Chapter I: Sixteen
Thunder rumbled in my head.
A pattern. Maybe a warning. No clouds. No lightning. Who hears thunder on a clear day?
Me. Insanity at its handsomest.
Starting the day with a dose of crazy makes for an adventure.
I turned to Dustin Summer sitting the next desk over. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“Thunder.”
He rolled his eyes and nodded at the window. “Clear as a cheerleader’s head.” He tapped his temple. “Jeremiah, you might have issues.” His dark curls shook and a snicker trickled out of him.
Our homeroom was normal with desks, chairs, and windows. However, these windows didn’t reveal the true outside of buildings, upon buildings, upon buildings. At a New York City school the natural view lacked spectacular. Dustin nodded toward the window of a computer screen displaying the current weather with a national park background. I don’t know which park. Not an A+ student in geography. Not an A+ student at all.
“Good morning, Moirae Hellhounds.” Vice Principal Deunny’s voice growled over the too-loud-for-the-am speakers.
I banged my head on my desk, wanting to pass out. She hated anyone with balls.
I own a set.
She hated me.
Let this day end.
More rumblings.
I rolled my head until Dustin came into view. “Are you sure?”
Dustin understood our broken conversation. Once I restarted one three days later and he not only followed, he replied without a skip. He nodded, flipping the face of his phone my direction. The sun icon blazed. “Clear as—”
“—a cheerleader’s head. Yeah. Yeah.” I rubbed my forehead hoping to cure myself of imaginary sounds.
“No. Clear as yours, apparently.” Aligned white teeth shone in his grin.
VP Deunny graveled on. “‘Lachesis sings the things that were, Clotho the things that are, and Atropos the things that are to be.’ Plato’s Republic. Remember my little Hellhounds, your past makes you, your present is you and your future is what you’ll become. Work hard. Work smart. Work right, and all things will work well.”
Whatever Principal Redgroove’s sickness, it allowed VP Deunny to be the one to spew his encouraging, cheesy philosophy with the voice of a demon hell wouldn’t claim. Our Greek god representative left us in the hands of a mortal woman who despised dresses.
What woman hates dresses? The kind that hates men.
“Powerful” women ditched the dress and took wearing the pants literally.
As if women can’t be powerful unless they emulate men.
Unity Gowen (a hottie in my English class) wore 1930’s dresses allowing my imagination the freedom to wonder. Wonder why she took part in a group called Ugly Fools and persisted I join their popular cult.
Always the way. Hot outside. Dysfunctional inside.
Frustration over every little thing intensified. Every little flap of a fly’s wings pulverized my nerves. I fantasized about squishing every fly no matter how humanlike.
Thunder roared.
A storm battled within my skull. Something fierce.
Something’s off.
Dustin snapped his fingers and pointed. Shawn Brandon glared through the classroom door window. He mouthed something like, “Dustin, we need to talk.” His hair was out of his face today. No doubt because he shared a hair tie with his adorable girlfriend. Okay, not his girlfriend, just a guy friend. More like an intensive friendship without sex, shocking the entire school considering their mothers sewed their nut sacks into a wuss doily.
Shawn’s ugly mug glared at me as he dragged his index finger across his neck. An improvement if he wielded a real knife.
Every time Shawn’s face invaded my line of sight, I’m reminded of events so last year.
Flashback.
Come, let me share.
Shawn faced me in the hallway between first and second period. We ruffled through our lockers for whatever, and he ignited a not-so-lovely argument.
Anyway, I slammed my locker shut. “No, Shawn. No. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”
Shawn leaned against the lockers and growled. We have been friends since a year prior and he growled often, but he never admitted to it. “We agreed.”
Laughter shook my hair loose across my face. “I agreed the Earth’s in danger. I agreed to help the cause. I did not agree to damage the school. Which, if you ask my mom, is my maturity speaking. I would’ve burned my last school down, no questions asked.” I stepped back. When he got angry, he tended to become a bit physical.
At this point my reflexes were ungreat. Shawn had hit me before due to my inability to dodge.
Shawn attempted a shove, but I rolled and he stumbled across the lockers. I spun and lowered myself.
He swung, swiping the air, leaving behind the scent of his deodorant reeking of wood burning. “No shocker, you’re a coward like your dad.”
Being a friend means you care and you’re loyal. It doesn’t mean when you’re in an argument with them you dredge up painful things.
My dad was no coward. I flung a punch, smashing his nuts. Without knowing how they hung or where they’d be in his jeans. I didn’t even know he was wearing boxers. But somehow nailed one ball.
Did it burst? No. Did I know it could? No. Jokingly, hey, guys say things like that all the time, but busting a nut was never meant to be literal. Who am I kidding? I never used that phrase and I’d only heard it on...never mind. Not the best first impression of me, I’m sure. In order to give a favorable first impression, a good side is essential.
Shawn cradled himself. His back slid down the lockers until he lay in a fetal position.
The loudspeaker crackled, garnering the attention of anyone in the hallway.
Cameras judged our every move, except in the restrooms and showers. But with today’s tech-savvy dirty minds, I wouldn’t be shocked if they were there as well.
Vice Principal Deunny sighed as if she’d rather be anywhere but doing her job with students she knew she’d have to deal with when she agreed to the job.
I mean, really, how dumb are you to work with teens if you don’t like them? Oh, right, the story.
“Mr. Jericho and Mr. Brandon, I’m sure you know I saw. Please make your way to my office where I will have many words with you. Much appreciated. Arrive promptly. You, Mr. Brandon, after you visit the nurse.”
Students in the hallway’s reactions differed. A few laughs. A few gasps. A few who didn’t even bother to glance and continued business as usual. No amateur photographers, though. Birdy Cage, a nifty little invention within the school, disabled phones from doing anything but making and receiving emergency calls.
I allowed Shawn to get to me. Dad warned against allowing people such power. Not a proud moment. I inhaled, released my clenched fist and sped to beat Mr. Hobbles to her office.
VP Deunny’s taxidermy office. Dead animals everywhere. I didn’t care for her backstory. At least they didn’t stink. Perhaps she invested in an assortment of flowery scents, because a flower-like aroma danced around the room. My mind wasn’t connected to the internet, so I couldn’t pinpoint the exact flower. Sorry. A few dead animal heads on the walls and one dead bear on the ground, flat and sad, as if he got sat on by some fatty and all the guts and stuff had pushed its way out of the mouth.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Jericho.” She sat behind her desk with her hands folded across her chest. She needed a haircut. Or she got a clue guys like longer hair (and we do), so she’s growing out her short crop. Or it’s all a trick, and the whispers of her being a lesbian stripper weren’t a lie. She stripped. Fact. Don’t take pictures you don’t want the internet to remember. The lesbian thing, either a fantasy or a hateful rumor. Though, I never understood insulting people through sexuality. Images of people’s bedroom play didn’t need to tumble through my mind.
“Hello. Shawn’s hobbling to the nurse’s office.” I tried to suppress the smile creeping on my face.
Her eyes narrowed. I suppressed better.
Shawn stumbled in and her attention shifted.
“Mr. Brandon, welcome.” She gestured for him to stand next to me. “Good, a quick visit.”
He obeyed, though he made sure to keep a safe distance. “I’m fine.”
Two empty chairs she didn’t offer. I didn’t take one. Shawn attempted.
VP Deunny wagged her index finger. “If you’re fine, you can fine-ly stand next to Jeremiah.”
He winced and reversed course back next to me, again at a safe distance. His proximity made me tense. He burned our friendship bridge. We’d never be the same again.
VP Deunny shuffled a few papers and then leaned on her desk. “Dynamics are in every relationship. I do not know every nook and cranny of yours, but it’s safe to say good friends don’t fight like you two.”
She glowered. “We know this school functions as a tiny city within a bigger city. I could hand down judgment as any VP would in any other school, but a few seniors are in need of a final in Law and this is an opportunity for them.”
She stood, straightened her jacket and cleared her throat. “And since I’m going to be the judge, I can no longer discuss this with you.”
She leaned her hip against the side of her desk and pressed a button on her intercom. “Are the students ready?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She released the button. “Your student lawyers will see you now.” Her eyebrows lifted. “You are dismissed.”
I went into one of the conference rooms where two students waited for me with pads and pens ready to help me not get suspended. Sighing felt amazing, sitting felt fantastic, but talking to two seniors as if they would contain their gossip tongues tickled my skepticism.
Long story short, I got put on kitchen cleaning duties for a week and that was that. Better than suspension. The excited student chiefs made messes without care because I cleaned up after them. Who knew cleaning would be such a workout?
Flashback done.
Good stories about me and Shawn existed, I chose not to share one. Why? I hated him and talking about how I used to like him wasn’t gonna happen.
We hadn’t had an incident since. But its awesome mug would rear soon enough.
I groaned and faced Dustin. “Don’t be alone with Sir Eco-nut.”
“I know.”
“Can’t say I sympathize, but I won’t let him harm you under the guise of attacking your dad.”
Dustin’s daddy’s name was plastered all over our school. Without him, the school wouldn’t exist.
My dad’s name was only plastered on his headstone. I twisted my dad’s wedding ring around my left index finger. Mom gave me the ring when he died. For days I tried but it didn’t fit. The ring still didn’t fit. But calm teemed within me with each twist. Every year I wanted to skip school on my birthday to visit him, instead I woke up in Zombie-Mode, groaning, drooling and dragging myself to school. (but not smelly. My aroma equaled awesome.)
Dustin’s hand hovered in the airspace of wanting to pat me on the shoulder, though he knew I’d pull away. “Sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
I drummed on the table. “Appreciate it, but I’ll be fine.”
Dustin rubbed the back of his neck. “Gave any thought about spending the night?”
As an only child whose dad spent more time at work than at home and whose mother died in an accident that reeked of assassination, Dustin craved friend time.
“I don’t know. Got a lot going on.” I tapped my temple.
Dustin combed his hand through his curls. “I get it. That’s how I feel on my mom’s death day.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his forearm.
I gripped his shoulder.
Dustin sat straight and grinned. “Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “You gotta play Fabriality. It’s an awesome MMORPG.” (Massive multiplayer online role-playing game . . . in case you didn’t know.)
“Eh…”
“You gotta try. Just once.”
I shrugged.
My dad, David Jericho, worked as a NYC EMT. When I tell people he died on 9/11 of a heart attack, their faces cloud with confusion. It’s as if his death meant less because he didn’t die in those buildings or on a plane. It hurt. Like I should be embarrassed. Shawn understood the endgame going toe to toe with me on that.
Dad wasn’t a coward.
Every year, I visited his gravesite, expecting him to whisper hello, tell me he’s proud of me, say, “I love you” . . . something. Anything to prove death didn’t beat him. My invincible daddy, who never got sick. Always ready for an adventure, no matter how small. To the corner store to buy Mama some women plugs. Because women’s hearts care so much, the amount of blood doubles in a month and leaks, or so he said. It turned into our secret mission. Tell no one anything. Mama didn’t appreciate his explanations, but she never stopped our bonding over the mundane.
Dad named our duo ‘The Wise Old Boys’, “‘WOB’ for short. “Come on little WOB, we have a mission,” he’d whisper in my ear. And just like that, chores became an adventure only an awesome imagination could conjure.
I miss him.
In an effort to soothe me, Christian acquaintances of the family said God needed another flower in His garden. Whatever. It sounded like God turned into a sixties pervert or thief. God shouldn’t steal from kids, I thought. Mom told me they strived to comfort. Eh, I only bristled. Words can’t bring back the dead any more than technology or an ancient book could. Zero care for anyone’s condescending attitude.
The bell rang, shaking me back to the present reality as “we little Hellhounds” shuffled our feet toward first period. The hall’s wide expanse allowed for circles of friends to congregate without blocking me from zigzagging through.
Fate. Moirae the Greek Fates. Clever to name a school after the fates, right? Well, if you think teenagers are smart enough to get their lives started on the right foot. For some reason, I decided to become a counselor. Fix broken people, fix myself. Or so I reasoned.
Bradley and Richard, football stars, walked by, hand in hand, laughing about something. Richard winked at me.
I swear it’s possible to be molested by the eyes.
Thunder interrupted.
The screen windows displayed clear, sunny skies.
Weird.
Gynecologist was a close second career choice. One boob plus one boob equals one woman. Yeah, not their field, but fun to say. Gyno.
What a brilliant pet name.
I walked into my first period (ha, ha) English class. Quotes from books, films, and lyrics covered the walls. Each was in a Quote Square. Touch, and the screen came to life, showing where the quote came from . . . the TV show would play, the lyric would sing, or someone would read.
If only I could melt into the background, be unnoticeable. Unfortunately, I didn’t possess that ability. The handsomeness my genes blessed me with (Blessing? Not so much) made me receive far more attention than needed.
Oh, Jeremiah, your smile is great.
Uh...thanks?
Wow, you are so photogenic. Your mom must be so proud.
Sure? I perfected this talent. Being hot takes hard work and dedication ugly people fail at.
Please. No one who’s hot worked at it unless it involved body maintenance or style. Appearances alone? Yeah, not a talent. I almost wanted to take up a homeless style. That would require having no taste.
Something I do have.
Whatever, first world problems. My emotions hurled through my head like kamikaze pilots. Each hit a part of my body, giving me shivers and a soreness that mimicked a post-workout.
Someone make me invisible.
Near the front door to the classroom, Mr. Porpoise stood, nodding his grey-bearded face to each student. But not me.
Thank you?
We woke up our DC (Desk Computers were part of the actual desk and configured to play games when a substitute was around—but Mr. Porpoise was rarely sick. We shared that problem. Perfect attendance since kindergarten).
Mr. Porpoise’s familiarity continued to bug me. I couldn’t place a single finger on who...eh, not that I wanted to touch someone. Cringe-worthy.
He talked about how important words were. So important were his words, I ignored him.
Attention from Unity is allowed.
Unity adjusted her hat and faced me.
I smiled. She rubbed her eyes and returned the gesture.
Oops. I turned. No need to give her any reason to think I’ve changed my mind on her Ugly Fools project. Saying no to her destroyed my chances with her.
Girls are weird.
I noticed a girl (I couldn’t recall her name) pick her nose and slip her finger into her mouth. I glanced around. Did anyone witness that? Of course not.
Back to me. I didn’t have time to make anyone feel better; I couldn’t even make myself feel better. I required a lot of work to become a counselor.
A contradiction. Won’t be the first. Won’t be the last.
An itch in the back of my head raged. Earlier, it tickled as if someone blew on the back of my neck. Now the tickle had morphed into a dry itch that cracked upon scratching. I plucked several hairs.
Time to stop.
Balding in patches, not on my want list. An obsessive-compulsive desire to itch the same spot begged for my attention. No O.C.D., but for a moment the symptoms raged. Infected myself by thought.
What a power that would be.
Mr. Porpoise narrowed his focus to a single student. “Did you complete your assignment?” The intense attention from Mr. Porpoise concentrated like a magnifying glass, enhancing the sun’s power onto a single spot.
The girl collected herself before nodding. Each movement of her head released beads of sweat.
He shot out his hand. “Let me see it.”
She flinched.
Mr. Porpoise judged the class’s shared Pinocchio’s wooden genetics.
The girl opened her mouth.
“Excuses are like breast implants.” Mr. Porpoise rolled his eyes in perfect circles. “They’ll fool from a distance, but upon a thorough investigation, disappointment will occur.”
An attention-grabbing investigation.
Suppressed snickering snuck about, but any kind of visible joviality didn’t end well. One student had previously laughed at a Mr. Porpoise barb, and we haven’t seen him since.
Moirae High didn’t baby anyone. Taking offense wasted everyone’s time. It never bothered me because my mind devised far worse things to say about anyone, including myself.
The defeated girl’s head dropped, her hair draped over her face.
“Retreating. Wise choice.” Mr. Porpoise gave a half-hearted smile.
My homework waited. But again, he ignored me. He returned to the front, and I followed, handing in my work.
“Oh, I didn’t see you, Mr. Jericho.” He took my assignment and continued teaching.
My thoughts are becoming true? Okay. Dad’s alive.
Nothing happened.
Idiot.
Second period Speech with Mrs. Wiki-Wiki. I zoned out the entire class, and no one bothered me . . . until lunch.
I entered Ambrosia’s Table, the school restaurant (overdone Greek theme indeed), searching for a friend. Simple decor. Workshop Crew designed and created each set of tables and chairs, and the Artists Circle provided the art covering the walls. All in all, a student-made restaurant. Even the music playing in the background.
Dustin sat at a table for eight.
The previous school year, Dustin required the kind of help Dad would call the WOB for. Shawn attacked anyone not following his godly standards on how to treat the earth. Dustin’s dad, Clark, owned an oil company. Dustin became part of Shawn’s ’Turn ‘em Green List’. Shawn attacked people to turn them. . . well, force them green. I defended Dustin from Shawn. Dustin couldn’t believe anyone would defend him, because no one ever did. I wouldn’t trade our friendship for anything (except my dad’s life).
Free tables everywhere, but Shawn and his newfound douchebuddy (or girlfriend) Andy Dillon crowded Dustin. Shawn wore a black T-shirt with a white “42” on it, and underneath, also in white, “is the answer.” Shawn and books; like a child wanting a nap, it just never happened. Him referencing a book shocked me enough, I needed to pee, but I clutched. Shawn enjoyed collared shirts, which made this shirt choice interesting. Yeah, he popped those collars as if their sprang sprung, never to settle. Since Andy and Shawn became friends, Shawn had upped his stupid choices. I once asked him why he wore that shirt. He answered, “For the Earth.” Whatever that meant. I cared less. I cared for little. Though I did care for hoodies.
I love hoodies. Tangent. Not the first, and not the last.
Shawn stood tall, but I stood taller. He had wonderful hair, but my hair shone awesomer. He attracted a lot of attention from his looks, but standing next to me, his trollness became apparent, which added to his animosity. Douchebaggery at its douchiest.
Andy’s beautiful hair covered his eyes in an attempt to audition for Shawn’s girlfriend. He possessed an oddly shaped body because his parents chose penis when they should’ve chosen vagina.
Not to mention his odor. Not awful; more figurative. Stale and lacking in humanity. If he were a car air freshener, he’d be in the shape of a rotting human body. And as attractive. Andy seemed like a person who stomped on people to get where he wanted. Reminded me of Dad’s term for anyone being an idiot: KYLE. He refused to say why. Good thing I never knew a Kyle. Andy corrupted Shawn. I could use PA (Pre-Andy) and AA (After Andy) to describe Shawn’s actions. No shock his opinion that my dad was a coward came a week after Andy arrived at our school.
Shawn and Andy attempted to get Dustin’s dad to care more about the earth by scaring Dustin. Yeah, a bit ridiculous.
I pushed through. “Problem?”
Andy pushed back. Not at all like a girl.
Shawn grinned. “You.”
One wrong move - and boom, suspended. He banked on it.
“No.” My forearm pulsed. “I think you and your little girlfriend ought t’go.”
Andy cracked his knuckles and glowered like a bird of prey waiting for the kill signal from his owner. Although Andy didn’t take as much as he was prone to give.
I made an I-Could-Care-Never face at the noise.
Shawn lifted his hands. “What? We’re just havin’ a conversation.” He leaned closer to Dustin. “Mr. Summer is ruining the earth, and we at Serendipity Green need to get a message to him.” He gripped Dustin’s shoulder.
Dustin tensed.
Serendipity Green, a PETA-like organization that used more blood. Human blood, to be exact.
I knocked Shawn’s arm off Dustin. I stood between them and Dustin, blocking their bullying. “If he’s screwing the environment, I sure hope he’s wearing protection. Wouldn’t want there to be an ungodly hybrid.”
Dustin gave a weak smile, but no one else bothered to acknowledge how I made a funny. “OWL Industries has water/hydrogen power and sunray stuff. Whatever. It’s not just for oil.”
Shawn folded his arms and shifted his weight. “I must keep my enemies closer.”
I scoffed and turned to Dustin, mouthing, What?
I stared down at Shawn and Andy. “Go. Or I’ll scramble your number two so bad, you won’t be able to spread your stupid beyond yourself.”
Shawn whispered, “Too late.”
Whatever.
I shooed them. “Skip away with your besty.”
Hand in hand, he and Andy skipped away. Their hair danced in unison until Andy halted, which yanked his hand out of Shawn’s. Shawn continued for a second longer before he stopped. He appeared lost.
People laughed. Dustin laughed. I rolled my eyes. The comedian’s defense. One year, he poured black oil in the swimming pool while swimmers swam under the guise of a joke/point. The swim team was none too pleased.
Andy stormed off. Shawn rubbed his eyes and bowed, absorbing the laughter. He winked in my direction.
What a condescending douchebag.
Thunder resounded.
I sat and picked up a menu. “Hopefully, they lay off.”
Dustin slid a menu toward himself. “It’s stupid. The only connection I got with my father is watching football.” His arms were thin, his frame was thin, and if he were in any sport, it would be children’s tennis. And he wouldn’t be good at it. “Eh, whatever. What are they going to do? Kill my father?”
A snicker bubbled, but Shawn’s smile morphing into a weird-kill stare made me suppress any ’ha’s. The last time he showed that face, he decided to fill a water gun with trash juice and go hunting. An unwashable stench. His disturbing need to escalate the next incident frightened me serious. He was capable of worse.
Dustin and I scanned our menus. Students studying to become the next world-renowned chef prepared the food, and we paid a reduced student price.
Dustin’s other friends arrived and filled the seats at the table. One over-filled her seat.
Rude. Well, not too rude.
The thunder disagreed.
When our food came, she ordered a lot of fries. Just saying.
I ate. They talked and ignored me. A good lunch.
Unhappy still. Shocker.
Lunch ended. Leaving the room, I heard catcalls. Most likely one of the aforementioned football players. B&R begged for the attention I didn’t want to give.
The rest of the school day skirted by without me having to deal with anyone’s drama.
I broke the boundaries of the school, and the sun hit my skin, along with the biting November wind, causing me to pull my hoodie tighter. Outside the reach of the Birdy Cage, my phone giggled, a recognizable ringtone.
I answered. “Jack, what do ya want?”
“What? Not gonna ask how I knew you were outta scho-o-o-ol?” Jack asked.
“No, I’m sure it had something to do with you trying to go all Big Brother on me, even though you’re an ankle-biter.” The flow of human traffic gave me an easy path toward the subway.
“Rude,” Jack said. “I’m offended. I’m hurt.”
“You’re a drama princess.”
“I’m funny. I’m the court jester. Come get me. I wanna go.”
Jack always bugged me to tag along to visit my father. Something about brother bonding, we didn’t spend enough time together. I’d tell him we did, but he insisted for a reason I didn’t know, and still I told him no. He wasn’t Jack’s dad, even though Jack was my younger brother. Still love the little hybrid.
“No.” I stopped near the stairs. People behind me grunted, groaned, and growled. The monsters of New York City needed to keep moving to their underground lair. So, I removed myself as a blocker to allow them access.
“Unacceptable.”
“Too bad.”
“Fine, I don’t wanna go.” Jack tried hard to duck/rabbit season me. Loony Tunes. Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck arguing over what season Elmer Fudd should pick.
“Ha, ha.”
My phone chimed. I pulled it away from my face. A picture.
Ohno.
I clicked on the icon, and a picture popped up of Jack puppy-eyeing me. His brown wavy hair puffed up on his head, giving him a charmed aura one didn’t say no to.
“And still no.”
“But wh-h-h-hy? It’s important to brother bond. Don’t you love me?”
“Yes.”
“YES! Come and get me.”
“A never-ending circle.” I rolled my eyes, sighed, and groaned all together. A very cool me-talent.
“Pick me up, end the circle.”
So I did. I clicked end. The phone giggled again. I swiped ignore and went down the stairs. The warm, stale air made me unzip my hoodie. My phone rang. Mom.
Ugh.
The back of my head itched like an unwanted rash. I suffered. Scratching hadn’t brought any relief.
I hated subways. Too close. Too many people I’d never spend time with otherwise, and the ripe locker room stench gagged me. Like a smelly sock someone tried to hide with a thick cloud of no-better-smelling perfume.
Zombie-Mode engaged.
Thirty-five minutes passed.
Zombie-Mode disengaged. My phone showed eight missed calls. A few from Jack, the rest from Mom. Suffocating.
I’ll call her back, later. If it were important, she’d be here.
I walked toward Dad’s simple marker, passing a few monstrosities that seemed to be a way for people to fake care about their dead loved ones. The bigger the stone, the bigger the love deficit. Dad’s flat stone needed a trim. I pulled out scissors from my backpack and clipped back the encroaching grass. My hand brushed against the cool stone, and a buzz tickled the back of my head.
“Here lies David Jonathan Jericho.
Born January 2nd, 1965 – Died September 11th 2001.
He provided comfort to thousands in his tower.
A hero to many.
A husband to one.
A father to a son.
And above all a man who gave until he breathed his last.
Rest in Peace David, he shall see you again.”
“He” in the last line was a mistake. Should read “we.” “His tower” and “gave until he breathed his last” confused me. I asked, but Mom and Aunt April said the same thing. It was an inside joke, nothing more. Yeah, nothing like family secrets to bring us all together.
Ah, the wonders of family.
I wanted him to surprise me. Two minutes of hatred, maybe three, but we’d hug for five to forever.
I reread, hoping for a bit of sense after eleven years; instead, the buzzing turned to a pain that bristled from the back of my head. The itching intensified. Blackness crept at the corners of my eyes, and gravity invited me to an ungraceful meeting with the ground where the dead rested.
*****
Ugh.
Grass filled my nose. Face first in the freshly cut lawn. Not embarrassing.
What happened? What’s in my—
I closed one nostril and blew hard. A pebble flew out of the other.
Gross.
I sat up. My vision blurred. I attempted to focus, but unfocused was all I achieved.
A dusty voice echoed somewhere with a hint of age, a dash of grim, and a whole lot of ass. The donkey kind.
<Let me help.>
I jumped and whipped my head in every direction. “Who said that?”
<I did.>
My breathing shortened. No one. Anywhere. “Huh?”
<She forgot to tell you. And David said she was
punctual.>
I promptly passed out.
For a moment.
Maybe a long moment.
Longer than I wanted.
As if I woke up from a long nap, I stretched my arms. My hand brushed against Dad’s stone. I sighed. The sun rays dotted around me due to the naked tree limbs above. I haven’t passed out since having one beer with Aunt April.
Embarrassing, yes, I’m aware.
I tried hard to forget. And never share. Ever.
<I remember. Funny story.>
I sat up fast enough, pain swirled around. My head tried to anchor me when I stood, forcing my bare hand to touch Dad’s stone to keep from colliding with the ground, again. Something buzzed in surround sound.
My voice drawled out. “Who’s there?”
<My name is Christopher Robin. Christopher,
however, will suffice.>
“Ohgoodgod. Seriously?”
Falling face first into grass knocked me nuts. Maybe schizo, though I don’t recall crazy being in my family.
A scream squirmed within my throat.
“What’s going on?” My phone sang an awful tune.
Mom.
Ignored. My headache still raged.
<No comment about sounding like Winnie
the Pooh?>
“I’m aware of what it sounds like.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Thinking the voice away.
None of this is true. Not crazy. No time for that.
<You’re going to make time.>
I slid across the grass and staggered up like a newborn fawn. “Dad, why can’t you be here?” Humming erupted from somewhere. “’Cause weird needs to top weird.” I stepped back.
A bright light flickered from Dad’s stone. An image stood before me. A man formed out of light. Very Jesus-esque. I rubbed my eyes.
The image adjusted and realigned into a person sort of like an old, old, old, old TV set with a black and white picture. I almost re-passed out. He wore a T-shirt and jeans like Dad. A whiff of Brute aftershave and steam entranced my nose. He smiled like him. Memories of a five-year-old came marching back. Not his hair. Dad combed it with his hand. This hair appeared perfect, as if combed by someone who didn’t use his hand. I reached for him, but the light denied me. I collapsed to my knees and peered upward. To remember him as a boy only could.
Silly light, I only want one hug.
I used to think holograms were cool.
Christopher Robin said,
<Great. Your mom’s late and he’s early.
No surprise they created you.>
“Dad?”
He kneeled. “Come on, little WOB, we have a mission.”
<Remember, it’s just Christopher.>
Really?
