by LP Tvorik
“I hate this,” Ronnie mumbled, laying down.
“Well, I’m not a huge fan of it either,” I shot back, but I kept my tone light. Ronnie didn’t need any more stress in his life. He was volatile enough as it was.
“I wanna beat him up,” Ronnie said to the semi darkness. I smiled.
“Well, when I leave you can try. ‘Till then, you gotta wait and let me deal with it my way. You know the rules.”
“I know,” Ronnie sighed, and he drifted into silence. Trish and Paul fell back to sleep, and the rhythmic pattern of their breath caused the tense air in the room to settle. After a while, my eyelids started to droop as well and I was half asleep when Ronnie finally spoke again. “When are you gonna leave?” he whispered. It wasn’t a challenge. It was a plea. A desperate bid for comfort.
“No time soon, buddy,” I mumbled. “By the time I leave you’ll be twice my size and you’ll be able to beat him up in your sleep.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Whatever… night, Nate.”
“Night, Ronnie.”
‥ ‥ ‥
Alex was pissed.
I could feel it the second I walked into third-period civics, the one class I had with her. I hated civics, but I lemme tell you I loved that class. It was my one chance to linger in the presence of the strange girl who inhabited my best friend during the day. As I passed, I let my eyes trail over her for one glorious moment.
Her hair was in a perfectly-coiffed bun, hair-sprayed into compliance. Gold studs glittered at me from her ears, and her lips were painted a delicate shade of pink. Her shirt was a flowy white thing that dipped just low enough to showcase a delicate gold cross, sitting against her skin just above that perfect valley that I longed to explore. The skirt she wore was knee-length and modest, but it had a mind of its own, molding itself against her thighs like it was trying to fuck with me. Her feet were crossed at the ankle, tucked primly beneath her chair.
This girl was beautiful, but she wasn’t my Alex. My Alex wore baggy shorts and worn out t-shirts. She was dirt-smudged and had delicate scratches on her arms and legs where the branches and brambles snagged at her while she ran through the woods. My Alex never wore that cross because she had it in her head God was a manmade construct and the church was a tool used to manipulate the masses. My Alex had a mosquito bite the size of Mt. Vesuvius on her forehead that I knew she wanted to scratch at but wouldn’t because she’d covered it up with make-up and nobody else could see it.
I winked at her as I passed her front row seat. It wasn’t in compliance with our deal, but I liked to piss her off sometimes, and I needed a little touch of heaven that morning.
Her lips tightened and a touch of flame flared up in her sweet blue eyes. Definitely pissed, and my transgression wasn’t helping. Good. The pink flush creeping up her neck warmed me up from the inside out. This was my Alex. Fierce and fiery and stubborn as hell. The world could keep the quiet, gentle little churchgoer with the fancy clothes, the preacher daddy, and the 4.0 GPA. Angry Alex in ragged old clothes, raging against the machine, tearing into me for being an idiot? That girl was all mine and I loved her more with every pitiful beat of my fucked-up heart.
Fighting the urge to press a hand to my aching ribs, I hid a smile and rolled my eyes as I strode past her, dropping my bookbag by my desk in the back of the room and sinking into the chair. My eyes were heavy, and I didn’t exactly have an A-plus-student reputation to uphold, so I put my head down on the desk and zonked out.
I awoke with the sudden wisp of a breeze, just before the flat of a ruler cracked against my desk. Startled, I jerked upright, barely maintaining the presence of mind to hide a wince as my body protested the sudden movement. Our civics teacher, Mr. Quinn, stood above me, a smug look on his face and a ruler in one hand. The rest of the students were laughing.
“Would you like to join the rest of the class, Mr. Reynolds, or shall we wait for you to finish your beauty rest?”
God, I hated that fucking name. I inherited three things from my father: a handful of scars, a hair-trigger temper, and that shitty fucking surname.
I hated Mr. Quinn, too. I hated this fucking school. I cast a catch-all glare around the room and the majority of our giggling audience fell silent and turned back to the front of the classroom or made hasty conversation with each other. Mr. Quinn didn’t seemed phased, though. “Well?” he asked.
“I’m awake,” I snapped at him.
“Alright!” he said brightly, turning on his heel and marching back to the front of the classroom. “Now that Mr. Reynolds has decided to grace us with his presence, everyone pull out your textbooks and turn to page 427. Miss Winger, do you mind recalling what we discussed last class?”
Alex answered quickly, the dulcet tones of her voice tinged with panic. She hated — hated — being called on in class. It made her break into a nervous sweat, and although she was eight rows in front of me, I imagined I could see the sheen on the back of her neck. That made me irrationally angry at Mr. Quinn or calling on her… and irrationally aroused.
“We talked about the checks provided by the executive branch to the legislative branch’s function,” she said.
“Excellent. Mr. Reynolds, can you give us an example of one of these checks?”
Oh, hell. I hadn’t been paying any attention at all. Alex’s hair was too distracting. It was pulled up too tight and I knew it hurt her head to wear it like that. She kept reaching up and tugging gently at the hair at the nape of her neck and I knew she’d have a headache later. That knowledge didn’t stop me from enjoying the way the sun came through the window and brought out the reddish streaks in her brown curls.
“Mr. Reynolds?”
“Fuck if I know,” I shot at Mr. Quinn, and Alex spun around in her seat, shooting me a death glare. She hated it when I acted out in class. She had it in her head I might actually graduate if I stopped being such a shithead. Alex can be a little delusional.
“Language,” Mr. Quinn said sternly, his face impassive. “The question was very simple. What is an example of a check the executive branch can use against the legislative branch?”
He said it was a simple question, but I was drawing a blank. Silence fell in the classroom, and I felt heat creep up my neck as my classmates started to snicker. I cut them down with a look and went back to panicking.
“I said I don’t know,” I shot at Mr. Quinn. “Ask somebody else.”
“I’m asking you. We can sit here all day, or you can answer the question.”
Alex’s face softened and she mouthed something at me. It was so subtle, I doubt anybody else picked up on it, although it helped her cause that all eyes were on me. I saw her upper teeth scrape against her lower lip and her mouth pucker slightly around a silent ‘o’ sound. Something-o? She mouthed it again, and the answer came to me with a rush of relief.
“Veto,” I mumbled.
“You’ll have to speak up,” Mr. Quinn said, smiling at his own douchebaggery.
“Veto,” I stated again, louder.
“Well done. See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I’ll show you what’s bad, you fucking asshole.
“No, sir.”
Thank you, I mouthed at Alex, but she just shook her head in disappointment and turned back around. I’d rather Tim kick my ass a thousand times than have her look at me like that. Anger was fine. Anger was great. Disappointment, though? It stung like salt in a wound I didn’t even know I had. Maybe it’d be worth it to at least try to pay attention in class. Just for her.
Chapter four
alex
An exasperated sigh tore me away from my textbook as my best friend Gemma sat down across from me. Alexandra’s best friend Gemma. Alex’s best friend sat ten tables behind me, inhaling artery-clogging cafeteria pizza and probably talking with his mouth full.
> “Why are you always studying?” Gemma groaned, dumping her bag beneath the table and sitting down, unzipping her lunch box. “Ugh. Plain carrots. Yum.”
She pulled a plastic container of sliced carrots out of her bag and popped it open as I shut my book and pulled out my own lunch.
“You know why,” I said, unfolding the top of my paper bag and pulling out the bagel I’d packed for myself. Cream cheese and cucumbers. My favorite. Tom’s favorite was bologna and cheese, and my dad’s favorite was roast beef on rye. I knew because I packed all three lunches every morning while Momma sat on the back porch with a mug of rapidly-cooling coffee in her hands, staring blankly at the sliver of night fading into the western horizon.
“I don’t understand why you’re so stubborn about it,” Gemma said, munching on a carrot as she rifled through the rest of her lunch for something fun. She always searched and always came up empty. Her mom was crazy about healthy food. On her birthday Gemma got a carob chip cookie but that was as out-there as it got. I tried to pack extra Oreos for her. “Just go to the stupid college your dad wants. It’s the same education and you won’t have to worry so much about scholarships.”
“No it’s not,” I snapped, taking a bite of my bagel and using the time it took to chew to calm myself down. I shouldn’t have snapped. Snapping was a very Alex thing to do, and here at school I had to be nice, soft-spoken Aly. Polite, mild-mannered Miss Winger. It was what everyone expected. Even Gemma. “It’s not the same. It’s the difference between science classes taught by scientists and science classes taught by folks who think humans were majicked into existence by a big man in the sky.”
“You gotta talk to your dad, girl,” Gemma said, shaking her head. “He’s gonna find out eventually that his baby girl is an atheist. Might as well tell him now while he’s still legally obligated to love you.”
“Mm-mm,” I said, mouth full of bagel. I chewed and swallowed, taking a sip of water. “I’m just gonna ride it out to the end. Kick school’s butt and get a whole bunch of scholarships and it won’t even matter that he won’t help me pay for it. I’ll be able to make it on my own.”
“Ugh, well you still talk like a church girl,” Gemma snarked. “Do you have chips or something? I’ll trade you for these… homemade fig bars?” She held up a waxpaper sandwich bag containing a thick slab of something gooey and brown. It could’ve been a brownie but we both know it wasn’t. Gemma’s mom didn’t believe in dairy products, so decent brownies were off the table. Gemma came from a family of crazy hippies. I came from a family of crazy Christians. We made a good pair.
“Hey, Aly! Hi Gem!”
The words made me grin, and I scooted over on the bench to make more room for my brother. Tom climbed into the seat beside me, setting his lunch on the table before him.
“Did you wash your hands?” I asked as he started digging through the paper bag.
“Yeah, Aly,” he muttered, blushing furiously. My brother might be developmentally disabled, but he was a still very much a guy and quick to embarrassment and exasperation at my mother hen routine.
“How’s your day going?” I asked, and alarm bells went off in my head when he bent his head over the bag, clearly avoiding my gaze.
“Fine,” he said, pulling out the bologna and cheese I’d made for him that morning.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, leaning back and scanning him for any sign of injury or distress. Most people liked Tom, and for good reason. He was the friendliest guy I’d ever known, and quick with a compliment or a cheerful hello. But there were some guys who still gave him trouble if they caught him alone. Insecure jerks who only felt good when they were making other people feel bad.
“It’s fine,” he mumbled.
“You’re a terrible liar,” I said fondly, pressing a hand to his back, leaning close and speaking softly. “Will you tell me later?”
He nodded, eyes flicking up to Gemma who was, bless her, effectively pretending not to hear our conversation. Gemma’s a good friend.
“Well my day’s going crappy,” I said, infusing some levity into my voice as I sat back. “Mr. Quinn keeps calling on me in civics class.”
“Yeah, cuz you know the answer,” Gemma said, rolling her eyes. “Your sister is a smartass, Tom.”
Tom laughed at the curse word and I glared at Gemma without much heat.
“She’s the smartest smartass,” Tom agreed, his voice jovial and proud. Sometimes life is a slog. Sometimes it hurts and feels pointless and too painful to endure. Sometimes, though, it’s not so bad.
‥ ‥ ‥
“We’re home!” I yelled, hooking my keys on the ring and toeing off my shoes while Tom shut the door behind us.
Our house was as pristine as ever. Momma kept it that way. I think that was her way of keeping herself together. She couldn’t control my dad and she couldn’t control the world, but she could control the house and the dust. She could control where we put our shoes and which rooms we were allowed to eat in. “Momma?”
“In here.” Her voice wound through the stale, conditioned air and Tom and I followed it to the living room. She sat in her chair, eyes glued to the television. I glanced at the screen and saw some sitcom re-run. The sound of a laugh track crackled out of the speakers, but if you just looked at Momma you’d think she was watching a documentary about the making of a number two pencil. Her gaze was far away, and no part of her looked happy or entertained.
“How was school?” she asked as we sat on the couch, not looking away from the screen.
“Good!” I said, brightly, like I always did. I had it in my head if I was cheerful enough some of my happy would seep into her. All I ever got was a pinched smile, but that didn’t stop me from trying. I felt like if I stopped I’d sink right down into the gray that had swallowed her up.
“Good,” Tom echoed, but he didn’t sound so bright. He watched Momma’s face, always searching for something that he never found. His mother, probably. The woman who had disappeared, leaving us alone with a husk that looked just like her, trapped in the life that had chased her away.
“Why don’t you have some snacks and do your homework,” Momma said, turning her attention back to the TV. “Dinner will be ready at five.”
Tommy opened his mouth to argue but I stood, tugging him to his feet behind me and dragging him from the room.
I set Tommy up at the desk in my room with an activity book and a box of colored pencils before pulling my textbooks out of my bag and hopping up onto my bed. It was Thursday, but I didn’t have much homework. Twenty math problems, five pages of civics textbook, and a chapter of Ethan Frome for English. If Tommy stayed busy, I could finish it by dinner time.
I tried to stifle my excitement at the thought of getting out to the spot early. It’d probably be another long, lonely night, I reminded myself. Lately, Nate had been showing up less and less frequently. He was a good friend — my best friend — so I didn’t think he was blowing me off for a stupid reason. I wasn’t angry that he wasn’t showing up. I was angry he wouldn’t tell me why. Every time I asked, he got weird and evasive, changing the subject to something about me, like I was some dummy who wouldn’t notice what he was doing.
Math was my best subject, and I flew through the problem set with ease. The familiar rhythm of the work pulled me away from the world and I felt myself relax into the patterns.
“So what happened at school today?” I asked after a while, flipping my pencil over and erasing a minus sign I’d erroneously carried.
“Nothing,” Tom said after a long pause, scribbling furiously at the notebook and pointedly not looking at me.
“C’mon, Tom,” I said, tapping my pencil on the paper and looking up at him. “Don’t lie to me.”
“It was just Freddy,” he grumbled, shoving a hand up into his hair.
“Don’t pull on your hair,” I said sternly, trying to hide the acid that
burned in my veins at his words. That jerk Freddy was always messing with Tom and it made me want to scream. I’d confronted him once but he just laughed at me and said I didn’t have any proof and, sadly, it was the truth. He and his friends always managed to corner Tom when he was alone. No witnesses. “What did he do?”
“Nothing.”
“C’mon, Tommy. I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what happened.”
“You don’t need to fix it,” he said flatly, eyes studiously fixed on coloring.
It’s a common emotional affliction for people to feel like they just don’t have the answers. That was never my problem. My problem was that I had all the answers, but nobody would listen to me. Momma wouldn’t talk to me about what was making her so empty. Tommy wouldn’t talk to me about his bullies. Nate wouldn’t talk to me about whatever kept him away from me, night after night.
I knew I could have fixed it all, if they would only give the chance. But instead I just had to wonder and worry and come up with theories and ways to test them, and then come up with new theories when the old ones were disproven by some hint they didn’t even mean to give me.
It was exhausting.
I resolved to check in on Tommy between classes for the next week or so. If he didn’t want to tell me what was going on I’d just have to find out myself.
We worked in silence until dinner, and I was just finishing up my English reading when Momma’s hollow voice summoned us downstairs.
Dinner was quiet. Daddy said a prayer like always. I hated his prayers. He talked a lot about God and Jesus and how we should all be thankful, but he never really went into much depth on what we should be thankful for.