by Leanne Davis
Feeling nasty and snarky, I have a strong desire to lash out. My mom sees us and comes out with a “Hold that pose; I want one too!”
Sure! Everyone wants a memory of BFFs, Max and Christina. I smile a waxy smile with my sunglasses still on, despite the fading sun and not needing them. I can’t get through this otherwise. My unmasked hurt and longing would surely be revealed in my eyes.
“Hold it, let’s grab your sisters, I want a picture of all of you to remember this always.” Mom says.
I shift my weight and stare at my toes. Sure, yeah, right, I want to remember this too. My little sisters come over to join us, smiling and laughing. Max gets behind us all. I feel him over my shoulder, even closer now. I smile as several people take their pictures of us. “Tiny, take your glasses off,” my mom calls out, as if this is a professional photo session. I slip them off with a huge scowl at her, and fake the smile some more. My mom lowers her camera and stares at me, her expression strange. I step away from Max and my sisters and retreat inside, trying to stay busy by saying goodbye to everyone for the next hour.
Why does Max stay? I can’t stand it. I can’t fathom why he’s doing this to me. He’s now in the house, sitting on one of the ottomans. He hasn’t talked to anyone. No one. Just a few grunts or acknowledgements to friends that were leaving. He’s being a complete jerk to everyone. But I suppose that’s a tired statement, since people are kind of used to it.
He doesn’t crack a smile. Or soften his gaze. He acts like he’s never been close to me, or any of us. It drives me nuts. It’s like he’s rubbing salt into my wounded, bleeding heart. He gets up when I enter the room and goes over to talk to Noah.
I finally sit down on the couch and kind of wilt. It’s been a long day and I’ve been the center of attention for too many hours. My mouth hurts from smiling and being so freaking nice with proper “thank yous” and “goodbyes” to everyone’s well-wishing. I appreciate it, sure, but holy crap, am I sick of it! Then Max freaking sits down next to me, and I snap my back up straight. Why? Why would he come and sit next to me? My sisters are both on the floor, playing the Xbox. A few couples are still talking around the living room as it’s dark out now. The large crowd has dwindled down to family and maybe five other people. Why would he just sit next to me?
I hate him. I am burning up now in a blush. I feel him. And it hurts to feel him.
“Christina?”
While pretending to be riveted to Melissa and Emily’s road battle racing game, which they are playing, my shoulders hunch up and I nearly freeze when Max says my name. I don’t want to turn towards him. I really do not want to face him.
Finally, however, I turn my head. He leans forward from where he’s been sprawled. I sit primly on the edge of the cushion, leaning over my knees. He sits next to me so no one can hear us. “I—I’m sorry.”
His tone sounds kind of tortured. It’s a low, dark voice. The one I’ve heard only when he talks about his life before coming here. I have become that? A terrible memory he has to face and deal with? I turn my head, my mouth half open. I can’t believe he’s saying that here. In front of everyone. We can’t talk. I can’t rail at him. But isn’t that the point? He’s got me metaphorically trapped, so I can’t overreact without causing a huge scene. A scene he knows I’m not going to make.
I stare right into his eyes and keep my voice low as I say, “Fuck you.”
Getting up, I exit the room. Okay, not my most eloquent performance, but it pretty much summed up everything I was feeling and thinking, along with my displeasure at the way he handled it. He could have done anything to make it better. He could have acted contrite or embarrassed like I suffered through all afternoon. He could have acted like it mattered to him I was so upset and hurt and embarrassed. He could have tried to talk to me. At any point, all week, today even, he could have tried, but he did nothing until we’re in a group of people. That’s when he corners me with a stupid, I’m sorry? What am I supposed to do with that? I can’t even react. I can’t even talk. Perhaps that is the entire point for Max, the master of silence? Not to let me talk.
I only emerge after I see Max’s car pulling out. I figure he’d leave after that. It screeches out of our driveway with a predictable squeal of tires as he races down our private road. I roll my eyes. So stupid.
I wander back into the living room. It’s only Lindsey and my mom left, cleaning up. My sisters are still playing video games, and my dad and Noah are sitting with their feet on the ottoman, drinking beers. I slip onto one of the kitchen stools and listen in.
“Can I help?”
Mom smiles. “Nope. We’re almost done.”
Lindsey is rinsing soap off a bowl. She grabs a towel to dry it. “So, Tina, you ready for all this?”
“No. Yes. I’m not sure. It feels odd.”
“I think we could all agree to that. I swear to God, you were just born,” Lindsey says softly.
My mom meets her gaze and they exchange a profound look. I watch them. “Best day of your life, right?” I say flippantly to ease whatever that look was. My mom turns and snaps me playfully with a dishtowel.
“Something like that. Though it kind of feels like the worst to picture you not being here.”
I smile because I love knowing she’ll miss me. Lindsey glances at me, “Everything okay with Max? He’s been unusually quiet this week.”
Sure, ask me; I usually know. I’m normally his conduit to the world. I literally speak for him. I shrug and glance away. “Oh, you know, me leaving will be odd.”
Lindsey nods. “I hope that’s all it is. He had a lot of bruises this week. I know he’s training hard and learning all these new fighting styles, but sometimes, I have to wonder if Noah’s idea for him is really the right way for him to go. He’s so…so…”
“Max,” I say quietly. I know what Lindsey means. He’s so unusual. He’s so silent. He’s so sneaky. He’s so angry. He’s so deep. And he’s so hard to know.
Aunt Lindsey nods and smiles at me with sadness. “Yes, you understand how hard he is to love.”
“Yes,” I say softly.
Lindsey kind of shakes herself. “Anyway, I know I’m worrying for nothing probably, it just makes me nuts trying to second-guess him sometimes.”
I feel bad for her. She’s tried to be the mother to a kid who never tells her anything. Nothing about his past or future, and certainly nothing about now.
The conversation flows back to today and discussing the gossip around town. I soon retreat to my bed and sit down, nearly in a trance. Coming home with lots of bruises this week? More than usual? What is he doing? I can’t picture it. I hate not knowing what Max is doing. Or who he is.
The way he screeched out of here. Telling him fuck you, no matter how much I hurt, I know hit its intended mark with him.
Could he be at the gym? But something in me has to know. I leap up and run out.
“I forgot some friends are meeting at the Bakers’ one last time; do you mind if I swing over there for a few hours?”
My mom glances up. She’s now sitting with her legs stretched across my dad and they’re vegging in front of the TV. “No. Just drive carefully.”
I don’t want to do this. I want to climb back in bed and just be done. But I have this weird, uncanny feeling that something isn’t right. Something huge is wrong. Something that began right about June of this year. And the only change in Max’s life is joining that gym.
It seems like such a bland, ordinary thing to do. Millions of people have gym memberships. What could the big change be? But something feels really, definitely off to me about whatever Max is up to. I know him well enough to know he has a sneaky side, one which he doesn’t often show me. He hides stuff from me. And he’s doing it right now. I’m completely convinced of it. And unlike in the past, I feel like it is something dangerous, or illegitimate and potentially criminal. I know it seems extreme to think criminal, but there is a side to Max, a wild side that he showed when he first came to Ellensburg. I used to se
e it a lot more. When I witnessed him fighting in school, or shoplifting really stupid things just to see if he could, that is the side of Max I’ve been seeing all summer. My head is finally coming out of my ass. I’m going to find out what he’s gotten into.
I don’t know what’s going on, but I intend to finally know.
Chapter Eleven
~Max~
WHEN I FEEL ANYTHING, I mean anything at all, I run. I fight. I avoid it. I do anything to keep those feelings from coursing through my system. I think I learned that as a kid in order to survive the brutality, neglect, abuse, and drugs of my childhood. I could disappear inside my head for hours. I forgot where I was, what I witnessed, and what was going on around me. Derek used to hide me in his bedroom for half a day. The first memories I have of my life are hiding somewhere with Derek. I can’t make out all the details. I couldn’t tell you where we were, what color the room was, or what was even in it. I just remember the dark and being somewhere cramped next to Derek. I found my only real escape was in my own head. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t talk. Everything outside of my head was far worse than what I could create inside me. So I didn’t interact or partake in what I saw, felt, or witnessed.
But like everything else, it’s all still inside me. It comes out when I can’t handle other people’s hands touching my skin. It also emerges in my few real connections. I’m a complete recluse when it comes to functioning in normal society. It doesn’t and hasn’t gone well for me.
And then there is that one feeling, which I know better than anything. That one emotion that exceeds everything else: rage. Red, dark, invasive rage that overwhelms me. It tightens my throat and sets my heart to hammering in my ears. It makes these crazy spurts of strength, most likely adrenaline, rush through me. It refuses to indulge in sanity and fear, the two things that might keep me safe. They keep most people safe. But I don’t want to be safe. I need a vent for what I feel, and the only real outlet I understand is fighting, hitting, kicking… and hurting. I don’t want to talk to Christina. I don’t want to hold her or have her hold me. Yet, I would do anything to relieve the hurt I’m feeling so much over her. Going there tonight was a mistake, and where I should not have been. Not while I’m in this destructive mood. I’m not cold and clinical, or ready to be fair. I just want to feel physically hurt, instead of suffering the hurt inside my mind.
I should have skipped the goodbye party; that’s pretty obvious now. But I thought I could do it. I thought I could fake my way through it. I knew she would. I’ve watched Christina rise to so many occasions and act “properly” even when I know she doesn’t feel like it. She goes to school even when she’s sick and pretends she’s not dragging herself through all her classes. She can be nice and kind and friendly even though I know she wants everyone to leave her alone. If she’s hurt, angry, tired, or just grumpy, she never takes it out on others around her. Not on her friends, not even people she doesn’t have any ties to. She displays proper etiquette at all times, no matter what. So I knew, even after the shit storm we created, she’d act perfectly. Okay. Great. I knew she’d smile and greet absolutely everyone warmly, no matter what her true feelings are about them. She would appreciate every single well-wisher, and make each one feel welcome. Really. I often think she could almost achieve sainthood.
The glaring gap between how she treats the world around her—at all times, I might add—and how I treat the world, pretty much reflects the vast differences between us as human beings. How we ever even became friends always surprises, shocks, and even stumps some people. They just don’t get it. How can we have any connection? Or more to the point, how can she have a connection with me? There isn’t much to connect with. I come off cold, callous, calculating, rude, uninterested… the list goes on, and all the adjectives for me are equally unflattering.
The only person I tried not to display those characteristics with is Christina. Until today, that is. I ignored her, looked through her, made her feel uncomfortable, and judged her, as only I can do. I didn’t go to her party intending to do that, however. But once I got there, I couldn’t seem to figure out what to say, or even how to smile at her. Or anyone else, really. I don’t intentionally build these rude, impenetrable walls of silence, but when I do, I don’t know how to get rid of them.
I walked into the Hendricks home, the house where I spent half my time over the last five years, and there she was, standing on the deck, talking to a woman and her two daughters. I didn’t care about them. My gaze was solely fastened on Christina. She wore a simple, white sundress that was sleeveless. It covered her modest chest and ended just above her knees. Her skin was tanned from the summer and her long, dark hair cascaded around her shoulders. She has no bangs so her forehead looked smooth and highlighted the perfection of her face. She is slim and lovely. A girl that anyone would be proud to have for a daughter. From her looks, to the way she dresses, to her interactions with adults and her own peers, Christina is always appropriate, polite, kind, interesting, and friendly. And every person at her party came because, I’m quite sure, every one of them adores her. The adults all wish their kids were half as together as she is. Younger girls hope to be as beautiful as she. Even to kids her own age, she is the “it” girl, simply for how nice she is. She’s just got a way of making everyone like her.
Including me. And perhaps that’s the greatest testament to who she is as a person. I like no one. Ever. No one but Christina. When I walked into her house, there she was, being… her. And petty, stupid, immature ass that I am, that set my teeth on edge. I mean, doesn’t she ever just let herself reflect how she really feels?
Well, I guess I decided to do just that by being hyper rude and silent. The walls around me are so thick, people know to leave me the hell alone. They might as well be made of concrete. No one can get through to me. Including Christina.
I did it. I hurt her. I hurt myself, yet I was mad at her. It confuses even me why, and yet, I can’t seem to stop myself. She keeps her sunglasses on, and I know it’s to keep me from seeing what’s really in her eyes. I’ve hurt her so much. But do I stop? No.
I don’t. Until I nearly corner her with my apology. She figured out, of course, why I apologized the way I did. She couldn’t really respond in front of so many people, and I managed to keep control of the situation. I didn’t expect her to say fuck you, even if I completely deserved it.
Now? I’m speeding towards the gym, practically tempting any cop or sheriff to pull me over. Stop me. Put me out of my misery.
But no such luck. I arrive at the gym. What a joke to call it that. Its official title is the Long Valley Athletic Center. Real original. Named after the valley we’re in. Except for a few nights a year, it is the setting for these underground fights. People just love to do things wrong. I mean, the crowds at these fights are huge. A hundred or more people. The freaking thing is located almost in middle of nowhere too, in a plain, ordinary, industrial park. It is no real city, yet there are plenty of people out skulking at night who want to watch unknown boys and men beating the shit out of each other for entertainment.
Sick fucks.
Yeah, I’m not really one to talk, as I’m one of the sick fucks who actually volunteers to give them what they want. I get off on doing that. So I guess I’m sicker. Especially tonight. I’m allowed through the crowd. They all pay a cover charge. Music pounds from the place. People mill about. Beer is for sale. Drugs are for sale. Nothing is subtle. All walks of life come there from bikers to business people. Weird congregation. People who like watching hand-to-hand fighting. The real kind: no rules.
Except there actually are some rules. We are not allowed to fuck up our opponents. No real injuries and no death. That’s bad for business. Brings the cops sniffing around. There are times when I’m instructed to lose, too. Bets are made and pretty substantial amounts of money are exchanged. The club owner, when hosting like tonight, runs them. His name is Simon Green and he’s the one I find tonight. Standing to the side of the fighting ring, he seems to f
eel pride as well as glory over what he’s created here.
It’s still a low class gym that reeks of stale body odor. But tonight? It’s a dark, dangerous club of fighting matches, gambling, and bloodsport.
It’s a joke compared to the ones my brother used to arrange for me. Those were some real criminals, and some real fights. This is all pretty fluffy stuff. Not that I told any of the organizers that. And really, no, the hits I take don’t hurt any less. So it works for me.
“Salazar. Coming to stake out the competition?” Simon asks.
I could be fighting some of these guys on other occasions. They try to match up the opponents according to skills and size, at least a little. Like I said, they prefer to avoid any real complications, or to draw any suspicious attention. They’re totally second-rate, low-ranking criminals, lacking the balls for anything real.
I probably do have the balls, or would have if Derek hadn’t yanked me out of Marsdale. Derek was one of Quentrell’s drug pushers. Funny part is: Derek never really had the stomach for it. I do. I could, and it sickens me to realize that. Sometimes, it makes me wonder where I’ll end up. If this is just the start… or the end for me.
“I want in tonight. Can you find me a fight?”
Simons scowls. Bruce sees me and waves. He usually decides who gets matched up to whom. He comes over.
“You’re starting to get a bit of a name. Most of the first bets were against you, judging by your scrawny-ass physique, but you still won. God help your opponent, and how you do it, but you win. You willing to take one on the house?”
Lose? He wants me to lose tonight? My fists have been tightly clenched for the last hour. I want nothing more than to win, and in epic proportions. He wants me throw the damn fight tonight, of all nights?