by J D Spero
“Why don’t we ever have any OJ?” Tyler sounded like a chimneysweeper. His voice change was not from hormones. He must’ve smoked a thousand cigarettes—or worse—last night with Derek.
The fridge door slammed shut.
Marcella clucked her tongue. She emerged from her bedroom, tying her apron behind her hips. She started at the sight of her oldest son.
Tyler’s hair was spiked and matted from sleep. He still wore last night’s clothes. She almost laughed. “What’s this? Is this what they call grunge?”
Tyler stared back at her, unseeing. She felt the smile fall from her face. The chill in the air had nothing to do with the drafty window over the sink.
Hen’s slight voice barely reached them. “Tyler, where’s your bracelet?”
“What bracelet?” Marcella looked from Hen to Tyler.
Tyler rubbed his wrist. “Oh. Nothing. Just something Hen made at school.” His neck flushed crimson, Marcella noted with surprise. He was ashamed. “I dunno, buddy,” he told Hen. “It’ll turn up. Must’ve fallen off or something.”
Marcella put herself between her two sons. “Your baby brother makes you a gift and you can’t even keep track of it?” She studied Tyler. His bright blue eyes—eyes of his father—were bloodshot. “I didn’t hear you come in last night, Tyler. I hope you weren’t out too late.”
Tyler shrugged. What kind of response was that? What—no one used words anymore?
“The night before Halloween.” She filled the silence, her hand working the air. “I know that’s when you teenagers do all those pranks. I hope you weren’t egging people’s cars or toilet papering trees. What do you call it—the night before Halloween?”
Tyler smirked. “Cabbage Night.”
“Cabbage Night. As if you need a special night to act like fools.” She shook a finger in his direction. “Tonight, you’re taking Hen trick-or-treating. Don’t forget it.”
As Tyler trudged upstairs to get ready, Marcella swung her attention to Hen. Lightened her voice for him. “Sweetie, you’re not eating. Are you feeling all right?” She swept a hand down his cheek and cradled his chin. “You’re not sick, are you?” She held her lips to his forehead. His hair smelled like winter wind and burlap. If she could inhale him, she would.
“I think I’m sick.” His meek voice was wavy, like he still struggled against tears.
Oh, no. That was not what she needed to hear. Why did boys do crazy things like go outside willy-nilly and get themselves sick? She wracked her brain. Sally might be able to keep him. But—“You don’t feel hot.”
The phone rang and interrupted her thoughts. She gave Hen a stiff smile as she answered.
“Oh, hi, Bernie.”
Sally’s only son, Bernie, was Marcella’s handyman and the only reliable man she’d ever known. His unceasing good spirits were a constant comfort. Now on the phone, though, his voice was strange. “Ma won’t be able to watch Hen after school today.”
“Oh? Is everything all right? You sound—”
“I can’t talk about it right now.” His voice cracked. “I can come by later—”
“Tyler can come home early to watch Hen. Don’t worry about that. Is there anything I can do?”
Bernie’s silence was loaded.
“What is it, Bernie? What’s wrong?”
A thundering down the stairs. Tyler now wore his favorite red and black Baja hoodie—the one that looked like a throw rug and smelled like body odor masked by incense.
“I’m out.” He pulled on his hood.
“Oh—sorry, Bernie. I have to go. I’ll call you in a little bit. Promise.” Marcella hung up. “Tyler, wait. I’m leaving for work in ten—no, five—minutes. You need to take Hen to the bus stop.”
His eyes were half closed in her direction. Or maybe he looked at the floor. “Derek’s here,” he grunted.
Sure enough, through their bay window, Derek’s black Ford idled in front of the house. Exhaust fumed from the muffler. Derek sat behind the wheel in a fog of cigarette smoke. Ominous. The whole contraption looked like a simmering bomb.
All hope began to sag. Marcella felt it in her shoulders. “Okay, fine. But you need to come home early to watch Hen. Sally can’t watch him today.”
Another shrug.
Really? She could scream. She followed him out the door, her voice projecting with sarcasm. “Sure, Mom. No problem! I’ll be here to babysit my little brother. Anything to help you out, Mom!”
Tyler slunk into the passenger seat. Smoke billowed toward her from the open truck door. Marcella shivered, feeling the frozen pavement through her slippers. Snow felt imminent. Typical autumn in the Adirondacks. She clutched the door, forcing it to stay open.
“Tyler, did you hear me? About today?”
She waited until he made eye contact. It took ages.
His father’s ice-blue eyes still had an effect on her, even coming from Tyler’s face. “Anything for Hen,” he said, bitterness souring his words.
The truck door slammed between them, the window showing Marcella’s pursed-lip reflection. She searched for Tyler beyond the glare, trying to find that scared little boy whose own imaginary friends turned against him, triggering endless night terrors. Day terrors, even. The little boy who’d run in from the backyard, shaking with such fright he was unable to speak of it. He’d find peace only in his mother’s arms. Hours she’d spend, singing to him and rubbing his back. He’d give himself up to her. And she’d make it right. That sweet, sad little boy. Where did that boy go?
Hesitantly, she tapped a fingernail on the glass.
Look at me, Tyler.
Tyler’s gaze remained steady, out the windshield. He didn’t acknowledge her again before the truck roared away, stripping a layer of maternal instinct Marcella was not aware she possessed until she felt it leave her.
The night terrors weren’t always the same, but they weren’t anything new. Ty had thought he was used to them. Told himself they didn’t affect him anymore. Five years ago, he would have stayed home had he woken up feeling like he did this morning. His head was full of hot tar. An inky serpent swirled in his gut. A vivid sense of shame—its origin a mystery—consumed him. His whole body seemed to be infected by it. Years ago, it would be an automatic pass from school.
Marcella would’ve known. She’d have kept him home. And even though she’d had to call in sick to the diner and even though she’d had a two-year-old toddling around, Marcella would stay with him for hours until it passed. Curled on the couch with a blanket over his head, his mother’s cool hands rubbing his back and her soft voice singing a country song about heartbreak and whiskey.
“Breathe,” she would tell him.
Impossibly, he would. And the shaking would stop. Eventually, the demons would leave his brain.
Part of him wished he could be twelve again. Part of him wanted Marcella to mother him that way again. But he was seventeen now. Almost an adult. Nightmares were kids’ stuff.
He had to fight the demons alone.
And there was no orange juice in the house.
Marcella had followed him out to the truck, yelling. On and on. He wanted to ignore her, but it was about Hen.
As he’d ambled into Derek’s truck, his mother’s nagging was sidelined by Hen’s little voice echoing in his mind: Where’s your bracelet?
…your bracelet?
…bracelet…
Derek’s door wouldn’t close. Something had been blocking it. His mother. “Tyler, did you hear me? About today?”
He’d inhaled Derek’s second-hand smoke. It helped the nausea some. He’d been able to look up without puking, at least.
She’d been asking him to watch Hen after school.
Hen…
Where’s your bracelet?
His little brother’s face had crumpled as he said it. He’d made it especially for Ty—with plastic beads and pipe cleaner. Made a big show of giving it to him just before he went out last night.
I dunno, buddy. It’ll turn up.
Must’ve fallen off or something.
Ty swore he’d put it right on his wrist. How could he have lost it so soon? Heat traveled up from his chest, making his hair sweat. His stomach churned. Was he coming off a bad high? A knife of panic cut through him.
He had to make amends. For what, he wasn’t sure. That bracelet had everything to do with it, though. Today. He’d make it right today.
“Anything for Hen,” he’d said, valiantly meeting his mother’s eyes so she’d know he meant it. It was true. He would literally do anything for that kid.
The door finally shut, closing him in to the glorious smoke that filled the truck’s cab. Another breath in, another demon out.
Tap, tap on the window glass. His mother was still there? She tried to get his attention. He could kind of see her in his periphery, and his pulse raced from anxiety. Why wasn’t Derek driving off?
He couldn’t look at her. Not now. Not yet. There was too much sick inside him. It would infect her.
Finally, the truck started to move.
Motion was good. Another breath in. And the hot tar cooled. And the inky serpent slept.
Derek handed him a cigarette without a word. Even lit it for him. Those small acts of kindness from his best friend overwhelmed Ty. Rendered him speechless. Derek didn’t need a thank you or anything. That was the best part.
Ty opened the window and smoked deeply, urgently. Gratitude filled him. This cigarette was saving his life.
With the demons gone, beauty moved in.
His thoughts automatically went to Roxanne Russo. Oh, what bliss it would be if he could ride all day in his friend’s truck, daydreaming about Roxanne. Feel that magnetic pull toward her even when she wasn’t around. Little things. The freckles near her ear when she wore her hair pulled back. The infinity ring on her right hand. Her beautiful hands, her skin the perfect shade and softness. How she laughed during study hall, flashing a crooked tooth on the bottom row.
Ty tried to fix his hair in Derek’s rearview, tipping his head out to catch the wind. A futile effort.
“S’okay. It’s Halloween anyway.” Derek sniggered, and then studied his friend. “Hey, you aw’right?” Derek read Ty better than anyone.
Ty cracked his knuckles, ignoring the question. He was antsy and running hot. What was wrong? It wasn’t school. Not his mother. Not Hen. Something bigger. The demons this morning were more persistent than ever. He’d been coming off a high. Was it a bad trip?
He ran through his memory of last night. With Derek at Leon’s, the bonfire—where Roxanne Russo was decidedly absent—and then… So many impossible images came to him. He didn’t know which, if any, were real. Sensory overload. He couldn’t talk about it to anyone. Even Derek. He’d sound like a crazy person.
He was probably still coming off that high.
“You watchin’ Hen after school?” Derek asked.
“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I have to. You heard my mom.”
Derek chuckled. “I’ll keep ya company.”
“You don’t have to.” Ty had an idea. “I’m going to teach him how to ride his bike.”
“Wow. Ambitious. I’ll keep your couch warm.”
They parked in the lot near school and that familiar queasy feeling hit Ty. School was not his favorite. It was like accepting hugs from a distant aunt who wore stinging, choke-worthy perfume. Teachers’ lectures drifted like wind in his hair, and only bits stuck here and there. It all sucked. Except Roxanne Russo.
They shared a class first period: English. And her assigned seat was right next to his.
Ty wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.
Roxanne Russo, the most gorgeous girl he’d ever seen. But it didn’t matter how she looked. It mattered how she made him feel. It was magic. He didn’t know how it worked. It was some sort of cosmic energy or something. But she made him feel so good inside. Better than good. Light. Filled with light—a warm glow that could only be happiness. Nothing and no one had made him feel quite that way before. How could he not want to feel that again? How could he not want that all the time? Even after what happened. He could forgive her. Even after what Derek told him, he couldn’t stop yearning for that feeling. Despite everything, he still loved her. He couldn’t help it.
She wore a white sweater today. So white, it glowed. Her lips and fingernails painted a deep red, almost maroon. She popped gum. The scent of peppermint wafted toward him. He couldn’t look her way, though he desperately wanted to.
Hi.
Why couldn’t he say hi to her? One word. Not even a real word. Kind of just a sound. Still, he couldn’t get it out.
He kept his gaze straight ahead where Marla Searles happened to sit. Some guys thought Marla was a catch. Her name was a tongue twister, though. Too many Rs in weird places. Not like Roxanne Russo, where the Rs were placed just right.
Imagining a future with her was pretty much off the table after what happened. Still, he could delve into the past. Revisit better times. Innocent times. Like, just last year on Halloween when serendipity pushed them together as he took Hen trick-or-treating. She’d been dressed as a baby doll. She looked adorable and ridiculous with big red circles painted on her supple cheeks. Huge eyelashes rimming her bright eyes. Her long hair in pigtails.
Another pop of her gum. Another whiff of peppermint.
Ty blinked at Mrs. Finley, who was talking about mythology. “Medusa is a woman whose hair is made of venomous snakes. One look from her and you’ll be turned to stone.”
Marla’s long coppery hair caught his attention. Before his eyes, it became a tangle of snakes. Red and yellow, deadly fellow. Ty’s pulse quickened, yet he felt he’d already been turned to stone.
Boom. A desk crashed into his. Snapped him out of it.
Roxanne Russo was there, real close. Her delicious, musky scent battled through the peppermint. His senses filled with it. Her desk was right up against his.
“Want to be partners?” she asked.
“Partners?”
“Okay, so at least one of us was listening. We’re supposed to research mysteries of mythology and report on them. I already have an idea. Do you want to partner up or no?”
“Sure.” If Derek were in this class, he couldn’t help but think, would she have picked him instead?
She kept talking. Her bright white gum flashing, matching her sweater. Her teeth, too.
He blinked at her mouth as it moved, talking around the gum. Focus! Listen! She was talking.
She pointed to a page in Bullfinch’s Mythology. Her fingernail was so glossy, like a glazed cranberry. Absently, he pressed it like a button.
She giggled. “You’re funny.”
“Me?”
“What do you think of my idea?” She fanned her fingers near her lips.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“How do you get your lips to match your nails like that?”
She blew a kiss into the air. “I dunno. I’ve always done them this way. I guess I see naked nails as, like, rural, you know?”
“And painted nails are…cosmopolitan?” He remembered the magazine.
She open-mouth laughed, showing her snaggletooth. How easy it would be to lean over and put his lips on hers.
“Yeah, I guess. Here we are up in the boondock mountains. Someday…”
Someday, he would kiss her.
“Someday, I’m going to live in the big city.”
He felt a pang of loss, as if she’d already boarded the train. Shock, too. Who complained about living here? The Adirondacks was the most beautiful place on earth. “You mean, New York City?”
“Yeah. I’m going to be a famous actress.”
He forced a smile. “And your nails will be ready.”
“Always.” She held up the open Bullfinch’s. “So what do you think? It could be fun.”
“Oh. What?”
“Shape-shifters.”
“What are they?”
“Creatures that take on different forms
at will. Look here.” She pointed with her glossy nail. Ty’s eyes wandered back to Marla’s hair. That’s what it was. Shape-shifter. One minute regular hair. The next, snakes. He wasn’t crazy. There was an explanation. He nearly laughed out loud.
He interrupted Roxanne. “You see it too?”
“See what?”
He pointed to Marla’s hair. “The snakes.”
“What are you talking about?”
Ty deflated. “Nothing.”
She tensed. “Do you want to do your own thing, then? As usual?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know. Derek told me.”
Ty’s chest tightened. “What did Derek tell you?”
“Nothing. Just that sometimes you’re in your own head. Don’t listen to nobody. Not even to be polite.”
A stab of devastation. He said nothing. Derek was his best friend. Betrayal now smudged out the bitter jealousy that had been growing mold in his heart.
“Never mind. Really. It’s fine.” She skirted over to join—of all people—Marla Searles. She whispered into her copper snake hair. The girls snuck looks back at Ty, giggling into their hands.
Marla fluffed her hair. “Watch out, Ty. Snakes are coming for you. Turning you to stone.”
Roxanne collapsed against Marla, all-out cracking up now.
No snakes for Roxanne’s hair. Her luscious, dark waves. His mother probably had that kind of hair when she was younger. Before strands of gray showed up. Roxanne talked to Marla with her hands, her glossy nails popping like fireworks.
He exhaled. “So, are you guys going to do shape-shifters?”
“No. Hera and Zeus,” Marla said.
“You can take shape-shifters.” Roxanne kind of smiled and held his gaze.
What a royal screw up, losing Roxanne to Marla like that. She’d been so close. They’d been talking. She told him about her dreams of becoming an actress. They were getting somewhere. He wanted to pound his head on the desk.
Ty didn’t care about the project. He stared at the Bullfinch’s Mythology. Whatever. One more school thing to get through.
But then he read the paragraph about shape-shifters.
Arachne turned into a spider. Rhea into a dog. Terrifying illustrations. Weird, though, how they comforted him. Here it was in print, documented a long time ago. That had to make it legitimate. Other people must have seen it, too. Maybe he wasn’t such a freak after all.
