Lock & West

by Alexander C. Eberhart

  “Then what happens to me and Jack?”

  “You’re staying right here,” Jill says without hesitation.

  “Will they allow that?”

  She waves me off. “Let me worry about the legality. I’m not going to let them send you back to her, Lan. Not when I don’t even know who she is anymore.”

  There are tears in my eyes. “Thank you, Auntie Jill.”

  “You’re welcome,” she replies, blinking her own tears away. Then she adds, “But I swear to the Deer Lord Bambi, the next time you call me that, I’m making you clean out the litter box.”

  “It’s nice to have you back,” Shay says, taking her seat beside me at the lunch table.

  “Thanks, Shay.” I give her a smile.

  “We’re glad you’re back too,” Chels chimes in from across the table. “Super glad. Amazingly glad. West, could you measure with your glad-o-meter just how glad we are?”

  West pulls out his phone, making this obnoxious beeping noise as he waves it over Chels’s head. “I’d say we’re registering a category twelve level gladness over here.”

  “You guys are so weird,” I tell them, but my smile hasn’t left, and it feels so nice to be back with my friends.

  Wait, friends? When did I start calling them that?

  “That may be true,” Chels agrees. “But we’re the good kind of weird, not the secretly record us and load us on Facebook weird.”

  “Unless there’s something stuck in my teeth,” West adds. “Then, by all means, please record my dental faux pas. Make me regret every piece of spinach.”

  Shay snags his attention. “West, did you happen to catch what they said we’re doing in Chemistry this week? I had to miss for my orthodontist appointment.”

  “Girl, I got you covered. I actually took notes for once. Hang on a sec…”

  The two of them drift into their own conversation, and I take a few bites of my lasagna burrito. I’m not sure why the nutrition staff have decided to subject us to every combination of Italian/Latin food known to man, but today’s concoction is just plain gross.

  “How’s your mom?” Chels asks, stabbing her own burrito until it oozes marinara.

  “The same.” There’s nothing else I can say.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. Hey, is there anything left to paint for the show?”

  Chels grins. “Funny you mention it. Mr. R just decided on Friday to change the colors at Julie’s school. So, we’ve got a shit-load of things to change.”

  “I’d love to help,” I tell her. “If that’s okay.”

  “More than okay.” She claps her hands. “In fact, I might jump over this table to hug you right now.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Fine. Just know I’m doing it in here.” She taps her temple. “All the hugs.”

  I can’t help but smile again. Friends make life much easier.

  “Are you coming over for Thanksgiving next week?” Chels asks. “And before you say anything, just know there is a correct answer.”

  “I can’t this year.” I pout into my super sugary latte. We’re camping out and running lines in a coffee shop known for their ‘Caramel-tastic Cream Dream Latte.’ I have to say, it doesn’t disappoint. “My parents have decided we’ll be an actual family this year instead of flying off to some exotic place. That means turkey, stuffing, and a lot of repressed feelings at the dinner table.”

  “Yikes.” Chels reaches across the table to give me a pat on the arm. “That sounds horrible, honey. I’m sorry.”

  “Tell Mom to save me a plate,” I tell her. “Especially the sweet potato pie. Actually, just make it a plate of sweet potato pie. I swear, it’s the number one slot on my list of favorite things. Well, at least on my list of non-sexual favorite things.”

  “I’ll be sure to leave out that detail.”

  “Thanks.” I smile, flipping over the next flashcard with my cue line.

  “What about you, Lock?”

  Lock pulls an earbud out. “Huh?”

  “Are you also being subjected to a horrendous family Thanksgiving?”

  “Um, not that I’ve been told. I think we’re just staying home.”

  “You should come over then!” Chels exclaims. “We always have plenty of space because my parents both hate their families. So, you can totally bring yours!”

  “Well, that’s just not even fair,” I tell Chels. “Now, I’m definitely going to have to fake food poisoning to get out of mine.”

  “Does this mean I get to meet your mom?” Lock asks.

  “Duh.” Chels laughs. “She’ll be cooking the whole meal. She’d love to meet you, I’m sure. Did you want to check with your aunt—”

  “Yes,” Lock interjects, eyes wide. “Yes, we’ll be there.”

  “Whoa.” I laugh, leaning away from the intensity radiating from Lock. “Easy there, buddy.”

  “Sorry,” he apologizes immediately. “She’s my hero.”

  “And that will never not be weird,” Chels says, flipping over another card.

  Thanksgiving arrives without much hubbub. My parents have invited a few of their distinguished friends to join us for dinner because why would you waste a perfectly good opportunity to kiss ass alongside your family?

  Blake’s here, latched onto Claire like some kind of horrible alien parasite, making everything worse. Is he going to start sucking her brains out through her ears? One can only dream.

  I’m in the dining room, holding one of Mother’s crystal flutes filled with sparkling grape juice (it’s adorable my parents think I’ve never tasted alcohol). A crew of caterers sets the table, and I’ve even been kind enough not to wear a hoodie but an actual collared shirt. I mean, hey, it’s the holidays.

  “You look nice,” Claire tells me in a rare moment of Blake-freeness. He’s off schmoozing with the other guests, I’m sure. Whatever it takes to get what he wants.

  “Thanks,” I tell her, heat involuntarily rising to my cheeks. Things have been weird between us since last week’s ‘episode.’ Not bad weird, just weird. Mother and Father never even mentioned my hospital stay. I’m sure they’ve got more important things to worry about.

  “Have you eaten anything today?”

  “Jesus, Claire,” I snap. “Do we have to do this every fucking day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my god, yes. Now, can you please leave me alone?”

  “Yes.” She leans in to kiss my cheek. “Proud of you.”

  I rub off her residue, draining the last of my juice. It’s my third glass so far, and now, I kinda have to pee. But Mother taps her glass, which means it’s time for everyone to take their seats, so I’m just going to have to hold it.

  The dinner guests fill their assigned chairs, and I’m crammed between Blake (Oh joy!) and some old woman who smells curiously of cigarette smoke and peppermints. Father stands up and says a few words about being thankful for friends and family and other things that are blatant lies. He then proceeds to slice into the massive, possibly steroid-enhanced, mutant turkey. After the first cut has been made, the caterer takes over and adeptly butchers the beast until our plates are filled.

  The conversation drifts up and down the long table, topics branching from politics (gross) to local economy (grosser) and finally settling with several anecdotes re-enacted by Father. I don’t have to guess where my love of performing comes from. Father’s always onstage.

  I stir my stuffing around the plate with one hand, but it’s just a decoy so no one notices me texting under the table.

  Chels is quick to respond.

  I make eyes at her from across the mashed potatoes. She hasn’t even set her fork down and seems completely transfixed by whatever fuckboi Blake is saying. I aspire to attain her level of sneaky.

  I’m snickering into my plate when someone says my name.

  “Huh?”

  Mother rolls her eyes—one of the few things she’s taught me. “It’s your turn to tell us what you’re thankful for.”


  Oh. I guess that’s a thing.

  “Um…” I hesitate, suddenly feeling very flushed because people are looking at me and expecting lines I haven’t rehearsed. “I’m, uh, thankful for my friends. And for my parents who provide an excellent life for me.” That gets a smile from the crowd. Yeah, yeah, eat it up, you conservative bastards. And maybe because I’m a terrible person, I quickly add, “But most of all, I’m thankful I was born in a time where it’s perfectly acceptable for me to prefer dick. Cheers.”

  I raise my glass as most of the table shifts uncomfortably in their seats. Someone on the opposite end inhales their mashed potatoes and begins to cough. The old woman beside me is clutching her pearls. All in all, I’d say mission accomplished.

  My father looks like I’ve just tossed his golf clubs into the fireplace, and Mother takes a long sip of her wine.

  Blake clears his throat beside me. “I would just like to say I’m thankful for my beautiful bride-to-be, Claire.”

  Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes as the table devolves into rounds of “Aww…”

  I stab at my chunk of turkey then jolt as a hand grips my thigh. I thought Claire was sneaky, but she’s got nothing on Blake.

  “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you, Claire-bear.”

  His hold on my leg tightens then turns into a caress, and it takes everything in me not to skewer the bastard with my knife.

  “I love you, Blake.” Claire reaches across the table to take the hand he isn’t currently using to grope me.

  Another round of sweet sentimentality and I’m wondering what these fine people would think of my dear future brother-in-law if they knew the truth. Or what Claire would think of me, for that matter.

  I stand up, and Blake has to fake dropping his napkin to keep himself from being caught with his fingers digging into my flesh.

  “West?” Claire looks at me.

  “Please excuse me,” I say quickly. Then I’m fleeing the dining room and that fucker, Blake, and all the people I can’t stand. I get to the top of the stairs and it hits me my bladder is still full. I walk into my bathroom, locking the door behind me.

  Is that what my life is going to be like now? Every holiday fending off Dr. Gropey-McGroperstein until one of us dies? Maybe I should just tell Claire… But I’ve never seen her as happy as when she reached across the table to take his hand. She didn’t even care she dragged her sleeve through the cranberry sauce. Now that’s probably something I should have mentioned.

  The toilet flushes, and I don’t wash my hands because I’m a disgusting teenager.

  There isn’t a single ounce of me that wants to return to the dinner table, so I just duck into my bedroom and collapse face-first onto the bed. A few minutes into my wallowing, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out.

  I don’t respond, tossing my phone across the room onto the cushy chair by the window. I should be at Chels’s right now, digging into a gargantuan slice of Mom’s sweet potato pie and waiting for Dad to start a fire so we can roast marshmallows while he plays those ancient jazz records he collects. Not to mention Lock’s there right now, which just makes my desire that much stronger.

  Lock… I can’t seem to get him out of my head. There have been a few times I’ve caught myself just staring, lost for timeless seconds, imagining what it would be like for him to touch me again like that night at Chels’s party…

  My door creaks open, and I just know it’s Claire coming to check in on me. Her freaking big sister genes are really starting to piss me off.

  “Claire, if you leave me alone, I promise I’ll eat dessert.”

  “Why wait? I’ve got your dessert right here.”

  I freeze. That’s not Claire. The door closes, and my pulse leaps to light-speed.

  “You left so suddenly.” Blake’s voice sends a shiver up my spine, a prickling starting at the nape of my neck. “Was I making you all hot and bothered?”

  A hand runs up the back of my leg, and it shocks my body into motion. I spring off the opposite end of the bed. “Don’t fucking come near me.”

  “So defensive.” Blake chuckles, stepping around the foot of the bed to corner me. “What’s the matter, Westley? Don’t you like when a man touches you?”

  “Not when that man is you,” I spit. “In fact, you make me want to peel my skin off, you creepy fuck.”

  “So feisty,” he coos, taking a step closer. I can smell his sickeningly sweet cologne. Unwanted memories pour in, weakening my knees and twisting my stomach. “Just like your sister. That’s why I like you, Westley. With you, I get the best of both worlds.”

  “I swear to God, Blake. If you touch me, I’ll scream,” I threaten, backing away. “How do you think that’s going to look to all your new friends downstairs?”

  “How do you think it’s going to look to your sister when I tell her you tried to seduce me?”

  He’s playing hardball.

  “She’d never believe you,” I say, but my voice waivers with uncertainty.

  He’s only inches from me now, pretty green eyes and handsome stubble camouflaging the monster underneath. “Oh, Westley. You know all too well just how persuasive I can be.”

  Adrenaline kicks in, and I make a break for it. I lunge left, but he catches my arm, swinging me around and pushing me onto the bed. My back hits the baseboard and pain erupts down my spine, but I can’t worry about it now. I scramble, trying to escape, but he’s already on top of me, strong and so heavy. I kick and scream, but his hand cuts off my air, reducing me to whimpers as he unfastens my belt.

  This is happening. Again. Maybe it’s what I deserve for being this shitty person, for fucking up Lock’s life, for not being the friend Chels deserves, for abusing my body, for all the things I just can’t seem to get right. Karma is getting its justice.

  Regret crushes me, my sorrow building until it presses everything else out. I stop resisting. What’s the point? He’ll get what he wants in the end. Maybe if I let it happen, it’ll be over quickly, and I can go back to pretending this is all a nightmare.

  He flips me on my stomach, a rough hand yanking down my pants. The cool air on my skin makes me shudder.

  “That’s right,” Blake whispers in my ear, nibbling my lobe between words pushed out by hot breath. “You like it, you little tease.”

  He spreads my legs apart, and I try to disappear into the bedspread. I close my eyes, waiting for the pain to start.

  Then his weight vanishes, followed by the thump of something heavy hitting the floor.

  “Wha—Claire, wait.”

  There’s the sound of skin colliding with skin and the distinctive crack of bone.

  “Jesus fuck!” Blake shouts. “I-I think you broke my nose!”

  “You’re fucking lucky I don’t break something else!” My sister seethes. “Now, get the fuck out my house before I change my mind.”

  “Claire-bear, listen, you don’t understand—”

  “Blake, I swear to God, if you don’t walk out of here right now, you’ll never walk again.”

  “Claire, I—”

  “Did I fucking stutter?”

  I don’t hear another response, only the shuffle of feet getting farther away and then nothing. In the distance, dinner continues downstairs. I hear laughter and the clinking of plates.

  “West?”

  I’m paralyzed. My body has shut down.

  A blanket covers my exposed skin, and Claire’s weight sinks into the bed beside me. She lifts me, pulling my torso into her chest and holding me against her. She’s trembling, but from anger or anguish, I don’t know.

  “I’ve got you,” she whispers, rocking back and forth. “I’ve got you, and I’m not letting go.”

  She says it over and over again until the lethargy releases its hold on my limbs and I can cling to her as the sobs overtake me.

  “I’m sorry,” I manage through heaves and tears. “I’m sorry.” My lips keep moving, even past the point where my voice has given out.

>   My first Thanksgiving without both parents is going surprisingly well. Jack’s passed out on the couch, his head in Chels’s lap. Jill and Mr. Deal are discussing the latest edition of the magazine she works for (He’s a foodie.) And I’m warming myself by the fire, admiring the crackling wood.

  “Lock.” Mrs. Deal sets down her cup of coffee, rising from her chair to come beside me. “How would you like to see my writing space?”

  My pulse quickens. “I would like that very much.”

  How could this night get any better?

  “Honey,” she addresses Mr. Deal. “We’ll be in the study for a few minutes. Jill, don’t let him bore you to death. He can talk about brie for days.”

  “I’ve moved onto stilton, Brenda. We’ve talked about this.”

  Mrs. Deal laughs, and I realize this must be a running joke for them. It’s weird, seeing a couple like the Deals. It just makes the differences in my parents’ marriage that much more glaring. How could I miss it?

  “Come on, Lock. It’s just this way.”

  We pass through the foyer and the living room where I danced with West a million years ago. On the far side of the space, there are two enormous bookshelves, filled to the brim. Mrs. Deal walks up to the shelves, sliding her hands between them and pushing them apart. They glide on hidden rails, revealing a small room with a desk and a window.

  “I prefer to write in small spaces,” she tells me, stepping onto the wooden floor. On the desk sits a single spiral notebook and a closed laptop. “It helps me think big. Where do you like to write, Lock?”

  “Wherever I can,” I reply, breathing in the scent of the musty wooden shelves. “I don’t really have a specific place.” Shame spreads through me. Maybe I’m not doing it right?

  Mrs. Deal smiles at me. “That’s one of the wonderful things about art. It can come from any place, any person, and can do anything. Words can accomplish the subtlest tasks and incite the most passionate of responses.”