mary, pale and sweating. I felt a tinge of pity, almost turned to help her, and then a tinge of anger. Somehow she had gotten invited and I hadn’t. It was a ridiculous thought, I tried to remind myself, but it only fueled my anger.
The second door on the right opened onto a dark bedroom. A queen size bed, all made up. Throw-pillows, edges lined with almost a foot of lacy fabric, sat on top of a floral-print quilt. This was most definitely not Mike’s room. I pulled the door shut. That only left the room across the hall, just a couple of feet from me. I turned toward it.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Chad stood at the end of the hall. Even after what he had done to me, even with all the hate I felt for him, it was hard not to stare at him. His strawberry blond hair, cut short and messed up with some kind of product. That faint dusting of freckles across his handsome face. Broad shoulders, made even more visible by the t-shirt that bordered on too tight, outlining his pecs as it stretched across him. I just turned back to the door, raised my hand to the handle.
Before I could open the door, Chad had reached me, crossing the space between us in a few strides. With one forearm, he slammed me up against the wall, grabbing my shoulder with his other hand. This close, I could smell the alcohol—hot and sick—he breathed against me. I could also see the faint, yellowed bruising that still ran along his nose. That time, I had taken him by surprise. If it hadn’t been for Jack and Rob, I probably would have had a chance.
Right now, though, I just had a lot of anger—some of it leftover, from what Chad and his friends had done to me, but a lot of it coming from other areas: fear for Olivia; the turmoil in my own family; Mike. I shoved Chad, and he staggered back a step, but then he moved in, grabbing me by my shirt. Once, twice—he slammed me against the wall, and I felt cracks spreading through the drywall. Stars blitzed past my eyes, but I was too angry.
“Get off me,” I shouted. Somehow I got an arm up, caught Chad across the chin with an elbow. If it hurt him, I didn’t see any sign of it. His head rocked back for a second, and then he let go of my shoulder and slammed a fist into my still-tender ribs. The air whooshed out of my lungs, and I crumpled over, held up only by Chad’s forearm bracing me against the wall. Then another punch landed, on my side. Chad let me drop to my knees, grabbed me by the hair and started dragging me down the hall.
“Faggot,” I heard Chad say, but I wasn’t sure to whom.
I pried at Chad’s fingers, but I was too disoriented, in too much pain, to be effective. The sounds of the party continued; still in the hallway, we were out of sight for the moment. It seemed surreal that in a house this small, something could go unnoticed. I had a momentary hope that when he dragged me into the front room, Shane might step up and do something. But that was just a neuron firing, random and meaningless. I was alone in this.
And then I heard a door open. “What are you doing?” It was Mike’s voice, smooth and even and hovering on the edge of deep waters, and this time, unmistakably angry.
“He crashed the party,” Chad said. “I was just—”
He let go of my hair, bringing his hands up, but not fast enough. Mike didn’t punch him. He just tossed him out of the way. Planted one hand on Chad’s chest and pushed, and Chad went windmilling backward into the half-open door of the bathroom. The crack of the wood echoed through the house, and suddenly everyone went quiet. Even with the pounding music still going, the house felt strangely silent as people gathered around the hallway, staring at me and Mike and Chad.
Mike looked furious. It was the first time I’d seen him look that way. Behind him, I saw Ashley poke her head out of the doorway, her hair tousled, the buttons of her shirt done up wrong. Too quickly, I assumed. That sent another angry wave through me, but I barely had time for it to register, because Mike grabbed my arm, hauled me to my feet, and marched me out of the house.
“Keep him from coming outside,” Mike said to Shane, his even voice still tight with anger.
Shane just glanced at me, looking miserable, and nodded.
I don’t know if Chad really would have followed or not, but Shane planted himself at the front door, his shadow looming across the driveway. Mike kept his grip on my arm, forcing me to walk upright in spite of the pain in my side, and we didn’t stop until we got to the curb where my bike sat. The amber light of the streetlamp was soft compared to the sharp, angled panes of light that fell from the windows of his house.
“Are you alright?” Mike asked. He still sounded angry.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Sorry about that,” Mike said. “Chad’s actually not a bad guy, once you get to know him.”
“Right,” I said, and gave a laugh that threatened to cut my lips as it came out. “So that’s who’s been hanging out at your house, right? That’s why when I call, sometimes, you act like you don’t know who I am.”
He didn’t answer.
“Whatever,” I said. I dragged the velvet box from my pocket, slapped it in his hand. “Happy birthday.”
I got on the bike, started it.
“Come on, Asa,” he said. “Calm down. I’m sorry I couldn’t invite you—”
“I told you,” I said. “I prefer Alex.”
I drove off before he could say anything else. Lucky for me, I made it two blocks before the sputtering started up in the bike again, so bad that it started to shake under me. Another block, and with a long, whimpering set of chugs, the bike came to a halt. I just sat there for a minute, considering the great day I’d had. Then I got off the bike, set the kickstand, tucked the helmet under my arm, and started walking home.
If you’ve ever walked through a small town late at night, then you know what it’s like: the streets quiet except for the electric hum of the streetlights, the occasional breeze that makes the branches talk to each other in lonely creaks. The stars above me continued their silent watch, staring down at me, unmoved, impartial. I think they must have been lonely—so cold, spun so far apart, their very nature preventing them from ever drawing close to each other. I think another day, another time, that place would have made me feel lonely myself. That night, though, the silence was full of my confused thoughts, the empty streets busy with my fears. It was a perfect place for me to think.
In a way, my life had suddenly become much simpler. I no longer had to worry about Mike—not as a brother, not as a friend, not as a quickener. I would go to the cemetery tonight. If there were sprawls, I would go back tomorrow. And I would burn down the tree, no matter what happened. And then, one way or another, I would be free. Olivia would be fine; she would recover. I prayed she would recover. I didn’t know—there was so little I knew about growers. But either way, it was just Olivia now. I would do what I could to be with her, in spite of what it might cost. I would do what Isaac would have done, if he had lived. I would help my family, be happy, be what Isaac would have been. No more doubts about training Mike as a quickener. No more worries about repeating my mistakes of the past. Things were easier now, simpler. Better.
I tried to convince myself that was true as I walked home, trailing pieces of my soul all the way from Mike’s house.