Lock & West

by Alexander C. Eberhart

  She chews twelve times before swallowing.

  My hands aren’t shaking anymore. I finally got them under control about an hour ago.

  “Was there a pillow fight?” Jack asks while separating his cereal by the size and color of the marshmallow shapes. I guess we’re both a little strange. I blame Dad and the color-coordinated organizational chart he used to keep on the fridge.

  “What?”

  “At your sleepover. I would want to have a pillow fight if I had a sleepover.” Jack inspects a red balloon carefully.

  “N-No,” I answer, hoping Jill doesn’t notice the stammering. “We weren’t cool enough to have a pillow fight.”

  “Aww…” Jack shovels a handful of the Mateys into his mouth.

  “Jack, honey.” Jill slides over the television remote. “Why don’t you finish your breakfast in the living room. I think there’s a Petey the Pirate episode on.”

  “Argh!” he cries, which I assume means yes because he commandeers the remote and his breakfast booty and hurries into the living room.

  Jill keeps staring at me, and I just want to crawl into bed and die.

  Instead, I note the number of dings in the kitchen table.

  “So,” she says, pausing to slurp some of her neon-colored milk. “Wanna talk about it?”

  “About what?”

  There’s no way she knows what happened. No need to panic.

  Seven dings, eight dings, nine dings.

  “About why you can’t look me in the eye. Or maybe why you snuck in here at seven in the morning?”

  “Not really,” I say. I look down at my waffle—I can’t do lactose, so cereal is out of the question. Mickey’s smiling face is pressed into golden, crispy deliciousness. If I take a single bite, I’m going to throw up.

  “Was it at least worth it in the end?”

  I don’t look up from my mouse-shaped breakfast. There’s nothing from last night that I want to relive right now. I trace the ridges on the edge of my waffle.

  “Hello?” Jill cups her hands around her mouth. “Earth to Lan. Come in, Lan.”

  Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

  A marshmallow bounces off my forehead, falling onto my plate. Jill rears back and launches another cereal projectile, but I swat it away.

  She laughs, and I manage a smile. A short-lived smile.

  “I understand you’re probably just relishing in your first hangover experience, but my other-worldly aunt abilities are behooving me to think there’s more going on here.” She pulls her chair away from the table, maneuvering closer to me. “So, spill it.”

  Jill isn’t going to let this go. I might as well tell her the truth. At least part of the truth. A very miniscule part that may satisfy her curiosity without blowing up my life. That should be safe.

  “The party was fun,” I say, cutting an ear off my waffle. He oozes syrup, and it pools on my plate. My breakfast has taken a turn for the macabre.

  “And?”

  “And I danced the night away.” I don’t take a bite of my Van Gogh-ed waffle. I suppose it’s cruel to let it suffer, but I’m already so nauseated. “And I drank too much.”

  “Sounds like a fun night.” Jill grabs the severed ear from my plate, popping it in her mouth.

  That’s not exactly how I would describe it.

  “Y-Yeah.” My face is burning. Something tells me Jill knows more than she’s letting on. She probably notices my trembling hands as I reach for my orange juice. And she definitely sees me mouth the numbers as I count the petals on one of the silk flowers in my mother’s ridiculous centerpiece.

  She stares for just a moment longer before letting out a sigh. “Your mom called me last night.”

  The glass of juice slips through my fingers, tumbling to the floor.

  “Not what I meant when I said spill it.”

  “Sorry.” I get up and hurry into the kitchen to grab the already-stained Winnie the Pooh dishtowel hanging from the oven door. I cringe as I step in the juice on my way back and it soaks into my sock. Crouching down, I sop up the citrus spill as best I can while Jill continues to nibble on Mickey.

  “Don’t you want to know what she said?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m grounded for the rest of forever.” I lay the soiled towel on the table. Through the shame and embarrassment, anger burns deep in my gut, fueling me. “But the joke’s on her, I guess, because being grounded doesn’t actually change anything. One has to have a life for it to be taken away. Seriously, I go to school. I pick up Jack. I come home. That’s my day. Every day. The only breaks in the monotony are the nights I have to pour her into bed after she’s drank herself silly, because she’s still not over—”

  I stop, a different heat flaring in my chest. This happens every time I try to talk about him. I’ve said too much about Mom’s drinking. Jill doesn’t know how bad it’s gotten.

  “She puts a lot on you.” Jill’s voice is quiet, her hand drifting to rest on my shoulder. “I wish she’d let me help.”

  The look on her face makes me feel worse. Everything is out of place when Jill doesn’t smile. It sucks what little comfort I can glean from this not-home. I need her to be my rock, my constant in this whole mess.

  “She can be a real bitch sometimes, huh?”

  I snort a laugh through the threat of tears. Jill grins, and my world is right side up once again. Before the accident, Mom would say Jill’s personality lit up a room, but I think it’s really her smile. It has this way of making you feel safe, like arms wrapped around you with a promise that everything will be all right.

  Her accident hasn’t changed that trait. Maybe dimmed it, like an eclipse, blocking out the sun’s warmth. But it always passes, and the warmth always returns.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I tell her. She knows I mean more than just in the apartment.

  “Me too, Lan.” She leans forward to press her forehead against mine, and we put the world on pause to enjoy just a second of us.

  I want to tell her. I want to tell her everything that happened last night. But that means I have to tell her about me. About the thing we don’t talk about. About why my hands are shaking right now and I can’t seem to catch my breath no matter how hard I try.

  Still, I really am about to tell her when Jack runs in.

  “Come play with me, Jill!”

  Jill pulls away, running fingers along my cheek. “I’ve got to see to my duties as first mate,” she tells me, digging through the hand-sewn bag hanging from the side of her chair. With a flourish, she pulls on an eyepatch. “Enjoy the last couple hours of peace.”

  Jack and Jill retreat to the Jolly Roger, and I’m left with a half-eaten waffle and a sock full of orange juice.

  Okay, so maybe last night got a bit out of hand. I mean, sure. It was technically all my fault, but I really think it was an overreaction on Lock’s part. Or maybe the sex was lousier than I remember. It’s possible—I don’t remember much.

  “Oh my god,” Chels groans as the door to her bedroom swings open. I’ve been staring at the pale pink wall for what feels like forever and the crown moulding is burned into my brain. “Wasn’t last night epic? Like, I hate to say it, but it may have beat my sweet sixteen.”

  “And that was without the bouncy Castle of Fornication.”

  She giggles then winces, rubbing her temples. “Ugh. Why did you let me drink so much?” She collapses onto the bed next to me. Her tiara from last night hangs sideways, but she probably doesn’t even notice it’s there, lost in curls.

  “I already had one person to babysit,” I defend myself. “I couldn’t possibly take care of both of you.” Since when is it my responsibility to watch out for everyone? I’m usually the one who’s most fractured by night’s end.

  “Oh, yeah.” Chels snuggles up to me. “How’d your little boyfriend enjoy the party? I remember you two getting down like two white kids at a bat mitzvah.”

  “He’s not white, and have you even been to a bat mitzvah?”

  “I�
��ve been to seven. It’s kind of a thing when your family is Jewish. Thank Yahweh, I’m out of cousins.”

  I have to wonder if Chels really sees herself as Jewish as she never attends temple and her parents only go on holidays. We don’t really talk religion. My family isn’t religious at all. They just throw money at a random church around Christmas time in a brilliantly Scrooge-esque attempt at saving their damned souls.

  I myself find it easier to believe there’s an alien overlord watching us flop around a fish tank than a benevolent force guiding us to morality in the clouds. But I’m just sixteen, so who cares what I think?

  “Where is he, anyways?” Chels asks, lifting the blanket like she fully expects Lock to be hiding.

  “He’s gone.” And I’m not sure how I feel about that. “Things got a little…weird.”

  “Did you suck his dick?”

  “Jesus, Chels.” I fall back onto the bed so we’re both staring at the ceiling. “Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I go around sucking everyone’s dick.”

  “I wasn’t insinuating that about your fellow gays.” Chels laughs. “Just you. You’re kinda a man-slut.”

  “I resent that remark.”

  “You resemble that remark.”

  She’s got me there. Seeing as there’s a definite possibility that’s exactly what I did last night, I really can’t argue with her.

  “We were both drunk,” I try to convince myself. “I really don’t remember what happened.” That’s a lie, because the longer I stare at the fan, the clearer those moments become. My cheeks are a scarlet inferno.

  “Well, I hope you didn’t scare him off. He’s a precious little baby. His skin isn’t as thick as ours.”

  “You make it sound like I’m the big bad wolf preying on an innocent piggy.”

  Chels sits up, turning to give me an incredulous look. “You know I love you, West. Like, so, so much. But you’ve got this way of fucking things up.”

  I catch her eye. “You don’t think I know that?”

  Her shoulders deflate with a sigh. “Look, whatever you two did last night, just don’t let it get under your skin like Clay did, okay?”

  Clay. The name flares inside me like a forgotten ember, igniting in my chest and smoking out my lungs. Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe.

  “No worries there,” I manage to choke out before Chels lays her head on my stomach.

  “Good.”

  Her fingers find mine, soft and warm as they wrap around my hand. The two of us lie still, staring into nothing as the sunlight grows stronger through the windows.

  Chels has been my safe place since we met in eighth grade. Her room is my sanctuary whenever the world gets too loud, or my parents are fighting, or I just need to get away from the bullshit for an afternoon. We’ll just lie here, not a word uttered between us, and yet somehow, we always know what the other is thinking.

  It’s been too long since we’ve done this.

  “Are Mom and Dad coming home today?” I ask after who knows how long.

  “Nah.” She checks her phone. “Mom’s tour got extended for another week which puts them home tomorrow.”

  “Did they at least wish you happy birthday?”

  “Dad did, but Mom was too busy with the book. You know, this one’s actually not terrible.”

  “Anything’s better than the last one. I mean honestly, Werewolves in Washington? How on Earth did she sell that garbage?”

  “It was better than Zombies in Zimbabwe. Got a lot of backlash for that one.”

  Our laughter bounces off the ceiling.

  Chels’s mother—Mom, as we both call her—is a horror novelist on the bestsellers’ list. Not that you’d ever know it by talking to her. She’s probably the kindest, sweetest person I’ve ever met, but obviously she’s repressed some dark shit and buried it deep down. I’ve kinda always expected to open the door to the basement one day to discover a pile of dead bodies or a medieval torture chamber. I get disappointed each time it’s just boxes of old books and a dusty wedding dress.

  “Well, at least we got to live it up,” I offer.

  “That we did.” She yawns and stretches like a cat. “Wanna grab brunch? The cleaning crew is gonna be here at eleven.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Jill’s been giving me a pitiful look all afternoon. It’s because there are only minutes left before my mother comes charging through that door to murder me. I’ve mapped out my response all day, debating whether I should argue or just accept my fate. A decision still eludes me.

  At a quarter till three, I hear the distinct sound of keys turning the lock and the door swings open.

  Mom trudges in, wheeling her overnight bag behind her and hauling an armful of paperwork. She looks exhausted, but I quickly remind myself it’s her own fault. She’s about to rake me over the coals. I can’t afford to get soft on her.

  “Hey, sis,” Jill calls from the living room. Jack’s passed out in her lap.

  Mom walks right past us and into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

  “Oh boy,” Jill whispers to me. “The silent treatment. Always my favorite.”

  “You don’t have to stay for this. I can handle her on my own.” I want to spare Jill from becoming collateral damage.

  “What kind of aunt slash badass role model would I be if I abandoned you during your time of need?”

  “The one who gets to keep coming over because she doesn’t get murdered by my mother.”

  “Don’t you worry about it, Lan. She couldn’t keep me out, even if she tried.”

  Mom’s door opens again, and we both clam up. I press my back into the couch cushion, silently hoping it’ll engulf me and I won’t have to deal with this anymore.

  She stops in the doorframe of the hallway, still dressed in her business attire. “Jillian,” she addresses her sister. “Would you mind giving us a moment?”

  Jill gives me one more encouraging smile before turning her chair. “Why of course, Jennifer. I’ll just go put this little guy down. He’s tuckered out from all the fun we’ve been having.”

  Mom steps aside to let her pass, the two of them holding eye contact for as long as possible before Jill disappears into Jack’s room.

  Now, it’s just me and her.

  She hovers beside the recliner for a moment, looking everywhere but at me.

  “I can’t do this, Lachlan,” she says finally, walking around to sink into the chair. “I can’t be worried sick about the two of you every time I leave this house. And now, that’s all I’m going to be.”

  “Jack was fine, Mom. It’s not like I left him with a stranger—”

  “That’s enough.” She cuts me off then takes a deep breath. “I would have almost preferred a stranger. My sister is in no condition to be taking care of anyone. She can’t even take care of herself!”

  “How can you be so blind?” I lean forward, temper flaring. “Jill is perfectly fine! And Jack adores her, Mom. She wants to help us. Why won’t you let her?”

  “We don’t need her help,” Mom says. “And I don’t need you telling me about my own sister. I know her, Lachlan. She puts on a brave face, but she’s not ready for this kind of responsibility.”

  I realize there’s no point arguing. She’ll never see past that chair. She’ll never see her sister in another light.

  “I need to be able to trust you, Lachlan. How can I now it’s been broken? We can’t keep going as a family without trusting each other.”

  “What do you want me to say?” I ask.

  “Well, you can start with an apology.”

  “No.”

  “Lachlan.”

  “I’m not sorry, so why would I apologize?”

  “You’re saying you don’t care about this family?”

  “What? No, that’s not—”

  “Because it’s obvious you don’t if you think that—”

  “Excuse me?” My outburst propels me to my feet. Mom leans back as I continue. “I don’t care ab
out this family? How can you even say that?”

  “I need you on my side, Lan,” she says. “We have to stick—”

  “And what about what I need, Mom?” A hot prickling sensation stabs the back of my neck. “Jesus, I’m sixteen! I need a mother! I need someone who’s there for me. I need to be able to take a night to go out with friends. I need to be able to talk to someone. But I can’t do any of those things because someone has to make sure Jack gets home safe, that he eats his vegetables, and that he’s got clean underwear. And unlike you, I can’t hide from my responsibilities by crawling inside a bottle of wine or working myself to death! That’s not an option for me. But no, you’re right. I don’t care about this stupid family. I’m the problem here.”

  Mom’s on her feet now too, closing the distance between us. “Do you think I like working seventy hours a week? Do you think I have a choice in the matter? I do it so I can support this ‘stupid family,’ as you call it. So, don’t stand there and judge me for doing what I have to.”

  “You always have a choice, Mom,” I say with a sigh. “I see you make it, every day. You choose to run away from us, seventy hours a week, because you can’t face the fact Dad bailed on you—”

  A searing pain explodes across my cheek and my head jerks sideways.

  Mom retracts her hand, tears in her eyes, chest heaving. Realization sinks in, and her face crumples. She takes a step back from me, fingers raising to cover her mouth.

  I don’t say anything, only stare back at her.

  “You’re wrong about Jill,” I say slowly, fighting back tears of my own. “And you’re wrong about me.”

  I duck around the coffee table, not giving her the chance to respond. I make it to my room and lock the door behind me, sliding down the wall before pulling my knees against my chest.

  A pent-up gasp escapes my lungs, and hot tears fall with it.

  “Has anyone seen Lock?”

  The roar of the cafeteria seems especially deafening today, but maybe that’s just because I’m straining to hear what Shay is saying from across the table.

  “—him all morning. Was that really him at Chels’s on Saturday?”