The Trip

The boy sat alone in the back of the class with his hood on. No teacher or student paid much mind to him, he rarely turned in assignments but was too smart to fail any classes. The boy didn’t need human interaction, his thoughts and daydreams were enough to keep him satiated. On the first day of high school the prettiest girl in school had taken a picture with him. The boy thought it had been a miracle as he had always adored her from a distance, but his hopes and dreams were crushed only moments later. He was scrolling through Facebook when he noticed her picture with him posted under the caption “first day of school- befriend the school shooter” with several laughing emojis.

The incident stung obviously, but the pain melted away once he realized that this was just how things had always been and how they always would be. The boy had read several books about the psychology of the criminal mind, and knew that he showed no signs of a potential “school shooter”. Besides, the boy knew in his gut that he could never hurt another living soul. People were too interesting. He believed they had too much potential to put the fire of their souls out. Death was something that came all too soon he thought, as he remembered his cousin Michael.

Michael had been a role model in the young boy’s life until a couple of years ago. After struggling with addiction for years, he finally succumbed to a heroin overdose and died in his bed at the young age of twenty-two.

“What a shame.” The boy’s Mother had said.

“How awful, a waste of such great potential.” His Father had said.

The boy had nothing to say about the incident. All he remembered from the funeral was the sobbing of his Aunt, and his Uncle staring into the distance. The man was looking at nothing it appeared. Perhaps he had been trying to stare into that black void that had taken Michael away from him. Whatever his uncle had been staring at, the young boy knew that he had never found what he was looking for. His Uncle would never again see his son, the boy he had raised into a man. Never again would he embrace Michael or take his keys after a long night of drinking. Never again watch as Michael built snowmen with his young cousin.

The boy remembered that day with sadness and misunderstanding. He never understood why such a great person could fall into a trap like drugs. Why such a smart person would make one stupid decision after another. He never understood why the universe had decided Michael’s flame was to be extinguished at such a young age.

As the boy sat in the back of the class observing the people around him, several oddities began to confront him. First off, why was Jess quite obviously trying to give Adam a handjob under the table? Everyone knew Adam was gay. Adam had flirted with the boy every day since middle school. The second thought that raced through his mind was why had Adam always been so nice to him? Besides the whole gay thing,—which never really mattered to the boy—Adam was a very popular kid. He threw house parties once a month and always invited the boy. Of course the boy had never taken Adam up on the invites. After all, who wanted the school shooter to show up to a party?

As the boy looked around the room he noticed the teacher working a math problem out on the board. Mr. Jensen had no business being at the front of the classroom, only a teaching certificate which allowed it, and clearly couldn’t explain anything about trigonometry that wasn’t already explained in the book.

“What a waste of a life,” thought the boy. What had happened in this poor man’s past that had forced him to teach a bunch of snobby rich public school kids from Orange County? The more he pondered Mr. Jensen’s background the more intrigued he became. What else did this man do with his time? Why would a well-spoken man in his twenties end up teaching algebra? Had the real world been so cold to him that he reverted back to high school? Perhaps he was one of the popular kids in high school, hadn’t made it much further than that, and eventually decided to go back to where his glory days were.

Moving on past the obviously dim-witted man at the front of the classroom, the boy stopped to stare at one of the walls. It was filled with all kinds of geometric shapes and trigonometric functions.

“Ridiculous.” the boy mused as he scanned the Real World Applications for Arithmetic. One of the applications was for a bakery. How you could track your income of loaves and the profit margin from their sales. Who the fuck would ever want to end up working in a bakery for the rest of their life?

It was easy for the boy to be critical. Never in his life had he set a goal or destination for himself. In kindergarten his teacher had asked each member of the class what they wanted to be when they grew up. Most of the children gave boring and typical answers. The girl who still couldn’t comprehend two plus two wanted to be a doctor. The boy who was constantly throwing woodchips at other kids wanted to be a policeman. When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, the young boy with no goals said he wanted to be a bird. Both the class and teacher had laughed hysterically at the notion.

“What was wrong with being a bird?” the boy thought. They can go wherever they want, never have to worry about the stupidity of others, and didn’t really have to socialize. Plus he could poop on people. That would be awesome.

Now that he was a teenager the boy still had no idea what he wanted to be when he grew up. Obviously being a bird was out of the question. Maybe he would be a pilot, which seemed like the closest thing to being a bird. Or maybe he would become a traveling mystic man. The boy had read plenty of books describing shaman and medicine men. They were revered in many eastern Asian cultures. He couldn’t speak a word of Mandarin, but that didn’t matter much to him.

Even at a young age the boy had been entranced by dreams. Not the dreams of common peasants or of luxury or fame. The boy had always dreamed of freedom. True freedom. Walking the earth with nothing but a backpack. Lately his dreams had become tinted by the terrifying aspect of control. He had done his research on lucid dreaming and understood that it was a normal occurrence in most people. But when he was in control of his dreams five nights out of the week, he began to worry that soon he would never again be able to slip into the soft embrace of a dream to take him off on whatever adventure the night had in store for him.

The bell pulled him out of the trance he had fallen into, so the boy packed up his bag and began to lead the way out the door.

“Mr. Rivera,” chimed a voice from behind him. The boy turned to see Mr. Jensen staring at him with what appeared to be the latest test in his hands.

“Mr. Jensen, what’s up?” Asked the boy.

“Would you mind staying after for just a minute, I’d like to go over your test with you.”

“Umm yeah, sure.” He replied with a grimace. “I’d love nothing more.”

As the boy trudged back towards the desk Mr. Jensen seemed to notice his apparent disdain at being held late.

“Got a hot date you were running off to?” inquired the man.

“Actually yeah, your mom’s waiting for me out back, so if we could hurry this up that’d be great.” The boy stated, with as much sarcasm towards the simpleton as he could muster.

Mr. Jensen’s face shot into a smile instantly. Not what the boy had expected. Most teachers were boring unsophisticated prats who didn’t understand or tolerate the boy’s humor. Perhaps it was because Mr. Jensen was younger. Maybe it was because he knew his mother was a milf just as much as the rest of the senior class did.

“So tell me something Jake,” the teacher started, “how is it that you manage to do almost no homework for my class, but still maintain the highest average test scores out of all four periods?”

“Well sir, I like to think I’m smarter than everyone else. Unfortunately that’s not the answer you were looking for, so I’ll be completely honest with you. About two years ago I had a dream that I was being hunted down. I died in that dream and woke up. After learning what it means to die in a dream I decided to fall back asleep and reenter that same dream. When I got back into the dream I was taught that with focus I could make anything that I wanted to happen, happen.” He realized just how weird and cocky he had sounded all at once.

The boy expected a blank stare from Mr. Jensen, or some bullshit about how he should be checked out for psychiatric illness. Instead the answer given by the dimwitted teacher surprised the boy.

“What does it mean if you die in a dream Jake?”

“Umm.” The boy was thrown off guard for moment. “Well according to most pre-colonialized cultures, death in a dream represents rebirth or a major life change. After reentering my dream I learned that through the power of focus I literally can do whatever the hell I want.”

“Except homework?” Mr. Jenkins asked with a quirky smile.

“Except homework.” Replied the boy. “It’s menial labor. I learn better when I sit in front of something and try my own methods of deduction.”

“Well said, Sherlock.”

Mr. Jensen was starting to grow on the boy. The man was quicker than he seemed, and was keeping up with the boy’s wit quite well. Not allowing the man to let his guard down, the boy inquired if he could leave now, as Mr. Jensen’s mom was an impatient bitch.

“Oh trust me kid, I know. At least take her out to dinner for me. My new stepfather better be one hell of a gentleman,” he joked.

“I’ll make sure to do that sir.” The boy replied.

“Good man” Mr. Jensen said, and as he turned back towards his desk the boy caught a glimpse of something in the man’s eye. Maybe it was just a glint from the light, but he could’ve sworn he saw a touch of sincerity that hadn’t been there previously.

“You have a good one Mr. Jensen, I’ll see you tomorrow.” The boy said as he turned back towards the door.

“I’ll be here” replied the man as he sat back down in his squeaky swivel chair.

The boy threw his hood back on and made his way out of the classroom. The minute he was out of the building he sparked a cigarette and walked towards the parking lot. As he was nearing the gate to the parking lot he noticed a beautiful woman in tight black jeans and heels walking towards him.

“Hey kid! You know you aren’t supposed to smoke on campus, right?” The woman said as he came closer.

“Fuck off lady, I’m on my way out.” The usual response to get people out of his hair. The boy didn’t care what people thought of him considering most people didn’t think of him too highly.

“Good answer. Mind if I take a drag?”

Odd. As the boy approached the woman he stopped. She was certainly beautiful. Not in the stereotypical hot, high school girl way, but like how models on TV were beautiful. She had sharp edges to her face and defined cheekbones. She was skinny enough that super-tight jeans seemed loose on her. She held herself in a manner that made the boy wonder what she was doing asking a teenage weirdo for a bum of his stog. Another point of interest was the tattoo that ran from her shoulder down her left arm, forming a full sleeve. The monstrous head of the dragon started at her collarbone, and the snake-like body wormed its way down past her triceps, around her elbow, and ended at the inside of her wrist.

“Nice ink.” the boy commented as she finally came to a stop in front of him.

“Thanks. Have any of your own?” She asked as she pulled the cigarette from the boy’s fingertips.

“No my parents would kill me if I got any kind of tattoo.”

It was true. As much as the boy had wanted to permanently mark up his body, he never had the balls to. He respected his parents too much. They had given him everything and anything he asked for and in return he had respected them enough to wait until he was living on his own.

“So you have the balls to tell a random lady to fuck off but you don’t have the balls to go against your parents? Sounds like a load of crap to me.”

“You don’t know me. I happen to respect my parents more than anyone else.”

“Good for you. Question though.”

“Answer,” the boy replied as he pulled the cigarette away from the woman and took a drag. He realized that he had started to walk with her towards the lunch tables. For someone intimidatingly good-looking, she was certainly magnetic.

“Have your parents ever disrespected you?” The woman inquired as she sat down on top of a table, resting her feet on the bench.

“Well no. I mean the only problems we ever have are when I come home late. Can’t tell you how many nights I’ve come home and they pester me with stupid questions like where I was and who I was with.”

“So they don’t trust you?” she asked as she looked back at him with a smirk.

“I guess not. I never really gave them a reason to not trust me. They’re just protective I suppose.”

“So they don’t trust you?” she asked again.

“No, they don’t” the boy said as he began to think back on all the times he had come home completely sober and they made him walk in lines and say the alphabet backwards.

“Well that’s a sign of disrespect. When you fire that same disrespect back at them the outcome is always entertaining.”

“Oh really? Well I’ll just head straight to the nearest tattoo shop then I guess.”

“No need,” The woman said. “I’m an artist out in LA. Come up with an idea and I’d be happy to draw it up for ya.” As she said this she handed him a card. On the front was her name, number, and the logo of the shop she worked for. On the back were three pictures of tattoos, one of which was an intricately designed Buddha ripping a purple bong.

“Natalie Swanson.” He read aloud. “You’ve got one hell of a pitch. Nice to meet you, I’m Jake Rivera” the boy said as he held out his hand.

“Pleased to meet you Jake.” The woman took the boy’s hand in her own and shook it.

“So what is a beautiful girl like you doing at a dump like this?” the boy asked.

“Wow look at you,” She said as the cigarette was passed again. Her lips curled into a playful grin. “Telling me to fuck off and now calling me beautiful.”

“Sorry about that. Most people aren’t cool about cigarettes around here.” The boy said, taking a drag.

“Well sorry bud, I’m actually here visiting my boyfriend.”

“Ouch. The one-line shut down. Who’s your boyfriend?”

“Alex.”

“Last name?”

“Jensen.”

“Wait. You mean Mr…” the boy was cut off by a voice to his right.

“Natalie, I see you’ve met Mr. Rivera.”

The boy turned to see Mr. Jensen standing there, adjusting his Ray-Ban glasses in the light.

“Yeah, I was inviting him to the shop.” The woman said as she stood and walked towards the teacher. As she got closer she reached her arms out to embrace the man.

“Mr. Rivera, I’ll see you around. Enjoy your night.” the teacher said.

“Have a good night sir.” The boy replied as he stepped away from the table and began to walk towards the parking lot.

“See ya Jake.” The woman said back as the boy started walking away.

“Later,” the boy mumbled and continued walking.

As the boy placed the cigarette against his lips again he noticed just how empty the parking lot already was. How weird, he thought. Why are people so eager to leave school when all they do at home is the same shit? Most people got their homework done, ate, and watched TV or played video games for the rest of the night. What was so enticing about leaving? The boy concluded that the false idea of freedom at home was what motivated students to leave so quickly.

As the boy approached his car he was struck again by just how beautiful of a machine it was. Mr. Rivera—the boy’s Father—was a semi-wealthy business owner of three separate hardware stores across Orange County. While the boy had never been spoiled, his father always rewarded him for hard work. His most recent accomplishment had been scoring a 2100 on the SAT. A ridiculous hustle on the boy’s part. He let his Father believe that he had studied for weeks on end to get that score. When in reality he had only spent around fifteen minutes waiting for a guy to deliver him Adderall which he took the morning of the test. In return for scoring so high, his Father had rewarded the boy with a brand new 2017 Dodge Challenger. It was matte black with orange pinstripes, just like the poster that hung in the boys room.

After dumping his backpack in the trunk, the boy stepped into the custom racing seat made for the driver. Starting up the roaring engine, he threw the car in reverse and peeled out of the parking lot. Once he had hit the streets, he whipped a joint out of the center console and sparked it. Rolling his windows down at the stop light, he blew his smoke out and cranked the A/C up to full blast. With all the windows down and his air conditioner on the car was like a wind tunnel, no smell lingered by the time he pulled into the driveway. The boy stepped out of the car and shut the door. He then grabbed his backpack from the trunk before locking the car and heading up the pathway to his house.

Now that he had the familiar feeling of peace in the back of his mind, he casually opened the front door and made his way through the kitchen to his room. Upon passing by, the boy’s Mom inquired how his day was.

“Good, boring.” The boy replied like he always did. Just enough to keep her from questioning him further, but also not enough for her to wonder if something was wrong. Nothing was wrong, the boy thought as he closed the door to his room. It was just the same stupid shit day in and day out. Nothing new, nothing exciting.

The boy dropped his backpack on the floor and laid back into the bed, staring at the solid white stucco ceiling. He connected his phone to the speaker that sat on his nightstand and scrolled through the playlists until he found the one he was looking for. The Police began playing as his high mind wandered through the events of the day. “How weird,” he thought as he reflected back to meeting Mr. Jensen’s gorgeous girlfriend. How could such a sad life have such a great benefit? Why was Mr. Jensen such a burnout yet able to pull such a babe? The boy eventually concluded that some people’s lives are a mystery. And unlike mystery novels or the shows on TV, the mysteries of other people’s lives usually couldn’t be solved. After deciding not to dwell on the subject, the boy resigned himself to lying in bed, listening to music, and enjoying his high.

He was awoken from a nightmare of dragons and 6-hour algebra lessons. A soft knocking at his door told him it was time for dinner. He slowly pulled himself out of bed and turned off the portable speaker on his nightstand.

“Alright I’m up Mom, I’ll be out in a second,” the boy grumbled.

“Okay hun, don’t forget to wash up.” His mom said as he heard her footsteps retreating back down the hall towards the kitchen.

The boy walked out the door and down to the bathroom. After using the toilet he stopped in front of the mirror. Eyedrops were a necessity as usual, so after blinking away tears he began to wash his hands. He thought about the stories that lived just below the skin of his hands. Blood from walls punched in frustration, sticky trichomes from rolling too much weed, tears wiped away as a kid trying to understand why everyone thought he was so weird.

His life had been a story, to say the least. A depressing one at that, but a story nonetheless. He imagined most teenagers probably thought the same about their lives.