by Amanda Miga
"It kinda is. That’s what makes it so entertaining.” Pete chimes in. “What’s a party without someone taking a beating? There's nothing like the football team doing what meatheads do best.”
“You’re an asshole.” She grabs her bag; a threat she’ll leave the table.
Pete rolls his eyes. “Sit down, Cher?”
“You’re just a bunch of hypocrites pretending to be all buddy-buddy with everyone."
"And that's news to you? You've never complained before. Matter of fact I remember specifically you laughing you ass off when Lucas Reiner was running around with a half shaved head and boxers over his pants," Jake says.
Pete chuckles. "I remember that. He actually made it into the house."
"I let him stay since he was following Kate Pierson around. I hate that bitch."
“Alex?”
The sound of my name makes my temple throb.
Cher clenches her bag. “Tell him inviting Hunter’s crew is a bad idea."
"You can't not invite the football team, Cher." Jake twists his mouth.
"Then don't invite the people that won't get in. Alex? You can’t possibly agree—“
I can't look at her. Why does she keep pulling me in like I'll take her side? If my answer makes her leave, than maybe it won’t ruin my friendship with Pete. “Get over it. It’s just the way it is.”
Cher stalks off. Pete curses under his breath. Her leaving from the center table might start some gossip, but it’s not something Pete can’t bounce back from.
“Someone isn’t getting laid tonight,” Jake sings.
“Shut up!” Pete’s voice fades as I shut my eyes.
My headache has reached its limit. Nausea has taken up residence and its rising. I'll have to leave the center table for fresh air, but Cher had just left. It's too suspicious and it would start a lot of gossip. Luckily Madison’s voice emerges from across the cafeteria. Focusing on her for purpose and pleasure will hopefully make the other voices fade. Sinking my mind into hers, I'm like a thought vampire, feeding my ego with her foolish girly thoughts; the sound of her voice mulling over what she'll wear to the party, how her friend Christine is totally jealous, Alex Aisling wants to hook up and she can’t eat because she’s too excited. Her voice is soothing to my mind’s ear. The sick feeling leaves me as the other voices soon soften like a distant hum of a highway.
Chapter Seven
Alex
Cher appears in my peripheral when I shut my locker. She's standing near the end of the hall. Our eyes connect. I know to follow her. The second bell rings when I leave the building and see her get in her white VW. I quickly sweep the parking lot for a sign of Pete before I step into the car.
"You're an asshole." Her tearing eyes don't leave the steering wheel.
I stare at her. I know what she wants when we meet in her car, but she's crying. She wants to know why I didn't defend her at lunch. If she wants to talk then I'd rather be in class. She isn't my responsibility. Why would she think I could console her? Cher looks at my hand, which still rests on the release handle. She's scared I'll leave. She doesn't look as pretty when her brow wrinkles.
"Why didn't you say something?" She grips the steering wheel.
"What did you expect me to say? I'm not agreeing with you over my best friend. You know how suspicious we'd look? And I don't appreciate you singling me out like that."
Her forehead rests on the steering wheel. Her thoughts start rolling in like a storm. I used to be like them; those outcasts. Some of them are still my friends. I thought he cared about me. Doesn't he care about me?
Fuck me! I shouldn't have gotten into this car. I grind my teeth. I don't want this. I don't want my best friend's girlfriend to get attached. I don't want to get to know her any more than I already know. For as long as I've known her, she's always been separate from those other groups; she’s a part of our circle. But now, she's rehashing some old shit; revisiting all of her insecurities. She's scared of what will happen to some of her old friends. She still talks to them. What would they think of her if they're messed with at the party? She scared to be with Pete and she thinks she loves me. I don't want to be part of her identity crisis. She knows the deal—we fuck—that's it.
"You're basically saying you don't care."
"Why would I?" She's thinks she loves me. Fuck that shit. "They're right, Cher. Who cares?"
"I care."
Why am I still in this shitty car? "Well, I couldn't care less." I pull the door handle.
"No." Cher leans over and her hands grab my thigh. There's desperation in her eyes, I've never seen before. She doesn't want me to leave. I still haven't given her what she wants, but caring for is her boyfriend's job. "Please." Her voice sounds anxious. She's always so beautiful and composed, but now her face is red and seems so vulnerable, she's falling apart. Who knew she'd be attractive when she begs.
No. I have to get a grip. "I can't do this anymore. Pete's my best friend."
"Then you don't want me to tell him." Her cat eyes are staring hungrily. The weak girl from a moment ago vanishes. Her hands are like claws digging into my thigh. "I was going to tell him if this doesn't work out."
This? This isn’t anything. Bitch.
Cher reaches under her skirt and pulls off her panties. She's still offering herself even though she'd rather talk about her problems. She wants me to be close. She'll do anything. I can only get so close. She should know by now I don't roll like that. I glance at her panties which she throws in the backseat. I can't think of a reason anymore. She still wants to do it.
I shut the door and shift over on the seat to make room for her. I unzip my jeans and pulls them down a bit. She climbs on top of me.
She's trying to not to cry; trying to hold it together. This isn't what she wants; she wants to talk and she wants me to listen. I can see it in her eyes, she wants me to care for her, but I can't. A serious relationship with me is impossible—she knows that. I look away from her eyes and thrusts inside of her even though she's silently crying. I turn my lips away when she attempts to kiss me. She'll give her all to me anyway. I will still get what I want without giving her what she needs in return. If this is what I have to do to keep my best friend, Pete from knowing; if this is what will shut her up, then I won't stop.
Chapter Eight
Alex
After school I head to the music room. It’s the one thing I don't do with Jake, Pete or Cher. It isn't hanging out at the coffee house, drinking beers behind the school or fucking in the parking lot. It certainly isn't like Jake's parties.
It’s a sanctuary from everything that's supposed to matter. Mrs. Rubio allows free range on all the band instruments and stereo equipment. It’s not a club—at least not officially, but it should be. It’s more like a music lover’s paradise; a place to share ideas, to collaborate, to make music, sing and dance. If I could be myself, it’s here in the music room with these students and Mrs. Rubio. Evenings here are long and it's usually a party in itself. Today, I'll stay as long as I can before Jake's party. I need to clear my head.
Walking down the noisy hall is the only thing between me and the sweet sounds that drowns out everyone’s thoughts including my own. Mrs. Rubio’s piano calls to me like the Pied Piper. The noisy hallway of students and teachers soon leave my ears as I open the door to sweet relief. The large room echoes the musical bliss in such a way it refreshes my mind from the burdening static of living outside of this room.
The same faces smile when I enter. Music lovers tuning their instruments; singers warming their voices; dancers stretching their bodies; Mrs. Rubio bouncing hands play Mozart’s piano sonata number eleven; Alla Turca (Allegretto).
Her face lights up as I enter the room. “Ah, Alexander!” I love the way she says my name with her heavy Spanish accent. Her fingers, swing into a less choppy, familiar tune. The key strokes are slowed down and they connect smoothly together.
“That’s beautiful. What is it?”
“Rolling Stones.” He
r brilliant teeth bring me to smile. “Tony let me borrow his CD.”
“I’ve never heard them like that.” I look closely at her joyful expression. Her face looks thirty-something, but the minor lines around her eyes reveal she's older. Her smooth skin and dyed red hair trick the eyes. “Have you looked in to the schools I recommended?”
“Ah…” I avert my eyes.
Mrs. Rubio presses her fingers down like a child throwing a tantrum, the keys blare out noise, destroying the song. “Alexander!” I've seen that penetrating gaze before. My adoptive mother does it when my grades aren’t to Aisling standards. “You must stay with your passion. Your dancing, your singing, your music, Alexander. Isn’t it what you want?”
“Yes. It is, but—"
Her slender frame gracefully rises from the piano bench. “No. No. No, but! You listen here,” She points to my heart. “Not here.” Her finger springs off my forehead. "You're parents give you trouble?"
"No, not exactly."
"Then you are de problem, Alexander. De head."
She's right. If she only knew how much of de head is a burden to me. Sometimes I want to tell her I can read minds because she's the only one that gets me. It sounds pitiful just to tell my teacher and not his friends.
Her painted fingernails daintily motions to the piano. I don't hesitate and place my books down. I know what to play for her. Mrs. Rubio motions to another student to dance with her. I begin to play a popular love song I always thought Bobby Darin sung best. I don't need the music sheet; I know it by heart.
I'm good at this. I have to be if I want to stay sane. I can feel everything fall away from me like I'm a bird lifting off the ground. It's the only time I can focus and not hear thoughts; my parents’ thoughts; my friends’ thoughts and my own thoughts; only music makes me feel at peace.
Everyone is dancing and singing; some grab their instrument and play along.
Mrs. Rubio and the other students who love to dance take a partner. She scoots me off the bench and she takes over flawlessly. "Go Alexander! Show me your stuff,” she winks.
She told me I move passionately like Fred Astaire. She thought I should pursue a music and dance career. I've always thought that would be a new beginning for me. Music seems to be the only option anyway. It's a no brainer. But it always changes the moment I leave the music room. It’s like that dream only lives there. Leaving it, I become a different Alex—the one that has to pretend to be an honest student, a good athlete, and a loyal best friend.
In this room I don't have to act or lie.
I walk over to Beth, a violinist who usually taps her feet as far as dancing goes. She’s stunned when I offer my hand; I broke the social barrier between seniors and freshmen. I pull her up and cradle her stiff little body into my arms.
"Don't worry. I got you."
I can't hear her; the music blocks all the voices I would normally receive. There isn't a need to use my ability to know that Beth is nervous. I start out slow and show her the steps.
"Follow me."
She tries her hardest and she begins to loosen up once she gets the rhythm down. I swing her around and she smiles frightfully. I sing to her which makes her blush. I would normally find her vulnerability useful to what I usually want from girls, but dancing with Beth, I want her to be comfortable and enjoy what music does for us both. It isn't about getting another notch on my belt, as Pete always says. It‘s about Beth and sharing this sacred place with her. For this moment, she’s precious to me. Gently gliding her across the music room floor, I listen to her laugh, and feel her soft hands in mine. Her eyes are bright behind her glasses, her curly hair bounces like bedsprings, and her smile lights up her face beautifully.
I kiss her hand as the piano echoes the last few notes. Beth turns red. I'm just doing what feels right for the moment. My action surprised me as well. The room full of voices rushes into my head for just a few seconds, until a blaring vibration of a trumpet rips the voices away.
***
Alex
The definition of home is an empty house. The smell of homemade cooking permeates the air, but it's not welcoming. There's no one home to share it with. The housekeeper had left me dinner as per my parents' instruction. The meal is still warm with plastic covering it. It's not the same as a hot meal made by someone who loves you. The substitute meals don't have that special something. I sit and eat my meal quietly. One thing about being home is there's no one to bombard my mind. But that's the problem, there's either too many or no one at all.
"I hate spaghetti."
The red blinking light on the answering machine flashes. A message from my parents no less. I press the button and immediately hear my father.
"Hey, Son, Florence from the guidance office called. What's this about not showing up for some of the extracurricular activities you signed up for? Your commitments to those activities are what the college boards will look at. If you can't commit yourself to those clubs than…” My father audibly sighs. “Florence doesn't think you're being consistent. She wondered if anything was going on at home. Alex, I don't like being called a bad father..."
"Right, I'm sure that's exactly what she called you, Dad." I play with my food.
"...You know what I do for a living and I do it for you and your mother."
"Alex, this is Mom. Honey, I know this is strange on the answering machine..."
"No shit." I twirl the fork to see how big I can get the spaghetti around it.
"... but I want to call you later and discuss the things Florence suggested."
"Right, call when I won't be here." I drop my fork into the bowl. "It's not like I didn't tell you about Jake's party."
"...we'll be home on the 25th."
I drag my hand down my face. The 25th is three weeks away. I hate that they're never here. It's like I have ghost parents and they only talk through the answering machine. "Shit." I push the unsatisfying bowl away from me.
“… on a happy note, she informed us that your grade point average—“I turn off the answering machine, cutting away Mom's delighted tone. I can't stand this shit anymore. I know where the one sided conversation is headed. The car I'm dying to have will be mine. I've been meaning to lower my average so it doesn't look so much like a lie, but again attention gets the best of me and the car is hot. I hate how happy they are when I'm on the ball; it only makes me feel bad that I've never earned it fairly. Listening to their praises makes me sick to my stomach, but so does their disappointment. Sometimes the car doesn’t matter. Today the car doesn’t matter.
Chapter Nine
Alex
Jake's lawn smells like chemicals. A large hand nearly covering my crown shoves my head further into moist soil. “I don’t know what’s funnier,” Hunter’s voice spits into my ear, "you thinking you could get in or this sad-ass sweater you're wearing. Did you time warp from the eights?”
I press my lips shut and attempt to turn my head to avoid eating dirt. I huff out grass blades. “Get off me!”
“What’s your name pee-wee?”
Pee-wee?
A boot heel digs into the center of my back.
“Fuck!” I mumble into the ground. Hunter takes my arm and pins it to my back while my head is pulled away from the grass. “You know my name, asshole? What the fuck are you doing? Get off.”
“You hear that guys? He thinks we know his name." He presses my arm hard into my back, “How would we know the name of some piss-ant I’ve never seen in my life. Even if I’ve seen you, which I haven’t, why would I even bother to ask your name? How do you even know Jake?"
“I’m Jake’s best friend.”
The Crew laughs. "Jake’s never mentioned you. Matter of fact I’ve never seen you at the center table."
"Find Jake and Pete!"
“Pete? Jake’s best friend is dead.”
“What?”
“Pete’s dead, asshole and you don’t look like Pete to me.”
My cell rings. Hunter snatches it out of my pocket.
I hear Mom's distant 'who is this?'
Hunter throws the phone at Davis. “Take care of this bitch, will you?”
In which Davis chuckles, “Hello… ah—your son?... He’s tied up right now…. Yeah, he’s sucking some guy’s dick… yeah, he's really into it… Alex? Who’s Alex? ...oh you mean Douchebag… ” Davis hits end and throws the phone over Jake’s house.
“Who did you bag this time, Hunter?” Jake calls out from the porch.
Hunter lets me go. I get up slowly, holding my side where the boot dug into me. My fingers feel a funny material and I look down at my clothes. It's an ugly over-sized stripe sweater hanging off my body. I'd never wear something like this—ever. My boxers are over my jeans like the prank on Lucas Reiner. I would never leave my house like this. Hunter and his crew are laughing as I make my way past them.
"Jake!" I shout. “What the hell is going on?”
“It’s okay I know him.” Jake sips his beer in one hand and the other is around Cher’s waist.
Hunter and his crew back away from me. “Serves you right freak." I hear one of them say.
"Are you with him now?" I ask Cher.
“What was I supposed to do? You didn’t want me.” She rubs Jake's chest.
"Of course she's with me, Pete's dead." Jake smirks.
"Pete's dead?" I look down at my feet to find Pete's body beaten to a pulp. Hunter's Crew bashed his head in. "How could you let this happen?" I approach the porch.
"I'm sorry. You can't enter." One of Hunter's Crew blocks the way. "You're not on the list."
I've had enough of this shit. Everything's backwards. "Jake, what's going on?"
"I don't let freaks into my parties. You are the biggest freak of them all. To think I was your friend. Friends don't lie and they don't take their friend's girlfriends."