Fantalia Online

by Jason Krew

  His father managed to hurt his back in the process, and so he ordered Roger around with a sour look on his face. His mood was so uncomfortable that customers weren't staying over long, which upset his father even more because it meant they were buying less. It was a ruthless cycle.

  Roger was exhausted by the end of it, but he kept Fantalia firmly fixed in his mind, and it seemed to help him find energy every time his father ordered him to do something. They closed up early on weekends, but there was always stuff to do once the security doors closed. His dad seemed happy enough with the cameras, though he managed to grumble about the inconvenience of it all, the exorbitant pricing and the sad decline of civilization that warranted such drastic steps be taken at all.

  They ate dinner together at the table. His dad always finished first, which left just Roger and his mother. Roger scowled inwardly as his father left his dinner plate in the sink and made for his study.

  Lazy ass.

  'How are your studies going?' asked his mother.

  Roger was squirting the last remnants of tomato sauce from the bottle, which rasped and hissed like an asthmatic.

  'Alright,' he said. 'Getting there, I s'pose.'

  'That's good. Finals next week, right?'

  'Yeah.' The hissing stopped.

  'You know,' his mother started, 'the better you do in school, the easier your life will be down the road.'

  Roger's appetite was gone. He set the sauce bottle down on the tabletop.

  'So everyone keeps telling me,' he grumbled, 'but I don't even like school. Why do you think I'm gonna like a job that requires good grades... from a school?'

  He could see his mother was listening, but this was always a point of contention between them.

  'We all have things we don't like to do,' she said, trying to smile. 'That's life. But some things are harder than others. It's hard when you're young to see all the opportunities presented to you.'

  'Yeah,' said Roger. He heard that a lot too. Being young was supposed to be some kind of sickness of the mind. Adults didn't really respect your opinion if you were young. 'Wait til you get older,' they would always say, but Roger didn't want to wait that long to see if he was right or not. He wanted to make his own choices. He poked at his food with a pensive look.

  'I kinda don't think I'll go to college,' he said. Silence hung in the room. He could feel his mother's eyes roaming his face, but he refused to meet them.

  'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,' she said. Her chair squeaked as she rose from the table. 'Just do your best, and go from there.'

  He didn't know if he could do his best. She was right about one thing, though. He didn't understand the opportunities. To him, it just looked like he was being told what to do and that he should be happy for it.

  His mother had started on the washing up, and when he finished his meal he joined her with a drying cloth. Wordlessly, they washed up the dishes, which included the stuff from lunch that his mother hadn't got around to yet. Roger enjoyed the gentle splashing of the water, the chink of cutlery as he returned them to their drawers.

  He left his mother to wipe down the bench top, and proceeded up the stairs and back to his room. Another lonely weekend. He imagined the kids at school were out at this time, at a house party maybe, or eating somewhere nice in the city.

  Before he knew it he was lying on his back again, feeling sweaty and hot and bothered, tracing patterns in the shadows of the ceiling. This apathy. This hopelessness. The only thing that seemed to rouse him was his anger. The feelings of injustice that were all too pervasive when he was by himself and plagued by the silence.

  He rose, and his bed creaked. He couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand spending another night in this cramped room chasing his thoughts. He plucked at his shirt where it stuck to his skin, damp and sweaty, then with an exasperated sigh pulled it off altogether and threw it towards the wash basket.

  He caught his reflection in the mirror. Skinny arms protruded from narrow shoulders, under which sat a soft, pale belly. Sweatpants hung slack from his skinny hips. He looked away, catching his own disdain from the corner of his eye.

  He got down on his hands and knees. A long time ago, when he'd been happier, maybe, and more excited about the future. When he still played little league soccer for the Naito Penguins, he had made it a pact to do fifty sit ups every night before he went to sleep. Sometimes his mum would watch him, tell him what a strong boy he was going to become.

  When was the last time he had exercised? He didn't know, and that spoke for itself. The first rep was uncomfortable, indeed. His little arms shook like pillars in an earthquake. Had it always been this hard? For a second he was tempted to put his knees on the ground, like the girls would in Phys Ed.

  For some reason, the second one was a little easier. Down he went, breath caught in his throat as he strained with the effort. He pushed himself up again, then down, and now his legs were shaking, too. What was the deal?

  He eked out five more before he collapsed in a heap, face down in the floorboards. His cheek was wet from the drool of his exertions.

  Fifty, huh?

  He had done fifty sit ups in one sitting, once upon a time, but never that many in push ups. He had a new goal, now. His second set of push ups yielded only five reps, shaking, gasping, ugly ones at that. But something had changed inside him, like all the energy he poured into feeling down had been transmuted into something else.

  He tried for another set, managed another five. That was enough for tonight. He rolled his wrists out. Something had been unlocked, though. He looked around the room. What else was there to do? The shirt he'd flung at the wash basket had missed and draped itself over the shoe rack. He put it in the basket properly. His bag lay on its side where he had dumped it, open where he had taken out his lunch box. His binder peeked out, chapped and ruddy from misuse.

  Could he really be about to study again? The thought came unbidden, equal measures terrifying and exhilarating. He stood there, his mind awash in the prospect of becoming a good student. He could see it in his minds eye, Mr. Clayton handing him his paper, a bit fat 100% scribbled across the front in red ink. The other kids were whispering to each other, but this was the kind of attention Roger could handle.

  A minute later he was chewing on the end of his pen, books strewn out on the table like the assorted maps of a disorganized cartographer. English. Now that was a subject he had never studied. He was pretty good at it, though. Well, had been good at it. He had liked to read ever since he was little, and it had been all he needed to get a good grasp of language.

  He had copied down the homework from the board, not out of any sense of obligation, but rather so the teacher wouldn't bother him if she saw him doing nothing. Mrs Teegan didn't single him out like Ms. Xin, but she had a loud voice that bore its way into your skull.

  How have things changed since Orwell published 1984? Have we moved closer or further away from the future the novel outlines? Dedicated a page to each question and be prepared to share your answers on Monday.

  Well, thought Roger, in order to answer that, I'll probably need to read the book.

  His copy sat on the desk. He grabbed it, flipped through it briefly, nostrils filling with the nostalgic smell of paperback novel. It wasn't that long, but man, how was he supposed to finish and analyze it before his finals next week? He was in for it. Not like he hadn't already known, but now it was right around the corner he could feel his stomach turn. It was like knowing you were going to take a punch in six months time. You could put off thinking about it, but eventually you had to stand there and take it.

  He began to read by the warm orange glow of his bed lamp. It had been a long day, and his drooping eyes soon became as heavy as cinder blocks, and before he knew it sleep had stolen over him.

  Chapter VIII - Part 3

  A mewing sound awoke him. He lifted his head, still drowsy, not sure what he was going to see or where he was when he looked around.

  He blinked his eyes in th
e lamplight. He'd fallen asleep while reading. There was a wet patch in the upper right corner of his open book. He wiped the corner of his mouth.

  'Meow.'

  'Hello.' Roger pushed himself up with his hands, reached over and pulled open the fly screen. Nanjitha slinked in through the opening like liquid shadow, running her whiskered face along Roger's outstretched fingers.

  'I haven't seen you in ages,' he said. Nanji trilled as she ran back and forth, footsteps pattering across Roger's exercise book. He pulled open a drawer and reached his hand through to the very back. The bag rattled as he produced it, and Nanji's excitement managed to double. The food tinkled into the little bowl on the window sill, and Nanji crowded Roger as he poured, long, fluffy tail swishing from side to side.

  He watched her eat, happy to see an old friend, and she returned for one more pat before heading back out into the night. Roger heard her drop down onto the tiles, followed by the rattle of the fence.

  He quickly realized he wasn't tired, and decided to give his study another go. If he was quiet, he could even slip downstairs and make himself a coffee. Was it worth the risk?

  A moment later he was on the way down, taking a page out of Nanji's book. He felt his way around the dark kitchen, clasped at the handle of the kettle and flicked it on. The kitchen was lit up in blue light as the appliance sprang to life. It rumbled softly as the water danced about inside like a lava lamp.

  He used this light to fish out his favorite mug and drop in a couple of teaspoons of coffee. He loved coffee, even the cheap instant stuff his family bought, but he didn't have it often. Something held him back.

  Soon enough he was at his desk, a steaming coffee at hand and plenty of homework left to do. Some of it was impossible, at least at this point. He didn't know any of the texts. Hadn't read them. Wasn't caught up on the course material. There were information booklets to go through, so dry that even the caffeine surging through his veins was struggling to keep his eyes propped open.

  He tried to highlight certain passages, but it all seemed important. How was he supposed to know what was relevant and what wasn't? His enthusiasm was waning, but he pressed on. There had to be something he could do.

  It got a little easier over him. He found a question he could answer based on something he read not ten minutes ago, and that helped his confidence. He scribbled furiously, his unpracticed handwriting leaving a barely legible scrawl, looking something like a neolithic cave painting.

  It was like putting together a puzzle. If you could put the border pieces down first you could make sense of the general picture, and work inwards from there, though the way the Roger of yesterday had jotted down the homework was like putting a puzzle together with half the pieces missing and the wrong box.

  Eventually his momentum flagged, right about the time the sun began to rise outside. He was definitely going to regret this, but it was better than playing video games all night instead. He set his alarm before he crashed.

  It woke him as soon as his head hit the pillow. Felt like it, anyway. His eyes stung like there were blisters inside them, and the walk to the bathroom may as well have been through the valley of death. He splashed water on his face, cold and merciless. It helped a little bit. He carried the lingering effects of last nights coffee, but it did little to wake him up, serving only to have him start the day anxious and irritable.

  He was glad his father was already in the shop, cause he didn't have the stomach for him this morning. He fetched himself cereal like a mindless automaton, and it took all he had to lift the spoon to his mouth.

  'Good morning, darling.' His mother had appeared unnoticed, and she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. 'Shu is in today, remember? You have the day to yourself.'

  Roger had forgotten, of course. Forgotten so completely that he couldn't even remember being told. He always worked Sundays, didn't he? He supposed Shu needed more shifts or something.

  'Okay.'

  'What would you like to do?'

  'Dunno.' He wasn't trying to be rude, but couldn't she see he was tired? He put his head down and continued eating his cereal. Truth was, he did know. He was going straight to the city. He could hear his mother making herself busy about the kitchen. She took his bowl from his hands as he approached the sink, and he mumbled his thanks, and slogged his way back up the stairs.

  The weather was pretty overcast, so he took his umbrella with him. He hadn't worn shorts in a while, and he modeled them in the mirror. Man, my knees are so... knobbly. To his eyes, his legs looked about as skinny as when he was in seventh grade. He made his way down to the front door, and put on his sneakers.

  He made his way through the shop, and passed Shu on the way out. The older boy threw him a big white smile and held out his fist to bump. Roger obliged. He liked Shu. He was in college, and liked to play basketball. He was always complaining about being a broke student, but there was a self awareness about it that made it funny. It was nothing like the way Roger's dad complained.

  'Hey man.' Shu ran a hand through his hair. 'How ya been?'

  'Pretty good,' said Roger. Shit, actually, as usual. 'And you?'

  'Good man.' Shu was restocking the toilet tissue, and he rotated them so that all the logos were facing towards the front. 'We won our semi-finals last night.'

  'That's cool.' Roger felt awkward around the guy. Shu had a natural relaxed charm that he couldn't relate to. Envied even. 'When's the finals?'

  'Next Saturday,' he said. 'If we win the finals we'll go to the national play offs, which means travel. That's why I'm taking all these shifts.'

  'Wow, nice.' He knew Shu trained hard. He saw him at the courts opposite the train station nearly every day.

  'What about you man? Up to anything interesting.'

  'Not really,' said Roger, shrugging. 'Got my finals next week.'

  'Ahh.' Shu gave him a sympathetic smile. 'You off to go study now?'

  'I s'pose so.' He wore his backpack, and it did have his binder in it.

  'I won't keep you, man.' He gave Roger another fist bump. 'Good luck with it, yeah?'

  'Thanks. You too.'

  He saw his dad watching them through the rungs of shelving, but he pretended not to notice. The buzzer jingled behind him as he headed on out. He was feeling the weight lift from him already, even if it still felt like he'd been hit by a bus. He yawned a big yawn, and waved at his elderly neighbor. The man looked up from his roses with a smile and a nod.

  Things were busy, but nothing like the mornings to school. He sat down, music blaring in his ears, small smile on his face. He had the whole day to himself, and he was going to make the most of it.

  Chapter VIII - Part 4

  The kids in the corner seat were loud. Obnoxiously so, and Roger could see the weary looks of the elder passengers. They always said that the youth these days were worse than ever, and sometimes it was hard to argue. Then again, he didn't think all too highly of most adults either, and there were plenty more old people than young in this country. He really wished these kids would shut up, though.

  They left at Central Station, and peace returned to the carriage. No doubt there were headed to the ice rink. That's where all the teenagers hung out on weekends. There was an upstairs club, too, where you could have your first kiss if you were lucky.

  Roger was yet to experience that, but the idea of going to the rink didn't really entice him. He was sure he wouldn't like the music, and he was damn sure he didn't want to be around those kinds of people. Wanting to be kissed made people dress funny, and act strange. He had seen all this before.

  He came back to himself, realizing that the train was already halfway to the next station. His mother would always said he had his head up in the clouds. More like down in the swamp, if you asked him.

  The city was starting to become familiar to him now, and he wasn't so self conscious among the crowds. Coming here had once been a special occasion. He would visit his favorite game store, and eat at the same noodle house in the food gallery. When
Sai moved schools, coming here made him feel lonely, and he came less and less.

  He hadn't thought about Sai in a while, and he found himself smiling as the nostalgia swept over him. He wished he could tell Sai all about Fantalia and what he'd been up to, but he hadn't heard from him in over a year now. Maybe I should send another email. Sai didn't use social media. It was one of the things they had in common.

  The ticket barrier chirped as he tapped off, and the price flashed on the screen.