Falling Under

by Jasinda Wilder

  I shrug, and continue across the lot to my bike. Minutes pass, and she doesn't return. I keep waiting, watching the truck. Eventually Kylie gets out, starts walking toward me, clearly pissed off. Ben stops her, grabs her arm, and spins her around. I don't like that. I swing off my bike and jog across the lot toward them. I can't help overhearing their fight.

  "You don't know him, Ben!" Kylie shouts.

  Shit, they're arguing about me.

  "I don't have to! I don't trust him!" Ben says this calmly, not shouting, but he punctuates every word with a stab of his finger.

  "Tell me why, Ben. Give me a reason. One good reason."

  "I just have a bad feeling about him, Ky. I'm trying to protect you. Something about that kid is just...off. Plus, he's older than you. I know he is."

  "Yeah? Well, so are you! What difference does it make? I'm not a little girl, Ben! I can take care of myself," Kylie growls, and then whirls around and walks away. "I'm done having this conversation. I can be friends with whoever I want, Benji."

  He grabs her arm and pulls her back to him. "He's not safe. And don't call me Benji."

  "Let go! He's perfectly safe. You don't have to like him. You don't have to be friends with him. But that doesn't mean I can't."

  He doesn't let go, and that's when I step in. "She said let her go, asshole." I drop my backpack on the ground, stepping toward them.

  "Oz!" Kylie jerks her arm free and backs away from Ben. "Sorry I'm late, I was just--"

  "Defending me. I heard." I want to pull her away from him, but I don't. "Are you okay?"

  She frowns in confusion. "I'm fine."

  "You don't have to stick up for me, Kylie. If Ben has an issue with me, he can bring it to me." I move past her. "Key words here being 'bring it.'" I lift my chin, staring him down.

  "Yeah? Bring it?" Ben takes a big, aggressive step toward me. "Fine. I don't like you, Oz. I don't trust you. I don't want you anywhere near her."

  "It's not up to you, is it?" I say. Except, deep down, I kind of agree with him. I'm not safe. I'm not good for her. I'd never say that, obviously. To her, I say, "Look, I'm going. I don't have the time or patience to argue with this gorilla. You coming?" I deliberately turn my back on Ben, a dare, a challenge, a show of contempt.

  I'm spun around and pushed backward, hard. I stumble, catch my footing. I've never understood why guys shove as the challenge to a fight. It's stupid, and lame, and dangerous. As Ben is about to find out. As soon as I catch my footing, I'm lunging forward. I don't fight nice, or fair. My fist slams into his gut, and he doubles over, into me. I step back, cock my fist, and I'm about to let it fly, crush his nose like a goddamn egg. But she's there, watching. Crying. Darting in front of me, pushing me backward.

  I let my hand fall, and I back away. "Sorry, Kylie. He's right, you know." I back away farther, snag my bag off the ground, and sling it onto my shoulders. "About me, I mean. I'm not safe. Case in point..." I gesture at Ben, who's doubled over, gasping, red-faced.

  She stares at Ben, confusion in her eyes. "I'm going with him. Please, just understand. He's my friend, and so are you." Kylie leans in and hugs him. "Are you okay?"

  He straightens, steps back away from her. "I'm fine." His eyes bore into me. "You wanna go with him? Fine, then. Go with him. See if I care."

  Kylie and I get on my bike. Her arms are warm and strong around my middle, and I can't help but like the way her thighs feel against my hips.

  I crane my head to look at her. "Put on the helmet, Kylie."

  She twists around, grabs the spare, and stuffs it onto her head, clips it. "Oz, about Ben--"

  "He's just looking out for you." I effectively cut off the conversation with the belly-churning roar of the engine.

  We don't talk again until we're pulling up into her driveway, which is filled with cars.

  "Shoot," Kylie says. "I think the studio is occupied." She gestures at the cars. "This looks like The Harris Mountain Boys. Mom and Dad's new project. Wait here." She's off the bike, tossing me the helmet and jogging into the house.

  A few minutes later she comes out. "It's them, and they're recording until late tonight. I told Mom I'm with you. So we're good to go."

  "Where are we going?" I ask as she adjusts behind me.

  "Your house?"

  I blink a few times. "My house? You don't want to go there."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it's a shithole?"

  "I don't care. All we're doing is playing music."

  I don't know how to respond to that. It's kind of a non-sequitur. Playing music has nothing to do with the fact that Mom and I live in a not-so-great section of town, and I doubt Kylie's ever spent time anywhere like that. But yet somehow I can't say no to her. I'm pointing the bike across town, weaving through traffic, running yellow lights, dodging onto the shoulder, relishing the way her hands tighten on my stomach and the way her thighs grip me.

  The buildings get older, grimier, the streets get dirtier. The cars get rustier. We pass liquor stores and adult video stores, abandoned shop fronts, industrial buildings belching smoke, mechanic garages, apartment complexes. I can sense Kylie's unease with our surroundings, can feel her discomfort, her fear. We pull into my complex, pass the abandoned swing set missing three of the swings, the rusted yellow merry-go-round, the climbing structure tagged with graffiti. The cars are all twenty to thirty years old. A plastic bag whips across the lot in front of us as I pull to a stop outside the entrance to my building.

  I don't cut the engine. "Let me take you home, Kylie. You don't belong here."

  A trio of black guys with sagging khakis, oversized white T-shirts, and huge hoodies sidle slowly past us on the sidewalk that runs in front of the buildings. Their eyes meet mine, and I don't look away. They seem to recognize that I'm one of them, unlike the chick on the back of my bike, and they keep walking. One of them nods, a kind of acquiescence. When they're gone, Kylie sighs in audible relief.

  "Do you know them?" she asks.

  I shrug. "Nah."

  "Why were they staring at us?"

  I don't know how to explain it to her without scaring her. "We're white." I pause, and then continue. "It wasn't a challenge, just...curiosity, I guess. I don't know." I wasn't about to tell her that I didn't dare look away, or show any kind of fear.

  She seems to sense that I wasn't telling her everything. "Is it safe here?"

  I shrug again. "As long as you're with me." I twist to look at her. "Let's go, Kylie. Let me take you home. We can play another time. At your place."

  I feel her stiffen, straighten. "No. It's fine. Let's go in. I want to see where you live."

  I sigh. "Okay. But...I warned you. It's a shithole."

  With my hand on her back, I push her ahead of me, guiding her through the entryway, which isn't secured. There's a keypad and a series of call buttons, but they haven't worked since before I born, probably. The door sticks, and I have to jerk it hard to get it open. There's a small foyer, covered in threadbare industrial blue carpet. It smells of old beer and new piss. I nudge Kylie up the four stairs to the landing. A hallway extends to our left, the walls scratched and pockmarked, pale blue doors lining the walls, numbered with tarnished black numerals. A stairway leads up. Five floors, and the elevator is out of order. The steps have no backing, so you can see through them, and they're covered in the same thin blue carpeting that's on the floor.

  "Third floor." I gesture up, and she precedes me.

  I watch her round ass sway up the stairs, not bothering to pretend I wasn't staring when she glances back at me. I just grin, shrug. She blushes, keeps walking. Maybe even sashays with a bit of exaggeration. Nice.

  We reach the third floor, and I curse under my breath when Dion, my pot hook-up, is locking his door. He lives across from us, conveniently enough. He sees me, lifts his chin in greeting.

  "Whassup, Oz?" Dion is short, thin, with black skin and a slow, lazy demeanor that hides a dangerous edge. He's cool, but I wouldn't ever want to owe him money. We
slap hands, grip palms, and bump opposite shoulders.

  "Hey, D." I mentally will him to not say anything, but he doesn't get the message.

  He points at his door with a thumb. "I just picked up an 'O.' It's some serious icky-sticky, man. You want an eighter? I'll give it to you for sixty."

  I lick my lips. I do want it. I've got cash in my room, and I'm almost out. But I can't buy, not with Kylie here. "Nah, man. I'm good. Hold onto it for me for later."

  Dion nods. "A'aight. But I can't promise it'll last long. It's good shit, man."

  "Thanks." I unlock my door and usher Kylie in, who's clearly trying to figure out what just went down.

  I close the door behind me and lean back against it, waiting for the questions.

  "Oz?" She steps into the living room, looking around, then spins to face me. "Do I want to know what that was about?"

  I lift an eyebrow. "If you don't know, then no, you don't want to know."

  She's frowning. "Is he a...drug dealer?"

  I laugh. The way she said that, like she was referring to some mystical creature, like unicorns or griffins. It's funny. "I guess. I mean, he just slings some herb. Eighths and dime-bags. Nothing serious."

  She's clearly lost. "Herb? Eighths?"

  I shake my head, still laughing. "I thought you didn't want to know?"

  Kylie blinks. "No. I don't." She turns away from me and looks around the living room and kitchen.

  There's a couch along one wall, picked up from Salvation Army when we first moved here. Mom never takes couches with us. It's easier to just buy one from the Salvation Army when we get to where we're going. There's our TV, a fifty-inch that she got on a rent-to-own program from Rent-A-Center. It's old, but it works. A low oak coffee table with a scratched glass top, a half-full ashtray, a copy of OK!, and an empty Coors can. The kitchen is tiny, of course, with scarred laminate counters, dirty white cabinets, an old fridge, a non-matching microwave and stovetop range. The sink is full of dirty bowls, a pot of leftover Kraft mac and cheese, the remnants of spaghetti. It's embarrassing. I've seen what she comes from. I mean, I didn't go inside, but I can imagine. Clean kitchen, dishes always done. Marble floors. Granite counters. Vast spaces and high-end appliances. The opposite of this, basically.

  I point at the sort-of hallway, a six-foot length of hall with a bedroom door on either side and a single bathroom in between. The toilet is dirty, the shower is hard-water stained, and the sink is covered in Mom's stuff: makeup, curling irons, brushes, hair ties, a box of tampons.

  "My room is on the right." I lead her there, leaving the door open. More for Kylie's sake than anything else. Mom won't get home before three in the morning, and she wouldn't give a shit even if she did.

  It's messy, of course. Clothes cover the floor, heaped in piles of dirty laundry, the clean clothes in a basket. There's an ashtray on the windowsill, and it has cigarette butts in it, as well as a couple of roaches. The room stinks of dirty clothes and smoke. I can't believe I brought her here. Jesus, what was I thinking?

  I back away. "This was dumb. I shouldn't've brought you. It's gross in here. Let's just go." I grab her arm gently, and tug.

  She moves away from me to sit on the bed, the only place to sit. "It's fine, Oz. It's just a bedroom. My room is just as messy."

  I snort. "Right."

  She laughs. "It is! It looks just like this!" She glances at the ashtray. "I mean, it's a little bigger, and it smells better, but...other than that, it's just like this."

  I lunge at the ashtray and take it into the kitchen, dump it, and grab the Febreze on my way past the bathroom. I spray liberally, until we're both coughing.

  "I think that's good, Oz." She laughs, waving her hand in front her face, and then looks at me with a curious expression. "I didn't know you smoke." I just shrug, and she frowns. "There was more than just cigarettes in there, wasn't there?"

  "Don't wanna know, remember?"

  Kylie frowns. "Maybe I do. Maybe I'm curious."

  I groan and flop on the bed beside her, not too close, not touching. "No fucking way, Kylie. We're not even having this conversation. Be curious with someone else. Ben already hates me."

  "Ben's not my keeper."

  I don't respond to that. Maybe he should be is what I'm thinking, but don't say. I know I should stay away from someone as good and innocent as Kylie, but I'm just asshole enough that I know I won't. It doesn't mean I'm going to go out of my way to actively taint her lightness with my darkness.

  Instead of responding, I lean over, grab my guitar, unplug the headphones, and turn the volume on the amp down. I lean back against the wall, feet kicked out to hang over the side of the bed. I glance at Kylie, grin. "Ready?"

  She nods. "Let me have it."

  I hit a power chord, just to test the volume. Twist the knob a little, hit the chord again, and this time it's just loud enough that I'll probably get some complaints, but not enough to cause any real trouble. Loud enough, essentially, to shock her. I pin my finger to the string, hit it with my pick, then slide my finger down the neck, toward the bridge. An ascending, discordant note fills the air, and when I get halfway to the bridge I send my fingers dancing across the fret board, picking the strings as fast as I can, eliciting a shrieking riff that hits hard and keeps on going. I turn it into a chugging low chord riff, close my eyes, and ascend the bridge, strumming and picking, the whining, wailing notes getting higher and faster with every fret I pass. This is a solo I've been working on for a while, adding notes and chords here and there over the past few weeks, sections of finger work.

  With my eyes closed, I can almost see the numbers on my eyelids like silver light, halving and halving again with every note, fractions upon fractions with each shredded, twisted flight of chords. I lose myself in it momentarily. Let the music take over, let it slice through me and push away the knowledge of my impending fight with Ben, my bitterness and my sadness and my loneliness, even my burgeoning and star-crossed attraction to Kylie. For as long as my eyes are closed and my hands work music from my guitar, nothing else matters. I don't even want to burn when I'm playing. It's just for me. I let the solo go, turn to improv, hitting half-notes and staccato power chords, crossing from power metal style solo to metalcore-style crashing and grinding.

  Eventually, I remember that Kylie is here with me, and I let a shuddering note hang in the air, open my eyes to see Kylie staring at me. Her expression is unreadable. Horrified? Awed? A little of both, maybe. I'm not sure. I just sit and wait, fiddle with my pick.

  "Jesus, Oz!" Kylie breathes. "That was amazing. I had no idea you were so talented!"

  I roll my eyes. "I'm not. It's just a hobby."

  "A hobby?" She shakes her head and leans toward me. "Oz, that was crazy. I've never heard anything like it. You could totally be a professional musician with talent like that."

  I'm uncomfortable. I set my guitar on the floor beside the bed and switch the amp off. This seems to have backfired. I dig through the front pocket of my backpack, find my pack of smokes. I ignore the tin that holds my stash, even though I'd like a toke or four right now. I light a cigarette, slide open the window, and stand beside it. Maybe she'll be so grossed out by the fact that I smoke that she'll leave me alone. I mean, I don't want her to leave me completely alone, just to forget this idea that I could ever play some stupid country music for her.

  "No way, sweetness. I just do it for fun. For myself. You're the only person who's ever heard me play. Like, not even my mom. I don't know why I played for you, really. My point is, that's what I play. Not some twangy country bullshit. I'm not the guy for what you want. Sorry." I blow a long stream of smoke out of my nostrils, and Kylie backs away from the cloud, waving her hand at the smoke.

  She moves off the bed, watching me. "Why do you smoke?"

  I shrug. "I dunno. I just do. I like it."

  "Does it taste good? Or does it make you, like, high? I've never understood why people smoke cigarettes."

  I laugh. "Clearly. No one you know smok
es, huh?"

  "I think my dad used to, but he quit a long time ago. I think he still does, actually, every once in a while when he's in the garage, but never when I'm around." She sniffs the air, and I can tell she's fighting her curiosity. "Let me try." She reaches for my cigarette.

  I hold it away from her. "No way. No fucking way, Kylie."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it's bad. And you're good."

  "It's not bad for you?"

  I shake my head, not in denial, but in disbelief. "No, it's bad for me. But it doesn't matter if it's bad for me."

  She's clearly perplexed by this answer. "What the hell does that mean? Of course it matters. What if you get lung cancer?"

  "Then I get lung cancer. The only person who'd even remotely care is Mom."

  Hurt registers in Kylie's eyes. "What about me?"

  I ignore the pain in her blue eyes and keep pushing. "You'd get over it. You barely know me. This is just shiny-new-thing syndrome going on here for you," I say, gesturing between her and me. I lean toward her, blow smoke right at her. "If you really knew me, you wouldn't be here."

  She doesn't back away. Doesn't register my words. She just reaches out, slowly, pinches the cigarette in my hands between her finger and thumb. Takes it from me. I let her. She put the slightly crushed filter to her lips, hesitates. She's nervous. Not sure she wants to do this, knows she shouldn't. But she does. She inhales, a huge hit. Shit. She's probably going to cough so hard she pukes, I'll bet.

  Yep. She starts hacking, hands the cigarette back to me, leaning over double and coughing so hard she nearly retches. I grab a handful of her hair and hold it out of the way.

  "Breathe in, sweetness. It'll pass in a second. Just try to breathe. You'll be fine." Holy shit, her hair is soft. Like fucking silk slipping between my fingers. She gasps, face pale, eyes watering and panicked. "Breathe in, Kylie. Force the oxygen in."

  She opens her mouth and sucks in a deep breath, lets it out with a couple more coughs, and then begins to regain her color. "How--shit--how can you do that?"

  I shrug. "Everybody does that their first time. I puked the first time I tried to smoke. I did just what you did, took a big ol' hit and sucked it right down. Puked all over the merry-go-round. I, for real, thought I was going to die. Of course, I was ten."