by Jay Bell
As soon as Caesar was seated and the engine turned over, music blared to life. Hip-hop lyrics accompanied their ride home, preaching the hardships of the ghetto and the pain of losing best friends to drive-bys. Jason found this ironic since all they drove by were expensive shopping boutiques and fancy restaurants. He didn’t relate to rap music much. Jason preferred listening to Brian May destroy the stage with Queen, or better yet, Eric Clapton coaxing moody sounds out of his guitar. Still, the way Caesar’s head bobbed to the rhythm, the way he spat along to the lyrics, made it somehow tolerable. Of course Caesar could probably roll around in dog poop and look good doing so. Only when they cruised into their neighborhood was the music turned down. The car slowed as Caesar glanced over at him.
“So what’s the real reason you didn’t want a ride this morning?”
Jason hesitated. “I noticed Peter walking and figured if you didn’t give him a ride, you probably wouldn’t give me one either.”
“Peter.” Caesar said the name as if it exhausted him. “That kid is disturbed. No one his age should be so bitter.” He shook his head, adding, “Not that I don’t get it. I mean I don’t, not entirely, but I know it can’t be easy.”
“What?” Jason asked.
Caesar locked eyes with him. “Trying to find the right family. One good enough for you. That’s gotta be rough. But Peter hasn’t gotten any better since he first arrived.” He returned his attention to the road. “In fact, I’d say he’s gotten worse.”
“He’ll grow out of it,” Jason said. “Eventually you get used to everyone having a family when you don’t. Or getting kicked out of a home for things other kids only get grounded for.”
“Yeah, but he’s got a family now.” Caesar frowned. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I’ll admit I’m a dick and I never give Peter a ride, but the kid depresses me.”
“It’s not like he chose to lose his parents,” Jason said, feeling defensive.
“That’s not what I mean. You can always talk to me about being on your own or whatever. It’s Peter’s attitude that gets me down. You seem cool though, like you’ve got it all figured out.”
“Oh, totally,” Jason said, repressing a smile. “The world is my oyster. The merest gesture gets me what I want. I wink and the ladies fall at my feet!”
Caesar grinned. “You’ll have to teach me how that works.”
Jason considered winking, to see if it worked on guys as well—or if it worked at all—but he restrained himself as they pulled into the driveway.
Caesar put the car in park before the engine went silent. “Listen. I mean what I said about being able to sympathize. A lot of kids come through here, and I’ve seen some of the toughest guys break down and cry. If you need anything, my room is just down the hall.”
“Thanks,” Jason said, knowing he’d never take him up on the offer.
Caesar seemed to sense this. “I mean it. No need for false pride. Not with me. If you ever— Shit.” Caesar lifted his rump so he could shove a hand in his front pocket and pull out a vibrating phone. He glanced at the display and rolled his eyes. “Women,” he said.
The telephone took him to another world. Caesar started texting. A moment later the phone rang and he answered, stepping outside the car for privacy. He must have forgotten Jason was sitting there at all because he headed inside, even electronically locking the car doors behind him.
Jason smiled, glanced around the car interior, and resisted snooping in the glove box. He allowed himself a moment to consider the conversation. Caesar had said Jason was searching for a family he approved of, not the other way around. A family had to earn the right for him to join. Jason realized it had always been that way. He kept going from home to home, but none of them had fit. His current situation wasn’t too bad. The only problem was an inconvenient stirring inside himself. Jason would have to leave eventually. No doubt about it.
But not just yet.
Chapter Three
“Chore rewards!”
Mrs. Hubbard announced this with such gusto that all present at the breakfast table winced.
Despite it being a Saturday morning, a knock on Jason’s door informed him of his turn to use the bathroom. Mrs. Hubbard ran a tight ship. Jason was no stranger to this. Foster home number eight. That home had been even worse; a schedule of the day’s events—broken down into each hour—was posted in every room. He’d put up with it at first because it was a nice house with a pool in the backyard, but eventually the constant micro-managing had been too much. Jason had gotten up at six in the morning, grabbed a shovel from the garage, and spent the next half hour scooping parts of the perfectly manicured lawn into the pool. By the time the foster parents had risen, the water resembled hot cocoa, Jason happily swimming around in it like the sole marshmallow.
“Who would like to explain what chore rewards are?” Mrs. Hubbard looked around the table, from Caesar’s empty seat, to Carrie, who refused to make eye contact, and then to Amy, whose mouth was full of pancakes.
“We each have a list of chores to do,” Peter said in monotone. “When we’ve finished them all, we go out for a reward.”
Didn’t sound so bad. Jason had done chores his whole life without expecting to get anything in return. When he was finished with breakfast, he was given his list. He had to mow the lawn—which was still pretty tame at this time of year—trim the bushes in front of the house, and do some light raking. His tasks were finished within an hour, Jason not having broken a sweat. He was grinning when he reentered the house.
Mrs. Hubbard looked pleased. “Good job! Of course the goal is to get all the chores done. We do that as a family. A team. Carrie is scrubbing the bathrooms, and Peter is vacuuming. Which one of them do you want to help?”
Jason wanted to ask how Caesar was helping. Instead he followed the sound of droning to the living room where Peter was and helped by moving any obstacles out of the way.
“It’s best to work slow,” Peter confided as they carried the vacuum cleaner to another room. “Otherwise you end up doing everyone else’s work. I’d bet you anything that Carrie is sitting on the toilet right now and texting.”
“I noticed Caesar is exempt,” Jason said.
Peter nodded. “All he has to do is clean his own room and bathroom. Personally, I think that should be the rule for us all, but whatever.”
They took their time with the rest of the house. When they were finished, they helped Amy carry trash bags to the garage. The reward portion of the day was much nicer. Mrs. Hubbard took them out to a Mexican buffet, where Jason stuffed himself. Afterwards they drove to The Galleria, a massive upscale mall where they were each allowed to pick out something. This meant waiting as Amy built her own teddy bear at one store, followed by a number of clothing retailers for Carrie. Peter already knew what video game he wanted, which just left—
“What would you like, Jason?” Mrs. Hubbard looked him over as he drew a blank. “You could use some new shoes.”
That was true. At the first store they visited, he found a lime green pair of Converse he was crazy about. “Size ten,” he said holding them up. “And they’re on sale!”
Mrs. Hubbard swatted his arm and smiled like he was being silly. “Those won’t go with many outfits. Or any at all. Let’s find something more neutral.”
Jason held on to the shoes as she shuffled through the store. When she picked up a pair of boring white sneakers and asked the clerk to bring them in his size, he gave up and left the lime green shoes behind.
“Go ahead and lace them up,” Mrs. Hubbard encouraged. “You can wear them out of the store and we’ll throw away the old ones.”
Jason felt like throwing something all right, but then he thought of Michelle. He wasn’t attached to his old shoes anyway. He soon began to miss them though. Walking down the mall corridors, he was mortified as his new shoes squeaked with each step, sounding a bit like a farting duck. His cheeks were burning with embarrassment and anger when Peter started laughing. Somehow this made i
t funny, and Jason and Amy started laughing too. Mrs. Hubbard just shook her head, as if they were being unreasonable.
Dinner time was nearing when they got home, so Jason helped out in the kitchen. Caesar showed up briefly at the dinner table, flashing him a smile, but then his phone jangled and he was out the door. Of course someone like him wouldn’t stay home on a Saturday night. For Jason, weekend nights were just like any other evening, aside from not having to worry about school in the morning. He watched television with the family, then let Peter show off his favorite video game. Jason could see the appeal of living a virtual life, but he didn’t have the desire to be an elf who spent too much time getting drunk in imaginary taverns. Peter seemed very amused by this though.
Eventually, Jason excused himself and went to his room, took his guitar out of the closet, and practiced holding chords without strumming the strings. He yearned to play but didn’t want to attract attention, enjoying this rare moment of privacy. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Even the most organized foster families cut their kids slack on Sundays. The day of rest and all that. Maybe Jason could take his guitar and find a nice big park to play in. People usually thought he was trying to earn money, which was enough to scare them away. Yeah, a nice day in the park, a light sunburn on his nose, and sore fingers. Grinning at the idea, Jason flopped on his back and closed his eyes.
* * * * *
“Everyone in this family goes to church,” Mr. Hubbard said, his gaze hard.
Beside him, Mrs. Hubbard was still frowning, just as she had been ever since she stalked off to fetch reinforcements. Now that her husband was here, Jason supposed he had to explain himself all over again. Sitting on the edge of the bed, still not having gone to take his turn in the bathroom, Jason crossed his arms over his chest.
“I don’t believe in God,” he said. The truth was, he hadn’t really made up his mind, but Jason had enough experience to know he didn’t believe in church.
“You don’t have to believe in anything,” Mr. Hubbard said. “This is a family activity, and we expect you to participate.”
Jason was tired of smiling, tired of holding back, and most of all, tired of being good. He wanted to be alone, and the idea of rushing through his morning rituals and putting on the horrible dress clothes Mrs. Hubbard had brought to his room was simply too much.
Sorry, Michelle.
“I don’t have to go,” Jason said. “It’s one of my rights, and it’s in the agreement you signed. I’m allowed religious freedom, and that includes the right not to practice. Maybe I should call my caseworker.”
“No.” Mr. Hubbard held up his hand. “No, that won’t be necessary.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “What exactly do you plan on doing with your day?”
“Catch up with my reading,” Jason said, grabbing one of the Hardy Boys books.
“So you’ll be here while we’re gone? You aren’t going out?”
“I’ll be here,” Jason said, fighting down a grin.
Mrs. Hubbard’s frown deepened, but she left the room with her husband. Jason skipped breakfast and stayed in his room until the car left the driveway. Then he went downstairs, grabbed an apple from the kitchen, and walked around the house while eating it. He hadn’t seen the downstairs bedroom when helping Peter vacuum, so he made that his first destination, curious what his caregivers made of their most private space. He noticed first the dozens of photos of the Hubbard kids. Most were on the wall, some on the two nightstands. These weren’t just for show or they wouldn’t be hidden away in here. The Hubbards really did care about the kids they took in. This made him feel a little bad about not going to church, but not much. His eyes lingered on the photos of Caesar. Some were of him as a kid. These, while interesting, didn’t do much for Jason. The newer photos of Caesar as he was now—those he stared at long and hard.
Then he went to the walk-in closet, surprised to find a number of hunting rifles in one corner. Unzipping one of the bags, he touched the cold metal barrel, his skin crawling at being close to something that could bring death so swiftly. Finding nothing else of interest, he returned to the kitchen, grabbed a can of Coke, and went back upstairs. At the end of the hall, he stopped in front of Caesar’s door, closed even now. He wanted to go inside, wanted to open every drawer, peer beneath the bed, try to discover who Caesar was through the things he owned. Jason knew this would only fuel his interest and create an obsession. Then he’d probably do something stupid like when he’d snuck into Shawn’s room that night.
Instead, Jason left the door closed and went to take his first leisurely shower since arriving here. Afterwards he strutted naked down the hall back to his room, where he put on underwear and an old pair of jeans. Then he grabbed his guitar from the corner of the room, sat on the bed, and pressed it to his bare chest.
He closed his eyes as his fingers loosened up and the music found its rhythm. Nothing beat the vibrations rumbling against him. When the music was right, the vibrations were too, carrying with them a sense of tranquility. Everything was good in the world. This feeling soaked through Jason’s skin, permeated his bones, got swept up into his blood stream. The music made him high. More than that, it put him at ease. He rested his head against the guitar, pressing his ear against its body, and lost himself in euphoria.
“Nice!”
Jason’s fingers fumbled, a discordant sound ending the song as his eyes shot open. Caesar was leaning against the doorframe. Today he wore a white tank top and a matching bandana that obscured most of his hair.
“And then not so nice,” Caesar said.
Jason opened his mouth and made a croaking noise. This made his cheeks flush, so he set aside the guitar.
“Don’t stop!” Caesar said, taking a step forward. “For real. You’re really good!”
Jason eyed him, assessing how serious he was. Caesar was smiling. At him. That was enough for him to swing the guitar back around. He strummed for a moment, then chose Something’s Always Wrong by Toad the Wet Sprocket, a song he knew by heart and felt comfortable performing in front of someone else.
He closed his eyes again as he played, but not because he was shy. He simply didn’t need sight any more than he needed taste or smell. Not while making music. At the end of the song, he almost bridged into another, strong clapping bringing him back to reality.
“Man, I wish I could play like that.”
“Do you have a guitar?” Jason asked. “I could teach you.”
“No. A friend of mine has one, and I’ve screwed around with it—” Caesar sat on the bed next to him, eyes on the instrument. “The thing is, my friend doesn’t know how to play it either.”
“Here.” Jason handed him the guitar, feeling like he was giving up something fragile and precious, like a newborn baby. “I’ll teach you a few chords. It’s easy.” He got on his knees in front of Caesar—who was grinning goofily—to show him what to do. “Put one finger right there. No, your index finger. Okay, now put your middle finger on the next one down.”
“Next string down?” Caesar asked, brow furrowing.
“Next string and one fret lower. Right. Now with your ring finger—”
“Another one?” Caesar asked in disbelief.
“Yeah. Just put that one up and to the left…” Jason tried to point, but this obscured Caesar’s view and one of his fingers slipped from where it was supposed to be.
“I’m not getting it. Just position my hand for me.”
Jason reached out and hesitated, which was a big mistake, because Caesar noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yeah!” Jason said. “Just thinking. Uh. Here.”
He took hold of Caesar’s index finger, trying to remember the last time he’d touched another guy. Normally he was careful not to because he worried it would make him feel… well, this! His chest was tight, his stomach filled with excitement and unease. Caesar’s tan skin made his fingernails appear extra white. Jason clenched his jaw as he placed each finger where it needed to be, ignoring thoughts
of how nicely they would intertwine with his own. When he was done, he pulled away.
Caesar’s attention was on him, not the guitar neck. “We don’t have to do this,” he said.
Jason stood and wiped the frustration from his expression. “It’s cool. You’re ready. Try strumming.”
Caesar did, and while his grip on the neck wasn’t tight enough and his strumming was too strong, he managed something resembling a chord. “All right!” he said. “This is great. Now teach me everything else.” He laughed at Jason’s reaction and handed the guitar back. “Honestly, man, I think I’d rather listen to the master himself.”
Jason smiled at the compliment. “I’m not sure the rest of your family will feel that way.”
“They’ll love it,” Caesar said. “Where’d you learn to play?”
“My mom. She knew the basics, and we had a neighbor a few houses down who gave me lessons in exchange for help around the house.” He glanced down at the guitar adoringly, barely seeing the spots where dry wood peeled or dirty strings needed replacing. “This was hers. When she first gave the guitar to me, it felt huge. It fits better now. Or I guess I fit better to it.”
Feeling awkward, Jason ducked into the closet to hide the guitar there. The instrument was one of the only things he still had from his original life, the one which felt more real despite having ended nearly nine years ago, and he was starting to worry Mrs. Hubbard would take the guitar away to make him fit her ideal. When he left the closet, he found Caesar glancing around the room.
“Where’s all your stuff?” he asked. “It looks like you haven’t moved in at all.”
“I travel light,” Jason explained, going to the dresser to fetch a shirt.
“You’ve got to do something to personalize this place,” Caesar said. “It’s like living in a hotel. Or is that how it feels to you anyway?”
“Foster care?” Jason turned to him and shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never stayed in a hotel.”
Caesar laughed, but not in a condescending way. “Well, being in a hotel feels like this. There’s a room, and it has everything you need, but none of it is personal. Come see my room. It’s stuffed full of crap. You can go shopping there. Pick stuff out to bring back here.”
