Lock & West

by Alexander C. Eberhart

  I close the app with a huff and toss my phone onto the passenger seat. Grabbing a fresh wipe, I go back over the already spotless back seat and put Clay out of my mind, once and for all…

  He did seem really upset at the theater.

  No, nope. You are not going to placate him, West. You don’t care. You don’t care.

  Man, these carpets need to be vacuumed.

  After scavenging enough quarters out of my cup holder, the loud whoosh of the vacuum hose drowns out my thoughts. I pull out the floor mats. I vacuum the ceiling. I even get the trunk. But all too soon, my vacuum time ends, and the thoughts come rushing back in to fill the void of noise.

  I’m thinking about that kiss. And his stupid face. And the fluttering in my chest when he looked at me with—

  Fuck, I don’t have time for this. It’s almost eight-thirty.

  I roll into the driveway five minutes late. Lock sits on the front porch with a fresh white bandage wrapped around his arm. I’m dying to know exactly what happened, but that’s mostly because I’m a nosy little bastard. I’m trying to reign that in a little bit.

  He gets into the passenger seat, handing me the phone I’d forgotten I tossed over there with a prepossessing smile. I stow it in my pocket, definitely not dwelling on our hands touching.

  “How’s Jack?” I ask, unsure where to start this conversation.

  “Still asleep,” Lock answers. He keeps pressing his thumb into each finger, one after the other, in the same pattern. “But he’ll be alright.”

  I nod, putting the car in reverse. “That’s good. Um… Do you drink coffee?”

  “Not really.”

  Ouch. I don’t know if our friendship will ever recover from that blow. What’s worse than someone who doesn’t like coffee?

  “Well… I guess we could—”

  “Coffee is fine,” he interjects.

  All right. This is going well. Maybe I should just do us both a favor and swerve off the road right now. That’d solve a few issues.

  “Strange question,” Lock starts, looking into the back of the car where he’s probably checking to see if his blood seeped into the carpets. “But was your car this clean before?”

  “Uh, no. I’m a bit of an emotional cleaner. I just had to get some of that out of my system. It’s…been a weird day.”

  “Agreed.”

  I’m feeling like a piece of shit because this was a terrible idea and I’m pretty sure he’s going through some awful family stuff right now and this is so selfish of me to want to talk about what happened between us when there’s so much more important—

  “I’m sorry,” he says, silencing my debilitating internal monologue. “About the other night.”

  Oh, okay. I guess we’re talking about this.

  “Yeah, I am too. I never intended for that to happen, just so you know.”

  He nods, eyes straight ahead. Is he avoiding looking at me? Why does it bother me so much?

  “And for the record,” I joke because it’s my only defense mechanism. “I don’t really remember a lot of it.” I’m guessing he probably doesn’t either. That’s been the one saving grace in this whole debacle.

  “I do,” he replies.

  Well, fuck.

  “It was nice,” he continues. “All things considered.”

  I really don’t know how to respond to that, so my face just burns while we ride in silence. Lock doesn’t let me suffer for too long before he breaks it.

  He turns to look at me for the first time tonight. “I know you wanted to talk about the party. But can I ask you something?”

  For some reason, my pulse takes off. Why do I feel like I’ve fallen into a trap?

  “Y-Yeah, of course.”

  There’s a hesitation in Lock’s words, like he’s knitting them together. “How did you…how did you get so comfortable with yourself? And, you know, the gay thing.”

  “Oh.”

  The question triggers another flood of memories I’m not prepared for. Just like with Clay, a few words and I’m twelve years old.

  “It wasn’t always easy,” I say slowly, struggling to reclaim control over the rampaging reminiscence. “I had to change schools after I came out. Most of the people I considered friends stopped talking to me. Even my best friend.”

  Stupid Clay and his stupid face and that stupid kiss.

  “Why?” Lock asks.

  “Who knows? It was middle school. No one wanted to talk to the kid who kept getting his head stuck in the toilet or the word fag carved in his locker.”

  “What about your family?”

  “They didn’t care about the gay thing or about me getting bullied, honestly. My father told me it builds character. My mother said I was exaggerating. It wasn’t until I came home with a black eye and bloody nose that they even considered letting me transfer to a public school.”

  He nods, like I’ve satisfied another question that remains unspoken.

  “A new school helped,” I continue. “New friends helped even more. But honestly, what really made a difference was when I realized I can’t change what other people think about me. I can only control how I think about myself. From that moment on, I decided my opinion of myself was the only one that mattered.”

  I don’t tell him my opinion of myself is pretty shitty right now. That’s neither uplifting nor helpful, so I keep it to myself. It’s my cross to bear alone, I guess.

  Lock is quiet—not surprising—as he stares out the passenger window.

  I want to help him which is totally unusual for me. I don’t really like serious topics, so the fact I’m going out of my way to bring one up is kinda crazy.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened tonight?”

  He looks at me again then back down to his fidgety hands.

  “My mom hasn’t really been herself since my dad—” He stops, swallowing hard. “Since he passed away back in May.”

  That answers a few questions. I check them off the mental list. “I’m sorry. That sucks. How did he die?”

  “Cancer.” There’s no further explanation.

  “Double suck.”

  He nods in agreement. “She didn’t mean for this to happen.” He raises his bandaged arm. “My mom, I mean. At least, I’m choosing to believe that. I don’t really know this new person she’s become.”

  “Seeing your dad go through that must have been hard on her,” I offer. I can’t imagine having to make excuses for my parents. Sure, they aren’t exactly parent-of-the-year material, but they at least don’t physically harm me. “Was it a surprise?”

  “Mom said he was diagnosed right before Christmas,” Lock explains. “Stage four. Not much could be done at that point. Then he just disappeared one day. Mom didn’t tell me about the cancer until after he’d died. I don’t remember the last time I saw him, you know? I can’t even pinpoint the last thing I said.”

  “Wait.” I pull into a parking spot in front of a Starbucks, but I’m in no hurry to get out. “What do you mean he disappeared?”

  “He left in the middle of the night. Wrote Mom and me both notes and bounced. I only found out he’d been in Atlanta when we came down for the funeral.”

  “Here?” I unfasten my belt, so I can turn toward him. “Why here?”

  “This is where my parents grew up.” Lock mimics me, carefully pulling the belt around his damaged arm. “Where they met. He was staying with a friend of theirs from college.”

  “That’s kind of messed up.” I lean my head back against the window.

  “I’m actually grateful he did it. I don’t think I’d have been able to watch him wither away. It was more an act of mercy on his part.”

  “Sounds more like cowardice to me.”

  Shit. Did I really just say that?

  Lock’s looking at me like I’ve just slapped him in the face.

  “Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “It’s fine,” he cuts me off, but his expression says otherwise. “It’s just… I don’t really tal
k about him. Still haven’t gotten over it, you know?”

  “Yeah, of course. That’s totally normal.”

  Lock lets out a weak laugh. “I don’t know if ‘normal’ is the word I would use, but I’ll take it.”

  There’s silence between us again, spreading over me until the back of my neck prickles. I don’t like silence. I try to avoid it whenever possible.

  “What are you going to do now?” I ask.

  He sighs, dark eyes falling back to his hands. “Same thing I always do, I guess. Figure it out. Jill will let us stay as long as we need to, but I know Mom will come looking for us. No clue what will happen then.”

  I feel helpless. I also feel protective of him which is weird because I usually only get that way with Chels. And that’s because she’s my favorite person.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  He shakes his head. “No clue. Nothing I can think of. You already saved the day once tonight, I’d feel bad asking you to do it again.”

  Saved the day? I’ve never saved anything in my life. Ruin things? Sure, all the time. But save them? It’s new territory.

  “Well, don’t hesitate to send out the ‘West’ signal whenever you need a hand.”

  He’s laughing again, this time full-on, which is awesome because Lock frowns too much. That joke may have been archaic, but at least it did its job.

  “I’ll try to remember that,” he tells me with a smile.

  “Good. I’ll keep an eye out.”

  Going to school seems wrong, given my current situation, but Jill is adamant, and I don’t have the energy to fight her. For a middle-aged woman on two wheels, she can be terrifying sometimes.

  Shay catches me after math class, fulfilling her friend obligation by asking me how I enjoyed Chels’s party and if I met anyone while I was there.

  I tip-toe through my answers, keeping it vague and jovial. No need to think about that night if I don’t have to. Even though West and I stayed out talking in his car until midnight, I wouldn’t say things are normal between us.

  By the time lunch rolls around, she’s exhausted her questions and we fall back into the rhythms of our usual, comfortable silence. It’s strange—my relationship with Shay. She’s the type of person who doesn’t have to work at making friends. People just naturally gravitate towards her. At least, most people. I think my internal compass must be abnormal, because I don’t feel the same gravitational pull towards Shay. Which, in retrospect, just makes her that much more determined to be my friend. Is spite really the best foundation for friendship? Guess time will tell.

  “Yes! YESSS! Suck it, Dennis!”

  I jump as West slams a sheet of paper down on the table, scattering the tater tot house Silent Steve constructed. He doesn’t express frustration, just sweeps the wreckage clear and starts another stack. Maybe I should help him?

  “I told you there was nothing to worry about,” Chels placates him, taking the seat across from me. “And I guess we know that Tammy T. is the more trustworthy of the Tammys.”

  “Didn’t she get caught cheating on like, three of her finals last year?” Shay pipes in.

  “She’s the most trustworthy socially,” Chels clarifies with a sneer as if it’s common knowledge. It seems she might be immune to Shay’s charm as well.

  “Congratulations, West,” Shay offers, batting a cherry tomato around her salad. “I ended up not auditioning. My schedule is just horrendous right now. I’m guessing you got the lead?”

  “Hell yes, I did.” He hops atop the bench, brandishing a bound script and adopting a horrible British accent. “If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this. Two blushing pilgrims ready stand, to smooth that rough touch, with a gentle kiss.”

  “Thank God this is an adaptation.” Chels laughs, flipping through a script of her own. “If I had to sit through six weeks of rehearsal and listen to that garbage, I’d have to pull a Juliet and down a bottle of drain cleaner.”

  “The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss.” West leaps from his perch, arms outstretched to Chels. “A dateless bargain to engrossing death!”

  “If you try to kiss me—” She stops him with a finger to the lips. “Your death will indeed be engrossing. Now sit down.”

  “What part did you get?” I ask Chels, immediately regretting it as everyone turns to look at me.

  “The nurse,” she says, like it’s a curse word.

  Shay grabs the cast list, scanning through the lines. “Ooo! Gwen Cheng got Juliet. That’s awesome! She’s super talented.”

  “Apparently,” Chels huffs.

  “Don’t be like that,” West tells her, tickling the back of her neck. “The nurse is such an important role.”

  “Says Romeo,” she fires back, but there’s a smile creeping on her face that makes me think she’s really not that upset.

  “Will you come see the show?”

  It takes me a moment to realize West is looking at me, waiting for an answer.

  “Oh! Y-Yeah, of course. When is it?”

  “It’s right after we get back from Thanksgiving break,” Shay tells me. “We can totally go as a group. It’ll be so much fun!”

  I just nod along. I can’t think about anything beyond getting through today. I’m in survival mode. It dulls everything around me, letting me focus on keeping myself together.

  “This script is terrible, by the way.” West keeps flipping through the pages, “Whoever told Mr. Routon his talents lay in adaptations should be shot.”

  “I can’t believe the school is okay with this,” Chels adds. “Jesus, it’s destroying one of the greatest pieces of literature in the world. Second only to a certain series about sparkly vampires.”

  “We’re not getting into this debate again.” West sighs. “Leave the vampires out of Shakespeare.”

  “But whyyy?” Chels whines, wrapping an arm around West’s. “You have to admit those books were good.”

  “No, actually, I don’t.” He pulls away from her. “You said it yourself. Your favorite thing about those books is that your mom didn’t write them. Even Vampires in Venezuela was better than that teen-porn schlock.”

  Chels is about to argue when I interrupt. “Wait a second.”

  They both are looking at me now, but I try not to focus on that.

  “Your mom writes the Monstrous Anthropology series?”

  “Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Your mom is B. F. Deal?”

  “Yes.” Chels sighs. “And it’s always a Big Fucking Deal.”

  West giggles. “I see what you did there.”

  “I love her books.” I lean forward, no longer interested in my lunch. “I’ve read Abominable Alaska like, twelve times.”

  “Really?” West’s eyes narrow into slits. “I didn’t have you pegged for a horror/romance type.”

  I ignore him, my hands beginning to shake with excitement. “Would I be able to talk to her? Like, meet her? Oh my god, do you think she would sign some of my copies? I’ve got—Shoot! I think I loaned Beelzebub in Baltimore to Amanda. All her stuff got donated when she—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Chels seizes my hands, pinning them in place. “You need to ratchet that down about thirty-seven notches.”

  I blink. They’re both staring at me, perplexed. Do I have something on my face?

  “I have one condition,” Chels tells me, slowly letting go of my hands. “If I introduce you, you have to promise to keep your heart from exploding all over her. Believe it or not, she can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  “Irony,” West chimes.

  “I can do that,” I say, smiling wider than I would have thought possible. “Does that mean I get to meet her?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Chels offers, but she’s grinning too which means my chances are good.

  “Better make it quick,” West stage-whispers to her. “He already knows where you live. You might come home to him wearing your mom�
��s face or something.”

  “That’s right, you’re looking at the one, the only, Romeo. Thank you, thank you, please hold your applause until you see how awesome I am.”

  Mother doesn’t even look up from her laptop. “That’s wonderful, Westley. So proud.”

  “Really?” I ignore the name slip, plopping onto the arm chair across from her. “Because you don’t look it from here. Constipated, maybe, but not so much proud.”

  Let’s be honest, I hadn’t really expected a huge response, but a smidgen of congratulations would be nice. I worked my ass off over the summer to get ready for that audition. Not that she’d ever know that. That would require her actually paying attention to me for longer than it takes to condemn what I’m wearing.

  She releases an exasperated sigh and half-closes her MacBook. “What do you want from me, Westley? Shall I leap for joy? Run across the room, fling my arms around you, and tell you you’re the greatest thing since Sean Hannity?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I’m proud of you,” she repeats, raising the screen of her laptop once more. “That should be sufficient. Your father will be thrilled.”

  “Sure.” I snort. “I’d sooner believe he gave up golfing.”

  Mother doesn’t respond, simply continues the staccato rhythm of her typing. It’s always like this with her. Most of the time I feel the need to schedule an appointment through Mother’s assistant if I want face time with her. She’s busy, I get it. But I often fantasize what it would be like to have an actual mother, instead of the soulless number-crunching titan of industry I’ve been saddled with my entire life.

  With nothing further to bother her with, I leave Mother to her work.

  My stomach is practically eating itself at this point, a side effect of my neglect. Maybe I’ll find a snack. That will make everything better. Unfortunately, an unpleasant surprise waits for me in the kitchen.

  “Look who’s decided to grace us with his presence,” Claire teases.

  She and Blake lean over the counter, flipping through a stack of bridal magazines. She brushes a lock of sandy hair from her face. After I hit my growth spurt in eighth grade, people would ask if we were twins. She’s got the same curls, the same eyes, and even the same great ass, if I do say so myself.