Solitary: A Novel

by Travis Thrasher

  I know this.

  "It was a cool thing to do," she says to me. "But it was stupid."

  "What's the big deal about Gus anyway?"

  "His father owns half of Solitary, if not more."

  "So he's rich."

  "Not just that. The Staunch family has its hands in everything around here. Everything."

  "Okay. So what?"

  "You live here, Chris. You live in Solitary."

  "Yeah?"

  She shakes her head and starts to say something, then remains silent.

  "What?"

  I can tell she's searching her thoughts.

  "You have to be careful, just know that."

  "I will," I say as if I don't have a care in the world.

  "They'll hurt you and get away with it. It's not like where you come from."

  "How do you know?"

  "I just know," she says. "I know very well."

  "I'm not looking for trouble."

  "But you're wearing it with a capital letter on your chest. The best thing you can do is disappear."

  "I already sorta feel like I have, coming here. You should see the street I live on."

  "I'm serious, Chris. There are things about this place that you just can't-that I couldn't even explain to you. You wouldn't believe me."

  "Try me."

  "No."

  Her response is short and swift, like a slap in the face.

  "Okay."

  For a few minutes, we drive. I tell her the roads to take to reach my cabin.

  "I'm sorry," she says eventually.

  "It's fine."

  "You're a good guy."

  I chuckle. "How do you know that?"

  "I can tell."

  "You don't know."

  "Yes, I do. I know. I just know."

  "Hey, the second street up there-past the sign-is mine."

  Her face turns pale and registers disbelief.

  "What?" I ask. I don't get anything about this day. Everything is just off.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Am I sure where I live? Yeah. Steeple Drive."

  "Your cabin is on this road?"

  "Is it just me, or is everything I'm saying slightly freaking you out?"

  Jocelyn seems annoyed and doesn't say anything else as we drive down the road.

  As we approach my driveway, I alert her to stop. Instead, she keeps driving.

  "Uh, we just passed my driveway."

  Those eyes stay focused straight ahead as the car zips along the dirt road until we eventually come upon the gate.

  "I was going to tell you-there's a gate at the end of this drive," I say.

  "The road on the other side of that gate leads to a rather large mansion. Want to know who it belongs to?" Her voice is angry.

  I don't say anything.

  "It belongs to your neighbor and dear friend, Gus Staunch. How's that for being freaked out."

  "Seriously?"

  She puts the car in reverse and zips it around, whipping my head against the side.

  "Whoa," I say, taking the wheel for a minute.

  "Don't you dare touch me!"

  The Jeep jets down the street.

  "I was touching the wheel."

  We reach my driveway and she jams on the breaks, skidding the car to a halt. If I weren't wearing my seat belt, my lips would be stuck to the window.

  "Jocelyn, what's going on here?"

  "Get out."

  "I'm sorry-I didn't-I was just trying to help-"

  "I don't need your help, and I don't need your comments."

  "This is all new to me."

  "Yeah, well, I'm not your guidance counselor. You need to stay away from people who will hurt you, you got that?"

  "Okay, fine."

  "That includes me."

  Again I'm stopped in my tracks, my mouth surely about ready to say something.

  "Get out."

  I obey. I climb out of the jeep and stand in my driveway and listen as it rumbles down the road and away from me.

  The longer I'm in this cabin that once belonged to Uncle Robertthat still belongs to him-the longer I think that something strange must have happened to him. Something sinister or even supernatural.

  If he did leave voluntarily, he decided to leave everything behind. Maybe the only things he took were the clothes on his back and the wallet in his pocket and the keys to his car (or motorcycle, according to Mom).

  I think this as I'm rifling through one of the milk crates in the walk-in closet of my room. I glanced in here the day we arrived, but until today I hadn't looked through his stuff. On the floor below the shirts and pants and jackets all crammed together on hangers are three milk crates stuffed with records. Full-length vinyl albums, some double albums with fantastic artwork, some looking worn and frayed, others in spectacular shape.

  Now I understand the stereo system in the corner with the turntable. When I first got here, I was psyched to see the large, waisthigh speakers in each corner of the room until I saw what they were attached to. No iPod connection going on here. But tonight as I'm supposed to be studying, I'm surveying the tunes my forty-one-yearold uncle collected.

  Turns out he had something in common with someone else in my family.

  Musical taste. Maybe my father's only admirable quality.

  The records aren't arranged in any sort of way I can see. I find some old Beatles albums, some Elvis, the Who, Pink Floyd. I wonder if they're all classics; I don't see anything current.

  Then I spot a Nirvana album.

  A Pixies record.

  The Coldplay album piques my interest since it's so recent.

  I put on New Order's Brotherhood album from 1986 and start making piles of the records. Is it bad to put Elvis with the Beatles? I make a separate stack for some of my favorites that I picked up from my mother: The Smiths, Depeche Mode, The Cure. There's a pile for groups I've never heard of. Husker Dii, Meat Puppets, Front 242.

  There are newer releases that make me think Uncle Robert lived here recently-albums I have on my iPod, some I downloaded in the past year.

  I hear a knock on the door.

  "What's all this?" Mom asks. She's wearing a robe and has her hair in a towel.

  "Uncle Robert has quite the collection."

  She bends over and picks up an LP from one of my stacks. "I remember this group."

  "Never heard of them," I say.

  "Cocteau Twins."

  "That how you say it?"

  "I might have even been with Robert when he bought this."

  "What do they sound like?"

  "You should put them on and try it out. Just not too loud."

  "It's not like we have neighbors who are going to complain."

  "Yes, but you still have a mother who doesn't like to feel like her house is a rock concert."

  She stays and listens to music with me for a while, the sounds exotic and otherworldly and powerful. Maybe it's because they're from another era, or maybe it's because they're coming from my uncle's record player, which actually sounds pretty amazing.

  "He always loved music," Mom says. "If he could have chosen to be anything in his life, it would have been a musician."

  "Why didn't he?"

  Mom shakes her head, listening to the music, seeming to be in a far-off place. "It's one thing to have dreams. Or even the ability to pursue them. But you also need encouragement. Your grandfather was a loving man, Chris, but my mother's death really sucked hope out of him. He tried, but he just didn't have enough to pass around. I think I got the rest of what was left inside. Robert was pretty much on his own."

  "Why'd he come back here?"

  "I don't know," Mom says. "I just don't know."

  "Why did you?"

  "I wanted to get as far from your father as I possibly could. And the only place that seemed far enough away was Solitary."

  Mom continues to sort through records with me as we sample the albums. The music seems to bring her back to another life, to another time, the way all good
music does.

  I feel like there's another universe just inside the closet next to my bed.

  I know where I'll go when I need to escape.

  I find the envelope dangling from a slit at the bottom of my locker.

  The hallway is cold, the lighting hard, the students around me devoid of life. It's not eight yet, and once again I have time to kill before first period.

  Ten minutes can seem like a lifetime.

  The envelope isn't sealed. I take out the piece of stationery folded in thirds.

  The handwriting is flowery and leans to the right.

  I see my name at the top.

  Again I scan the hallway around me to see if anybody I know is around or if anyone is watching.

  Even though her name is at the bottom, I can't believe it.

  This is from the same girl who told me without hesitation to get out of her car yesterday.

  The same girl who said that I need to stay away from people who will hurt me. And said that includes her.

  I read the note again, scanning it for anything like "April fools!" or "just kidding!"

  Maybe she feels bad about the conversation and this is her way of making it up.

  But certain things just don't add up.

  I laugh and grab my books and then head down the hallway, surely surprising the students I'm passing by with the big smile plastered over my face.

  In English class I stare at her several times to get her attention. When she finally notices me, I nod to her in greeting.

  Cold, blank eyes stare back at me for a moment, then move back onto the teacher.

  After class, she slips out before I can get to her.

  Whats with this girl?

  Maybe she's feeling awkward now. Things are always easier to write down in private. Things are always harder to say in person.

  I look down the hallway but don't find her.

  I head toward her locker but she's not there.

  So I know I have to wait until lunch.

  As if she has any question whether I'm going to say yes or not.

  My glance back at her was surely enough of an answer.

  So why didn't she wait for me?

  I watch her for a moment, sitting at that drab table in the middle of the lunchroom, listening to Rachel talk.

  So composed, so calm, eyes that seem as endless as an ocean. I'm mesmerized by her beauty.

  I head toward her and don't even hear the voice next to me until its owner steps in my way.

  "Going somewhere?"

  The chiseled jaw of Oli is the first thing I see. He's about my height, maybe a little shorter, but he looks carved out of ice and stone. The T-shirt he's wearing is a little too tight.

  Leaning against the wall is Gus.

  "Perhaps going to hang out with your little girlfriend?"

  I stand my ground. Two teachers are in plain view.

  "They're not going to be around all the time," Gus says, reading my mind. "You won't always have a babysitter."

  "I'm not trying to have a problem here."

  "You are the problem. And unless you suddenly decide to take a sick year off, it's going to be a very big problem."

  I get out of Oli's breath and face Gus. "So how's this going to end?"

  "Who says it has to end?"

  "What's it going to take? Beating me up so that everyone can see who's tougher than the new kid?"

  "That makes it all seem so childish."

  "Then what do you want?"

  Other students are looking our way now. I wonder if this includes Jocelyn.

  "Do we have a little temper?" Gus asks.

  "What do you want?"

  "You keep asking me that."

  "And you keep neglecting to answer."

  "Do I have to want anything?"

  Just as I start to say something, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It's Mr. Meiners again. I must be on his radar, just like I am with half the school.

  "I'm good, fine," I say, shrugging away from his touch and heading toward the girls.

  The cafeteria suddenly seems quieter, with several hundred glances seeming to point my way. I sit down and realize I never got lunch from my locker.

  The look I get from Jocelyn isn't the one I was expecting.

  "What was that?" she asks.

  "What do you mean?"

  "That? Over there?"

  "It was Gus being Gus."

  "You sure don't listen well, do you?"

  "Hi, Chris," Rachel says.

  I nod at her, then answer Jocelyn. "I can't help where he comes and goes."

  "Maybe you should pay attention a little more."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, really."

  Poe raises her eyebrows and takes a sip of her soda, enjoying the argument in front of her.

  "I happened to be paying attention to something else."

  "Do you want to get some lunch?" Rachel asks.

  "No, I'm good."

  "Maybe that's a bad idea," Jocelyn says.

  "Yeah, I'd think so, but then again, I'm kinda confused."

  Rachel is next to me digging through her lunch bag. "Fruit?"

  Jocelyn is glaring at me. "Confused about what?"

  "Confused about a lot of things. First and foremost, you."

  "Nothing to be confused about there. Nothing you even need to think about."

  "Really?" I ask.

  She nods, looks away.

  What a total snot.

  This is crazy.

  "Look, I don't have to go to the dance. It's not that big of a deal, okay?"

  She blinks.

  Rachel tugs at my arm. "Hey ... Chris ... do you want to just ... can I talk to you for a minute?"

  "I'm fine."

  "What are you talking about?" Jocelyn asks.

  "Nothing, I guess. Nothing at all. In fact, I won't ever mention the stupid dance again."

  "Fine with me."

  "Am I missing something here?" Poe asks.

  "Nothing at all," I tell her.

  "That's right," Jocelyn agrees. "Nothing."

  "I never wanted to ask you in the first place."

  "Ask me what?"

  "You don't think I will, do you?"

  For a brief second I see it.

  A tiny glimpse of humor.

  She's enjoying my frustration.

  "Whatever you're talking about ... no ... actually, I don't."

  "You guys, can we have a truce?" Rachel says, waving her arms between us.

  "Okay, fine, fine. Just wait a minute. Jocelyn, I'd like to be your date for the Halloween dance this weekend. There. How's that?"

  Rachel and Poe both look surprised as the hint of amusement continues to rise on Jocelyn's face.

  "So I dare you."

  "You dare me to what?" Jocelyn asks.

  "I dare you to take me."

  "Yeah, right."

  "I know you won't. You're afraid."

  "I'm not afraid of anything."

  "Then I dare you to take me to the dance."

  "Why would I do that?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Because I think there's a part of you that wants to but that's afraid to actually go there."

  "You have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Okay. Then what's your answer?"

  Jocelyn stands up and curses at me, then walks away.

  I look at Poe and Rachel.

  Poe clears her throat. "I've seen some lame attempts of trying to get Joss, but, buddy-that's gotta be the worst one yet."

  She stands and follows Jocelyn, leaving me with Rachel.

  "Sorry," I say.

  "No, I'm sorry."

  "You didn't do anything."

  "Actually, I sorta ... well ... I kinda did."

  Rachel rubs her arms nervously, then smiles in defeat. "I wrote that letter."

  She almost trips over her chair in her hurry to get away.

  "Come with me."

  The hand on my shoulder digs in and drives me forward before I can head int
o my history class. By the sheer force and surprise, I think it's Gus behind me. Yet my brain catches me up and tells me it's an adult.

  I turn my head enough to see that it's some guy I've never met wearing bad pants and an even worse tie. Whatever hair he has left is slicked over in a way that seems to wave defeat.

  The man guides me to the principal's office, where the door opens to reveal a group of adults.

  There is the principal, Miss Harking, who said hello to me in passing on my first day. Next to her stands my gym teacher, whose name escapes me for the moment. He looks like the athlete who couldn't stand to let his high school days slip him by, so he simply stayed around to teach. And to pump iron. Next to him stands a cop. If we were back home I might think this guy is security at a mall, one of those "faux cops," as Brady called them.

  "Young man, you are in serious trouble."

  A part of me wants to turn around to see if Miss Harking is talking to someone else. The guy in the tie stands right next to her as if this is an intervention.

  "Is there anything in your locker you want us to know about?"

  I think about the bag lunch I brought and wonder if they're here for that. I shake my head.

  "Can you tell me anything about that?" Miss Harking says as she points to her desk.

  On it is a revolver, a short stubby kind that looks ideal for hiding in your pocket.

  I glance at it, then at the stern faces in front of me.

  "We got word this morning that someone saw you take this out of your bag and put it in your locker," the cop-or-not says to me.

  "Who said that?"

  "Does it belong to you?"

  "No," I say with a bewildered laugh.

  "You're in serious trouble, Chris," Miss Harking says. "We've called your mother."

  "I've never seen this gun before."

  It's clear they don't believe me. I stare at the tie guy who led me down here. He looks like he's been itching to take out his own teenage aggressions on someone for about forty-five years, and boom, here I come.

  The outsider from Chicago, only here a week, is packing heat.

  Come on.

  "What are you doing with this, Chris?"

  "That's not my gun. I didn't put it in my locker. What else I can say?"

  "We've heard you've been making some trouble with some of the boys here," Miss Harking says.

  "If `trouble' is trying to avoid getting my face bashed in, then yeah, I've been making lots of it."

  "And who has been trying to do this to you?"