Lock & West

by Alexander C. Eberhart

  “What the fuck!” he yells, but I’m already halfway down the stairs. Hot and heavy tears pour down my face as I race from the theater and through the crowds of shoppers.

  “Is there a difference?” I’m squinting at Jill’s laptop screen, struggling to pick out the inconsistencies between the two pages she’s pulled up. I count the number of tomatoes. There’s four on each.

  “Oh my god.” She lets out an exasperated sigh, sinking her teeth into a slice of pizza before adding, “Swears aleas tree of ‘em.”

  “English please?”

  She holds up three fingers and I’m able to translate.

  “Why am I doing this anyways?” I ask, alternating between the two identical photos. “Isn’t this why there’s an editor?”

  “I am the editor,” Jill reminds me, wiping her hands on a napkin before pulling the laptop away. “Time to learn, kiddo. Now, pay close attention.” She folds the keyboard behind the screen, producing her stylus from her pocket. “We changed the font here, here, and here. Then there’s the slightly tilted image in the top left corner that we—”

  The cell phone on the table buzzes, freeing me from the monotony of Jill’s screen.

  “Hey, Marco,” she answers, pausing for a moment to listen. “What do you mean next Tuesday? I need them yesterday. Last week, actually.”

  I pull out my own phone, and Jill’s increasingly agitated voice fades into the background. No notifications. I guess there really isn’t anyone who cares enough about my absence to reach out. It doesn’t surprise me, but the reality sits on my shoulders like a sack of bricks.

  It’s getting late. Mom should be home by now and is probably halfway through a bottle of wine. I would hope her being alone with Jack would serve as an incentive not to get plastered, but I’m not holding my breath. In fact, the more I think about it, the more anxious I get. Something horrible will happen if I leave him alone with her.

  “Well, call me when you hear something.” Jill ends the call, tossing the phone onto the table haphazardly. “Jesus, Lan. I’m working with a bunch of children.”

  “Jill?”

  She looks up from her work. “Hm?”

  “Could you… Would you mind running me home?”

  There’s hesitation on her face as her teeth click together.

  “It’s Jack,” I explain. “I just—I want to make sure he’s okay.”

  That seems to convince her.

  “Yeah, all right.” She sets the laptop aside but doesn’t move yet. “Just remember, I’m here if you need anything, Lan. And I mean anything.”

  “Right.” I nod. “Thanks, Aunt Jill.”

  She doesn’t correct me or give me the stink eye. I grab my tattered backpack from the kitchen counter. Maybe she’s finally realized she’s enough of a ‘grown-up’ to be called an aunt. That’s progress, right?

  “Lan, honey?”

  I turn just in time to catch the cat toy before it collides with my face.

  “Call me that again, and it’ll be something much heavier.”

  Yeah, forget I said anything.

  I’ve been driving for an hour, and I still have no idea where I’m going. Music is blasting as high as it can go, waves of Bad Suns buffeting my every thought. But they don’t make sound loud enough to drown out what’s running through my mind, so all I end up with is a headache.

  All I wanted was an afternoon of frivolous shopping to distract me from my problems, but no, this fucked up world had other plans. Why not dig up the most painful part of my past and have it kiss me and twist all my thoughts until they’re brambles and thorns?

  God, I could really go for some ice cream right now.

  On the bright side, at least I haven’t been thinking about Lock. Until now. Shit. Well, there goes the bright side.

  I call Chels, but it goes straight to voicemail. Then I remember she’s on her way to The Fox Theater with her parents, who surprised her with tickets to Hamilton. Her dad makes them all turn off their phones when they spend time together. Weirdos. I couldn’t make it five minutes alone with my family. I don’t know how she does it.

  Maybe if I talk to Lock, I’ll feel better. Clear the air between us, so I can focus on one identity crisis at a time.

  Yeah, that’s gotta help. At least, it can’t make things worse. Right?

  I take the stairs up to the sixth floor because it gives me time to think through what I’m going to say to him. At least, that’s what I tell myself, but by the fifth floor, I still haven’t come up with jack shit.

  Why isn’t there a card for this kind of thing? Like a ‘Sorry We Got Drunk and Fucked’ card. There’s bound to be a market for it. I’ll have to patent the idea. I’ll be rich. Well, richer. You know what I mean.

  I’m at the door, apartment 623, empty-handed and slightly winded from the climb. My stomach growls as I knock.

  There’s a shuffling noise inside, followed by a gruff woman’s voice. “Jack, knock it off!”

  Then nothing. I knock again, and unsteady footsteps get closer to the door. It swings inward, Lock’s mom looking at me like I’m an alien with three heads.

  “Who are you?” she demands, pulling her flannel shirt tighter around her body. She clearly wasn’t expecting company.

  “West,” I remind her. “I’m Lock’s friend. Is he up for visitors, by chance? The flu’s taken out half our class this week, so I figure he’s probably out of it, but I wanted to make sure he was all right.”

  I’m actually hoping it is the flu, and not that he doesn’t want to talk to me. Just thinking that makes my chest tight.

  “What are you talking about?” his Mom asks, crossing her arms. “Was he not at school?”

  Oh, shit. Abort mission, West!

  “W-Well, maybe I just missed him. You know, big school. I’m sure he was there.” Good going, genius, you just ratted him out. How could this get any worse? “Sorry to bother—”

  “West?”

  Lock halts his progress down the hall, letting his backpack slide off his shoulder. I try to smile at him, but it’s more of a grimace. I hope it gets the point across—I’m so fucking sorry.

  His mom pounces. “Did you skip school?”

  But it’s me he’s looking at, brow furrowed and betrayal filling his eyes.

  “Yes,” he tells her.

  Dude! Seriously? Why wouldn’t you lie?

  “Get inside.” His mother steps aside so he can pass.

  Now, I’m standing in the middle of the hallway, wishing I was dead.

  “Was that it?” she scowls, door already halfway closed.

  I nod, and it slams shut. Her muffled voice drifts through the walls, angry yet hollow. I can’t bear to listen, so I retrace my steps to the staircase. The rhythm of my heart matches my steps as I descend, oblivious to my surroundings. Somewhere around the third floor, I pull out my phone, scrolling till I hit his number. I type out a text—

  I hit send, not really clear on what it is I’m apologizing for. It’s a list I don’t like to think about, and it just keeps growing. I can’t seem to keep myself from fucking everything up. I’m a disaster on two feet.

  The lobby is quiet when I finish my descent. I really need the world to be smaller, to shrink the cavernous guilt swelling all around me, so I find a corner and press my forehead against the faded wallpaper.

  Breathe, West. Just breathe.

  Today hasn’t been my best day. In fact, I really can’t imagine a day that’s been worse and that’s including the time I shit my pants in the middle of my fourth-grade math class. I had to wear a uniform skirt the rest of the day because that’s all the office had on hand and my parents couldn’t be bothered to bring me another pair of pants.

  The skirt was actually super comfy. The repeated slams into a locker? Not so much.

  Skirt Day has nothing on today. The worst part is I don’t know how to fix it. Who knows what Lock must think of me right now. I mean, I’m pretty sure it isn’t good. If I were him, I’d want to punch me in the dick,
but I’d like to think he’s a better person than I’ll ever be.

  I don’t know how much time passes before I hear the soft ding of the elevator behind me. I wipe the end of my nose. As if this day isn’t embarrassing enough, I’ve decided to add crying to the mix. Thank God my father isn’t here to see this.

  I’ll just make a quick exit and hopefully never come back to this building ever again.

  But it’s Lock that steps out of the elevator, Jack propped on his hip and blood running down his opposite arm as it holds his phone to his ear.

  He sees me, eyes widening.

  “Never mind, Jill. I think I just got a ride. Be there soon.”

  I sniff, blinking to clear any moisture from my eyelashes. “Uh, need a lift?”

  He nods, not mentioning the tears. “That would be great.”

  How did I get here? I’m not talking about the back of West’s way-too-nice-for-a-seventeen-year-old car, but more so about my life in general.

  This time last year, I was a happy, healthy teenager with a love for short stories and a family that never showed their imperfections. Now, I’m in the backseat of the car belonging to the boy to whom I gave my virginity, clinging to my little brother because he’s the only thing that hasn’t changed in all this time.

  Mom’s in self-destruct mode—that much is obvious—and I don’t know what to do about it. Also, West’s car doesn’t have a car seat for Jack which just goes to show I didn’t think this through.

  “Careful,” I tell West as he merges onto 285. I tighten my grip around Jack’s waist. He’s watching an episode of Petey on my phone. I’ve fastened the belt over both of us, but I’m still petrified with every passing car.

  “Right,” West replies in a soft voice. He’s not his usual chipper self, but given the current circumstances between us, that’s not surprising. “Hey, you’re not still bleeding, are you?”

  “Oh.” I raise my left arm into the beam of light coming from the car behind us. There’s a long gash from my elbow to my wrist. It’s shallow, but still trickling. My shirt is stained red. “I’m sorry,” I tell West.

  He looks through the rear-view mirror. “Dude, why are you apologizing?”

  “Sorry,” I repeat. It’s a reflex.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he assures me, eyes trained back on the road. “Would it be weird for me to ask what happened?”

  “It would be weird if you didn’t. But I don’t want to talk about it now.” I let out a sigh. “Not with Jack here.”

  He nods, not pressing the subject.

  I can’t express my gratitude, but I try anyways.

  “Thank you,” I add. “For driving us.”

  “No problem.”

  We ride toward Jill’s in silence. Jack nods off at some point and drops my phone onto the floorboard. I’ll have to remember to grab it when we get there.

  What am I going to tell her? Well, aside from we can’t go home. It’s not fair of me to do this, just show up on her doorstep, but I honestly have nowhere else to go.

  Everything is such a mess.

  The car bounces as we pull into Jill’s driveway. The sight of her van in the garage lifts a weight from my shoulders.

  Jack stirs in my arms as I unstrap us, sliding out of the car. West is out too, looking like he wants to help but doesn’t know how.

  “I’ve got him,” I say, closing the passenger door with a bump of my hip.

  “Right.” He’s shuffling his feet.

  “Thank you, again.”

  “Yeah, like I said, it’s not a problem.” He manages a small smile.

  It all comes rushing back in, the night we had together—curls and smiles and kisses and warm skin, and I can’t look him in the eye anymore, so I just walk to the door, knocking with my free arm. There’s rustling inside, and I hear the distinct sound of Jill’s wheels on the tiled floor.

  West stands by his car, watching.

  “Lan?” I hear from the other side of the door. It cracks open then swings inward with enough force it hits the wall. “Jesus, Lan! Why are you covered in blood?”

  “Shh,” I hush. “I don’t want Jack freaking out.”

  “Give him,” Jill demands. I pass the little guy over. She rests him against her shoulder, rolling backward to let me in. “Start talking.”

  I step inside, the door closing behind me. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “That doesn’t put my mind at ease,” she whispers back. “Because right now you look like you took Carrie to the prom.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” Jill waves me off. “Give me a second to get the little guy settled, and then I want an explanation.”

  “Okay.”

  She disappears down the hallway, and I’m left standing in the living room, dripping blood onto the floor. My arm is throbbing now, but I’m in no hurry to do anything about it. I’m in no hurry to do anything, really. There must be something wrong with me. Some part of my brain that’s snapped because I should be more upset about what happened. Now I think about it, I haven’t shed a tear. It’s hard to cry when there are so many other things taking up space in my head.

  Headlights shine through the window, and I glance between the blinds to see West’s car back onto the road.

  I hate the heat rising to my face. Not because I don’t want to feel this emotion, but because it means I care more about a boy than I do about my family imploding. Guilt crashes in, wrapping its ugly tentacles around my heart and squeezing until I can’t breathe.

  I wish Dad was here. He could always help me make sense of the world.

  “Where the hell is my sister?”

  I didn’t hear Jill come back.

  “My guess is home,” I reply. “Moving onto her second bottle.”

  Jill’s teeth click. They sound like a clock ticking. One. Two. Three.

  “Let’s take care of that,” she says finally, pointing to my arm currently ruining her floors.

  I follow her into the kitchen where she’s rooting through cabinets in search of a first aid kit.

  “Rinse it off in the sink,” she tells me. I follow her instructions. The water stings as it washes the dark stains from my skin, swirling pink before vanishing down the drain. Once my arm is clean of the dried blood, I sit at the table where, just a few hours ago, we shared the strangest pizza I’ve ever eaten. That moment feels worlds away, lost in a blur of shouting and pain.

  Jill is next to me now, sorting through the bandages and ointments. She takes my hand, pulling my arm straight. The sharp twinge yanks me from my thoughts.

  “You want to fill me in here?”

  I don’t answer right away or even wince as she cleans the cut with an alcohol wipe. Everything is coming through a filter right now, dulling my senses. I don’t know what to tell her because the truth will cause more pain, and Jill is the last person I want to hurt.

  But if I don’t tell her, then next time, I may not be lucky enough to get out with just a scratch.

  Something warm falls on my palm. Jill’s hands are still, holding onto my arm with gentle pressure. Another drop and I realize she’s crying, her tears raining on me.

  “Jill?”

  “I let this happen.” Her words tremble. “I didn’t know it had gotten so bad. Or maybe I just didn’t want to see it.”

  I’m at a loss, so I count falling tears. Six. Seven. Eight.

  “I’m sorry,” she exhales, brushing away the ones that still cling to her cheeks.

  “I don’t understand,” I tell her.

  “I know, sweetie. Your mom is just—”

  “No,” I cut her off. “Mom I understand. It’s you I don’t get. Why are you claiming responsibility?”

  I didn’t mean it as an insult, but the way her lip quivers makes me think it came across harsher than intended.

  “I’m sorr—”

  A knock on the door renders me silent. Jill doesn’t move, so after the second round of knocking, I pull my arm away and go to the door.


  It’s West, looking sheepish as he offers me my cell phone. “Figured you might need that.”

  “Sorry. Thanks.” I take it without really looking at him.

  “No problem.” He hesitates, hands sinking into the pockets of his jeans. “Hey, I know it’s probably horrible timing.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “But I was wondering if we could talk about the other night?”

  Along with the usual heat in my face, fire flickers in my gut, making me want to say yes.

  I resist. “It’s really not a good time.”

  “Right.” His head shakes back and forth. “I shouldn’t have asked. Jesus, I can really be a fucking idiot sometimes. Ha-ha. Just, don’t mind me. Have a good night—Oh, I guess that’s not… Anyways, I’ll see you later?” He turns and starts down the sidewalk, still muttering under his breath.

  An ache pulses in my chest, and I can’t bear to see him leave.

  “Wait,” I stop him. He looks back to me, hope bursting to life in his eyes. “Give me a half hour? I’ve got a mess to sort out.”

  “Okay,” he agrees quickly. “I’ll be here. Eight-thirty.”

  He hurries off without another word.

  It’s like I can’t tell him no.

  I’ve never been so thankful for leather interior in my life. Blood just wipes right off. I’ll add that to my list of ‘Things to Keep in Mind if I Ever Become a Serial Killer.’

  Traffic outside the RaceTrac gas station is light. Used wipes pile on the floorboard, the result of my efforts to get rid of Lock’s DNA. My stomach growls despite my squeamish work, but I tell it to shut the fuck up.

  If there’s ever been a day stranger than this one, I can’t think of it.

  My phone chimes from the front seat, and I take a break from my bio-clean to look. A Facebook notification.

  I stare at the picture, a brown-haired Clay smiling back at me.

  The nerve of this boy. I guess a fifty-two-ounce shower of Coke Zero wasn’t enough for him to get the message? Almost five years of radio silence, and he expects me to just accept it and move on? Tough fucking cookies.