Rebel Angels

by James Michael Rice

  “Gonna roll myself a fatty,” Max rapped, making up his own lyrics for the song. “Yeah! Ba, ba, ba! Gonna get myself to Highville, fuckin' Highville...”

  “DRANK MY GODDAMN BOOZE AGAIN!” Paul Kendall's voice boomed.

  Oh, shit!

  Max jerked his head in time to see the blur of something pass his face, then the room was filled with the sound of breaking glass. The Southern Comfort bottle grazed his nose (Max wouldn't remember this until later, because it had happened so quickly), and shattered against the side of the Sony, which teetered on the edge of the windowsill for a single, agonizing second before gravity took notice and brought it tumbling to the floor. Max glanced down at the sorry-looking radio. The antenna was bent at an impossible angle, broken near the root. White noise drizzled from its speakers. In a rage, he yanked the plug from the wall, and the house went suddenly silent.

  Max jumped up from the table, brushing fragments of wet glass from the shoulders of his leather jacket. He reeked of alcohol. His blue eyes flared. When it came to giving the Evil Eye, Max Kendall could make the Devil flinch.

  They squared-off like boxers.

  “What fuckin' booze?” Max demanded, eyeing his father viciously.

  “That!” he screamed, pointing toward the shards of glass that now littered the kitchen from table to floor. As he leaned forward, his stomach spilled out between his boxer shorts and T-shirt.

  “Ssss!” Max hissed contemptuously. “You probably drank it yourself, ya goddamn lush.”

  Of course, that was bullshit. It wasn't Max's fault that Daddy Dearest had passed out early last night, leaving his bottle of Southern Comfort unattended. If there was one thing Max had learned from his father, it was finder’s keepers, loser’s weepers.

  “Besides,” Max continued, “you stole two joints outta my room last week, didn'tcha?”

  His father smiled boyishly. A sliver of drool hung precariously from his bottom lip. He shrugged, revealing his yellow, sweat-stained armpits. After a few seconds, he wiped away the drool with the back of one hand.

  “Yeah,” Max muttered, “that's what I thought.”

  “Ahh ken do anythin I wannoo, you undershtand?” Paul Kendall slurred in his own defense. He tapped a thumb against his chest, greasy gray hair tumbling down over his eyes. “Dish is my gatdam house. Yer livin' under my woof. And gat knowsh you don't pay no gatdam went.”

  “You want rent? Here's your fuckin' rent.” Max flung the joint at his father, who wasn't in any condition to play catch. Paul could only blink in dismay as the joint bounced off his beer belly and landed soundlessly upon the threadbare carpet. Max laughed and headed for the door, followed by his father's sunken, hateful stare.

  “Wunna deesh dayz, Mash, I'm gone show ya hooz da bosh around heah!” Paul slurred after him, using a coffee table to balance himself as he bent over to pick the joint up off the floor. “I’m shtill ya fadda. I'll teachya to tweat me wit reeshpect.”

  Max gave him the finger over one shoulder, kicked open the screen door, and stepped out onto the porch. He walked a half mile or so down the street, hoping to hitch a ride. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he walked back to the porch and sat down on the stairs. It was quiet inside. No more radio. No more Limp Bizkit. Shit.

  Max sighed as he lit himself a cigarette. He reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and removed a bag of marijuana, a bag of pills that looked like M&Ms, and a pack of Extra Wide rolling papers. The pills he'd save for later. What he needed right now was something to help him relax, to chill, and the weed would do just fine. Using one knee as a work table, he skillfully rolled another fatty.

  “Fuck you, Dad, you fuckin' prick. Steal my fuckin' weed.”

  When he was finished, he flicked away his half-smoked cigarette and put the rest of his supplies back in his pocket. Then he lit the joint, took a deep hit, and held it in, relishing the burning in his lungs. A few seconds later he exhaled a small cloud, watched the smoke pour from his mouth.

  Someday I'm gonna leave this place, he thought, looking up at the starry sky. He smiled dreamily. Kevin had hooked him up with some extra-good shit this time. Max was already feeling the tingle. It was too bad what had happened to Kev—but no, Max didn’t want to think about that right now.

  Closing his eyes, he went in for another pull, imagining what it would be like to be a bird, to soar high above his house, over the trees, and far, far away. As he held the smoke in his lungs a funny thought occurred to him, and he couldn't help but laugh out loud. He envisioned himself as a giant bird with a bad case of the runs, dive-bombing his father with reckless abandon.

  “Bombs-awaaaay!” Max snorted, coughing out a mouthful of smoke. The image of his father's shit-shined face was almost too much to handle. He made a farting sound with his tongue against the inside of his cheek, and began to laugh hysterically. Unlike Kevin Chapman, whose own mother had forced him into rehab, nobody could stop Max Kendall from getting to Highville.

  ~Five~

  As the last rays of sunlight drained from the forest Rick gathered up his thoughts and started, once again, toward the shack. Lighting another cigarette, he continued down the narrow path, remembering the countless nights he'd walked alone, with hopeful eyes turned skyward, wasting his breath on wishes that would never come true.

  Eventually, he arrived at the odd-looking structure. Standing outside the doorway of the shack, staring at the weathered shell of his favorite childhood sanctuary, he realized for the first time just how small the place really was; not to mention, unattractive. Did it only seem that way because he was older now, and more mature? Or perhaps he had finally opened his eyes to the truth: That his suicide had been successful, and he was dead and alone and living in Purgatory.

  Suddenly he realized he'd forgotten to look for Mike's car on the way into the forest. Then a sound pricked his ears and he listened. The low hum of music was coming from inside, and he knew the Swart brothers were already there. They were probably on their way to getting shitfaced, and he would join them soon. But not yet.

  Several more minutes passed as he stood outside the shack, remembering all that had happened since that sweltering summer day when they had pieced it together, like the world's ugliest jigsaw puzzle, so many lifetimes ago. They were in Junior High then; still young, still somewhat innocent. Summers seemed to last forever in those days, Rick reflected sadly. Mick Jagger was wrong: Time was never on our side.

  He looked at the door. He didn't want to think anymore—about anything. He yanked on the handle, the door flew open, and he quickly stepped inside.

  “Jeezus!” Lou hissed, almost tipping over on his chair. He clapped one hand over his heart. “Dude! You just scared the crap outta me!”

  “Sorry 'bout that,” Rick said, closing the door behind him. He'd only been there for two seconds, and already he felt awkward, as though he was no longer welcome here. He'd never thought he'd feel that way, not here; not with Lou, who was practically his younger brother, and especially not with Mike, who had been his best friend since kindergarten. But despite the familiar faces and familiar walls, he felt himself a stranger in this place.

  “Took you long enough,” Mike said from the couch, and his eyes found Rick's bandaged wrist in an instant, all too visible below the left cuff of his beat denim jacket. He tossed the Hustler onto the floor, where it landed with the rest of the magazines. Sipping his beer, he watched Rick as he closed the door. It had been a long time since the three of them had all been together. Too damned long, thought Mike.

  “I lost track of time,” Rick lied. The truth was he'd spent the past two hours in his bedroom, watching the shadows darken the walls, trying to decide whether or not he was ready to face his friends, let alone the rest of the world.

  “How're you doing, man?” Lou asked, studying the bandage on Rick's forearm. He couldn't help but notice the dark blotches where the blood had soaked through. As hard as he tried, he could not look at Rick without looking at the bandage. His eyes were draw
n to it like moths to a flame. After a few seconds, Lou held out his hand expectantly.

  Rick slapped him five and took a seat at the opposite end of the table, aware that all eyes, including his own, were now focused on his bandaged wrist. Had he thought that his friends wouldn't notice? Yeah, right. They were teenagers. They noticed everything.

  Rick studied the place, absently scratching the bandaged wound. Feeling the urge to be doing something, anything, he reached into the cooler and removed two ice-cold beers. He put one down on the table and the other hissed as he lifted off the tab. There's no point in being sober, he assured himself. He tilted back his head and drank.

  “Where's Maxi-Pad tonight?” he asked after a few seconds.

  “We're supposed to be pickin' him up in about ten minutes,” Mike said, and found himself glancing at his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening.

  Rick nodded and drank some more. He drummed his fingers on the table. Lou was spying on him from behind his magazine. He looked as though he thought Rick might whip out a gun and blow himself away at any moment. Rick stared at his beer can, pretending not to notice.

  “Well,” Mike said, finishing his beer, “Whattaya say we ditch this place?”

  Lou jumped up from the table. “What're we doin' tonight?” he asked. He loved hanging out with the older kids, especially when they went to places where they'd all be seen together, like the mall, the movies, or an upperclassmen party. It made the other freshmen think he was the coolest. Well, okay, maybe not the coolest. But certainly they thought he was some degree of cool. Maybe semi-cool? Well, even that was better than nothing, he supposed.

  “Dunno,” Mike said, dipping his hand into the cooler. He snatched another beer. “Could call a few people. Maybe Maxi-Pad knows if there're any parties going on tonight.”

  “What's he been up to, anyway?” Rick asked, raising one eyebrow. What he actually meant was: Has Max done anything stupid lately?

  “Did you hear what that jerk did?” Lou asked, confirming Rick's suspicions. “He told that Jenny Wallace chick that I wanna toss her salad. Really! Right in the middle of Donut Hevven! What the hell does that mean, anyway? Toss her salad?”

  Mike and Rick looked at each other and chuckled. It was the first time Mike had seen his friend smile in a long, long time.

  “It's not funny,” Lou said, trying to keep a straight face, trying his hardest not to laugh with them. “Now she won't even look at me. She thinks I'm some kinda pervert or somethin'.”

  That made them chuckle even harder, and this time, Lou couldn't help but to join in the fun. “He's still an ass,” Lou insisted with a grin. “Screw you guys.”

  “Nothing ever changes,” Rick said as he rose from the table.

  “Thank God for small favors,” Mike said, always the optimist. He snatched his red and white varsity football jacket from a hook on the wall. “Let's get going while the night's still young.”

  Lou turned off the lantern, and the shack settled into darkness. He was the last one out, slamming the door shut behind him as he trotted to catch up to Mike and Rick.

  “What's the plan for tonight, anyway?” asked Rick.

  “No plan,” Mike said. “We could go grab something to eat somewhere. Maybe see if there's any good movies playin'? There's that new Chris Rock movie. Looks pretty funny. Doesn't matter to me. Why, you got any ideas?”

  “Pfff...I don't give a shit. Not like anything's ever going on in this lame-ass town of ours, anyway,” Rick muttered bitterly as they walked. Finishing his beer, he whipped the empty can into the dark and listened intently as it clunked against a tree and fell to the ground with a hollow metallic thud.

  “We'll find something to do,” Mike said, and Rick envied his positive attitude.

  He's always so certain, Rick thought. He always seems to know exactly what's going on. But me...I'm always so...confused...and lost. Damn, Mike, I wish I could be more like you.

  The path ended, and they soon arrived at the hidden alcove where Mike had parked his car, a black Ford Thunderbird with chrome wheels, customized ground effects, and a WBCN sticker on the back bumper. In the murky glow of a nearby streetlight, the car looked sleek and mean.

  Mike slipped on his varsity jacket and hopped into the driver's seat, unlocking the passenger door for Lou and Rick. Rick took his usual place in the shotgun seat and Lou hopped in the back, where he’d soon be joined by Max. A moment later the engine roared to life and they tore off into the night, leaving the shack with nothing more than dust, darkness, and the echoes of faded memories.

  It was the last time the three of them would ever be there again.

  Rick searched the glove compartment for an appropriate CD (his choices were Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd, Beastie Boys, an assortment of Godsmack, Third Eye Blind, The Offspring, and several others that weren't labeled), and finally settled on Godsmack, because he was in the mood for something loud and aggressive.

  The engine purred, the music played, and the night came.

  ~Six~

  Max Kendall was sitting on the crooked front porch of his converted trailer-home on Oak Street, when the black Thunderbird swooped into the earthen driveway and parked beside his father's rust-red pickup. A cigarette dangled from the middle of his mouth, and his head was tilted in such a way that his hair had fallen across his face in tangled strings. He raised his head slowly, almost defiantly, and smiled with the cigarette clenched between his teeth. His eyes gleamed mischievously.

  Silence in the Thunderbird. Max was oozing a nasty vibe, and they all felt it. He looked deeply troubled, more so than usual. Maybe it was Lori's death. Or maybe it was the fact that the four boys had lost touch with each other in the weeks that had followed the accident. But whatever it was they saw in Max’s face, the three boys sitting in the Thunderbird didn't like it. They glanced at one another uneasily. When Max had that look in his eyes it usually meant trouble—for everyone.

  Max Kendall was the type of person who would sucker punch a stranger in the face (or sometimes even an acquaintance, if he was in a particularly shitty mood), just to see what kind of damage his fist could do to an unsuspecting nose. The only reason his friends put up with his bullshit, the only reason he still had any friends at all, was because they shared a common bond: They had all grown up together. They were bound by history. It was that simple. Not to mention, Max was a good person to have on your side when the odds were stacked against you. He was not as physically strong as Mike or as tough as Rick, but he was fast, real fast, and far more intimidating.

  One look at his long arms, broad shoulders, and bluish-gray Don't-Fuck-With-Me eyes, and people nearly twice his size would back down from a confrontation with him. Those who didn't often lived to regret it. Some of them, just barely.

  As usual, his long, caramel-colored mane was wet and dirty-looking, and several days' of dark stubble eclipsed the soft pinkish glow of his complexion, which was almost girlish in its natural smoothness. With his long hair, his small, angry mouth, and his eternally pissed-off expression, he looked like someone straight out of a Seattle grunge band.

  Tonight his icy blue-gray eyes actually thawed a few degrees as the familiar vehicle pulled into the driveway, and a dopey smile cracked the hard surface of his face. But that bad vibe remained with him like a shadow.

  Max got up from the porch and strutted slowly to the car. From somewhere inside the dilapidated trailer-home behind him came the sound of glass breaking, quickly followed by a loud, painful cry: “AWW, SHHEE-IT!”

  It was a familiar scenario. Mr. Kendall was on another of his infamous drinking binges. It was now obvious why Max had looked so down when they pulled into the yard. Max could not afford a car of his own, had no job to speak of, or girlfriend to visit him. His best friend, Kevin Chapman, was still in rehab, and the rest of his friends had gradually lost touch after the funeral.

  It was simple, really: The kid was lonely.

  “What's up?” Max asked in his harsh, scratchy voic
e, ignoring his father's drunken cry. He popped his head into Mike's open window. “Rick? Holee shit! How's it goin', man? Long time no see.”

  “It's goin',” Rick answered with a one-shoulder shrug, and sipped his beer, hoping to end the conversation before it started.

  Max bobbed his head unconsciously, the way he always did when he was stoned, as if keeping time with an endless song only he could hear.

  “What’s up?” Mike asked.

  Max's head stopped bobbing. “Oh, just the usual,” Max said. “My goddamn dad is wasted. Again. Fucker's in a real shitty mood, too.” He took an intense drag from his cigarette and then flung the butt onto his weed-infested lawn. The bobbing resumed, and his long bangs fell forward, covering his glossy eyes. Tilting his head, he raked the hair back from his face with both hands. Max Kendall was too cool to brush his hair; all he needed was his ten-finger comb. He exhaled a small cloud of smoke. “You got any alky-haul?”

  Mike nodded and raised an eyebrow. “Got any weed?”

  Max didn’t answer Mike's question. Not that he had to, really, because the answer was written all over his face, in his bloodshot eyes and goofy grin. The long-haired boy smiled incredulously, opened the car door, and slithered into the back seat.

  A minute later, they were back on the road.

  “Is this all we got for booze?” Max asked, grabbing a can of beer from the cardboard case that rested on the floor of the back seat.

  “Quit yer whinin',” Mike said cheerfully. “You didn't pay for it, did you?”

  “Seriously,” Max said. “Is this all we got for booze?”

  “There's a twelve-pack of Bud bottles and a bottle of vodka in the trunk,” Mike said into the rearview mirror, hoping beyond hope that that would be enough to shut his friend up.