by Nicole Fox
Mom smiles and turns away, almost heading back for the stairs before she stops and looks over her shoulder.
“Would you want to do something fun tonight?”
“Fun how?” I ask.
She thinks about it for a minute, and I can tell she doesn’t have a plan. “Maybe a movie? At that drive-in place we used to go to?”
With Dad. My mind fills in the gap my mom artfully avoided.
Dad had a BMW convertible he liked to roll the top down on so we could watch a movie under the stars with Chinese take-out and trash food from the concessions stand. It was a regular ritual in our family.
We haven’t been once without him.
There are a lot of things we haven’t done without my dad. Mostly because my mom was too far gone every night to stand up, let alone make mother-son plans.
But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try now.
I’m making strides to fix the shit in my life. Maybe taking a risk with my mom could fix a few things with her, too.
“Sure, yeah. Why not?”
Mom beams. She must’ve expected me to turn her down.
“Let me change into warmer clothes, and I’ll be ready in five.”
She hustles up the stairs, a new pep in her step. I can’t help but smile softly.
Not my usual style, either.
But it feels good.
22
Noah
Drive thru hamburger wrappers and fry containers litter the floorboard of Mom’s SUV. We each have a box of movie candy from the concessions stand in our hands.
If it was football season, I know I’d be regretting all the junk food at practice the next day.
But it’s not football season.
It won’t ever be football season again.
That phase of my life is over.
Caleb and J.C. have been nostalgic all semester so far, talking about everything they’ll miss. Until now, I didn’t have anything to add to the list.
But I will miss football.
And I’ll miss my mom.
You can’t say that out loud without being roasted into oblivion, but it’s true. Mostly, I’ll miss knowing she’s okay.
For two years, I’ve loathed seeing her cry and get so drunk she passed out.
But at least I knew she was alive.
At least I knew she was able to get out of bed and go to work before she crumpled into a ball all night.
Once I’m gone, who knows what will happen?
Right now, for instance, I can look over and see that my mom has snuck a few glugs of whatever is in her flask into her large soda.
But she’s trying.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, she’s genuinely trying to keep her shit together and have a nice time with me.
That is fucking progress.
“Donald O’Connor did this scene so many times and with so much passion that he actually broke some ribs and had to go to the hospital right after filming,” she informs me.
Mom is lip-syncing along with the old musical numbers and sharing trivia facts with me when she remembers one.
She used to watch them a lot when I was growing up, turning TCM on the television and letting it run all day while she cleaned.
She hasn’t done that in a long time, though.
I can’t blame her.
I gave up a lot of things, too—my guitar being one of them.
“What do you think about performing as a career choice?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“I think it’s a hard industry to crack into,” she says. “Though maybe not quite so much these days. The Internet has opened everything up. Why?”
I’ve never told anyone about wanting to perform.
Even when I was learning to play guitar, I said it was just a hobby.
I never told my dad I imagined standing on a stage in front of a crowd.
I never told anyone that was the only future I’d ever imagined for myself.
They probably wouldn’t have believed me even if I did admit it. I never auditioned for a musical, I never joined band or orchestra, and I hardly ever spoke in front of crowds.
But, for me, there’s a difference.
I don’t want to simply perform. I want to play guitar. In a band. A real band.
“No reason.”
I hold out my box of Milk Duds. Mom steals a few, chewing on them for the next ten minutes as the movie plays.
As one musical turns to another, she adds a few more glugs of alcohol to her drink and slouches a bit further down in her seat.
She isn’t making quite as many comments about the movie, and when she does, her words are a little slurred.
I know our time together is running short.
By intermission, her eyes are closed.
I reverse out of the lot and start heading home.
It was fun while it lasted.
The drive-in is in the middle of nowhere. Aside from a few extra street lights they put directly across from the entrance to the drive-in, the rest of the roads are pitch black. The only illumination comes from the few cars that may pass by.
So, I don’t notice the Hell Princes until they flip on their headlights and appear a few car lengths behind me.
After Caleb shut Bumper down last semester, the Hell Princes have kept their distance.
We thought that maybe we’d finally succeeded in putting this ridiculous feud behind us.
As motorcycles surround my mom’s car, however, I’m fairly confident that isn’t the case.
Two bikes are in front of the car, their brake lights lit up, several more are on my left, and another two are right behind me.
They’re herding me towards the side of the road.
My options are limited.
I could play along and hope they only want to chat.
I could run the Hell Princes in front of me over and speed off, but going to prison for manslaughter isn’t the most appealing choice for my future.
Or, I could call the cops, but while it takes them twenty minutes to reach me, I’ll have to decide between one of the other two options.
And considering one of the options involves manslaughter, I start to pull over, following the path the motorcycles make for me.
It’s obvious I’m outnumbered. And because I’m with my mom in her car, I don’t even have my gun.
Though, that wouldn’t help me much in this situation. The Hell Princes probably have guns, too.
And more Hell Princes equals more guns. I’m shit at math, but even I can work that problem out.
For the first time all night, I’m grateful my mom has been sneaking drinks. They’ve put her into a restful sleep, so she doesn’t stir even as I drive over the rumble strips along the shoulder of the road.
When I shift into park, the Hell Princes turn their engines off.
What the fuck is happening?
What do the Hell Princes want with me?
Why did they follow me to a drive-in movie with my mom?
I’ll only get answers once I step out of the car, so I do.
I keep the engine running, but I open the driver door, slide out of the seat onto the sandy shoulder, and take in the motorcycle gang surrounding me.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Beautiful night.” One of the bikers pulls down a black bandana around his mouth and neck, revealing neck tattoos that look like they blend into chest and shoulder tattoos, too.
His head is shaved, but he has a thick beard.
“Is that what you ran me off the road to tell me?”
The large man sucks on his bottom row of teeth and spits on the ground. A few of the other Hell Princes follow suit, like this is West Side Story and their movements have to be coordinated.
“No, I ran you off the road to send a message.”
“Ever heard of a phone? They’re great for sending messages. Much less work, too.”
He smiles, but there is no humor in it. “You Golden
Boys think you’re so fucking smart.”
A retort about the graduation rates of Ravenlake Prep students versus the kids from Public comes to mind, but I decide it isn’t in my best interest to repeat it.
I don’t feel like getting killed tonight.
“I’m here to tell you that the little truce we had going there for a minute—”
“Which the Hell Princes broke when they attacked my friend,” I say, interrupting him.
“No, which you Golden Boys broke when you pulled out a gun and stopped us from taking what is ours.”
And there it was.
Why they were following me.
Because I was the one who pulled the gun.
The Hell Princes showed up to our campsite to take Haley with them, and I pulled a gun on them.
They left, and I thought that was the end of it
Or, at least, when Caleb knocked Bumper unconscious, I thought that was the end of it.
Apparently not.
“You were coming to kidnap someone,” I remind him. “Someone who was with a Golden Boy. You broke the truce first.”
The man growls. “I’m not going to play he said, she said with you. I’m here to tell you the truce is over. Watch your back.”
The other bikers are all standing casually by their bikes, though their eyes are on me. It doesn’t seem like they are about ready to start a fight.
So, I say what’s on my mind.
“Spoiler alert: maybe this is why the Hell Princes are constantly on the losing side of our encounters. It’s not customary to give your target a forewarning of what your plan is.”
The man smirks. “You have no idea what’s coming for you, kiddo.”
“Maybe not yet, but I’m sure you’ll send a fruit basket with all the details before you pull off your plan.”
At that, the man cracks his knuckles and steps away from his bike.
Again, as though choreographed, the other Hell Princes follow suit.
Shit.
I took it too far.
That’s the problem with fighting these battles alone.
As a unit, the Golden Boys have a nice balance.
By myself, I always seem to push too hard in one way or the other.
This time, I channeled a bit too much Caleb and have found myself in a fight I certainly won’t win.
The bikers are approaching. I’m trying to decide if I can jump back in my car and peel out of here without getting caught or waking my mom up.
But before I can move, sirens blare.
The bikers freeze, their surprised expressions washed in red and blue lights.
The police car pulls into the lane just next to where our little powwow is happening on the shoulder.
He climbs out of his car, his arms resting casually on the hood. “What’s going on here, fellas?”
I make the decision easily.
I could turn these fuckers in for harassing me…
But I’m no snitch.
“Car trouble.” I smile and tip my head towards my car, which…is still running. “These fine gents just assisted me.”
The officer is young, mid-twenties with a thick mustache that shows how hard he’s trying to appear older than he is.
But he isn’t stupid. His brow quirks up.
“I’m a mechanic,” the lead biker says, pointing to a white, rectangular patch on his jacket that looks like it was ripped right off of a mechanic’s uniform.
The name “Tank” has been stitched in the center.
The officer licks his lower lip, his mustache rippling, clearly not buying the story. Finally, he waves his hands.
“Well, if the car is working, clear out. All of you.”
I nod in thanks to him—how thankful, he’ll never really know—and hop back in the car without a backwards glance at the Hell Princes.
Thankfully, my mom is still asleep.
I shudder to think how much worse things could have been if she’d woken up.
The rest of the drive home, I glance in the rearview mirror, expecting to see shadows following me.
But either the officer scared them away or they already delivered their message.
Because no one follows me home.
In the driveway, I shake my mom’s arm to rouse her. She isn’t drunk enough to be black out drunk, but she’s still difficult to wake.
When she finally does rouse, she stretches and laughs sleepily.
“I had fun tonight. It was good to spend time together, wasn’t it? I like knowing what’s going on in your life.”
I almost laugh in her face. She wants to know what’s going on in my life? She doesn’t know the half of it.
She lost her husband.
But I lost my dad, my best friend, and my mother in one fell swoop.
And my mom was too busy nursing her own heartbreak to ever notice mine.
So if she thinks all it takes is one night out to fix our problems, then I’m happy to be her rude awakening.
She is still talking, slurring on about something in the movie. But I get out of the car and shut the door behind me, leaving her inside.
When I reach the front door, I hear her say my name, but I don’t turn around.
Tonight, she can escort herself into the house and to bed. God knows I’ve done it enough times already.
Tonight, I’m worrying about myself.
I’m the only one who can.
23
Noah
Pre-Calculus has become a trigger.
Mrs. Frye is standing at the front of the room reading a word problem where she has clearly just inserted Cardi B into a pre-written sentence.
“Cardi B is a rapper. She receives a salary of $45,000 per year. In addition, she receives 7% of her royalties for the year. What amount of royalties would allow her to earn more than $56,900 per year…”
…And all I can think about is Penny squirming against a stall door.
Now, the time feels ripe to make that happen again.
Maybe it’s because of what happened this weekend.
Because of my past coming back to haunt me in the form of tattooed bikers with a vendetta.
So why shouldn’t Penny’s come back to haunt her?
After what she did to me and to my family…
I pull out my phone, hiding it behind my propped up calc book, and text her the same thing as before.
Bathroom. Now.
Then I close the book, leaving my phone shut between the pages, and stride out of class.
When I get to the Eastside girl’s bathroom and reach for the handle, I hear voices on the other side.
I hesitate, listening.
“Wow, even demons have to pee. The bathroom really is the great equalizer, isn’t it?”
“I’d suggest you wash your hands—who knows where they’ve been or what they’ve been doing—and get moving before I have to break a promise.”
I recognize Penny’s voice, the nasally one she uses when she’s being pissy.
“What promise?” The other voice is muffled by the sound of running water.
“Do you really think I’d divulge any details about my life to you? The bathroom isn’t that great of an equalizer. Just fuck off, okay?”
“Oh, I see,” the other girl says. “You’re waiting until I clear out so you can drop to your knees and spew your lunch. An eating disorder—how original.”
Penny doesn’t answer.
“Well, don’t mind me,” the other girl finishes. “I’ll be going now.”
I hear footsteps across the tile. I just have enough time to spin away from the door and lean lazily against the brick wall when the door opens and Haley steps out of the bathroom.
She jumps when she sees me and then narrows her blue eyes.
“Noah?”
I give her a casual nod, but I can feel my face warming. “Hey.”
“What are you—” Haley looks back at the bathroom, suspicion in her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“Avoiding pre-c
alc. I’m shit at math.”
“Okay, but why—” She starts to ask the question and then stops, shaking her head. “I have to get back to ceramics before my clay dries out. I’ll see you later.”
I lift my hand in a wave and watch as she walks down the hallway, looking back once before she turns the corner.
Even then, I wait another thirty seconds before I go into the bathroom.
Penny is sitting on the white counter, her back against the mirror, her legs dangling over the edge.
She has a high-waisted mini skirt on—this one maroon corduroy—with black sheer tights, black high-heeled boots, and a deep v-neck white sweater tucked in.
Her hair is pulled back in two braids with the long, curled ends spilling over her shoulders.
She looks fucking perfect.
Like a teenage boy’s schoolgirl fantasy.
“Before you say anything, Haley was the one harassing me,” she says, smoothing a finger over her bottom lip to smooth her lip gloss. “I did as you asked.”
I did as you asked.
The words shouldn’t turn me on as much as they do, but with her outfit and the way she’s perched on the edge of the counter, one leg crossed over the other, it’s nearly too much for me.
“What else will you do if I ask?”
She arches a blonde brow and then shakes her head. “No, Noah. Not today. Not again. Last time was a mistake. I can’t be caught doing anything like that in a school bathroom. My mom would… well, she’d be pissed.”
Penny never liked to talk about her mom, even back in the day.
I knew there were issues, but a lot of girls don’t get along with their moms. It’s not so unusual.
Classic Penny, playing the victim, making sure she’s the center of attention.
“I’m not going to be your personal escort, living at your beck and call, helping you get off whenever and wherever, okay?”
“As I recall, I’m the one who got you off.”
Heat rises up her neck, turning her fair skin pink.
I reach my hand around my back and bolt the bathroom door closed before cutting a path across the bathroom to Penny.
“Is that why you came to meet me again? Because you wanted me to make you feel good like before?”
Penny angles her body away from me and uncrosses her legs, pressing her knees together tightly.