His Own Way Out

by Taylor Saracen

  “We all have bad habits,” Greg stated as they pushed past the crowd of revelers surrounding the keg, “some worse than others, but at the end of the day, we’re all fucked up. It’s all about who hides it better. Speaking of being fucked up,” he continued, pushing his palm against his eye sockets, “I’m like ninety-five percent wasted off my ass.”

  “I’m glad you drove our asses out to east bumblefuck on the remaining five,” Blake tsked. “And you’re giving me shit for doing dumb stuff, hmm?”

  “You weren’t complaining when your ass didn’t have to walk here,” Greg reminded, “Saint Blake.”

  “Saint Blake,” Blake laughed, grabbing a red solo cup from the haystacks they were stacked on. “I didn’t realize Catholics were down with me.”

  “I’m down with you,” Ian grinned.

  “The king of Catholics over here,” Greg teased, grabbing his friend’s sides.

  “The Pope,” Ian corrected, taking Blake’s cup so he could fill it up.

  “That’s all head,” Blake said, watching froth accumulate.

  “When have you ever complained about too much head?” Greg joked.

  “Fair,” Blake smirked, dumping the contents of his cup into the dirt behind him, only to adjust the angle and tap the keg again. “It’s been a while. I’m giving myself tendonitis.”

  “Welcome to the Virgin Club, we wear wrist braces to sleep.”

  “I don’t qualify for your club,” Blake assured them, turning around to scan the people gathered close to the keg. Though he’d decided relationship drama had to be avoided at all costs, he couldn’t help but think a good fuck was just what he needed to clear his already inebriated mind. “Haven’t been a member for three years.”

  “Show off,” Greg huffed, taking a swig of his beer.

  “It’s easier for him,” Ian reasoned. “I mean, he’ll bang guys and girls. He has an increased probability of sinking his dick in.”

  “I wish,” Blake sighed with a click of his tongue. It wasn’t that easy. He was definitely able to score some ass, but he spent more time jacking off than he did pounding into someone’s body. That’s what he needed, the ultimate release. “I’m going to go check out the cabin,” he decided, observing a sea of people as they undulated in.

  “I thought you were avoiding drama. ‘New year, new Blake,’” Greg said, repeating Blake’s mantra from earlier in the afternoon.

  “Well, I never said ‘new Blake’ wouldn’t get laid,” Blake smiled. “I’m all for self-flagellation, but only within reason.”

  Sipping his beer as he shuffled between groups of people, Blake headed toward the house, figuring he would know who he was looking for when he found them. There were significantly more kids in attendance than just those who went to his school, which was good for Blake. He had a better chance of getting ass if he was getting it from someone he didn’t know, someone who didn’t know him.

  Saying “excuse me” as he weaved through the football players who were congregating on the porch stairs, Blake was forced to stop in his tracks when one of them turned around and stood like a boulder on the step above him, hands on his hips, clearly intending to deny Blake access.

  “Really?” Blake sighed, perturbed.

  “What’s the password?” the boulder asked, looking quite proud of himself for being a prick.

  “Move?”

  “That’s not it,” he answered, shaking his head. “Try again.”

  If Blake was a fighter, he would have been compelled to throw a punch, but he wasn’t. He had watched Logan go that way for a while, and he wasn’t about it, but that didn’t mean he was afraid to talk shit once in a while.

  “I think it’s ‘fuck off’ then,” Blake replied, pursing his lips and sniffing in annoyance. “So, fuck off.”

  As expected, the statement rubbed the boulder the wrong way, and Blake closed his eyes, bracing for the impact that didn’t come.

  “C’mon Dyson, let him through,” another guy urged, garnering a side-eye from Blake. It was the football player Claire had walked into the cafeteria with earlier that day. Blake was aware that it was a pretty stand-up thing for him to do, but he wasn’t interested in his charity.

  The boulder listened, and Blake pushed past him, entering the residence with the chip—that he thought he’d ditched—firmly back on his shoulder. Though the cabin was spacious, there was barely any room to move. He squeezed through smoke-hazed hallways following the smell of weed. He could use another hit. Draining his cup in an attempt to cool his rapidly overheating body, Blake practically fell into a small room full of guys he recognized from P.E.

  “Hey Mitchell,” Nick Holgate greeted, giving Blake a slight nod as he continued to cut lines on the coffee table in the middle of the group. “You want in?”

  “Uh, no.” Blake replied, leaning against the wall in an attempt to stop the room from spinning.

  “Your loss,” Nate shrugged, slipping his license back into his wallet.

  Blake doubted it. He had no interest in cocaine. To him, the drug was as useless as the beater trucks douchebags had lined up on the field outside the cabin. Though the bodies of the pickups were deteriorating, they had been tricked out with expensive sound systems which their owners had worked the whole summer to pay for. The guys showed off their rides like they were whipping out their cocks, trying to prove whose was bigger. Blake was pretty sure, even without a car, that his had them all beat.

  “It’s a good high,” Jack Heismore said, looking back at Blake from where he was kneeling on the ground.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mmmhmm,” Jack confirmed.

  “It makes you feel like Superman,” Nick added, pointing at the graphic on Blake’s t-shirt. “You sure you don’t want to give it a try, Superman? See if it makes you soar?”

  Licking his lips, Blake said, “I’m good,” even though he wasn’t sure he was. The last beer he’d chugged had him lapping the threshold to utter intoxication he had passed hours before, and then jogging back to demolish it completely.

  He needed to get away. Giving the guys a wordless wave, he ventured back into the hallway, somehow stumbling onto the mostly empty back deck. Lying on the wood plank bench, Blake stared up at the reverberating stars, wondering when they had become so active. He would wait for Greg to come and find him. Until then, he’d close his eyes.

  3

  Blake woke on Tuesday morning feeling like death. Three hours of sleep, a throbbing head, and a churning stomach had him thinking “new Blake” was an idiot. Although “old Blake” had made a slew of questionable decisions, he hadn’t been as remorseful over them as he was the prior night’s final cup of beer.

  Stretching his arms over his head, Blake groaned as his muscles lengthened. He wiped the sleep out of his eyes before putting on his glasses and grabbing his phone from his nightstand.

  Blake (6:12am): Pick me up on your way to school.

  Greg (6:13am): You’re not on my way

  Blake (6:15am): I’m a half a mile past it.

  Greg (6:15am): I know, that’s why you walk

  Blake (6:16am): It’ll take you an extra two minutes.

  Greg (6:16am): Somebody’s feeling rough this morning I see...

  Blake (6:16am): Understatement.

  Greg (6:17am): You were in rare form

  Blake (6:17am): I don’t want to know.

  Greg (6:18am): lmao then I can’t wait to tell you

  Blake (6:18am): Great. Tell me when you pick me up.

  Greg (6:19am): You’re persuasive

  Blake (6:19am): So I hear.

  Greg (6:19am): I’ll be there but you’re buying me shit at Circle K

  Blake (6:20am): Whatever.

  Tossing his phone onto the comforter, Blake climbed out of bed, tottering a bit as he let out a massive yawn.

  “Fuck,” he murmured, plodding to the bathroom.

  Blake placed his glasses on the counter, intent on making it through his morning routine without puking. Standing under the
stream of the shower head, he wet his body and turned to rest his forehead against the cool tiles of the stall. He allowed the hot water to pelt his back for longer than usual, hoping it would dissolve the tension in his traps. He had to get it together, and not in the half-assed way he’d vowed to the day before. The last thing he wanted to do was become some lush who drank his life away. He wanted wrestling to start stat. Just the thought of hitting the mat lifted his spirits slightly. Instead of fucking around, he needed to buckle down and get into top shape for the season. He knew he could accomplish a lot in two months if he was focused. That’s what he would look forward to—wrestling. He had a good run last season, but good wasn’t enough. He wanted to be great. He wanted to win the Woodland Invitational and then head to States. Winners didn’t drink booze for dinner and party all night.

  Feeling at least partially renewed, he toweled off and put on his usual uniform of a t-shirt, jeans, and Wildcat snapback.

  “I’m surprised you’re up,” Logan said as Blake took a seat across from him at the kitchen table. “You were in rough shape last night.”

  “So I hear,” Blake grumbled, grimacing as egg yolk dripped down his brother’s chin. “Ugh. Wipe your face.”

  Logan rolled his eyes and picked up his napkin. “What did you do to mom?”

  “What do you mean?” Blake asked averting his eyes, even watching Logan chew was making him nauseous.

  “If I ever got home two hours past curfew she’d have my ass. When you do she’s getting you Tylenol and making sure you have water by your bed.”

  Blake shrugged. It was true. He was the baby and his mom treated him that way, catering to him more than she did Logan. Blake didn’t get away with as much as Logan liked to pretend he did, but he couldn’t deny that he had the ability to talk himself out of things that would’ve had his brother on lockdown.

  Logan shook his head, getting up to drop his plate in the sink.

  “Rinse it off and put it in the dishwasher,” Grace Mitchell directed her eldest son as she entered the kitchen.

  “Do you tell Blake to do the same?” Logan asked, raising his dark eyebrows as if he already knew the answer.

  “Constantly,” she assured, kissing Logan’s cheek. “Right, Blake?”

  “Yup,” Blake confirmed, clearing his throat as he dumped a bottle of Gatorade into his backpack. Suddenly he was compelled to get out of the house as quickly as possible. He didn’t have the energy to listen to a lecture about how he was “letting himself down.”

  “You’re in a hurry,” Grace noted, standing behind Blake with her hands on her hips. “What’s the rush?”

  “I don’t want to be late for school.”

  “Oh, you don’t want to be late for school,” she said in an over exaggerated tone. “And here I thought you’d forgotten how to tell time.”

  “He probably did last night since he was stupid drunk,” Logan interjected, earning an unimpressed middle finger from Blake.

  “Hey,” his mom chided, smacking his hand down without much force, “quit it.” She sighed. “First of all, you overdid whatever you did last night. It’s unacceptable and I won’t stand for it. Second, you were out far beyond your curfew and you had me worried sick.”

  “I know,” Blake nodded. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone out at all. I got wrapped up in,” he paused, not wanting to admit that he struggled through the first day of school, “the excitement of the new year and everything.”

  Logan made a point to roll his eyes at the comment, but Blake ignored him, knowing that if he looked at his mother softly, he’d be off the hook.

  “You’re better than this, Blake,” Grace reminded him, pushing a loose wave off of his forehead. “When you do stuff like this you aren’t only letting me down, you’re letting yourself down.”

  Blake inhaled deeply and punched out a remorseful sigh. His mother repeated the sentiment often, and it never ceased to hit him to the heart each time. He didn’t want to disappoint his mom. It wasn’t as if Blake was ignorant to the fact that some of the things he did were messed up. So much of him wanted to grow up and stop doing stupid teenage shit altogether, but the opportunity to have fun and be free of restrictions was too tempting a pull to resist. He knew he needed to try harder.

  “Life’s easier when you do the right thing,” Grace said, resting her hand on Blake’s face tenderly. “Listen to me when I tell you that. You know I speak from experience.”

  “Okay, mom,” Blake said, well aware that she did.

  Though his mother hadn’t always made choices that Blake easily understood, it was apparent to him, even at a young age, that she learned from every victory and each mistake. She wanted to do better, to be better, in the same way she hoped for him. It was easier to buy into a mantra of cyclical self-improvement when it was modeled instead of preached.

  She patted his cheek, tightening her lips before admitting, “I hope you do.”

  It was difficult for Blake to see that she wavered in her trust of him, but he had given her a fair amount of reasons to have doubts.

  He sniffed and let out a lion yawn. It was too early in the morning to deal with the mélange of emotions.

  “Cover your mouth,” she tsked, turning to Logan. “I correct him too.”

  “Mm-hmm,” he hummed, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

  A short series of beeps from the driveway had Blake hurrying out the door, disregarding Logan’s request that they wait for him. His brother was too whiny to deal with on top of his splitting headache.

  “Good morning, Sunshine!” Greg exclaimed loudly as soon as Blake opened the passenger door of the Ford Focus. “You look like you’ve been run over by a tractor, but you’re still oddly attractive.”

  “I don’t even know,” Blake laughed lightly, shaking his head, “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

  “Say ‘thank you.’ It’s a compliment to your good looks,” Greg grinned, making the volume on the radio louder as he backed out onto the street. “Handsome bastard.”

  “Turn it down,” Blake ordered.

  “The radio or my voice?”

  “Both, actually.”

  “Remember when I told you on our third beer that we should skip Matt’s party?”

  Blake closed his eyes and tilted his heavy head back. “Vaguely.”

  “What did you say in return?” Greg pressed.

  “Probably that you were a bitch?” Blake ventured.

  “You got it. Who’s the bitch now, Mitchell?”

  “Still you,” Blake smirked, huffing when Greg smacked his arm. “Ouch.”

  “There’s no way you felt that past those muscles,” Greg stated. “Oh shit.” He started to dance in his seat. “My song.”

  When Greg proceeded to belt out Carly Rae Jepson’s “Call Me Maybe,” Blake considered throwing himself out of the car, wondering if he would survive the tuck and roll without any broken bones. After a moment’s deliberation, he decided it wasn’t worth risking the wrestling season.

  “You’re doing this to annoy me,” Blake said matter-of-factly, glaring at his friend.

  “No, I’m doing this to punish you for keeping me out until three in the morning,” Greg corrected with a grin. “Your third-wind was epic. Do you want to hear about it?”

  “Nope.”

  “The dancing?”

  “No.”

  “The kissing?”

  Blake raised an interested eyebrow.

  “I’m just fucking with you. The only thing you kissed was your knees while you tried not to puke in the backseat of my car.”

  “And I was successful?” Blake asked hopefully, cringing when Greg gestured to the pile of towels on the backseat. “I’ll buy your lunch, too.”

  “Deal, but you’re cleaning it.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Blake sighed. “Was I really dancing?”

  “Nah. You were too shitfaced to embarrass yourself.”

  “I’m a good dancer.”

  “Whatever you have to te
ll yourself.”

  “You’ve never even seen me dance,” Blake argued, wondering why he was engaging in the conversation at all. Somehow, the meaningless banter was keeping his mind away from his flipping stomach, so he went with it. “I have rhythm. Ask anyone I’ve fucked.”

  Very deliberately, Greg reached for Blake’s hand and leaned in close to talk to his palm. “Does Blake have rhythm?”

  “Fuck you,” Blake laughed.

  It had been a while.

  “I’m going big for breakfast,” Greg said as he pulled into the Circle K parking lot. “Prepare your wallet.”

  “It’s ready,” Blake replied. “I expected it.”

  “That’s why I love you, Mitchell. You’re smart.”

  “I do dumb shit.”

  “So stop doing dumb shit,” Greg said easily, as they walked into the convenience store. “You can stop, can’t you?”

  “Of course I can,” Blake answered, not entirely convinced.

  All he knew was that he had to try.

  4

  It was impressive what Blake could achieve in a couple of months when he was lucid and driven. While he still partied with Greg and Ian, or Nick Holgate and his crew on the weekends, he was serious on school days. Aside from working out every afternoon, he was eating right and going to bed at a reasonable hour. Blake had spoken to his guidance counselor about enrolling in the cooperative program Woodland County High had with a vocational school in Lexington. Thanks to his sophomore year grades and participation on the wrestling team, he was accepted past the initial registration date. Getting out of Unionville for half of the day was a breath of fresh air. Although his time was spent in another school, and not hanging around the city like he would have wanted, it was liberating.