Falter Kingdom (2 page)

But alcohol and competition go hand in hand, and all it took was one mention of the tunnel and Steve shut up. It was obvious that he had never run the gauntlet.

It was a little less obvious that I hadn't either. Every other time I'd hung out at Falter Kingdom, I'd gotten out of having to run. The trick is to wait until it becomes a possibility, the talking about running, and you encourage whoever it is who's being pressured to run, but when he turns it on you, don't freeze. Don't stop and worry. Don't say no. You pretend to think about it. If there's beer, take a sip. By the time any pressure is given, you can ask someone who hasn't run and have him mess up and take on the pressure. So he ends up running and you don't. That's how it works.

End of lesson, or whatever.

But yeah, I was drunk and on a short fuse. Brad was selling Steve on the whole thing, legend and all, and I downed the last of the beer in that can.

Then I said it: “I'll do it.”

Instantly the conditions changed.

“Really?” Blaire had joined us, standing at my side.

Brad grinned. “My man!”

Steve didn't say anything.
He
wanted to run it.
He
wanted the respect.

I just wanted the conversation to end. I didn't want to hear any more about Becca.

So they crowded around me as I took my first steps into the tunnel.

“Ten minutes, bud, you got this,” Brad said.

Running the gauntlet is more or less exactly how it sounds. You run into the tunnel, into the darkness, for ten whole minutes or until you reach the end. But no one's ever reached the end. So I had to run, sprint really, for ten whole minutes. They synced up and set a timer on each of their phones. On their count—three, two, one—I ran.

It was actually kind of easy, going through with it.

Everything leading up made it feel impossible. I wasn't into running it; I had nothing to really prove, which could be cause for a bigger problem.

But I don't know—

I guess it had a lot to do with being fed up.

With their voices. With their claims. With the fact that they were kind of right: it's almost graduation and nothing's changed.

It's like I needed something to prove to myself. I needed to do something that anyone who knew me would have problems believing if told in the context of some story.

The
actual
running was the hard part. I felt like I couldn't keep to a straight line. I felt like I couldn't run fast enough. The air was thick in the tunnel, kind of a strange musk, the same kind you smell in old basements or places with stale air. The ground muddy and wet, each step had that sinking feeling that you get when you find out you spaced a test or some other important event.

But I ran the whole ten.

It didn't even last that long.

I ran with my eyes wide but they might as well have been closed. The dark was so thick it was like running in place.

Something worth mentioning—you can't really hear anything in the tunnel. You can't hear your own footsteps. I ran until it felt right to stop and turn around. I didn't hear my feet slipping in the mud. I didn't hear my lungs gasping for air. I didn't hear.

If I didn't hear my own breath, there's no way I heard their phones.

It probably doesn't make a lot of sense, does it?

It's hard to explain. Telling it right is usually tougher than you think; it's all about using the right amount of words to get your point across. You say too little and it's just strange; say too much and you're not really making any sense. This is probably one of those situations. It's just that being inside the tunnel felt like... what's that term for when you are frozen in a chamber?

Cryosleep?

It's kind of like that. But there's a better word. Let me look it up.

Oh, right—

It's like being in suspended animation. Stuck in place, but you also know that your body is moving, your thoughts racing, because I could feel the sweat dripping from my forehead.

While inside, I could think about only one thing.

I thought about my body breaking into pieces.

And even now I can't make complete sense of why.

When I made it back to them, you can bet they were surprised.

Brad saw me first. “Shit, bro.”

I was drenched in sweat. Dirt caked in layers all over my body.

Steve didn't say anything.

Blaire played
concerned friend:
“Are you insane?”

I asked them if I lasted the full ten, but the words didn't come out until later, after I had lay down against a cool rock. By then Brad and Steve had left. Blaire stayed with me. She was sitting next to me when I woke up. I stirred shortly before the sun completely disappeared.

“Did I make the full ten?”

Blaire stared at me in disbelief. Maybe she really was worried. I'm not sure what she felt that day. But when she told me I had been in there for twenty-five minutes, it clicked into place.

I didn't feel any different but, well, it kind of made sense. I felt peaceful sitting there, letting the information sink in. Like I did something I wanted to do.

We walked back in silence.

I didn't say anything and she didn't say anything.

When we got back to Meadows, our cars were the only ones left in the parking lot. “Where'd Brad and that other guy go?”

Blaire kind of ignored me but also kind of didn't. It was a mumble, one that I maybe imagined. “They went for help.”

We left without saying good-bye.

By the time I got home, I felt fine. Not tired at all.

I stayed up with a six-pack that I finished and watched walkthroughs of two different video games. I didn't have trouble sleeping at all that night.

Stuff started happening the following day. Minor things: mostly the broken vase and my bedroom door opening and closing on its own. I misplaced my cell phone twice only to find it where I couldn't have left it. Why would my phone turn up in my dad's pocket when he had been at work all day and I used the phone not ten minutes before it went missing? These aren't really questions, really, just the mind fighting the facts.

And I knew the symptoms.

They say it's best to get rid of a demon quick.

Yeah, I know, I know.

But just thinking about how much effort it would have been to tell my parents... what it would mean for them—their only son,
haunted
—made me feel exhausted. I would never hear the end of it.

So then it just felt better to put off telling them for a little bit.

It won't be much longer.

Soon everyone will know.

2

MONDAY. WHERE THE HELL DID THE WEEKEND GO? I
didn't get a whole lot of sleep. I mean I actually did—something like twelve hours last night—but I feel tired. It's probably me. I'm doing this to myself. I've been fixating on what's been happening lately. I can't shake the fact that everyone's right: it's almost over. After that day at Falter, all I can think about is breaking up with Becca. I think about stuff I should have done a long time ago. Now might be my last chance. It's now or never.

But, man, I never get used to these mornings.

Note to self: Don't sign up for morning classes next year.

Can't wait to be able to choose when my classes start. I'm going with the major made for insomniacs. What career paths involve working late into the night? Gravediggers? Um, doctors, nurses, mental ward psychos?

Man, I'm tired.

I drive to school the same way I always do: half awake. It's out of the driveway, then it's a left, right, right, stop at that annoying intersection with the really long red light that I always get stuck at, straight past that, two more lefts, and then I'm there.

Meadows. On time for once too.

I park the car in my assigned space and I look at the time on my phone: 7:40
A.M
. Know what that means—ten minutes to sleep in my car!

Believe me, this adds up. It helps. Power naps keep me from turning into a zombie. But then again, it's kind of hard to sleep when Brad taps on the glass.

“What, man? Go away.” I wave him off.

But he taps on the glass again.

“Fuck,” I grumble. “It's open.”

He gets in the front passenger seat. He sits down and looks at me.

I look at him. He's a blank stare. “What? It's too early for this stuff, man.”

Brad shakes his head. “Bro...”

Of course I know what he's thinking about. I haven't been able to brush it off either. It kind of settles in the back of the mind, making everything I do a little plainer because I'm paying even less attention to the things around me.

“Yeah, I know.”

“So wild, dude,” Brad boasts, “we had to fucking run and get help.”

“Yeah,” I say, monotone, driver's seat reclined back, eyes closed.

“But then Steve twisted his ankle like a pussy and we got lost in the fields.”

Can't a guy get a few winks?

“And shit, bro, it sucked. Getting lost in that forest is no joke. Being buzzed makes everything look the same.”

I yawn. “But you weren't out there as long as I was.”

“Yeah, bro, Blaire told me. She said you fell asleep.”

“More like blacked out.” I rub my eyes. “Did y'all end up copping it?”

“Naw”—Brad snaps his fingers—“texted Jon-Jon and he called it like it is, said, like, if we called the cops they'd be more about trespassing charges.”

“Jon-Jon knows what's up.” Falter isn't a place anyone's allowed to access. It's one of the places closed off for a reason. But we all
know that. It's kind of the point. And Jon-Jon, he always knows. Older than most, he's got the wisdom to make money work for him. He stays at Meadows because it's where the money is. He pulls in as much as he wants selling. He's a good guy, Jon-Jon. Still don't know him well enough to really get a good read on the guy. Then again I don't think anyone does. That's him. That's Jon-Jon. He's a businessman.

“Bro, he's looking for you,” Brad says.

I groan. “I've got first period in, like, eight minutes and I still got to pass by my locker.”

“I thought first period was free,” Brad says.

“That was last semester.” I'd kill to get that free period first thing. But no, I'm supposed to be doing awesome at calculus.

“Bummer,” Brad says.

“Yeah.” I open my eyes, staring at the faded fabric ceiling of my car.

“But, bro, you know what he wants. Fuck, I got to ask too.”

“Nothing happened,” I tell him.

“You were running that long and you're going to tell me nothing fucking happened?”

I put the seat back up, stretching. “Yup. That's what I'm saying.”

“Jesus,” Brad says, and sighs, “real bummer.”

“World's full of bummers.”

We leave the car and walk toward the main building. Meadows is made up of three buildings, two on either side of a big four-story main structure where most of us spend the bulk of our time.

Brad's talking, something about “a bunch of people are going to be blasting it in the fields this Wednesday.” It's another party in the middle of nowhere.

I'll probably go. Becca will want to go anyway. Everyone will be there; even if I stayed in, people will notice. The next day at school would be all about how Hunter Warden was a no-show. It's like that here at Meadows.

Everyone knows everyone, especially if you've never met.

I tell him, “Yeah, you know it. Anyway, I'll catch you later.”

“Yeah.” Brad nods. “Yeah, hit me up at lunch.”

He goes his way and I go mine. And there's first period, which isn't worth talking about. I think I might fail the class. I won't, but I would, you see—Blaire's my eyes and ears. She's got the stuff finished and all I have to do is not fuck up the pop quizzes. I fucked up today's pop quiz.

But what are you gonna do, you know?

Calculus. Everyone, even the A students, are over it.

Miss Canaan needs a life. I want to just walk up to her desk and tell her what everyone's been telling me:
It's almost over. You'll never see us again. Why not cut us some slack? Some of us are fun people. If you'd stop stressing the curriculum so much you'd have a better time.

But that takes balls. Well, more than that, it takes effort.

And I'm low on that lately.

I bump into Blaire before fourth period to exchange homework.

“You look like shit,” Blaire tells me.

Yeah, I haven't been able to shake the exhaustion. I yawn it off, make appearances. “Insomnia,” I say with a shrug. “What else is new?”

Blaire's hands are all over the homework, checking it like I didn't actually do a good job. I've got this stuff. I'm not an idiot.

English class, that's my forte.

She won't look me in the eye. “You'd tell me, right?”

But I don't hear her until she seems to answer for me—“Yeah, you'd tell me”—and runs off. We don't have any classes together, which is why trading homework works. I know what she's talking about. She was there. But, um, I know she wouldn't tell anyone. At least not until she was sure about it.

During lunch, the student body president, Chris something—I can't remember his name, but really most people just know him as “Chris the Student President” (you know how everyone's labeled something)—he makes a few announcements. It's blah, blah, blah until he finishes with a heads-up stating that yearbook deadlines are in a week.

One fucking week.

It's a wake-up call for most. It is for me. I don't know what to write. This is more than making the most of the rest of the semester; the
bio you write is what people remember you by. Every word counts. Some people pay extra to fit in another fifty words over the three-hundred-word blurb limit.

Being memorable.

People talk so much about being remembered and “the one thing you'll be remembered for.”

I think about the prompt while standing in line for food. My mom packs me lunch but it's embarrassing. I leave it in the trunk of my car and toss it on the way home. Been doing that since the middle of freshman year.

So it's this junk they serve us, but it works.

The one thing people will remember me for.

I'm not sure I want to settle for just one thing like everyone else. I'm not sure about what I'd write, so I do what I typically do—I put it off for later.

Brad's late to lunch. I end up at our table, sitting with a few others I never really talk to. They're almost finished with their bios.

This guy, Mark, reads his bio aloud. He's really thought it out.

Brad gets there and steals the page from Mark's hands, 'cause he's an asshole and you know he'll never let you down. Brad reads some of it aloud for the entire cafeteria: “Mark Banes excelled at contemporary literature, earning himself an A- average—”

“Come on, Brad, lay off.” That's me saying that. I'm the one who usually tries to keep things cool. Do you ever really question the guy who's trying to keep things civil? Yeah, everyone likes that guy, even if they don't really know him. It's how I keep this from getting back to me. And today, I know Brad and a bunch of people are suspicious about what happened in that tunnel.

They have something on me. I'm an interesting topic, you know?

And I just want to make it to fifth period so I can take a nap in my car, get away from all this stuff. Lately, everything's been, I don't know, just too much. It's not just graduation; it's everything. I feel like the pressure is increasing and I'm worried that it might never release.

Kind of melodramatic, yeah.

But I guess it's mostly the fact that I know what's going to happen next.

Brad sits across from me, steals one of my chicken fingers, and starts people-watching. That's how it always starts.

Brad leans in, whispering, “Bro, you see Jess today? Jesus.”

Testosterone-fueled annoyance, that's Brad's yearbook bio. He'll be remembered as the dude with so much testosterone he drowned in it, meaning we all ganged up on him and drowned him for being such an asshole.

I don't know why I hang around this guy.

But yeah, I do. I know. I've talked about this already.

“Yo,” Brad says.

“Yeah, what is it?” I'm acting like these chicken fingers are awesome, like they taste like more than salt.

“You hit up JJ yet?”

Shit. That's right. I can't leave the guy hanging. He's my source for booze, blunts, and anything else I want. For cheap.

“Not yet, after I finish eating.”

“Bro, he'll be pissed.”

I'm going, I'm going.

Push the food away and Brad takes it, always hungry.

I always leave via the back entrance of the cafeteria so that I don't have to make eye contact with anyone. But I'm not always that successful, you see.

On the way out, I cross paths with Nikki. She's got this guy, Luke, with her, and he's handing over her purse. As she looks back at the door, I happen to be the one walking out. We exchange glances. That smile, one I've seen before. Strand of red hair brushed with her hand back over her ear. Blue eyes on me. This is where I'd trip and fall if I let it get to me, but I don't. But so what, she smiled at me? So what? She says hello. She says my name. She slows down and waits until I've gone.

So what?

It's not a big deal.

But Brad makes it a big deal.

Goes on and on: “Bro, there's no way you didn't see that...!”

I play it off the way I know how things should be played: “Yeah, I saw.”

“You know you have to talk to her now,” Brad says.

I'm thinking, “What makes anything mandatory if I don't want to?” Yeah, I want to talk to her, and yeah, I like her—so what? But just because we looked at each other doesn't mean now I'm supposed to let go of my own problems.

What problems?

No, I'm pushing that aside. Not thinking about that.

“Don't be stupid,” Brad's saying, as we walk around back, where the theater kids smoke because it's near the auditorium stage.

Jon-Jon and a few others hang here.

You can hear barking from far away. That's Jetson, his corgi. He always brings the dog to school. It'd be a problem if he went to class, but he's got all that covered. Rumor has it he pays off the principal. Halverson gets a cut from sales. It's just a rumor. Gossip.

But that's like all things at Meadows.

Everything's gossip until it's naked truth.

Brad tells Jon-Jon. Of course he tells Jon-Jon. “Dude, Nikki Dillon's got a thing for our bro here!”

Some days I can almost see it happening: I'll start by punching Brad in the gut. He'll wince in pain and I'll wrap—I don't know, sometimes it's rope, other times it's piano wire—around his throat until his neck snaps. I'll say something clever and then walk away. The next day people will know what I did and everyone will be happy. Brad's body is brushed under the floorboards.

Jon-Jon tugs at Jetson's leash. The dog runs up to Brad, hyper and seemingly happy as always. Corgis. Happiness is a corgi.

“Brad,” Jon-Jon says without looking up from his phone, “enough.”

“Yeah, sorry, man.” Brad works on finishing the chicken fingers.

I'm watching him until Jon-Jon asks, “Hunter, how are you feeling today?” Jon-Jon's eyes are almost always glued to the phone in his hands. Guess it's the way he conducts business. But he looks at me
like he's concerned. Is he really? You know, I never know what's real or fake with the guy.

“Yeah”—I fake a yawn—“just a little tired.”

Jon-Jon leans forward. “That so? How tired are you, on a scale of one to ten, ten being chronic insomnia?”

Uh, I go with an eight, which means I really tell him, “About a five.”

Jon-Jon clicks his tongue, looks up at one of the girls, kind of cute, brown hair tied back, red lipstick—no one knows any of Jon-Jon's girls, their names or anything else; I'm pretty sure they don't go here—and the girl hands him a notebook.

Brad with his mouth full: “Is that...?”

It is. It's yesterday's betting pool.

See I kind of started betting on football, baseball, basketball, whatever everyone around me was betting on, because it kept things cool. If I won, I get some cash. If I lost, then whatever. I don't have a stake in any of these teams. I don't even really find it all that interesting. Watching Brad as he flips through the book quickly, for him it's more than just money.