by Ashley Love
The last thing he hears is Liam wandering into his room right next to Zane's, and he listens to him through the paper-thin wall, and he hears the tell-tale sound of pages turning and some kind of really shitty country music playing so so softly out of Liam's little clock radio on his nightstand. Zane passes out to the sound of some twangy guy singing about a woman he lost. There may have also been something about a tractor, although Zane might have imagined that.
He wishes it was a song about swimming pools.
15
I arrive to work a little early that afternoon, because I feel bad for making Alfred come pick me up at the hospital earlier. Abby is there when I get there and she gives me a big sweet smile, politely ignoring the bandages and the growing bruises on my face. Alfred must have said something to her, because she doesn't seem like the type of girl to disregard things like that. She's straight forward and blunt, just like her father.
I smile back, lifting only the uninjured corner of my mouth, giving her a crooked grin and taking my place behind the counter. She grabs her things and heads out, kissing Alfred once on the cheek and telling him she'll see him at home later. I look away as they say goodbye, studiously ignoring the familiar longing in my gut for someone to see at home like that. I have Sophia. That should be enough. But somehow it's just not.
However, Bonnie is quickly becoming a warm presence in our lives. She even took Sophia to get her hair cut a few days ago. And right now she's waiting at our house for the repair man to come and fix the heater since I can't be there to show the man in. I never had a neighbor like Bonnie. It's like we've known each other for years; the woman has taken us under her wing. I have absolutely no clue why, but I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Alfred comes up behind me as I'm pulling out my colorful array of papers and markers to make more origami for the shop. He slaps me companionably on the back.
"Your mobiles are selling like hot cakes," he chuckles, flicking at one of the mobiles above the desk. "Keep this up and you'll be a rich girl in no time."
I smile. "Thank you, Alfred."
He nods once with a little grunt and a smile and grabs his whiskey out from under the counter again, heading to the back to deal with paperwork from the many dealers he buys crafts and antiques from.
When I had first started working here, my origami wasn't selling that well by itself. But then I'd gotten the idea to make mobiles out of the little paper creations, and it was as easy as hanging ten to fifteen little origami shapes from curves of wire and fishing line, and I had decorations that sell remarkably well.
My origami angels are particularly popular in this part of town. A block away on 3rd Street, there are at least three different churches, and this whole area of town is a popular settling spot for retirees and religious elderly folk who like angels and crosses and going to church on Sundays. So while I don't like making the origami angels as much, they sell the fastest, and I could use the money. I'm saving as much as I can for college and the future.
I've made other mobiles too though, for fun mostly. And many of them do sell. My favorite is the one hanging right above the desk, still bobbing and swinging a little from where Alfred had flicked it. It's a dozen little origami Yodas and light sabers, arranged in faltering levels. I've always liked Star Wars.
I spend the next few hours folding up a bunch of roses, and stringing fishing line through them to hang from the wires later. A couple customers come in, but mostly it's a quiet weekday night. Alfred comes out towards the end of his shift and eyes my work.
"Looks good," he says, knocking once on the counter as he passes by to straighten things out on the shelves. "Ariel?" he calls out from somewhere near the back of the shop.
"Yes si—Alfred?" I respond, catching myself at the last second before calling him 'sir' again.
"You don't believe all that hogwash about Hartley, do ya?" Alfred asks from the back, and my brow furrows in confusion.
"Which part?"
"Oh, ya know, the whole deal with Elsa haunting the woods and all that," he says, coming out from behind one of the shelves, dusting off his hands. "I got a dealer who lives out near all those old train cars in the backwoods who says he swears he hears Elsa Hartley crying during the night. I ain't had one phone call with the crusty old bastard that hasn't somehow ended up with him blathering about the dead Hartley lady."
I purse my lips with a small shrug. "I, uh, I don't really give it much thought," I say. "My friends talk about it sometimes, and the kids at the K-8 have my little sister hooked on the story."
Alfred chuckles. "Yeah, it's a real popular folktale with the kids around here. You'll get used to it."
I fiddle with one of my roses, eyeing it proudly. I got away with only four paper cuts while making a dozen of them. "The story is true though, right? I mean, I read about it online."
Alfred nods. "Yeah, it's true. But it ain't like there's a haunting or nothing. People just like to talk."
I cock my head to the side. "But why? Why talk about Hartley? There's so much more to talk about."
Alfred huffs a little breath with a shrug. "I think people use Hartley as something to hold on to."
"What do you mean?"
Alfred rounds the counter and scoots next to me, opening the cash register to begin counting out the drawer. "When people get real down around here, Hartley is someone they can think about to tell themselves that it's not that bad, ya know? Nathan Hartley is like rock bottom."
I hum in thought. "Well, he could also be an icon of second chances, don't you think?"
Alfred pauses in his counting. "How do you reckon?"
I gather all my roses in a pile. "Elsa Hartley gave him that second chance, right? After he cheated on her the first time? Are you familiar with the story?"
Alfred scoffs. "Girl, I've been livin' here for thirty years. 'Course I'm familiar with the story."
I chuckle once. "Right," I say. "Well, Hartley screwed it up, his second chance. When Elsa gave him another chance, he cheated again. So maybe people can use his story as a lesson. Like if someone gives you a second chance, you don't waste it."
Alfred sets a stack of one dollar bills aside, licking his thumb to start counting the fives. He pauses as he ponders that, and then turns his eyes on me. "You're a smart kid, you know that?"
I blush a little and look down, shuffling my roses around. "I don't know about that."
"Hmph," is all he says, or rather huffs. He finishes counting the rest of the bills in silence, and then glances at the clock. "I know it's a bit early, but you wanna get outta here and go on home? I know it's a school night."
I glance up at him. "Sure...I mean, if it's alright?"
Alfred gives me a tiny smile, but it's gentle. "Go on home," he nods, putting the money from the register in a leather zipper bag and closing the drawer. I nod my thanks and store the roses under the counter for now, grabbing the rest of my things and heading towards the door.
"Abby tells me you're in theater with her?" Alfred calls after me
I glance back and give him a nod, and Alfred smiles.
"I think you'll like it," he says. "You'll make good friends in there. Keep ya away from those sumbitches that did that to your face."
I look at him for a moment, and then smile a crooked smile again. "Thank you, Alfred."
"No problem, kid," the man says, waving me off before disappearing behind that Japanese curtain again into the back. "Flip the sign on your way out!" he calls out just before I exit the store. I flip the sign hanging on the front door from Open to Closed, and then step out of the shop.
As I'm walking across the street to where I tether my bike to a lamppost every time I work, I smell a skunky aroma floating through the air. I know that smell well from going to school in the inner city where marijuana was practically a rite of passage among the students. Even I tried it once or twice with what sorry excuses for friends I managed to pick up for a day or two at a time there.
I glance up when I hear someone catcall from the alleyway beside the craft shop, and in the darkness it's hard to tell who it is. When someone whistles again, I quickly unchain my bike from the pole and climb onto it.
"Hey Ariel, where you going?" I hear a voice call out as I try to balance my belongings against my chest. "Come back and hang out with us!"
I recognize the voice and shiver. It's Gordon, and he's not alone. God can I ever get a break from these guys? They're the most persistent Cancers I've ever had to deal with.
"Come on Ariel, I have plenty to go around."
I shiver when I hear this voice. It's Slate—I'd recognize that nasally sneer anywhere. I push from the curb, glancing once towards the alley, and I see the glowing tips of joints in the darkness, the faint silhouettes of the two of them barely visible in the darkness.
Gordon yells something else that I don't hear, taunting me as I ride away, and I glance behind me to see them poking their heads out from the alleyway. Thankfully, they don't follow me, disappearing back into the alleyway seconds later, laughing and carrying on, smoking their weed. I wonder if they live around here.
I push my bike a little faster, afraid that they might decide to chase me. I don't think I can take anymore today. My body is exhausted and I just want to go home to my hopefully warmer house and watch some stupid documentary with Sophia and forget all about this day. Forget all about what it was like to feel flames eating through my clothes. Forget all about the way Zane's strong hands felt when they were tearing the flaming garment off of me.
I hear one more catcall behind me, and I have to shake myself as I turn a corner. It's funny. I feel so much more scared of the Cancers right now, and I realize it's because Zane isn't with them. I feel safer when Zane is there. And that's just all kinds of fucked up.
16
It's been a couple weeks since the incident with Ariel and the fire, and Zane has had some time to think. To be fair, thinking involves, for the most part, drinking a bottle or two of whatever he can get his hands on every day, but that's how Zane processes things. He learned from the best, after all.
Through this extensive thinking, he's come to understand one thing. Every time he so much as thinks about blue eyes, or dark hair, or any name even in the vicinity of starting with an A, all he wants to do is keep drinking until he doesn't have the capacity to even lift a bottle anymore, let alone picture beautiful angels in his head.
He's hungover for more than two weeks straight at school, so hungover that he doesn't really have the energy to participate when his friends pick on Ariel, or Barry Cook, or Krissy, or the newspaper geeks. He stands by and waits for it to end, and then they move on. His friends don't really notice. They don't say anything if they do. Slate will rub Zane's shoulder and ask about his well-being, noting that he looks a little green today, and Zane will bat his hand away and tell him not to fucking touch him, because he doesn't fucking want Slate's slimy hands on him. He's so done with it. So done with everything.
He'll watch absently as Gordon shoves Barry down in the hallway, and Ryker breaks the kid's glasses for the fifth time in a month. He stands in a daze as Noah knocks a stack of papers out of Ed's hands while Slate trips Harry and sends him sprawling into the lockers. He remains silent while they make fun of Krissy's hair and send her running in tears to the bathroom.
And he does nothing but stare at those big blue eyes while his friends torment Ariel in the hallways, tearing the cover off her textbook, stuffing her in her locker before she gets a chance to close it, knocking her to the pavement outside. Things don't escalate again to the level they did a couple weeks ago when Slate set Ariel's coat on fire though, to Zane's relief. He's not sure he can handle that again. He's not sure Ariel can handle that again.
He sees her looking at him sometimes, mostly when he's sure she thinks that he can't see him. Out of the corner of his eye, in math class, he'll see her face turned his direction, eyes fixated on his profile. And Zane will sit there stiffly, barely able to breathe, waiting for her to look away. But Ariel has this thing about staring, he's noticed. The girl just stares, like she's seeing everything, like she's looking right into the very back of your brain and digging out all your secrets. Her eyes carve you out raw.
Zane hates her.
Zane wants nothing more than to know her.
He loathes Ariel.
He wants Ariel.
It's all so fucked up.
He decides one night (because that's all he does anymore at night, is think about Ariel Riley) as he's staring up at his Return of the Jedi poster, that he's going to hurt Ariel. When Zane is angry, or conflicted, he breaks things. He hurts people. That's why it feels good to punch a freshman in the face, or pull some junior girl's hair in the hallway, or snap some poor kid's pencil in half in class, because that's how Zane works out his thoughts. It's horrible and wrong and just all kinds of cruel, but that's how Zane is. Like father, like son.
So he decides he's going to bully Ariel, bully her so profoundly that his brain sorts itself out. He thinks maybe if he bullies her enough, this feeling will go away, this strange fascination—nay, obsession—with the girl. He just wants to stop feeling this way. He wants to stop thinking about those swimming pools every time he picks up a drink. Liam has just about had it with him blabbering about swimming pools while he's drunk. Liam has just about had it with him being drunk in the first place.
Zane gets his chance one morning in early November.
He's alone in the downstairs hallway of the high school, his friends nowhere in sight. It's crowded down here since the ceilings are lower and the hallways are more narrow. This is the older part of the school, what used to be the main hallway before they added on the second floor to make the place look more modern. Students have nicknamed this hallway The Dungeon, because it's so confined. Even the lights are dimmer.
Zane's locker just so happens to be down here, tucked away in a corner where not even the drug sniffing dogs venture. He doesn't use his locker much, but today he promised Liam that he'd bring home his biology textbook for the first time all year so Liam can help him catch up on all the homework he's missed all semester. The kid is a genius. He's in seventh grade and he's helping Zane catch up in college level biology. Zane is smart, yeah, but he's unmotivated. The fact that Liam not only understands what's going on in his classes, but can also point him in the right direction, is just downright impressive.
Thinking about his smart little brother put Zane in a better mood this morning. He's not as hungover today as he's been the past couple weeks, mostly due to the fact that Mike had raided Zane's liquor supply and stolen all his whiskey, leaving him with just a six pack of beer in the fridge to take the edge off last night.
Zane is at his locker, stuffing his biology textbook into his backpack so he doesn't forget to bring it home for Liam, when he happens to glance up at the perfect moment. Across the crowded hallway, he spots Ariel pushing her way into the bathroom next to the stairwell. It's the only bathroom in The Dungeon, and hardly anyone uses it. Zane's walked in on more than one hookup in progress in there during his time at this high school, since it's mostly a vacant lavatory. It's the perfect privacy spot for those horny teenagers that can't seem to keep it in their pants long enough to find a sanitary place to fuck.
Apparently Ariel didn't get the memo, even though the girl's been going here for almost two months now. Zane stares at the bathroom door as it sinks closed slowly, stares as he closes his locker. It's the passing period between fourth period and lunch right now, so he's not in a hurry. Other students rush by, on their way to the cafeteria or to The Docks to get in a smoke or two before Zane and his friends get out there and scare them all away.
Zane swallows. He's half tempted to just walk away and go get lunch. But more than anything, he just wants to go in that bathroom with Ariel and sock the girl in the face. Punch her and get it over with. Punch her enough times to get rid of these feelings that he's trying so
desperately to swallow down.
He barely breathes as he finds his feet carrying him down the hallway before his brain even processes the fact that he's walking towards the bathroom. He pushes past other students, bumping shoulders with a few, but most of them dodge him swiftly. Zane has a reputation, after all. People don't get in his way at this school.
When he reaches the bathroom, he stands there staring at the door for several seconds, debating whether or not he should do this. Somewhere deep in his sick psyche, he thinks he really does need to do this, to just go in there and beat Ariel's face into a bloody pulp, because if he does that, these nagging feelings of longinglustwant will go away.
Yes. Yes, he'll do that. He'll do that, and get it over with. Right now. He'll do it.
Blowing out all the breath in his lungs, he pushes through the bathroom door. Ariel is standing at the sinks washing her hands, and she doesn't look up as Zane enters the bathroom, which gives him a chance to just stare at her for a second. She's wearing loose jeans that look worn and weathered, and a Colorful Colorado! t-shirt that's one size too big for her. Most of Ariel's clothes, Zane's noticed, are too big for her, like she found them at a garage sale, or like whoever bought them for her didn't know her actual size. Her backpack is laying on the floor next to the sinks.
The door drifts closed behind Zane—it's one of those doors that has a pressure point in the hinges that prevents it from slamming. He dares to look away from Ariel for just a brief second, turning and clicking the lock shut on the door so no one else comes in here. And maybe so Ariel can't get out quickly. Zane's going to need all the help he can get.