“I’m coming,” Zain says.
She wonders how long they have to walk. Charlotte considered turning around a block back. But when she stopped, Zain did too, looking at the grass of the dark yard next to the sidewalk like it was a warm bed. So she kept walking, Zain a couple steps behind her. She can’t remember the last time she walked through her neighborhood at night. It’s so quiet. She hates it. There is noise somewhere in town tonight, but knowing about every lame party happening is different than actually wanting to go. What she wants is the noise of other cities. Her minds drifts to that fantasy New York City apartment, air thick with smoke and conversation. She has no idea when (or how, or if) it will ever happen, but she hopes. Somewhere out there, beyond this shit town’s limits, is Saturday night noise she wants to be a part of, noise worth making.
Zain has slowed. She asks again how he’s feeling. Again, he nods. She’s never spent so much time with such a silent person. She has to get him talking, even if it’s just to break the awkward silence. “So,” she says, slowing to walk beside him, “your mom’s a bitch or what?”
Zain’s foot catches on a sidewalk crack.
“What?” he says.
“You won’t tell me her number, so—”
“She’s just not there.”
“I know. You told me that. What’s the story?”
“My mom’s story?”
“Ya,” she says.
“My mom doesn’t care where I am.”
“Why not?”
“She just doesn’t.”
“Zain,” she says, trying not to sound too bitchy, “I’m trying to be cool, but I’m getting a little bored here. Walking and talking without talking is kind of lame. It’s ok if you know the person, but kind of creepy with a stranger.”
Zain stops. Charlotte worries he might be considering lying down again, or running off. When she looks back at him, he is staring back down the street. His shoulders move with every breath, looking back the way they’ve come. The air has cooled and threatens rain. If anything, the storm will be short, she thinks.
His back tenses and he drops his thin shoulders, “since my dad died she hasn’t been around much.”
Charlotte is suddenly very aware of her breathing, her legs feel numb, and her feet heavy. Zain’s hands are shaking again. Everything she considers saying seems wrong, would definitely be wrong. If she knew this boy better, she would walk back down to him, put her hand on his shoulder. But she doesn’t know him, so she just stands, looking over his shoulder, down the empty street.
And there it is, he thinks. His mother has not been here since his dad died. It’s the truth, he’s just never said it out loud. Not even in the therapy sessions his mother made him go to for the two months after. Before she started making excuses why she couldn’t take him and Zain called Dr. Michael to tell him he would not be going anymore. Looking back down this empty street, his head still swimming from the wipeout on the side of the pool, or the beers, or from walking with a beautiful girl through the night, or through the almost half a year spent without Jackson or any friends to talk to, the truth just came out. He can feel Charlotte behind him and he wishes she would say something, maybe the right thing. If there is such a thing as perfect words, he thinks, maybe this stranger has them. No one else seems to.
“Shit,” Charlotte says, finally, “I’m sorry.”
“Ya,” he says, “me too.”
“I don’t know what to say,” she says.
“Me neither,” he says. And then he laughs and laughs some more. Suddenly the whole thing is hilarious and laughing is all he can do. What could anybody say to my mother hasn’t been there since my dad died? “Especially a stranger!” he says, and he laughs some more. He laughs and laughs until he is out of breath. Then he collapses onto the sidewalk.
Lightning splits the sky above them, the branches of the mulberry tree two houses down dip and thrash in the wind. Zain puts his palms back against the sidewalk, breathing deeply, his eyes closed to the wind on his face. He feels a peace he hasn’t felt all night, longer even. When he opens them again, Charlotte is sitting next to him, fingers clutching the laces of her black Chuck Taylors. Over one of the arches she has written five words, “Baffled, in love and hate.”
“Lord of the Flies,” Zain says.
“What?”
“Your shoe,” he says.
“Oh,” she says, looking at her feet, “yeah. Wow.”
“I just finished it.”
“It’s my favorite line,” Charlotte says.
“Mine too,” Zain says. He never considered having a favorite sentence from a book, but it’s true. Even if it just now became his favorite.
“Who do you have for English?”
“Mr. Zapata.”
“I had him. He’s cool,” she says.
“Yeah,” Zain says, “he is.”
A gust of wind blows up the street, tiny beads of mist stinging his face.
“Oh shit! Here it comes,” Charlotte says, standing.
A wall of heavy rain climbs the street towards them. Zain looks up the walkway to the covered porch of the house beside them.
“You okay to run?” Charlotte asks.
Zain stands and wipes the sidewalk dirt from his running shorts. Charlotte bites her lip and smiles.
“Are you kidding?” Zain asks.
She takes off down the street. “No!” she yells.
The rain pelts Zain’s face as he takes off down the hill, chasing after Charlotte. “I can always run!” he yells.
If there is a heaven, it smells like desert rain, Charlotte thinks. And only desert dwellers will recognize the smell when they get there. As the clouds build, creosote bushes open up their leaves to drink it in, emitting a scent like wet redemption. Rain in the desert is a long awaited reward for living in this place. After trying to forget all they’ve endured, through so many days under an endless and merciless blue sky, when the rain comes, they remember. Remember that there is beauty in the waiting.
Charlotte runs beside Zain, her lungs burning. So different from the maniacal leer from earlier, his smile now is free. His tanned, lean legs bound over the pavement like confident prey as he speeds up again. Any false step means falling, but he won’t. His steps are certain, not like hers. She clomps over the rain darkened sidewalk. Her hair whips around her face as she slips down a driveway, from sidewalk to street, trying to catch up again. When they’d started down the hill he’d passed her, probably trying to impress her, but maybe not. Maybe he feels this free with every run, she thinks.
They are passed the cul-de-sac when she stops. She yells between the thrums of her deep breaths, over the rain, “We’re…here!” Zain slows and drops his hands like he is breaking through an imaginary finish line tape. It is the fastest Charlotte has run since she was a kid on the playground. Zain turns, barely out of breath, his wet face glowing under the streetlamp.
“What?” he asks.
“We’re here,” she says.
Zain jogs back to her at the opening of the cul-de-sac. The rain slows to a cool drizzle as they walk up to the houses at the end of Spruce Circle.
“How are you feeling?” Charlotte asks.
“Great! You?” Zain asks, as they stop in front of her house.
“I’m good,” Charlotte says.
Zain licks the rain from his lips and smiles. They stand together under the heavy sky in a new silence, this one not so awkward.
16
Better
Zain doesn’t usually allow himself to think of his father. Only at this time, right before sleep, as one day’s worries become the half–awake wishes for tomorrow. The story of when his parents met is one of Zain’s favorites, even if his dad told it too many times. Even if every time he told it, his mother rolled her eyes. She could never help smiling, even when she tried not to. Zain can almost hear his father’s voice.
We were two kids away from home, free on the border. She
had some meathead soldier boyfriend stationed in Germany or some such place. He’s not coming back tonight, I told her. She shook her head and smiled. Like she’s doing now! She was considering it. I had to try, which was weird for me, but she was worth it. I told her some secrets you have to earn and the night would fill us in later. But we had to go right now to find out what our secret would mean. It was cheesy, but it worked. We drove for an hour, yelling the lyrics of every song on the radio out the windows. We didn’t stop singing even as we crossed into Mexico. Your mom is a sucker for adventure. No, it’s true, son!
Then, as he drifts between sleep and awake, the details of Zain’s night mix in with the dreamy words of his father. Charlotte, all mystery and beauty, leading him to her warm purple room. The doorman grinned when she walked in in front of me. I just nodded and winked at him. That’s right, buddy, she’s with me. Walking through the silent lightning strike night until he could tell her a secret. We danced to every song. Everyone in the bar wondered what we knew and I spun her across that dusty floor and we owned the night! Running beside her through the rain, feet blurred over the wet sidewalk. She was the most beautiful girl in the place and I wasn’t going to let anyone else have her. I pressed her to my chest. Charlotte’s hands pressed over and under the fresh towel as she handed it over. The goose bumps of her skin disappearing beneath the mystery of all that is hidden beneath a t-shirt. She wore a low cut top, and let me tell you, there is nothing better than goose bumps on a girl’s chest. Charlotte plucking dry clothes from her dresser drawer and disappearing into the bathroom, grinning. We found our secret, son, and we didn’t let it go.
Zain smiles. There is something better, even if you didn’t tell me, he thinks. Even if I haven’t found it yet. Then he drifts off to sleep.
17
Not Guilty
Zain gets up from his art desk, walks over, and collapses onto his bed, looking around his little room. He is so tired of his bedroom walls. He’s been looking at them all day. Being grounded on a Saturday sucks, he thinks. And it sucks extra hard when you actually have somewhere you want to go. Which, for the first time in months, is true for Zain. And it sucks super extra hard when you’re stuck thinking about a girl who might open the door if you could just jog over to her house and knock. Which he has been thinking about doing the entire week. Ever since that magical night walking the streets with Charlotte. Thinking of her name makes his chest all tight. It’s not all that different from the breathlessness of the fifth mile of a hard run. But a run on a particularly beautiful day when he’s feeling super strong, like he could run all day. Even better than that, actually, “definitely better,” he says. The problem (besides being grounded) is not knowing if she feels the same way.
If someone had asked him a month (hell, a week) ago if he had a shot with a beautiful dark-haired junior goddess he would’ve laughed. A sad laugh of self-pity at the total implausibility that something like that would ever happen. But that night did happen. And Zain knows he has a shot. It was all in that look, that moment they shared in the driveway. Their hair all dripping wet, Charlotte’s glowing face with those splotched red flower cheeks, both of them soaked, just standing there in silence smiling at each other. She was feeling it too, he is almost positive. Of course, it would be nice to know for sure. He could jog over there and ask, he thinks, if he could ever leave the friggin’ house! He gets up off the bed and paces some more. He’s wearing a path in the carpet. Just three more days, he thinks, again.
Down the hall he hears his mother’s TV blaring, muddled words drift down the hallway. He looks down at his watch, 8:52 PM. The gray-haired Law and Order district attorney is probably just wrapping up his case. Zain paces in front of his bed, imagining a jury of unsympathetic adults.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury,” he says, in his best prosecutor voice, “the young man is guilty. Driven mad by a life of confinement and exile, yes, but guilty all the same—”
“Objection!” Zain interrupts himself with the emphatic voice of the defense. “Isn’t that reason enough though, your honor? A life separated from the outside world. And just when he’d thought hope didn’t exist, he’d ventured out into that unkind world, took some initiative and put himself out there.”
Zain shifts to the lazy voice of the judge, “Objection overruled, sit down, counselor. You’ll have your turn.”
Zain sighs and sits on the bed, defeated and tired but not sleepy. The bedroom window shakes in the wind, knocking the screen against the frame. Clickle, clickle, clack. It’s loose again. It will shake all night, he knows, keep him awake. He remembers an extra windy night last spring when it popped all the way off. It was halfway to the street when he found it in the morning. He just left it in the yard and walked to school. It was still there when he got home. His mom hadn’t even noticed. “She didn’t even notice,” he says.
Zain stands up, a wild idea banging around his brain. Clickle, clickle, clack. He moves to the door, gripping the knob, and pulls softly. He opens it just wide enough to see his mother’s bedroom door. Shut, as always. He listens as the judge asks the jury for the verdict.
Zain could do it. She hasn’t been out of the room all night. She never comes out of her room once she’s in bed. That was the problem last weekend. She wasn’t in bed already. Even that was a fluke, he thinks. How many times has he heard her coming in from a night out with her friends, listened as she banged around the kitchen? Not even cracking his door to peak in on him on her way to her room? Too many times.
Down the hall the music swells, the jury delivering the verdict. “You’re honor,” Zain whispers, “on the first count of wrongful imprisonment we find the mother guilty. On the second count, escaping his terrible and unfair life of solitude, we find the kid not guilty. Run, kid. Be free.” Pop that screen off and run to the girl’s door.
The light under his mother’s door goes out as she clicks off the TV. Zain turns the knob and silently pushes his door shut. Tiptoeing to the window, he peeks out the blinds at the empty night, forming a plan. Successful escapes depend on careful planning and flawless execution, he thinks. Step one: wait five minutes, she always falls asleep quickly. Step two: pull the cord to open the blinds, quietly. Step three: unlatch the window, slowly. No need to rush, he thinks, you have all night. Step four: pop out the screen, bottom first so you can hold on as you pop out the top. Step five: slip the screen behind the bush to the right of the window. Step six: step through the window. Step seven: close the window behind you. You don’t want the windy night giving you away, blowing in and knocking the blinds around. Waking the jailer will earn an extended sentence. Step eight: run. From there, the plan is undecided: how to explain to the girl why you’re standing on her doorstep uninvited, why she should talk to you, why just one more moment of silence with her—even an awkward one—was worth the risk of escape. But all that he can figure out while he runs. After all, running time is the best time for thinking.
Zain looks at his watch, the five minutes is up. Now or never, he thinks. He listens for shifting bedsprings down the hall, but the wind outside is the only sound he hears. He gently tugs, but the string sticks. He looks back at the door then gives a quick yank on the string. Instantly, the blinds raise, halfway up the window in a flash, screeching against the window frame. Zain freezes, holding his breath. He pinches the string, listening for the squeal of door hinges, waiting for the footfalls of his pissed off prison guard crushing the carpet beneath slipper clad feet. The wind blows again, the screen clickle-clacking. Then silence.
The rest of the escape is eventless. Zain unclicks the window latches and lifts, places the screen behind the shrub, even remembers to close the window before treading across the dead lawn. Once he’s safely out of the streetlight’s glare, he stops and looks back at his house. The house that held his childhood and everything since the end of it last spring. It looks different from this side of the night, smaller and sadder. He turns away, looking up the road, at the streetlights spotlight
ing the sidewalk of his upcoming journey, away from this place. Away from his home. That word, though, hasn’t seemed like the right one for months. Like the next puzzle piece with so many of the right colors, but all the wrong edges. The one that seems like it should fit but just doesn’t. He knows when it all changed, that day at the park, in the hot car, when his mother dropped the bomb. A single moment changed the place where he sleeps and eats and lives from home to just a house.
Zain takes off up the street, over the dark asphalt. Only after he crosses Victory Street into Charlotte’s neighborhood does he turn up a driveway onto the sidewalk. No need to avoid the streetlights over here, he thinks. He’s not that kid with the dead dad who should be home right now. Here, he’s just a late night runner. Just some stranger striding darkened streets. Not a grounded escapee, only an outsider on a fast stroll toward none of anyone else’s business.
18
Unfinished Story
The tide washes the beautiful, shirtless boy’s body out with the force of …
“Force of what?” Charlotte says. “Time? Gravity?” Fuck last lines, she thinks. She has been staring at the half sentence for ten minutes, unsure how to finish. She’s edited the whole story three times and there is nothing left but this. Just a few words.
“Shit,” she says, pulling the headphones off her head.
Charlotte looks again at Ms. Bridgford’s advice, scrawled along a title line in her journal, “Make it personal.” She knows the last line isn’t the only problem. As much as she has tried making the story ring true, she just can’t seem to. While she’s relieved to have a story almost finished, she’s not wild about any of it. The desperate final days of a gorgeous eighties punk rock bassist started as a rant in her writer’s journal. The early version had an engaging and breakneck pace, but lacked any character development. It read like a tirade, like her classmates’ shit. Garbage from kids who never read anything outside of class (including their own “finished” stories), who hand out nonsense about drag racing or dragon trainers. None of it saying anything.
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