Lock & West

by Alexander C. Eberhart

  “Good?” Chels repeats. “I’ve got half a mind to tell Mr. R he needs to recast this shit-show. Then again, I don’t think the school is ready for a male on male Romeo and Juliet. Hell, we couldn’t even do Rent without changing the storyline to be about Diabetes instead of AIDS.”

  “What’s Rent?”

  “Oh, honey.” Chels looks at him with such pity. “You’re adorable and I love you, but you need to up your gay game.”

  “Leave him alone,” I say, coming to his defense. “Your stereotyping is part of the problem.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She brushes my comments off as her phone chimes a reminder. “Crap on a cracker, I’m late for family dinner. Listen, you two try not to have too much fun, or better yet, have all the fun you want, just please record it for me. For educational purposes, of course.”

  “Goodbye, Chels.” I rope my arm under hers, escorting her to the door.

  “Wait, I need you to come grab something out of the car.”

  I raise an eyebrow, but she just stares me down, so I don’t argue.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Lock. He nods, already sorting through a stack of old copies of the Atlanta Journal Constitution my father insists on keeping.

  The walk to Chels’s car is quiet—not a good sign. Silence on Chels’s end usually spells trouble. She opens her door but doesn’t get in, just uses it as a barrier between the two of us.

  “You’re a terrible actor,” she finally says.

  “O-kay,” I respond, crossing my arms over my chest. “Hurtful.”

  “Oh my god.” She rolls her eyes. “Not on stage, dipshit. You’re the next Neil Patrick Harris up there. I’m talking about real life.”

  Shit. I hate talking about real life. It never ends well.

  “What do you mean?” I play dumb. It’s my best defense.

  “There’s something going on,” she says, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “For a while now. I know how you are, but the tough guy bullshit is getting old. So, this is me saying I’m here if you need to talk.”

  I avoid her gaze, looking down at my shoes. Maybe I’m not that great an actor. Or, maybe, everyone else in my life isn’t looking close enough to catch the real West slipping through.

  “I wish you trusted me enough to tell me,” she continues, words seeping through the cracks spreading across the walls of my mind. “But there’s nothing I can do about that. I just don’t want to see you get hurt or worse. I love you too much for that.”

  She’s tearing up, which just makes me feel even more shitty.

  “I love you, too,” I mutter. And it’s true. I do love Chels. Maybe even more than my real sister. But I can’t bring myself to admit what’s going on. Not even to her. So, what does that say about me?

  “I’m going to go now,” she announces, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve before climbing into the driver’s seat. The door closes as the engine purrs to life, and she lowers the window. “Text me.”

  I nod as she starts to pull down the driveway.

  Just for a second, I wish I had told her everything.

  Our kisses keep replaying in my mind. Unlike the night at Chels’s, this memory is sharp and focused. There’s no alcohol to dull the edges, only crisp moments of his lips moving in tandem with mine and fingers sinking into skin.

  I’m still blushing when West walks back into the pool house. He doesn’t carry anything as an excuse for his time with Chels, but I don’t question it. Obviously, something is going on between them. It must be nice to be so close to someone.

  He stands by the door, distracted by something he doesn’t mention, and staring at the same spot on the floor. I watch him, taking a moment to better acquaint myself with the way his hair curls at the end and the pattern of freckles kissing the lines of his cheeks. I can’t help but get lost in those oceans through which he sees the world. My troubles can’t find me adrift on that sea.

  “I’m sorry.” He breaks the silence, attention still singled out on that spot.

  “What do you have to be sorry about?” I ask.

  “So many things,” he answers.

  “I’m sure that’s true for most people.”

  That fact doesn’t change his demeanor. This West is different from the one I’ve come to know. No smile, lewd jokes, or dramatic flair. This West looks a little like me, drowning in his own thoughts.

  “Sorry.” He shakes his head, finally breaking the trance. “Ugh. Look at me being moody. It’s just the weed talking, I promise.” His laugh is fractured, like it’s seconds away from breaking into a sob.

  “It’s fine,” I assure him, hands finding my pockets. I count the coins from my change at lunch. Three. Four. Five.

  “How are things?” West asks me, flopping down on the couch. “At your aunt’s, I mean.”

  “They’re good.” I cross to the opposite end of the sofa. “It’s tough on Jack, being away from Mom. But I think it gets a little easier every day.”

  West nods, but he doesn’t say anything else, eyes growing distant once more.

  “So, how’s the rest of the show going?” I ask, casting a lifeline of distraction.

  “Can we actually not talk about it?” West says quickly. “Or me in general?” He shakes his head again, bouncing curls. “I talk about me a lot. But I hardly know anything about you.”

  There’s a reason for that. But I don’t have the power to deny him what he asks. “What do you want to know?”

  “I dunno.” West shrugs, settling into his cushion. “Just basic shit. Favorite color. Favorite food. What you wanna do when you grow up. That kind of stuff.”

  “Blue. Chinese food. Novelist. Um… What else?”

  “Novelist?” West repeats, turning towards me. “That’s awesome! What kind of books do you write?”

  “Short stories mostly,” I admit, a different heat rising to my face. “A little bit of everything.”

  “Interesting.” West leans forward a little, pulling one leg under the other. “What made you want to write books?”

  “I-I’m a lot better on paper than I am in person.” And I’m not that great on paper either, but I don’t tell him that.

  “That can’t be true.” West laughs, this time whole-hearted. “You’re awesome in person.”

  Another flash of heat. I can’t even tell where they’re coming from now.

  “You and Jill might be the only ones who think so.”

  The way he’s looking at me right now—crinkles at the edges of his eyes, the faintest of smiles curving the ends of his lips, and his eyes lingering, not in a lurking or gawking way, but with a gentle consistency that lets me know I have his full attention—thrusts a new image into my mind. A Lock who doesn’t fidget when someone is speaking to him. A Lock who isn’t afraid to kiss the boy he likes. A Lock who can face all the crap that keeps coming his way and not waiver.

  That Lock is a stranger to me.

  “This is exciting.” West bounces in his seat. “You can totally get them to cast me when they turn one of your books into a movie. I’ll be the guy who starts out as the nerdy best friend, but plot twist, is the one the girl ends up with at the end.” His face twists as he finishes the thought. “Actually, scratch that. I wouldn’t be interested. Maybe something action-y?”

  “Y-Yeah,” I stammer because I’m still the same lame Lock and can’t decide if I want West to back the heck up or if I want to curl up next to him. “Totally.”

  “So, do you have anything you’re working on right now?”

  I nod. “But they’re all back at my Mom’s. Everything is. I was in such a rush to get Jack out of there I didn’t grab my laptop. I’ve been doing my homework on Jill’s all week.”

  “We should go get it then.”

  He says it as if it’s common sense and not the worst idea in history.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good plan.”

  “Come on.” West is out of his seat, jingling car keys. “We can be in and out in a flash. What time does she usually
get home from work?”

  “Late.”

  “See? It’s fate! She won’t even know you were there.”

  He may be right. I need to grab some of Jack’s things too. It may help the transition. But what if she’s home? I don’t think I can face her right now. I might break apart.

  West smiles, and suddenly, I’m considering it. Under one condition.

  “You’ll go in with me?” I ask him.

  “Dude, totally. And that’s not the weed talking.”

  Okay, so I guess we’re doing this.

  It’s weird how a building can feel foreign after such a short period of time. There’s no one at the front desk, which isn’t a surprise, so we just walk right in. The lobby seems too bright, like they’ve finally got around to replacing all the burned-out bulbs, and they’ve changed out the square of carpet with the blood stain from that stabbing last month. Just when I was getting used to the stark change in color.

  My favorite battered chair in the corner of the lobby is gone, replaced with a display cabinet filled with plaques that don’t mean anything to me. Where will I run off to now, to work on plot points after Jack’s put to bed and Mom’s passed out?

  I guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore.

  Even the elevator is missing the familiar rickety rhythmic sound that makes you mutter a silent prayer each time there’s a catch in the cables. My not-home feels more alien than ever before.

  “You doing alright?” West asks as we ascend to my floor.

  “Fine.” I check my phone for the tenth time since we got here. It’s still early. She won’t be home. There’s no way.

  Without further conversation, we reach our desired height, stepping out into the musty hallway. At least this hasn’t changed. To the left of our apartment, Día de los Muertos decorations cover Ms. Rosa’s door. Most people assume they’re leftover from Halloween. On the other side, Mr. Rickard’s door still has that hole from when he drunkenly fired his crossbow through it last month. It about gave Ms. Abernathy a heart attack as she walked her schnauzer down the hall. Not that anybody would miss her. She’s kind of mean and horrible. The woman, not the dog. The dog is sweet.

  I stand in front of my door, twisting the key in my hand like I’m waiting for some divine force to possess me with the desire to step inside. But inside me is only sorrow and fear of the place I still haven’t been able to call home.

  “Do you want me to go in?” West offers. “You could just tell me what you want me to grab. It’ll let me live out my fantasy of committing blue-collar crime.”

  It’s such a sweet thing to offer, but I shake my head. This is something I have to do. And I’d prefer to do it alone.

  “Would you mind waiting out here?”

  “Sure.” He leans a shoulder against the wall, watching me. “Just holler if you need anything. I’ll be your lookout.” He cranes his neck to peer down the hall.

  I nod. Then I count the number of places where the paint is peeling off the door. There are seventeen. If I don’t go in now, I’m not going to at all, so I turn the key and push the door in.

  West gives me an encouraging thumbs up.

  The apartment is spotless, which I assume is because there isn’t a six-year-old running around hurling nautical plush animals and trying to poke his eye out so he can get a ‘real’ eye patch.

  There’s also silence which sets my mind more at ease. If Mom was here, she’d have the television in her room blaring, and she’d be more than likely passed out in the bed. I move through the living room, pausing to grab Jack’s toy sword and sticking it into the open part of my backpack. There’s not a lot of room in there, so I’ll have to travel light.

  I swing my bedroom door open, and I’m caught up in all the little moments in time. Not so much for the room—we’ve only been here a few months—but for the history in the things. The pictures and framed movie posters on the walls. The old wooden dresser we swore wouldn’t make the move because it was so heavy. The remnants of Dad’s book collection I managed to save from Mom’s purge of his stuff.

  Jill has been so great to take us in, but these memories are my life. Maybe even my home. Much more than this apartment will ever be.

  I want to take them all with me, but time is ticking, and I can’t linger, so I’m forced to grab what I need. My laptop, some clothing essentials, and finally the picture from my desk of Mom, Dad, and me at four-years-old.

  Although my backpack is full, I still manage to cram in some of Jack’s pajamas. I’ll grab his blanket too. It should help him get to sleep a lot easier, which would be a godsend. But the blanket’s not in his room. I check under the pile of toys by the television. Not there either. Where could it be?

  Maybe Mom’s room? She did keep it in the bed with her the week Jack was in the hospital with bronchitis. Said it was like having him there.

  If it’s in her room, it’s like I’m taking that piece of Jack away from her, like I’m stealing away one of the last parts of her humanity.

  I swallow down my feelings.

  Her bedroom is dark as I step in, blackout shades drawn and lights extinguished like when she’s suffering from a migraine. I flip the overhead on and start to—

  Scream.

  I start to scream.

  Lock’s scream kickstarts my heart, and it’s pounding as I burst through the door. I don’t see him, but there’s muffled noise coming from the door to my left. I push through it to find him kneeling by the bed.

  Blood. It’s everywhere. Bright red and staining the white sheets and Lock’s shirt. My head swirls. There’s so much of it, more than I’ve ever seen before.

  Lock clutches onto his mother’s arm, wrapping a colored cloth around the slice on her wrist that’s still dripping red. The puddle on the hardwood floor is spreading. A metallic smell fills my nose.

  “Lock?”

  He doesn’t look back at me, just keeps working. “It’s not fair,” he mutters under his breath as his shaky hands work to tie knots. “You don’t get to leave us too. You don’t get off that easy.”

  I’m dialing 9-1-1 because I don’t know what else to do. The operator picks up.

  “We need an ambulance at apartment 632 at Briarwood,” I tell them. “Please hurry.”

  I don’t remember if I hang up after they say someone’s on the way. Shock has rooted me in place.

  “Is she…?” I ask.

  “She’s still breathing,” Lock says, finishing the knot in the patterned cloth. Circus animals spattered and saturated in blood.

  I don’t move. I can’t, really. “Help’s on the way.”

  He ignores my words, clinging to his mother’s arm. “It’s not fair.”

  Mom isn’t awake today, but I’m here anyways, sitting bedside in this incredibly uncomfortable chair. My homework spreads across the hospital bed. I hope she doesn’t mind. Then again, if I’d been unconscious fourteen days, I’d like to think somebody crowding my space would be the least of my worries.

  The room is quiet, tucked away in the corner of Northside’s third floor. There was another patient sharing it earlier this week, but they were wheeled out suddenly yesterday, and no one has taken their place. I wonder if their family is celebrating or mourning, or maybe a completely plausible mix of both. You shouldn’t have to watch the people you love rot in a bed.

  Is that what my life will be like now? Just waiting for the day the heart monitor goes silent and I’m officially an orphan.

  This definitely isn’t as glamorous as Annie makes it look.

  “I got an offer to join honors classes in the Spring,” I say to Mom, partially because the doctors say there’s a chance she can hear me but mostly because I miss being able to talk to her. Even though we haven’t really spoken in months. “They also recommended I dual enroll my senior year too. Get a jump start on college credits.”

  She’d be thrilled if she were awake. At least, I believe she would. It gets harder each day to remember her voice, but I imagine her telling me how
proud she is.

  Once I’ve run out of things to tell her about my day, I just start rambling about anything that comes to mind. Maybe there’s a quota for the number of words heard to unlock that part of her brain again. Or maybe I’m talking to a vegetable. Either way, I talk.

  “Jack and Jill are close as ever.” I set aside my laptop, abandoning my latest chapter to stretch the pain in my back. “He still asks about you. Every day. But don’t worry, I won’t let him see you like this. I know you wouldn’t want that.”

  I’m holding her hand now, stroking the bandage that still covers her attempt to escape us forever. Once. Twice. Three times.

  Even though I don’t know if she can hear me—even though I know I’m practically talking to myself—the next words get stuck. I force them through the thickness in my throat.

  “I-I’m gay. Sorry. Not about the gay part but about Dad, I guess. I almost understand the drinking. Almost. I just can’t believe…” I stop, my words once again sticking at the blockade in my throat. “I guess I’m in denial. You did always say I was stubborn. Can’t get anything through my thick skull. But this—How could you do this to me? Or Jack?”

  This isn’t the first time I’ve asked these questions. The emotions tend to overwhelm me as the days end. It’s not that I’m really looking for answers, just a chance to voice the pain. I do hope she hears me if only to suffer my anger.

  “A part of me, small but persistent, hopes you don’t wake up.” I cringe at my own words. I hate that they’re true. “If only to spare Jack the pain of knowing you were ready to leave us behind.”

  Tears start to pool in my eyes.

  “That was a really shitty thing to do.”

  I don’t feel guilty for the profanity because she isn’t awake to scold me.

  “Sometimes you make me just—”

  A knock on the door silences my one-sided conversation. It’s probably a nurse, coming to check her vitals. It’s Margaret’s turn. Then Janna after her. I’ve memorized the schedule by now.

  “Lock?” comes a soft voice.

  But it’s not Margaret. It’s Shay Park pushing through the heavy wooden door, a sweater over her cheerleading uniform. She must have just come from practice. Her sneakers are suspiciously white.