In the Heat of the Light

by Stephen Kearse

  Apollo watched Sol twirl her hair, her fingers aimlessly coiling her wavy strands. She watched him back. He brandished his phone and scrolled mindlessly, the silence thickening between them. An Ars Technica article on the “internet of things” drew his attention. The article’s provocations made him scan the room, avoiding Sol. His parents relied on him to set up all the devices they were constantly ordering, just as he depended on them to innovate ways to move between systems. Between the living room, dining room, and kitchen, they had a smart TV, a smart blender, a smart clock, and a smart vacuum; he’d hacked them all. Had he missed anything?

  He glanced in Sol’s direction, avoiding her glare. She was still watching him. Why was she here? Why was his dad here? He again found his face ensconced in his palm.

  “You never answered my question,” she finally said. “I know my friends. Zed loves a challenge, Kai loves Theo, Theo loves to do the right thing. But you, no one knows what you think, what you want. Zed thinks she knows, Kai doesn’t care, and you won’t tell Theo, but unlike them, I know what I don’t know.”

  The invisible hand of circulating air suddenly caressed Apollo’s skin, producing a slight shiver. Or was that Sol giving him chills? Why hadn’t she asked him what he loved? Did she think so lowly of him that she couldn’t even imagine him feeling love?

  “You really need to learn how to respond to direct questions,” Sol said. “Especially if we get locked up for this shit.”

  “I was thinking,” Apollo said.

  “Learn how to think and talk. I’m not here for my health.”

  “Why are you here then?”

  “Why is your dad home this early?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Nothing. I’m just letting you know how obvious it is when you avoid a question.”

  Apollo sighed. It annoyed him how right she could be, how purposeless their antagonism was, but how real it felt. The circulating air suddenly felt hot, his forehead throbbing.

  “We’re doing this because there’s nothing else to do,” he replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think about our futures, all of us. We’ll go to school, graduate, get jobs, buy cars to drive to the jobs, keep the jobs to pay for the cars, buy houses, get married, have kids, and then die. Because America. But like, what is that?”

  “That’s one way to do it. I already have a house, though, so I guess I’m American as fuck.”

  “This is serious, Solara. Think about what we know. We’ll never have time other than now to act on it, to do something that matters. We’ll be too busy thinking about credit scores and commute times and vacation spots. You have a house now, but you don’t really care. You’re gonna just have one or two gap years and then fall in line like the rest of us. Believe me. My parents were raised by rebels in the Biafran War. Look at them now. All they do is work and buy bullshit.”

  Sol sucked her teeth and stood up. “I’m going home,” she said. “You coming?”

  “What for?”

  “Because you still haven’t answered my question.”

  Apollo laughed and grabbed his shoes.

  ° ° °

  “Where’d you get this one?” Apollo asked as he mounted Sol’s bike pegs.

  “The streets!” Sol shouted as she pushed off. Apollo was impressed by how easily she carried his weight.

  “If I told you that you biked like a maniac, would you care?” Apollo asked as his feet transitioned from bike peg to asphalt.

  “If I told you that I cared about your opinion, would you believe me?” Sol replied.

  Apollo scowled and followed her inside her house, taking it in for the first time. The living room was strewn with tools, emptied paint cans, and rolling papers. Neat stacks of boxes hugged lavender walls, a paint-splattered tarp sprawled over the carpet, and a fan spun furiously from the ceiling, its dangling cords scatting arrhythmic jingles. Apollo sank into the couch and compared the IRL experience to what he had glimpsed on Snapchat. It was smaller than he expected, much hotter, too, but it felt pretty homey, all things considered. But homes were still a distraction, property an illusion.

  “Geez, I know it’s messy, but tell me how you really feel,” Sol said, entering with glasses and a jug.

  Apollo slackened his scowl; it had apparently deepened. “Oh god, is this your infamous tea?” he asked.

  “Infamous and ice-cold. You can take it or leave it.”

  Apollo took it and nursed down a gulp. It was good. He tilted his glass upward.

  “You’re welcome,” Sol said, filling her own glass then plopping onto the couch. The jug dropped to the carpeted floor, producing a weak, sploshy thud.

  Apollo eyed the sweat of the jug, aware of Sol’s proximity to him. The couch was ample, as was the space between them, but he felt the heat from her legs, smelled the brine of her sweat. What was in this tea? He found himself scrutinizing his glass. The tea was the same color as Sol’s skin. Was it just as sweet?

  A blanket landed on his lap. “You wouldn’t last in jail, man,” Sol said. “You’re too secretive about what you want. I don’t know what it’s like for guys, obviously, but when I would feel the urge, I just had to do it.” Sol’s socked foot began to hover over the blanket. He felt his pulse in his eyes as he watched her mimic stroking herself, legs splayed. “If you didn’t own that shit, they owned you.” Apollo watched her other foot dangle over the opposite arm rest. Her legs were quite long, he observed. “They already own your time; you can’t give them your fucking desire, too.” Apollo nodded, his pulse suddenly perceptible from beneath the blanket, his lap a morass of heat and sweat and pressure.

  In one motion, Sol’s legs snapped forward, sending her springing from the couch. She looked down at Apollo, a bemused look on her face. “You still haven’t answered my question,” she said.

  Apollo stood up too. “Which one?” he stammered, the blanket dropping to the floor.

  “Why are you so sure this is what we should do? I haven’t even been to jail. I was just in juvie. And it was the worst year of my life. Trust.” They stood face to face.

  “I’m sorry,” Apollo said, matching her gaze. Her skin was still hot; he could sense it.

  “Yeah, me, too. I should have just tagged that bitch’s car. But I had to get extra with it.”

  “Extra is life, though, right?”

  Sol laughed, but her eyes remained still. “Extra is Zed’s life.”

  “What’s your life?” Apollo asked. “This house? I know you loved your grandma, but I don’t get it. We’re supposed to get houses, go to school, have kids, repeat. We’re not supposed to be the siege engine that destroys the means of control. I thought stepping out of bounds was what the Celestials were all about?”

  Sol scoffed and sat back on the couch. “Siege engine? Nigga, what? I’m gonna ignore that and start by saying you know I’m all in, but there’s no way you really think what we’re about to do changes things for real for real. For Kai, this is just the final summer excursion. Zed, too. They’re thinking about college. You’re all going to college!” She reached down for her glass and the tea jug.

  Apollo watched the liquid stretch from the jug to the glass. “I might go, I might not, but it’s not our job to think about this,” Sol said. “That’s my point. We’re supposed to be fucking and eating fast food. That’s actually what we would all do after a tag. Tag, hit the Wendy’s, hit the ’Gram, hit the sheets.”

  “Were Jerry and Zed a thing?” Apollo asked.

  Sol guffawed. “I knew you were a petty nigga,” she said, offering a dap.

  Apollo pushed her hand away. “Well, were they?”

  “Maybe. Not my place to say. And we didn’t hit the sheets that much, honestly. Mostly hit the jays.”

  Apollo lowered himself to the floor and sat cross-legged, leaning back onto his hands. �
��Fuck,” he huffed. The fan cords jingled above him, snaking into clangs. Sol passed him the jug.

  “Being small is hard, man. But you make it work. I know that owning a house doesn’t guarantee shit. I work at a fucking Waffle House, and I make just enough to cover bills and blunts. If the roof falls or I get robbed, my only hope is that Old National gets gentrified. You guys will be in school, and my family is waiting right outside for me to fuck up, so all I can count on are luck and the impossible.”

  “I’m sorry,” Apollo said.

  “I’m good. Uncertainty doesn’t scare me.”

  “It scares me.”

  “You seemed fine when your dad got home early.”

  “Yeah, but I won’t let that happen again.”

  Sol shook her head and stretched across the couch. “That was one thousand percent not the right answer.”

  Wet grass splattered onto Theo’s exposed legs as he shook his soiled sneakers. The slimy texture disgusted him, but his legs were cooled by the grass’s moist touch. He leaned onto the handles of his lawn mower and surveyed the yard. It looked good, he thought, the trimmed rows almost perfectly aligned, just like his dad had taught him. He was only halfway finished, but he already felt the pride of a job well done.

  A crack of thunder interrupted his moment of glory, reminding him that he was being rained on. Theo revved up the mower and started a new row, pleased that he had attached the receptacle bag at the last minute. “Pros always prepare for the worst,” his dad said. Theo agreed. Raking and bagging wet grass was certainly the worst.

  He marched across the yard, pushing the mower and watching for rocks and turtles. He couldn’t see his forearms in the faint light provided by the Browns’ porch lamp, but he knew they’d gotten bigger, stronger. When he’d first started cutting grass full-time, he couldn’t grip the shaky mower without his forearms shaking as well. Now, enlarged and more defined, they remained steady, immune to the machine’s constant shakes.

  The rain was cool, but the humidity was suffocating. Theo looked forward to reaching the edge of the Browns’ expansive yard and collecting his pay. Maybe the thirty-five-dollar flat fee should be renegotiated, he thought. Some of the yards on his route took ninety minutes to cut. He wouldn’t get his car fixed before school if he kept losing so much time.

  “Hurry the fuck up!” Mr. Brown shouted from the porch. Theo nodded and continued mowing, anxious to get home. Pushing the mower away from the porch, he continued toward the edge of the yard to finish the row. When he turned around to begin the next row, Mr. Brown was on the lawn, five yards away, barefoot and draped in a pristine white bathrobe. Theo silenced the mower, hoping Mr. Brown wasn’t about to ask him to trim the edges. He’d left the edger at home.

  Mr. Brown was close enough to speak at a normal volume, but he shouted as if he were still on the porch. “Theo, you’re fired! This night-shift lawn mowing is fucking ridiculous! I’m trying to sleep.” Theo groaned. He could feel the sass slithering down his tongue, but he was too tired to commit.

  “Okay, Mr. Brown. Should I at least finish up? I only have a few rows left, and I’m collecting the full fee whether I finish or not.” Theo smiled, pleased with his tiny act of resistance.

  Mr. Brown crossed his arms, shifting his weight onto his left foot. Though his hands were stowed under his armpits, Theo could clearly see that his fists were tightly clenched. Theo’s smile dissipated at the thought of having to fight a grown man. The small amount of muscle that he had built through tennis was concentrated in his shoulders and calves. There wasn’t even a One Piece character with a fighting style suited for such an odd physique. Theo gripped the mower handles, comforted by the strength of his forearms.

  Mr. Brown stared back at him. “Nigga, I have to work tomorrow. Here’s fifty,” he said, tossing a clump of cash onto the ground. “Come back when your business hours are convenient for the fucking customer,” he muttered, turning away and heading toward his house.

  Theo’s grip slackened. This was triumph. Sort of. It wasn’t really clear whether or not he was supposed to finish the yard. Theo decided to just take the money and leave. The rain stopped.

  Maybe this is a sign, Theo thought as he walked home, pushing the lawn mower past houses with odd brick facades. Operation Dead Presidents hadn’t been going as he planned anyway. He needed two thousand dollars to get the Civic repaired and repainted. He’d initially thought the plan was flawless. His dad would put up seven hundred, and Theo would bank the remaining thirteen hundred. But after a month, he’d only raised five hundred bucks. He had five weeks left before school started. At this rate, by that time, he’d have a little over one thousand dollars. He would definitely have to raise his base rate. He could tell everyone it was because of gas. Gas prices and taxes seemed to touch a special nerve with adults.

  Theo entered the house through the garage door, kicking off his soiled shoes before entering the kitchen. A stack of mail awaited him on the counter: the most recent Fader magazine, his AP exam scores, a financial aid letter from Clemson. The envelope for the financial aid letter had been opened.

  Theo removed the letter and scanned it. One of his scholarships had been canceled due to criminal charges being brought against a major donor, so sixteen thousand dollars would have to come out of pocket until the shortfall could be fixed. “Jesus,” Theo said aloud. Disoriented, he grabbed the Fader and the AP exam scores and slinked up the stairs toward his bedroom.

  Sixteen thousand. Six-ten thousands. One hundred sixty hundreds. Shadowing him as he dressed for bed, the sum bounced around Theo’s mind, its very precision somehow making it harder to fathom. Theo turned on his bed lamp then flopped onto the bed, exhaustion coursing through his body. Despite his fatigue, lying in bed only made him feel more restless.

  Theo grabbed the Fader from his nightstand. A portrait of some band he’d never heard of was plastered on the cover. The odd trio sullenly stared back at him. Theo closely examined the haircut of who he assumed to be the lead singer. She had a blond bob with shaved sides and streaks of cinnamon red. “I’m guessing either electropop or folk house,” Theo joked aloud.

  Theo dropped the magazine on the floor and grabbed his phone, opening his YouTube app and searching for the music of the mystery band. Theo laughed as soon as he heard the bubbly synths and cheery lyrics of the band’s lead single, “Born to Dance.”

  “The bob don’t lie,” Theo said to himself, closing the app with a victorious smile. Instinctively, his fingers scrolled to his text messaging app. Kai had been silent for nearly a month. Theo knew what it meant, but he still found himself primed to talk to her as if it had only been hours since they’d last spoke. He stared at their message history, his thumb unmoving. The phone’s LED display stared back then blinked off.

  Theo dropped his phone to the floor and rolled over, turning off his lamp. He dreamed of numbers, disembodied numerals floating around him like the number of the day on Sesame Street. There was something intimidating about the numerals, so Theo ran from them. Relentlessly, they pursued him, drifting through walls and floors and glass and trees like apparitions. Cornered, Theo began to add the numbers, his hands flailing as he carried ones and twos and sixes and fours. As he added them, they decreased in number but increased in size. Eventually one remained, metastasized into some behemoth integer that enveloped Theo like a blob, suffocating him.

  Theo awoke to two voicemails. One was from his father: “Hey son, I saw your letter from Clemson. State school looks pretty damn appealing right now, but I want you to get out of Georgia, see a little more of the world. I never told you this, but I set you up a college fund just in case something like this happened. It’s yours, son. You earned it. See you at dinner.”

  Theo couldn’t believe his dad was counting South Carolina as “the world.” He couldn’t even name a rapper from South Carolina. Still, a warm calmness settled over him, his body feeling limber. He played the
second voicemail. It was from Mr. Brown: “I paid you in advance, so you better finish the job. I don’t care about how fucking hot it is. If my grass isn’t cut by the time I get home today, I’m going to knock that stupid smile right off of your high yella face. I know where you—”

  Theo erased the voicemail, wondering whether Mr. Forrester would categorize Mr. Brown as shouting or yelling. Holding his phone above his head, he scrolled over to the weather app. The forecast was unbearable: no clouds, 100 percent humidity, 94ºF. “Feels like 105ºF,” the app taunted. Theo sighed, leaning over the bed to fish Mr. Brown’s payment from his rain-soaked shorts. A refund was the only option.

  Suddenly, he resolved to get a job at the mall. He’d still cut grass, but if his dad was fronting all of his college fees, Theo wasn’t going to take his seven hundred to get the car fixed, especially when he’d lied about how it got damaged in the first place. He’d raise it all himself. The plan was solid. Air-conditioned days, warm nights, a month of dignified, legit work. Theo could feel the guilt evaporating from his conscience. He’d make this right.

  He showered quickly, the soap skating over his skin like water skis on packed snow. He was dressed as soon as he was dry. Stopping to make sure he looked presentable, he scanned himself in his bedroom mirror: khakis, black shirt, black dress shoes, black tie. “You clean up nicely,” Kai would probably say, though neither of them ever could figure out what the hell that meant. Leaning in closer, he examined his face, running his hand over his cheeks and rejoicing in the faint layer of stubble that had started to emerge a few days earlier. He couldn’t wait for it to grow thicker so he could shave it off and finally wear some of the aftershave his uncles always gave him for Christmas. He’d picked the bottles up so many times that he knew their weights just as well as he knew their smells.

  The garage was ablaze. As soon as Theo opened the door, the hot air crashed into his face; it felt like he was being slapped by someone with fresh pancakes for hands.