Miles Wants To Shoot The School
The apartment, Mr. James thought, was decently vacuumed, wiped down from the kitchen to the bathrooms thoroughly. And, because it was Saturday, it felt normal to have the long drought of the afternoon suddenly sneak up, reminding him he needed to make dinner before his wife got off of work. He wrote on a yellow notepad the ingredients required, and took another slip to write, ‘I went to the store, be right back’, in case his son came home from his friend's house. He'd slept over Friday night and was expected to be back before 6. And because he felt accomplished, having gotten off work at 2, and completing chores before 3, (a husband who's been well with his wife after 15 years of marriage, and a son with good grades) he decided they should go to a movie theater after. On a cloudy afternoon like this, Mr. James thought of himself how rare many fathers become aware of the life they had. He walked swiftly to his truck in the parking lot, and minded just how much he could do at this age, being 41 years old and started the engine carefully.
He made his way down the street, making gentle stops, and pressing the gas softly when the lights turned green. In a big truck, moments looking on at others, maybe more fathers like him, he wondered how many probably felt the same way. Then, he felt proud as he came to an available parking spot at the market, not minding the distance. He parked his truck, got out his list and made his way down to the store entrance.
A few minutes past three-forty, Mr. James came home parking his truck with only five bags. He was able to carry them as he was glad to wear his dark blue, button-up shirt, that didn’t show how his belly looked while his body was under heavy labor. He went into the complex, unlocked the backdoor to get in and took the elevators.
When he entered the apartment, the kitchen, and the living room were still fresh and tamed, and seeing how it looked when walking in satisfied his confirmation that there was a difference in cleanliness. Suddenly, while going to the counters to start making dinner, opening the bags, and regretting how tightly he tied them, his son, Alex, from down the hall can be heard opening his bedroom door. He walked down, and Mr. James didn't turn around until Alex said awkwardly, “I'm home.”
“Hey. How was Trevor’s?” Mr. James asked. He pulled out two packages of steak and a jug of milk and orange juice. Going behind him to open the fridge, he was glad he reorganized the shelves.
“Alright,” Alex said. He stood on the outside of the kitchen entrance, after the living room. With some impulse, Mr. James continued to unpack the bags and store the plastic bags under the sink, while Alex walked forward. With a feeling of encouragement, he helped unpack and store the cans and bread in the pantries.
“I’m making spaghetti for tonight,” Mr. James said. “Maybe later we could go to a movie.”
“Sure,” Alex said, without looking at his dad. He went over and stuffed the plastic bags under the sink, then went out and down the hall. “I’m gonna be in my room,” he announced and closed his door softly. Mr. James didn't mind, and thought it would be nice to be with himself in the kitchen.
It was first to ask Alex if something was wrong, but looking over at the clock it was already four. The next best thing was to start the burgers, and see if Mr. James should buy ice cream for dessert. Maybe we could take a trip to grandma’s this week, he thought wonderfully, and took out the burger and a knife, and a few pots to start cooking.
At about four-fifty, Mr. James was in his bedroom. The spaghetti was done and kept in the pot, at a warm temperature on the electrical stove. He looked at his watch when he heard a door open, at first thinking his wife was home. However, Alex walked out of his bedroom and went down the hall. He turned on the TV and was watching videos sitting on the couch; Mr. James announced the food was ready not long ago, but asked to wait until his mother got home.
Mr. James thought, lying on the bed looking at his phone, watching TV, if the room was too dark since he replaced the curtains with a thicker texture. The sunlight outlined the blinds, and since the cloth was blue, a stark coldness went around the bedsheets and around the ceiling. Making Mr. James think, suddenly, if his wife's instructions to get blue instead of red was the best option - as though he had any choice in the matter.
He got up, walked out of the bedroom, and went down the hall, observing how nice the floor didn’t have small crumbs or dust. He smiled quickly at his son entering the living room; Alex was staring into space, and turned to Mr. James, copied his expression, then looked back at the T.V.
Mr. James reassured himself he would soon be with his family eating dinner; the table was wiped and sprayed, and going into the kitchen checked the spaghetti.
“Hey, Dad?” Alex said from the living room.
“Yeah,” Mr. James said; the spaghetti is still fresh and warm. Setting down a cloth, used to open the lid of the pot over the counter, he walked over to the fridge to treat his hunger until then.
Alex wiped his palms nervously on his shirt, relieved he chose to put it in the washer before the weekend.
“I don’t think Miles is not feeling well," Alex said. Still picturing himself with Miles; fresh he was, he would giggle with him.
Desiring to hear what Mr. James would assume, Alex decided remaining on the couch was best. “I'm worried about Miles," Alex said again, twiddling his phone case. “His temper concerns me."
“Miles?” Mr. James finally says. “that's what any man would notice about him."
“He was getting upset about his girlfriend," Alex explained.
“Girlfriend," Mr. James repeats. He walked to the small dining table near the couch. The weight of his morning duty had finally relaxed heavily, his knees taking in the lightness as Mr. James repeated, “Girlfriend."
“I guess they had been giving each other some hard times,” Alex said. Rethinking how he said it, he felt foolish for not knowing exactly his friend's troubles. “He said he wouldn't mind killing his father for the sake of it."
Glancing forward, Alex hadn’t realized how formal he looked, seeing himself in the reflection of the T.V. He simply laid his head on the pillow on the couch and pressed his legs up against the end of the armrest, touching lightly on his thigh. He glanced at the floor seeing a small roach run beneath the DVD shelf.
“Of course, that would be concerning," Mr. James said, unsure what tone to use, not sure if he was convinced of sensing a more subtle edge to any child's behavior. Entitled to think that all children were born good.
“I like to think I misread him," Alex said sarcastically. He picks his head up to pull a pillow under him. “Maybe he means he wants his father to listen to him, just to talk, maybe." Alex wanted to smile but thought to hold it to himself.
There was no response from Mr. James. Alex, who had worried he had offended him, at first, let the silence squeeze out his irritation, hearing his own voice repeat in the sound of an echo in his mind. He hadn't realized how much he had changed in the last few weeks. With high school coming to an end, being a senior, Alex had never thought his need to say and wait longer would be possible, accounting how introverted he was in middle school. No one hadn't noticed how much had changed, Alex thought. You would think they notice by now how awful I am.
“Do you suppose Miles is ill?” Alex asked, lifting his head. Brave of you, Alex, very brave, he thought. His legs went stale. He stretched to set an ease only for his father to ask, “Do you?”
Alex thought about sneaking out his phone, watching his screen, letting his thoughts be pressured into being neat with how he observed others. The action, instead, took his hands to place them on his stomach, making it look like it hurts. Why do I do this, he thought. Playing victim to every conflict; It gets tiring even for me, he thought; maybe Miles would be any different. More confident and tame than me, Alex thought harshly.
“He could have just said that to make me scared. Do you think he said that to make me scared?” Alex asked. As Miles' face was becoming a blur; his stance in a dark space Alex imagined him in. He giggled and said lastly, “Miles does love being in the dark, I suppose."
His father didn’t say anything; unsure of the ways his son has explained so far. Alex's nerves became lost and the lightweight of the couch wasn’t so comfy; the cushions were stiff. Alex wanted to get up and go into his room, but even thinking of it made him more nervous than to be in the same room with his father. “Miles before wasn’t likely to show himself like that. But now suddenly, something is changing. He's getting angrier and angrier," Alex said.
Mr. James looked at his knee, noticing he's bumping it up and down rapidly. Hasn't done that since high school; doesn't even hurt to do so. His lips were puckered for a second, his eyes looking at his knee again, listening to Alex as if he might slip up. Though Alex was set on kicking back for the rest of the day, watching T.V. Reading assignments for this week's project for English, maybe. Alex lightly sat up and pressed his back against the cushions. Mr. James interrupted the frightful action from Alex. He relooked at his fingers, taking time to observe his own actions before saying, “Miles goes to school with you, right?”
Alex turns to him and then glances back at his feet. Getting up he strolls over to the kitchen across the dining table.
“Yes, why?”
“Well”, Mr. James began, “Maybe when you meet him again, have him come over. He needs a place to settle down, you know.”
Mr. James gets up softly walking over to the kitchen, getting close to Alex. Then opening the fridge to grab a can of soda looking over his shoulder. “Invite him over for dinner. I'll tell mom to make meatloaf and potatoes; he’ll enjoy that. It's your favorite, by the way."
Alex wipes his hands, and turns on the sink to wash them, turning it off after rinsing his palms with cold water. Not taking no thought on wondering why he felt lost, his mind getting foggy, his headaches becoming slow and stubborn. Alex slipped out of the kitchen cutting behind Mr. James as he began to stroll towards the shelf, grabbing his keys.
“Where are you going?” Mr. James asked, suddenly feeling a deep anxiety with a this sudden action of his son. Alex stays still after walking over to the door. He thinks again about Miles, hearing his voice coming from the dark space around, inside deep in his imagination, and says deeply,
“Miles."
“Say that again?” Mr. James asks.
“Miles," Alex says lightly. “Miles might actually kill his father, I think."
Mr. James stands still and strictly faces Alex who stands at the door. His knee, now, hurting.
“Alex, is something wrong?”
By then, Alex had opened the door, taken his keys, and strolled down the stairs away from his apartment number.
“Miles," he says again. “Miles wants to shoot the school then." Before the elevator opens, Alex giggles, enters, and smiles.
