Avalon's Last Knight

by Jackson C. Garton

  “Yes,” he pleads. “We’ve already wasted a year. I haven’t slept in six days because I can’t stop thinking about you. I freaked out when Gwen called me. I must have cleaned my house from top to bottom at least twenty times, I was so fuckin’ nervous.”

  “Um, why were you nervous?” I ask.

  “Because,” he says, “I haven’t seen you since last summer. You never respond to any of my texts, or messages on Snapchat. I feel like an asshole. What…what if you found a sexy, super-smart college boyfriend? What…what if you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore because I’m trailer trash?”

  The ridiculousness of his thinking forces me into a fit of hellish laughter.

  “Hey, it’s not funny.” I’ve never seen Arthur like this, so vulnerable and timid. “I’m being serious here,” he says.

  “What do you want me to say?” I reply, wondering how I can stop the torrid sensation now roaring in between my legs. “Do you want me to give you an answer right now? Like right this second?”

  Arthur slides a hand slowly across my chest and tilts my chin up to meet his.

  It’s the first time I’ve allowed anyone this close to my scars. His mouth finds mine and wages war against the space separating our bodies. I’m the first to seek relief.

  “Do I want you to be my boyfriend, as corny as it sounds?” he asks. “Hell yes. A fucking-thousand-times yes. Am I capable of waiting until you’re ready for me to call you that? Yes.” He pauses and sighs. “I can wait a little longer, I suppose.”

  Before I’m able to respond to Arthur’s admission, two fists rain down on the hood of the truck, and a slightly-but-not-quite-intoxicated Gwen dances her way around the front of the vehicle, doing her best Stevie Nicks impression. Or at least that’s what I call it.

  “Are you planning on staying in there for the whole party?” she wails, and I can feel her eyes seeking answers to unasked questions as they wander across Arthur’s hands, which are now hugging my chest. “Because we’re getting ready to burn a whole bunch of shit and release some negative energy. If not,” she says, scrunching her nose, “well, then there’s a big bag of condoms sitting on the kitchen counter, and you can help yourself to them. But be advised, the strawberry ones straight-up taste like chalk.”

  “You are a huge asshole,” I say, while lights in the old farmhouse behind Gwen flicker on and off like someone is tinkering with the breaker. She must see my mouth twitch, because within seconds she yanks on the door handle of Arthur’s truck, and I fall forward into her hands after it opens.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, catching myself on the side door. “Gwen!”

  “Why, stealing my precious Lancelot from his King Arthur.” She locks our arms together and takes two steps forward without waiting for me to catch up. “Come with me, little knight. We have much to discuss.”

  “You are three sheets to the wind, girl.” I hear Arthur say as we hobble around a couple making out on the paved part of the driveway. “I hope you ain’t drivin’ tonight.”

  Gwen dismisses his comment with a languid wave of her hand.

  “Are you two fucking? Because you sure took a long time getting here, and then he was practically in your cervix when I saved you from his clutches.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, pulling my arm from her now-loose grip. “We were just talking about stuff.”

  “Not even a hand job? He looks like he could use one. I bet he’s ready to burst.”

  “Stop it,” I say, clenching my side bag and doing my best not to step on fingers splayed out in the grass. “That’s Arthur you’re talking about.”

  “Young, dumb and full of cum!” Gwen laughs, and stumbles up a set of stairs that are in desperate need of repair. Her sandal catches the splintered wood and she stumbles forward. The wrap-around porch is crowded, and we have to push our way through a sea of red Solo cups and plumes of clove smoke.

  “You are drunk,” I say. It sounds like an accusation, even though I don’t mean it that way. “It’s only nine o’clock. How are you going to make it until midnight? Who is going to lead the séance?”

  Hip-hop music, which grows louder each time we walk through a room, is making it difficult to hear Gwen’s drunken ramblings. When she ducks her head and disappears into a herd of intoxicated teenagers, my pulse quickens and I hopelessly search for a way out of the room. The lights flicker on and off again, and girls start grinding on one another like they’re at a rave. I have to get the fuck outta here. The stale scent of gas station incense and cheap weed is giving me a headache.

  I turn around to head back out the way we came in, and my eyes accidentally land on two guys who are leaning up against a couch. Both men have a joint in one hand and a beer in the other. We lock eyes, and one of the men recognizes me and straightens up immediately. Todd. Todd Butcher. I avert my gaze and try to push my way through two girls who are standing in the doorway. I’m sure I’ve just wandered into another part of the house, but I don’t care.

  “Linda!” Todd’s deep baritone voice booms over the music. “Linda, wait!”

  His voice triggers several unpleasant memories. Todd was my boyfriend during ninth and tenth grades. He and I broke up the summer before I started eleventh grade, after I told him I was transgender. Of all the people I expected to run into at this stupid séance, he was the last. Hell, he hadn’t even been on the list, because I had purposely forgotten about him.

  A firm grip finds my wrist and I turn around. Todd is drunk and smells like bourbon. I wriggle my hand, trying to break free from his hold. We haven’t spoken in over a year and a half. I don’t know what he could possibly want.

  “I thought that was you. How the hell are ya?” His words are slurred, and spit flies from his mouth onto my cheek. A girl pushes us together, trying to make her way to the kitchen, and our faces are now an inch or so apart. “Gwen told me you’d be here, but I told her I’d believe it when I saw it. I thought you hated parties,” he says, and plants his hand on the wall just above my head. “So you’re a man now, huh? No more Linda? You weren’t kidding.” I can feel his eyes raking across my chest.

  Every time someone says the name Linda, indentations form on the hard-earned armor that I’ve worn with pride for the past two years. Talking to Todd about my gender is the last thing I want to do at this party.

  “Do you remember that time I fingered you on Jackie Thompson’s porch swing? Her parents were gone for the weekend, and she had the whole house to herself, just like this.” He bends forward and brushes his lip against my ear. “We had just smoked a blunt and were sitting on the porch. You gave me head afterward. Do you want to go outside for a little bit?”

  “Fuck off, asshole,” I say. “And move your hand.” I shove his chest as hard as I can. Things like this always happen at these parties. I always run into assholes from my past.

  “Your pussy was wet then and I bet it’s wet now.” Todd slides his hand down the wall and rests it on my shoulder, then places his other hand on my hip. “Come on, just the tip.”

  Before I can respond to Todd’s crude suggestion, two arms slide around his torso and he is lifted up like a toy in a claw machine.

  “That’s about enough of that!” Arthur tosses him aside without much effort and rushes over to me. “Dick! Are you okay?” he asks. Worry paints his forehead, and I all but fall into his chest. “What did he say to you? Did he follow you over here? Did he do anything?”

  “I’m all right,” I reply. “You know how he gets when he’s drunk. Bastard.”

  “Oh, you mean how he turns into a rapist? Yes, I do know that,” he says. “And I’m sure he’s looking for his next victim right now. I have been waiting for an opportunity to kick his bony ass.”

  I turn my head from side to side. “Arthur, no. Let’s not get into any fights while we’re here.”

  “If he touches you again, I’m going to break his fucking arm. I mean it.”

  “Just help Gwen light that goddamn fire, and then we can ge
t out of here.”

  Arthur’s jaw muscles relax and the light returns to his eyes. “Okay,” he says.

  Gwen is in the kitchen when we find her, yelling at some kid who has made balloons out of condoms left on the counter. He can’t be any older than fourteen, fifteen at the very oldest.

  “Do you know the statistics for teen pregnancy in this state?” she shouts at him. “Do you? Well, I can’t think of them off the top of my head, but they’re pretty fucking high. Get out of here, and take this, because I sure as hell don’t want you getting someone pregnant. Goddess help me!”

  After she’s popped each individual condom balloon, she stands up, her hands spangled in lube and latex. She mutters to herself and throws two handfuls of rubber into the garbage.

  “Little prick. Oh hey,” she says, finally realizing that we’re standing there. “Where have you been?” She eyes Arthur for a second, and slowly focuses on our hands. Her eyes narrow and I break free from his grasp, then shove my hand into my pocket, because I’m not ready for this—I’m not ready to be seen, I’m not ready to answer more questions.

  I’m not ready to live this dream that’s slowly coming true.

  “Bonnie said there’s pizza in here,” Arthur says. “Is there any cheese left? Jesus, what the hell was that?”

  Gwen and I exchange heated glances. I don’t know what she’s thinking, nor do I truly care, but I’m sure it has to do with me and Arthur, or how I’m hiding something from her, when I’m not.

  The overhead lights blink twice before going completely out, and vibrations caused from the loud music in the next room over viciously rattle the bones inside my chest like a human maraca. The only rational explanation for this power surge that I can think of is magickal in nature—a convergence of too many energies in one place, perhaps.

  “Shit,” Gwen says. “Help me light these candles. And be quick about it.”

  Arthur removes two pizza boxes and several empty soda bottles from the kitchen counter, and Gwen drops six glass candles onto the clean surface. The candles make loud thunks on the granite countertop, and one nearly rolls off the counter before I catch it.

  “You sure you wanna clean up broken glass in a poorly lit room, Queenie?” I ask, now shouting over the loud hip-hop music blaring from the other room. “Did it just get louder in here, or is that just me?”

  “No!” Gwen says. “There’s some heavy energy here tonight. Some powerful witches, I guess. I have no idea who half these fucking people are, though. Olivia is going to be so pissed when she comes home and sees everyone here. I said plus one—plus one—not plus ten.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I ran into Todd Butcher out there.” Arthur grunts and folds his arms. If I hadn’t stopped him, Arthur would have started a brawl right there in the middle of the house. I love him, but he does let his emotions get the best of him at times, and I have to remind him to keep them in check.

  “What?” Gwen asks, straining her neck to look through the doorway. “Is he still here? Lance, I swear I didn’t invite him. I wouldn’t. What did he say to you?”

  “It’s not a big deal. That incident was a little over three years ago. I’m okay. I just didn’t expect to run into him here.” I put up my hand, a physical dismissal of her concerns. “And who the hell is Olivia?” I ask. “I thought your girlfriend’s name was Lena.”

  Gwen lights the individual candles, and stops to say a prayer into each flame. The music in the next room returns to a decent volume, and the kitchen suddenly fills with light as if the power surge never occurred. My sister is finally becoming a witch—her powers must have awakened sometime this year when I was away. I smile at her.

  “Olivia,” she says, “is my boss. She owns Baubles.”

  I sneer at her. “Your boss? There’s an orgy about to happen out there on the lawn, and this house belongs to your boss. Are you out of your damned mind? What are you thinking?”

  “Relax, grandma. Olivia is super chill. She asked me to house-sit for her this weekend, and told me that if I wanted to have a get-together, it was okay. Power surges aren’t that big of a deal.”

  Arthur joins my side, a piece of cheese pizza in each hand. “It’s not the electricity I’m worried about, dude.” I point to the people standing in the doorway. “It’s the massive swelling of energy in this house. Did you intend on calling a coven tonight?”

  Gwen’s smirk vanishes from her face, only to be replaced by a scowl. She’s going to lose her temper—it’s easy to spot when she’s been drinking.

  “All we’re going to do is eat some acid, maybe do some shrooms, and dance outside under the beautiful moonlight. No one is going to get hurt. Jesus, you worry too much.”

  My phone buzzes in my side bag and I check to see who’s calling. I don’t want to bicker with Gwen, and I’m thankful for the distraction. I didn’t come to the party to argue with anyone, especially not my little sister and best friend.

  A Facebook notification alerts me that someone has just sent Camelot Crafts a message.

  Shit. I guess I didn’t log out of the store account before I left the store.

  Emmett, my boss, has asked me to manage the page while I’m at work, because he’s too stubborn to actually learn how to maneuver the damn site for himself. I open the link and a message from someone called Mordy Lafayette pops up. They want to know if Camelot sells candles, stones and-or rubbing oils. I send a reply, stating that we sell wax to make candles, and glass stones for aquariums, that kind of stuff—adding that if they’re looking for something else, to check out Baubles & Books, the store next door to ours.

  As soon as I send the message, I hear the faint sound of a Facebook notification. I look up from my phone and scour the scene. Other than Gwen and Arthur, there are only two other people in the kitchen.

  My phone buzzes again. I look down at the message. Mordy thanks me for the advice and wishes me a good night. The message intrigues me for some reason, so I send another text expressing that they’re welcome, and as before I hear a notification. While Gwen and Arthur busy themselves with collecting pizza boxes to burn in the fire—something I do not approve of doing—I meander from room to room, looking for anyone who might be on their phone. It takes all of five seconds to discover that most everyone is on their phone, and there’s no way of telling if this Mordy person is at the party.

  The rooms are as tightly packed as a box of crayons, and being confined in such a small space with so many people is freaking me out, so I decide to get a breath of fresh air. City life, even in a smaller city like Lexington, is different from life in the mountains. The air is cleaner here, or at least smells better, and you can actually see the stars at night.

  After a quick glance up at the twinkling sky lights that have held my admiration for these past twenty-some years, I take a seat on the soft grass. I pull out my phone and scroll through pictures on Instagram, cute pics of cats and dogs, pictures of girls in bathing suits and pictures of people at this party. I stop on Gwen’s account and watch a video of her licking white powder off some girl’s nipples. I roll my eyes and keep scrolling.

  Gwen was not like this before I left to go to college. While not exactly prim and proper, she had been sweet and shy, especially around girls she liked. Then something had happened to her, and she’d gone off the deep end, I guess. When I’d come home for Christmas during my freshman year of college, she’d been several inches taller, had gotten her braces removed, and had had pastel pink streaks in her near-white hair. She had become a woman in the six months I had been gone.

  “Excuse me,” someone says, stealing my attention away from the illuminated screen in my lap. “But do you have any idea where the bathrooms are?”

  Two people, dressed completely in white, stare down at me from the porch. I crane my neck back to get a better look at them. They don’t sound like they’re from around here, and I’m certain I’ve never seen them in school or in town.

  “Oh,” I say. “I think there’s one downstairs, right beside th
e kitchen, and maybe one upstairs? I’m not sure. You should ask my sister. She’s the one in charge, I guess.”

  One of the two guests takes a step forward. “Gwen is your sister?” they ask.

  I put my phone away and squint into the dark, letting my pupils readjust to the darkness. “Yeah, she is. I’m her brother, Lance.” I get up from the ground and wipe off my palms, then extend my hand. “Nice to meet ya,” I say.

  “Lance and Gwen Lotte.” The other person finally speaks. They exchange glances with each other. “You live here, in town?”

  “Yep, sure do.” I gesture to my left, using my chin. “About four miles that way. Where are y’all from? I’ve never seen you around here before.”

  People of color are few and far between in Avalon. There are black families that I know of in town, but I don’t recall any of them having kids my age, or anyone remotely close to my age.

  “California,” they both say at the same time.

  When one of them tries to take my hand, the other slaps their hand out of the way. “No. We are not even supposed to be outside, and you want to touch his hand? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Who will know, Morgan?” The question is like a hiss, aggressive and serpentine, and not meant for my ears, I think. “Tell me.”

  “Our ancestors, the spirits. They will know.”

  “You’re taking this Iyawo shit too seriously, you know that? That old man has filled your head with fairy tales.”

  “No,” Morgan erupts and jams her finger into the other person’s chest. “You are the one who is not taking it seriously enough.”

  “Lance,” the unnamed one says. “It was my pleasure to meet you. Hopefully this will not be the last time our paths cross. Be safe tonight.” The one who appears to be male—maybe?—pulls his hand out of Morgan’s grasp. “I’ll meet you back at the car.”

  Morgan calls out, “Mordy!” and chases after him as he swerves in and out of people on the porch.

  Mordy. That was Mordy? I hastily pull my phone out of my bag and sign in to the Camelot Crafts account again. Most of his profile is set to private, but I can still see a set of dazzling white teeth smiling back at me. I click on tagged photos and scroll through the public ones. Mordy wears glasses and has perfect teeth, including the silver one in the front. He’s tall and slender, not muscular like Arthur at all. I like the way his bottom lip juts out slightly, plump and ripe for the picking.