Falter Kingdom (3 page)

“Hell yes,” Brad shouts, “you owe me! Pay up, pay up!”

This is how it goes. Then there's still all the talk about stats, which player to pick, who's got the better team. I just want to make it until fifth period so I can get some sleep.

I lean against the wall while Brad and Jon-Jon talk sports, then about this rapper who's supposed to be in town soon, how Jon-Jon can probably get tickets for cheap, which gets Brad excited. “Get me a few. Perfect bait for landing a date!”

I glance over at Jon-Jon's girls, or assistants, or whatever. I know they find this as dull as I do. Or maybe they don't.

What's the big deal?

I used to feel kind of bad about not being interested in sports or music or that kind of stuff. Culture, I guess. I mean, I still do. I can see how learning about the stats and predicting how ball games will turn out could be really cool. I bet it's satisfying. But before I can really get used to it, they're talking about other things. Never really
been into hip-hop or the stuff I hear coming from people's cars. At least at the parties they blast it so it's all bass.

But I guess I never got into it.

I don't really know what I like. Music can be fun to listen to, but sometimes I just like sitting back and listening to podcasts, people chatting about, I don't know, new technology, space, time travel. Weird stuff that doesn't come around often. I guess that's kind of insane.

Jon-Jon didn't bring me here to listen to them talk business.

He asks me, “Too tired for one on me?” He holds up a bottle of vodka.

This guy, there's no way he's getting away with this stuff just by being careful. I say yes and we both take swigs from the bottle, Brad included. We take enough to ease off a little, but right before Brad and I walk back for class, Jon-Jon calls me out: “You ran, huh?”

Back turned, I kind of freeze, feeling the more powerful lull of liquor, how it kind of feels heavier than a beer buzz. Brad nudges me. “Bro...”

I know.

I tell him the truth, the lie I've practiced enough for it to be truth. Trick is to believe it yourself.

“Yeah, man,” I say, playing it smooth, “I did.”

Jon-Jon stares at me. “Why wasn't I invited?”

Brad chimes in: “Wasn't really planned, like, we got in each other's faces, this guy and Steve... you know Steve? Steve the creep?”

Jon-Jon nods his head once. “I do.”

Brad continues: “Well, our boy here got in dweeb's face and then just fucking ran Falter like it was nothing.”

Jon-Jon puts his phone down on his right knee and claps five times, slow, like this—clap, clap, clap, clap, clap.

“Yeah”—I sort of smile—“yeah, you know.” I laugh.

“I could have made some money. We all could've,” Jon-Jon says.

See that's what's been happening with Falter and Meadows students. You go there and run on a bet. No one talks about it and no one really makes any bets, but whenever people plan on actually
running, more than a few people show up. They show up and Jon-Jon's always there.

I can see why he's disappointed.

Jetson barks at me.

Jon-Jon looks at the dog. “And?”

Jetson growls. I'm not doing anything. I take a step forward and the dog charges at me. Jon-Jon tugs the leash back.

We all look at the dog.

We're all thinking the same thing, but only I really know the real deal.

Still, I'm not telling. I don't want the last thing people remember of me to be that I caught one, showing symptoms and all.

Jon-Jon glares at me. “Didn't catch anything?”

Brad tries to speak for me, but Jon-Jon raises a hand like he's some mob boss and a single gesture commands the entire scene.

Then again, it's kind of like that, actually.

“No,” I say, “unless you call insomnia demonic.”

“It should be!” Brad laughs. Brad is so fake.

I want to say it—
I don't know why I hang out with you
—but I won't. I won't.

Enough's enough.

Jon-Jon doesn't laugh. No one does.

He says something like, “Fair enough,” right as the lunch period rings out in the distance. I give this kind of weird, awkward gesture—“It calls”—and then I burst out of the scene too quickly, like I'm trying to tell Jon-Jon that I'm hiding something. I manage to say, “Catch you later, man,” as casual as I can.

Jon-Jon says something like, “Yeah. We'll talk later.”

The way he said it, it sounded insincere, like a mob boss who's already read a victim's future. He knows. Or he doesn't know. Maybe no one knows. Even I kind of push it aside. It's easy when there's so much stuff going on.

It isn't until after school that the activity continues.

Like it waited patiently for me to return home.

Last thing I want to do is have to sit and eat dinner with the parents. Mom's cooking is all Shake'N Bake, out-of-the-box premade stuff. She's got all those clients to worry about, and when you're lawyering it up, dinner and family and all that stuff isn't top priority. And Dad, don't get me started on Dad.

Even when he's pretending to care, in the back of his mind he's thinking about the latest cancer patient of his.

It's not just money with them. It's like, well, it's like what I've seen in so many movies. The job becomes you.

So when I get back from school and all I want is to crash for a few hours, Mom calls me into the kitchen like a home-cooked meal is a surprise.

“Son, dinner's almost ready.”

I watch her pull out meat loaf from the oven.

“It's four thirty.”

“Early bird special,” she says, and chuckles.

I head up the stairs, but she's not letting me get away easy today.

“Where do you think you're going?” she says from the foot of the stairs. She's still wearing those oven mitts. Makes her look ridiculous.

“Getting a hoodie, Mom.” I point in the direction of my room. “It's cold in here.”

“Are you feeling all right?”

Enough with that—but she won't stop with the questions. Like she really cares. Whenever she's around, she tries to be supermom. Whenever she's around, it's usually because she lost a case, so she's feeling depressed. Feeling depressed for my crazy mom translates to: smother Hunter. Turning up the parenting to 150 percent hurts everybody.

At the dinner table, I can't sit still.

Mom asks me if I feel okay.

“Just cold, Mom.”

She doesn't seem to be having a problem.

I look at the placemat she set for Dad.

“He showing up?”

Mom makes excuses: “Dad is busy saving lives.”

Yup, saving lives, like some kind of Superman. I take a bite of meat loaf, dry and bland like any other store-bought thing. But I know what'll happen if I don't eat it.

Mom asks me about school.

“It was like any other day.”

“Getting close to graduation!” Mom grins, bringing a piece of food to her lips.

“Yeah.” I pick at the food. Watch as even Mom pretends to like the food, that small piece going in her mouth and back out into the napkin. She does it when she thinks I'm not looking.

I look down the hall, the one leading upstairs, expecting to see something. I don't know what, but my eyes keep floating back to that focal point.

Meat loaf, eat another piece of meat loaf.

“Refill, hon?”

This is the kind of stuff that bothers anyone. I can get my own water. I can pick up after myself. I'm eighteen and she's treating me like I'm ten.

I get up from the table without saying a word.

As I do, my gaze floats back to the hall. I do a double take when I see it. It's not really, um... let me try to explain. It's still the hall, and the stairs, and the little side table thing my mom put there for decoration. But what I saw was something else. Kind of like a blotch where evening light should pass.

Course, I could have just said it was a shadow.

Shadows are one of the symptoms. But it's more than that. When I look, I feel something looking back. It's you, isn't it?

It's got to be you.

But I don't want my mom to suspect anything, so I refill my glass with water from the tap, which is nasty but I'm not really thinking straight right now, and I sit back down to eat.

A chill runs up my spine.

I chew, looking at Mom while I'm sure you, whatever you are, look on at this pathetic scene. It's really sad, you know? No dad and some depressed mom about to take enough pills to feel fucking fine.

I zip up the hoodie.

It's a different kind of cold. You'd think “cold spots” means what it sounds like, but it's kind of different. My mom isn't cold. But I am. My mom isn't shivering. But I am. My mom isn't being watched. But I am.

My inner stupid's excuse is that I'm just really, really tired. It's common to feel more sensitive to temperature when you're tired.

Yeah, but this is different.

This is the start.

It's not just broken vases and doors opening in the dark.

I focus on the meat loaf because it's all I can do to block out what's happening. You kind of just want to ignore things when they're so intense, you know? You just want it to go away.

Mom looks down the hall. “Son?”

Stop calling me “son.” I have a name.

I don't say anything. Another chunk of dry-as-hell meat loaf. I point to my mouth:
Can't talk. Eating.

Mom asks me about Becca. Oh, shit—Becca.

We were supposed to meet up before classes started today. We do that every day. I was supposed to meet her at the water fountain after school. She needed a ride home...

So you know how it feels to have lost track of time? That's totally how I feel. I'm kind of scared, not because Becca will be mad
—she will
—but because I
didn't even notice.
The entire day passed by and I didn't even notice.

Another shiver.

Never even thought about her all day.

“Son?”

“Huh?” I'm staring and stabbing at my plate. “Yeah?”

“I was asking about Becca. She hasn't been to the house lately. Are you sure you're all right?” Mom being Mom.

“Yeah, I'm fine, really.” Another mouthful. Like she'd know the difference. Becca was here the other night. But Mom wasn't. This isn't anything new. It's a fact that I'm the one who got used to Mom and Dad being so fake about how our family works and they
didn't.
Years and it's all still the same.

It's beyond annoying.

I look down the hall, eyeing the area near the stairs, like it's impossible to look away.

Mom maybe says more, but next thing I know, I'm bringing my plate to the sink and Mom's saying from the table, “Just leave it in the sink.”

The sponge in hand, I tell her, “I'm washing my own dishes, Mom. Like I do
every single
day.”

Turning the faucet to warm, it feels so damn good, the hot water on my freezing cold hands. I let the water run through my fingers. Feels so good. The best. I close my eyes and get lost in the feeling until Mom shuts the faucet.

She has her hand on my forehead. “Oh my, you're freezing.”

“Mom”—dropping the plate in the sink—“trust me, I'm fine.” Mom follows after me, but I stop her. “Don't.”

It's easy to see why she acts the way she does, but the last thing she needs from me is another problem.

“I've got a lot on my mind, Mom,” I tell her. “If you want to help, give me a little space.”

Mom knows that she's crossed a line.

I wipe my hands on the sides of the hoodie. “Okay?”

Mom sighs, starting on the dishes. “A shower might help, dear.”

“Yeah.” I start up the steps. To myself, I whisper, “It just might.”

It would be cool if I could just get a little hot water, but no. It's always like this, and Dad should have gotten it fixed already, but maybe I don't complain enough because I have trouble caring. That's probably how a lot of stuff doesn't end up happening: everyone gets caught up in putting it off. Put it off long enough and you have to take cold showers. This is not going to be fun.

I mean, I can get
some
hot water.

Wait a minute. Let me try something.

Okay, see? Now there's hot water.

If you just turn the knobs left and right, hot and cold at once, you get hot water. Dammit. Okay, I think if I just give it a little more...

This should be on a test.

If I get it right, do I get some points?

I need as much as I can get, really.

How about extra credit?

Ah, there.

Under the shower, I can almost let the hot water knock me out. I hear that it's actually kind of common for people to fall asleep in the shower. I think the trick is to be ready to stick your arms out in front of you so you don't crack your skull on anything when you fall down.

So I do that. I mean, why not?

But dammit—I get maybe a minute of hot water and it's back to cold. That means I need to jump away from the shower stream. That means I have to mess around with the water again.

It's usually not this bad.

I bet I look like an idiot. I'm the idiot who got in the shower naked before I even checked to see if there's hot water.

I mess with both hot and cold but nothing works. The water is ice cold.

I think about shouting for Mom, but then I'd be proving that something's wrong, that I can't do this myself. I've done most things myself; why would I need Mom's help now?

I watch the water. Maybe if I just wait it out a moment it'll warm up. The pilot light might need to warm up, whatever the hell that means. I reach for my towel and wrap it around me.

It's probably funny to anyone not in this situation, seeing someone in the shower afraid of the water.