Weavers

by Aric Davis

  “Let him go,” called Darryl—not a yell yet, but close.

  If the bus driver heard or cared, there was no indication, but the boys on the back most certainly did.

  “You want some, too, faggot?” asked Tim Ostwich—Tim of the buckteeth, flannel shirts, and wicked right hand.

  Darryl smiled while he made his way to the back of the bus, stealing a glance at himself in the reflection of the windows as he walked the rows. The tendrils were blaze red now, violent and awesome all at once, and even more incredibly, Darryl had no fear.

  “Yes, I do, Tim,” said Darryl. “I want you to give it to me. I want you to show me what a faggot I am. Like how your dad shows you sometimes.”

  Tim’s mouth fell open like a trapdoor, and then the bigger boy was racing down the thin corridor between the green leather seats as fast as his hand-me-down Keds could carry him. Darryl watched this progress, watched as a red thread from his head leapt up and found purchase with a thread that was just as angry and pouring from Tim’s noggin, and then leaned down and grabbed a second grader’s metal G.I. Joe lunchbox.

  “Here it comes, Livingston,” said Tim, and then Darryl yanked the thread with his mind at the same time as he swung the lunchbox.

  The corner of the box—one edge of a scene showing Cobra Commander aboard a H.I.S.S. Tank—crumpled as it collided with Tim’s head, and the older boy staggered as his body dealt with the fact that his lights had been dimmed. Darryl leapt at the opportunity, feeling into Tim’s concussed brain with a part of his own mind he barely understood, and then he made the bigger boy void his bowels onto the floor. The damage was worse than just that—far more than the nudge that Darryl had intended; more than the ruined lunchbox alone could ever have provided—but that was the lasting memory for those on the bus: Tim Ostwich writhing on the ground in his own filth, and the rest of the back of the bus screaming.

  Tim died a few weeks later, and Darryl wound up in a state home for five years. It was infinitely better than living with his old man and his broken mother, but it was still jail, and jail sucks. When Darryl was released, there was one person waiting for him: Terry Huckland. Terry was no longer a fatboy, had earned a few of his own scars, and was the proud owner of a Ford Escort wagon. Darryl had learned a couple of tricks of his own while he was locked up: that he could own people, really own them through the bends in those little reeds coming from their scalps, and that the only way to shut that crap off was through booze.

  Darryl learned one more secret on the day Terry picked him up, and it was a big one. Terry believed him—truly believed in what he could do. Darryl simply told his old friend what was going on in his mind, what had happened on that bus five years before, and what he needed now. Terry had enough money for a bottle, and before Darryl got it, he fried a man talking on the pay phone. They emptied his wallet, bought two bottles instead of the one, and disappeared. Off the grid was easier than on—that was another easy discovery—and soon enough they were doing what few could, exploiting a talent that almost always dies at puberty.

  Now, at long last, Darryl emerged from the bathroom and said, “I’m ready.”

  Terry smiled and stood up from the computer desk. “I’ll unplug the phone. Do you need the white, or should I—”

  “Just get it,” said Darryl. “This is going to be a long night. Put a pot on, too. We’re both going to need some coffee. Did you open the bank accounts?” Terry nodded—he had—and Darryl walked past him to the computer and sat. “Christ, we are about to raise some hell.” Darryl looked back across the room at his friend and really saw him, saw the threads connecting them, blue, yellow, and green. “I’m sorry, Terry,” said Darryl. “You know how hard this is for me.”

  “Just make it worth it,” said Terry. “If everything goes right, we’ll never be broke again.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Cynthia woke when Mom called to her. Her mom’s words were a blur, but the message was easily interpreted: it was time to get up.

  Cynthia rose on an elbow on the floor beneath the window. She’d never made it back to her sleeping bag. She dragged herself to her feet and yawned. She was no longer surprised to find herself in the apartment, not after last night. And though Cynthia would have preferred the yellow house, North Harbor seemed a lot more like home than it had when she lay down. Even being apart from Dad was starting to feel normal. Cynthia was used to him working all the time, so as long as she didn’t think about it, this was just another long shift at the store.

  Cynthia walked from the bedroom, stopping for a moment in the hall to stare at Mom, who was dressed up for some reason, and then walked into the bathroom. The toilet was grungy, but it was far too early in the day to worry about anything but making water, so that’s what she did. Cynthia pissed, wiped, flushed, and washed, then wandered into the shared kitchen and dining area and sat at the table. Second grade didn’t start until the fall, but this already felt like a school day, just maybe one happening to a different person.

  Mom was wearing a suit at the table and staring out of the living room window. Cynthia followed her gaze and then turned back to her mother, as after last night she knew there was nothing worth seeing outside. Cynthia had seen her mom’s suit before, but it had been a long time. She couldn’t recall the occasion, only that she hadn’t seen her mother in it since the last time she’d gone on a date with Dad.

  There was no date this morning, however, just Mom in her suit and the empty apartment.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m doing today,” said Mom, and Cynthia nodded to be polite. The truth was that she hadn’t wondered about that for even a second. What she’d been curious about, until Mom had spoken, was what the two of them were going to be up to. “I need to get a job, Cynthia,” said Mom with a sigh, and Cynthia nodded. It made sense. After all, Mom had always worked before, and she said she couldn’t work at the store anymore.

  “What kind of a job?”

  “The kind that will hire me and that pays me something that I won’t be ashamed of,” said Mom. “I suppose we’ll know pretty soon how it all shakes out regarding the store, but I don’t plan to just sit back and wait for your father to do what’s right before the court forces his hand.” Mom shook her head, a disgusted look on her face, and just for a moment Cynthia could see a tuft of red string coming from her scalp. The only difference was that this time the thread didn’t lead anywhere. It just hovered over Mom.

  “Can I come with you?” Cynthia asked. She had a feeling that she already knew what the answer would be, but if Mom really did say no, then where was she supposed to go?

  “No,” said Mom flatly. “Your dad should be at the store by now. We’ll run by and drop you off to him, just like we would on any other day when I had something going on. You can sit in the back and draw or read books, just like you have a bunch of other times.”

  “I don’t want to go to the store.” She knew as soon as she saw the bitter smile on her mother’s face that Mom was happy she’d said this, and once again the threads over Mom’s head were visible, only this time they were a cool blue instead of the angry red. She’s going to bring me there, but she doesn’t want to, because she doesn’t want me to be happy there. This didn’t make much more sense than the threads did, but Cynthia knew she was right, just as sure as she knew the stuff over Mom was blue. Mom might leave her there, but if Cynthia was smart, the last thing she should do afterward would be to brag about the amount of candy or fun she’d been allowed to have.

  “Sorry, Cynth. It’s our only option right now,” said Mom. “Maybe we’ll figure out something else later, but for now you need to go ahead and get dressed, do your teeth, and I’ll get that rat’s nest on your head brushed.”

  Cynthia nodded and then voiced a concern she immediately knew should’ve been left unvoiced: “I need to eat breakfast.”

  Mom scowled in response, the strands over her dancing from blue to red and th
en back again.

  “All right,” said Mom, “we’ll get you something on the way.” Though Mom didn’t look sad, Cynthia knew she was. “It won’t always be like this, Cynthia. Things are going to be weird for a little bit, but your dad and I will get this all figured out. No matter what happens, you’re the most important thing in our lives.”

  “OK,” said Cynthia, before turning to walk to her room to get dressed. She knew Mom was lying, and the sting of it was like a whip on her cheek. If I mattered as much as she says I do, we’d still be in the house instead of this apartment, and she wouldn’t be looking for a job. Cynthia couldn’t read Mom’s thoughts the way she could a Berenstain Bears book, but she did know that, as important as words like “divorce” and “affair” were, all Mom cared about now was showing him.

  Neither of them spoke as Mom drove from the McDonald’s drive-thru to Dad’s store. Cynthia wasn’t talking because her mouth was full, but she figured Mom was being quiet because she was starting to have doubts about leaving her daughter with Dad and about looking for a job. Cynthia’s parents had worked together for as long as she could remember, usually on opposing shifts, but never had they worked anywhere but the store. It has to be so weird for Mom. Cynthia was sure of that, just as sure as she was that of everyone involved in divorce, Mom had planned for it least of all.

  Mom parked as Cynthia finished off her hash browns and orange juice, but when Cynthia unbuckled her seat belt, Mom said, “Go ahead and stay in the car for just a second, Cynth. I’m going to go inside and talk to Dad for a minute, and then I’ll be back to get you.”

  “OK.”

  Mom took her keys from the ignition and left the car, locking the doors before walking inside. Cynthia watched her disappear and then took a drink of orange juice before looking to the lot to see who else was parked there. She could see Dad’s truck, as well as Linda’s little convertible, and something in Cynthia’s stomach twisted as she realized that Mom, Dad, and Linda were all going to be in the same confined space. Cynthia was small, alone, and not well versed in the world of adults, but it was no mystery that the three of them together would be a bad combination.

  Cynthia was staring at the store when two bearded men came out of it carrying their purchases, and as she watched them drive away in the last car in the lot, she knew what she needed to do. If her parents and Linda were going to argue, they were going to do it now, when there was no one else left in the building. Cynthia opened her door and as she left the vehicle could already hear Mom shouting from inside the store. She had to keep going, though. So Cynthia walked to the front door, took a deep breath, and pulled it open.

  The store was exactly how she remembered it, only now it felt different, as if it were scarred somehow. Cynthia could hear Mom and Dad yelling louder, as well as another sound—Linda sobbing from the back of the store. Cynthia walked past the magazine racks, cigarette ads, and an impossibly tall shelf covered in glass bottles before walking to the coolers and taking a right through the open door into the stockroom. Farther back was Dad’s office, but there would be no need to walk that far. Mom, Dad, and Linda were right around the corner from her, by all of the recycling bins.

  Cynthia could see them as she poked her head around a stack of cases of bottled beer. Mom stood just a few feet from Dad, her careful makeup job already spoiled, though Cynthia doubted Mom was aware of anything besides Dad and Linda. Dad was red-faced and furious looking, but even with everything that was happening, Cynthia felt bad for him. Dad looked tired, angry, and weak all at once, but she could also see the man who loved to read with her shining through the aches on his face. Linda looked scared, like a mouse trapped by a pair of cats. Cynthia catalogued these emotions in seconds, in a hurry to get to something far more astounding in the room: all three adults had threads pouring from the crowns of their heads.

  Mom’s were once again red, a deep burgundy color that was several degrees darker than Cynthia had seen a few days before. Dad’s were purple still, a dark color that shimmered red and blue, before leaping back to the thick violet shade that was dominating them. Linda’s threads were different, a color that Cynthia had never seen before. The threads coming from Linda were corn-silk yellow, an iridescent shimmer as bright as the reflectors on the back of Cynthia’s bicycle.

  As fascinating as all of these threads were on their own, what was even more amazing was what they were doing.

  The threads of all three adults had collided in the center of the storeroom, weaving in and out of one another as though they’d been clumsily bound on a loom. Mom’s were red, Dad’s were their purplish red, and Linda’s were vibrant and yellow, but where they met above them the threads were knotted and an ugly, bruised color. Now that she could see the knot, Cynthia found it impossible to tear her eyes from it. She knelt next to the boxes of beer, staring into the impossibly writhing and twisting mass before her, and then Cynthia felt as if she were floating.

  Cynthia knew she was still on the floor—she could even see herself there, next to the boxes of beer—but she was also above the arguing adults. She was in the threads. Here it was easier to see where the colors were muddled into darkness. The purple from Dad was the easiest to see in the knot, but where its red strands touched Mom’s she could see a binding taking place. Linda’s yellow was vibrant in the knot, but where it touched Dad’s purple and Mom’s red, the yellow faded and died, turning to the other colors immediately at the place of contact. Cynthia waved her hands at the threads, and she could see her fingers passing through them like a shark’s dorsal fin cutting through water. The threads had no more weight than the air around them, but Cynthia could feel things in them. Bad things.

  Dad’s threads felt angry, just like the look on his face, but there was something more there, something worse. Dad had a darkness in him that Cynthia had never seen before, a darkness that she didn’t think anyone had ever seen, not even Mom or Linda. Mom’s strands were easy to read—pure anger at Dad and his selfishness—but where they meshed with Dad’s red strings, Cynthia could see hope. As long as her parents could stay mad enough to yell at one another, there could be hope, but threatening the bond of rage was the purple, along with Linda’s yellow.

  Linda wanted them to be fighting. Cynthia knew it in her guts, and she hated her old friend for the betrayal. Linda had always been the one to listen to her when the other adults were too busy, the one who knew what Cynthia needed when she was sad. Linda had been a friend, but that was no longer true. Linda wanted Mom and Dad to keep fighting, and even though she was crying, the tears only came because Linda thought they were supposed to.

  Linda wanted Mom’s and Dad’s threads to split once and for all, and she was willing to do anything to make that happen. As Cynthia stared at the threads that made up the knot, she could see that what she had first thought she was seeing was wrong. Linda’s yellow strands weren’t being attacked by Dad’s purple and red; they were acquiescing to the other colors, assimilating with them. For every turned strand, Cynthia knew that one of the red strands connecting Mom and Dad would split. Linda had her own goals in the argument, and they were as black as the threads at the center of the knot.

  Cynthia reached into the knot again, concentrating on the colors and the threads as she stretched out her arms, and then she began to tear the yellow strings from where they touched the purple and red ones. Electric pulses fluttered up her arms as she grabbed at them—strong enough to feel but not painful for her—and with concentration, Cynthia discovered they could be parted. Watching Linda as she worked, Cynthia could see the woman’s face twitching slightly, even as nonsensical thoughts burned through Cynthia’s mind. / Get out, bitch / Just leave us here / We’ve got this figured out / He doesn’t need you or the brat to be happy / He just needs me /

  Cynthia gasped. The thoughts in her head were poison, and the electricity on her hands now felt like thrumming tar. Cynthia tried to pull herself free, but it wasn’t possible. She was s
tuck in the knot as sure as if it were a tangible thing, and then she began to scream. The knot turned pitch black, sending black threads toward all three of the adults, and then all of them were screaming together. Cynthia heard what sounded like static electricity and then a sound like a balloon popping. The threads fell away from her, even as the screams became louder, and then the knot roared toward her, and Cynthia fell into the black.

  CHAPTER 13

  Darryl laid his hands on the keyboard and took a deep breath. He felt alive, connected, and he hadn’t even begun to reach out yet. Going without booze for a few days sucked, but this moment was always the same—he felt pure and alive—and though he knew the feeling would die, it made him wonder why he covered this with booze. This was his gift, what he was meant to do, and he willingly buried it under alcohol.

  “Do you want me to help you get started?” Terry asked from across the room, but the words may as well have come from across Texas.

  “No,” said Darryl as he began to type. Terry had showed him how to enter live chat rooms, and Darryl found himself entering one that was supposed to offer conversation about a game called Resident Evil. Not that it mattered. Darryl couldn’t have cared less about the game or what other users had to say about it.

  It only took a few moments for Darryl to connect. There was a user in the chat room named JVTINE911, and Darryl let his mind wander until he could make a connection. He was used to seeing the threads and working amongst them, but this was different. He was with JVTINE911, but stuck inside of the teenage boy’s head inside of his room. Darryl knew nothing about the boy and then everything in an instant. His name was Bryce Rucker, he was in tenth grade, and he loved his PlayStation. Bryce had never kissed a girl, was smoking the occasional cigarette, and had masturbated twice in the boys’ locker room at school. Bryce’s dad was a lawyer with the Crawford and Crawford firm in Phoenix, where their family lived, and Bryce’s mother was a homemaker. Dad worked too much, Mom tried too hard, and Bryce was spoiled and lonely.