The Changing Season

by Manchester, Steven;

  As two hours rolled into three, at the risk of getting into some real trouble Jimmy and Billy grew braver. They stepped out of the truck and stretched their legs. For a few minutes, they played outside the heap of rust, careful to stay close. Billy grew so bold that he stole a peek through the windows of “the club.” Still, he couldn’t find the courage to get his head inside that taunting door.

  Eventually, Jimmy began running around the parking lot and got real daring until the old man appeared from behind the red door and caught them. Furious, Billy’s dad looked him in the eye. “I never ask you for anything,” he screamed, “and when I do, you can’t even sit still for a few minutes.” Billy cried and when the sniffles subsided, the old man finished his smoke and wheezed, “Now stay in the truck. There are a lot of nuts out in the world and your mother would have my neck if I let anything happen to you.” And after offering those pearls of wisdom, he returned for one last round of singing behind the blood-red door.

  The sharp bite of his father’s disappointment was nothing compared to the sense of betrayal Billy felt. It was an entire afternoon spent in a conflict of love versus hate. In the end, Billy decided to respect his dad for not coddling him. He’s teaching me to be a man, Billy figured.

  It took an eternity, but the payoff finally happened when his dad staggered out of the club with Slim Jims and pickled eggs that he delivered with pride. A strange man walked out with him, smoking a cigarette. The stranger watched as Billy’s dad crawled into the truck. Shaking his head, he returned back behind the red door where all the fun awaited.

  With one eye open, the old man drove Billy and Jimmy home. “Tell your mom we went fishing, all right?”

  Petrified, Billy nodded. And he never spoke a word of it to his mother. It didn’t matter. From the moment they pulled into the driveway, she knew. Saturday night was fight night at the Baker house. With the booze as her tag team partner, Billy’s mom eventually won the brutal bout and sent the lying drunkard to sleep on his mother’s couch for a few days.

  ⁕

  Emerging from the old nightmare and baffled that the old man refused to remember, Billy started the car and looked back at his dad. It must be pretty convenient to forget your own sins when you’re judging someone else’s, he thought, shaking his head as he drove off.

  ⁕

  At the party, while Billy held a red Solo cup—pretending to do some heavy drinking—he was strangely relieved that all the reveling was coming to an end.

  It was dusk and, from the moment they’d arrived, Charlie was furious over something. “I’m so done with this bullshit,” he whispered through gritted teeth. “Done!”

  Billy caught the angry gibberish. “Everything all right?” he asked him. “If you need to talk…”

  “No, I don’t need to talk,” Charlie barked, an unusual wrath glossing over his eyes.

  “Okay, dude. You don’t have to bite my head off. I’m just trying to…”

  Charlie shook his head. “Just let it go, Billy. You have no idea what the hell’s going on,” he said.

  “Then tell me,” Billy said.

  Without another word, Charlie guzzled his draft beer like he’d just returned home from a full combat tour in the desert. He was staring at something—or somebody. Billy scanned the party but couldn’t figure out what—or who—it was. He finally decided it didn’t take a crystal ball to figure out why his best friend was so upset. Charlie and Bianca have been fighting non-stop since graduation and she never showed up at this final shindig. Billy decided to take his friend’s advice and leave it alone.

  While Charlie stared off into the shadows of the yard, Billy engaged in several different conversations. “So I hear you’re going into teaching?” he said to Sandy, another one of his classmates since elementary school.

  She nodded. “I don’t think I have a choice. My mother’s an elementary school teacher, my grandmother was a high school teacher, her mother was…”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Billy said, “I thought…”

  She slapped his arm. “I’m just teasing you. I’ve wanted to be a teacher since before I could walk.”

  Billy laughed. “Good for you.”

  “And I heard you’re going to UMASS?” she said.

  “I am,” he said.

  “What are you taking?”

  “I have no idea,” he said; he was so sick and tired of making up stories. “I’m enrolled in the Liberal Arts program for now. I’m just praying something comes to me sooner rather than later.” Telling the truth felt good.

  She placed her hand on his forearm. “I’m sure it will, Billy,” she said, searching his eyes for a moment. “Have you ever thought about becoming a teacher? I think you’d make a great one.”

  “You do?” he asked, excited over the genuine suggestion.

  She smiled. “I do.” With a wink, she left him to talk to another friend.

  A teacher? Billy wondered. Within seconds, his smile vanished. And spend the rest of my life in school? He shook his head. No, I don’t think so.

  Forty minutes and three beers later, Charlie approached Billy and Mark. “I’m out of here,” he announced, starting for the street.

  Mark hurried after him. “What’s the rush, Charlie? Maybe you should wait until…”

  Charlie looked back, fury burning in his glare. “Mind your business, bro,” he barked. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you okay to drive?” Billy asked his best friend, trying to keep up.

  “What are you, my mother now?” Charlie hissed.

  Something in Billy snapped. “Screw you, Charlie!” he yelled, halting his pursuit. “Go sulk somewhere else. I’m really getting sick of the drama anyway.”

  As Charlie jogged away, he never looked back. He was seething and in a very big hurry to go somewhere; it made Billy even angrier.

  Mark tapped Billy’s arm. “Things between him and Bianca must be worse than we thought.”

  “To hell with him,” Billy said, madder than he’d been in a long time.

  “I know,” Mark said, “but I’ve never seen him this pissed off.”

  “He’ll get over it,” Billy said, taking a sip from his red cup. “To hell with him.”

  “I don’t know,” Mark muttered, shaking his head. “Something’s up and it ain’t good.”

  They returned to the party, with Billy cursing Charlie’s name with each step.

  ⁕

  The last light of the day had slid over the horizon and disappeared. Charlie was so enraged, he felt high, drunk on rage. He’d spotted Dalton hanging out in the shadows of the party and waited for him to leave. “It ends tonight,” he hissed. “I’m done being played the fool.” Sucking in short shallow breaths, Charlie’s white knuckles threatened to crack the steering wheel in half. He was only a few minutes behind Dalton and—speeding like a maniac—he finally spotted the kid’s silver Hyundai parked at a red light a few blocks from the party. Charlie’s mind rushed with thoughts, confusing and nonsensical. He stepped on the gas and his car lurched forward. Pulling alongside Dalton, he screeched to a stop. After putting down the passenger window, he gestured that Dalton do the same. He did—reluctantly. Dalton’s frightened face only confirmed Charlie’s suspicions and made his rage grow tenfold. “Pull into that parking lot up ahead,” Charlie told him through gritted teeth. He’d tried to sound calm, but it didn’t come out that way.

  “Why? What’s up?” Dalton asked, his face flushed and his eyes enlarged from fear.

  “I want to talk about you and Bianca seeing each other. I figure we can settle some things and…”

  “I’m not seeing Bianca,” Dalton yelled, his voice cracking.

  If Charlie didn’t know better, the kid even sounded convincing. “Bullshit!” Charlie yelled back. “Just pull into that lot so we can talk about it.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” Dal
ton said, his voice now high pitched, “and I’m not…”

  “Pull the car over,” Charlie screamed, “so I can beat you like a…”

  The light was still red when Dalton punched the gas and squealed off.

  “I was right!” Charlie screeched, stomping on the accelerator. “He’s dead!”

  Charlie was three car lengths from Dalton’s rear bumper when Dalton took the Route 88 exit, a long stretch of two-lane highway that headed straight to the beach. “I got you now, you stupid bastard,” Charlie yelled and got on the throttle hard.

  It took five miles of high speed chase before Charlie was able to pull alongside his enemy again. Dalton’s face was panicked. The Hyundai pulled away. Charlie glanced down at the speedometer. They were now exceeding one hundred miles per hour. “You’re so dead, you son of a bitch,” Charlie repeated, sliding to the edge of the driver’s seat.

  A mile later, he was at Dalton’s rear bumper again when they hit a bend in the road. Charlie yanked the steering wheel into the turn, while Dalton’s Hyundai stayed on its line and continued straight. Within seconds, Dalton was in the breakdown lane. From the moment his car hit the sandy shoulder of the road, it lurched right. In desperation, Dalton must have over-corrected when the car violently jerked left and then right again before skidding off the road and down a steep embankment. Charlie got on the brakes just in time to hear the loud crash. “Oh shit!” He screeched to a stop, pulled a quick U-turn and headed back to survey the accident scene.

  In the quiet night, Charlie could hear the motor hissing, as if it were steaming mad. Other than that, there was an eerie silence; no moans or groans like he’d expected to hear. He got out of his car and started down the pitched embankment. Fifteen feet from the wreck, he could see that the destroyed Hyundai had struck a tree—which had refused to budge. Charlie stepped lightly to his left and the palm of his hand instinctively went to his mouth—to hold back a scream, the urge to puke, or both.

  Dalton’s upper body was half out of the windshield, lying on the car’s crumpled hood—in a puddle of blood and brains. Even if the moonlight hadn’t clearly pointed it out, Charlie would have been able to tell that a chunk of Dalton’s skull was missing. Missing, he repeated in his head. He gagged at the sight of it but held the vomit back. Panic seeped into his racing heart before surging through his quivering body. “Oh God,” Charlie gasped, “what did I do?” He braved another look at Dalton’s fresh corpse and clasped his other hand over his mouth. He’s dead, he confirmed. I…I killed Dalton.

  Charlie wasn’t sure how long it took but, when his wits finally returned to him, he scurried up the embankment. He fell once and then again before jumping back into his car. Hyperventilating, he looked up and down the desolate highway. He tried to calm his breathing, so he could think more clearly. No one saw anything, he decided. There are no witnesses. With the exception of a dark set of skid marks, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He looked back toward the embankment and felt a belly of beer churn violently, threatening to erupt. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “This can’t be happening!” he screamed. “No, God…please!” After pounding away at the steering wheel, he started the car, threw it into drive and headed toward home—crying hard the entire way. “I killed him!” he screamed. “I killed him!”

  Just before reaching the car wash two towns over, he tried to console himself, thinking, It was an accident, that’s all. But even he knew better than that. I’m so screwed, he thought and puked up everything that raged in his guts. My life’s over too.

  ⁕

  The following afternoon, Billy—already willing to forget his anger toward Charlie—called his best friend’s cell phone. It went right to voicemail. That’s odd, he thought and then called the house. Charlie’s mom picked up. “He’s not here,” she said. There was a pause. “I thought he was with you because he never came home last night.”

  Remembering Charlie’s foul mood, Billy felt an eerie chill run across his skin, leaving goose bumps behind. “He probably just stayed at Mark’s last night,” Billy suggested before thinking, He most likely sneaked into Bianca’s house last night and slept over. Hopefully, they finally made up and put an end to this stupid bullshit.

  The woman sighed heavily. “I’m sure you’ll see him before I do,” she said indifferently.

  “Maybe, but when you do see him, could you…” Billy began to ask when he realized she’d already hung up. “Thank you, Mrs. Philips,” he said into the dead phone. “You really are a wonderful woman.”

  Billy headed off to Nick’s Pizza for lunch. Nick’s was located in a strip plaza, taking up two store fronts. From the time he walked in, the smells nearly bowled him over—pizzas, meat-filled calzones, and every sub you could imagine, from meatball to steak and cheese. The long, high-top counter was painted green, pitched in toward the floor. The counter was orange, the same obnoxious shade as Cinderella’s pumpkin coach; it was ugly but inviting. On the counter, the cash register sang like a lark, while the tip jar contained only change and a single dollar bill that had been there for years as some pathetic, ineffective lure. A steel rack of potato chips sat beside a full tray of sweet baklava, which his mom brought home some nights. The floor tiles looked imported and expensive, a stark contrast to the homely wood paneling and Formica tangerine-colored counter.

  Two sheets of plywood were hung over the two hot pizza ovens. Beneath them, Billy watched as his mom worked the flat paddle, sliding a pizza in and yanking two of them out. In a flash, she sliced and boxed the two pies and was taking an order with a phone wedged between her shoulder and the crook of her sweaty neck. Her hair was disheveled and, while spreading pizza cheese on a new pie, she looked up and saw him. Her eyes immediately lit up and she smiled.

  After kissing his mom and placing his usual order—a large tuna sub, toasted, with extra provolone, lettuce and tomatoes—Billy headed to see Mark, who was already there.

  The small dining room’s walls were covered in Greek paintings of the Parthenon in Athens, as well as a few of the islands—Mykonos and Santorini—framed in gaudy gold frames. A few plastic floor plants, strung with small white lights that only twinkled when the set was just about to burn out, stood in the front corners. A dozen tables, surrounded by old wooden chairs, made the room look crowded. Mark was sitting in one of the back booths. Billy slid in across from him. “I tried calling Charlie but…”

  “Did you hear about Dalton Noble?” Mark interrupted, an unusual urgency in his voice.

  “Who?”

  “That kid that lives in Berkley,” Mark said. “He graduated this year too.”

  “Dalton…Dalton…” Billy searched his memory but couldn’t place the name or face. He shook his head.

  “The kid we saw at the party the other night, talking to Bianca.”

  “Oh yeah, right. What about him?”

  “He drove his car into a tree off of Route 88 last night and killed himself.”

  “What?” A sick feeling tickled Billy’s throat. “Are you serious? He’s dead?”

  Mark nodded. “Word has it that he left Jaime’s party drunk and drove home.”

  “He was at Jaime’s party last night? I never saw him there.”

  Mark nodded. “I saw him briefly, but I don’t think he stayed long.”

  “And now he’s dead,” Billy thought aloud, immediately considering how life could change course at a moment’s notice; one choice—good or bad—could alter a path that seemed so sure just moments before.

  Without warning, a teenager sitting in the next booth jumped into the conversation. “My brother knows one of his cousins and she said he might have been texting when he drove off the road.”

  Billy tried to shake off the creepy sensation that ran through him. “Damn,” he said. “That’s messed up.”

  The teenager’s acne-faced friend added, “They say Dalton was a great kid. He was supposed to go to UMASS
in the fall on some academic scholarship.”

  “UMASS? That’s where I’m going,” Billy said, feeling the weight of the tragic news. “That sucks!”

  Billy’s mom entered the dining room to deliver Mark’s small onion and mushroom pizza. Catching the tail end of their conversation, she shook her head. “What a tragedy.” She looked at Billy and Mark. “You kids have your whole lives ahead of you.”

  “We know,” they said in unison.

  She peered harder at them both. “I’d better never hear about either of you drinking and driving again!” The last word carried a sharpness—comparable to a violent threat—which was not her usual style.

  “We won’t,” the boys sang in chorus again.

  She looked at Billy, her eyes searching for a promise.

  “Never again,” Billy vowed, his words strong and true.

  She nodded and the usual sparkle reappeared in her eyes. “Come get your tuna sub,” she told Billy. “It’s probably done by now.”

  Billy pointed toward Mark’s pizza. “Why does he get special treatment?”

  “Come and get it,” she repeated, turning on her heels. “Or I’ll eat it.”

  Mark laughed.

  Billy sighed heavily and pulled himself out of the booth like he was preparing to head off to a double shift at some rock quarry.

  When he returned with his lunch, Mark asked, “Do you want to catch that new stalker movie tomorrow afternoon?”

  Billy shook his head. “I wish,” he said, his mouth already full, “but I can’t. My dad set up an interview at the animal shelter…for a full-time summer position.”

  Mark smiled. “Cleaning shit for the summer. Good for you, Billy.”

  Billy took another big bite of his sandwich. “Whatever,” he muttered. “I need the money.”