These Dreams Which Cannot Last

by Matt Flickinger

  “Aren’t they incredible?” Toni said, pulling a long black pack of cigarettes from her pocket. “Especially that bass player,” she said, biting the cigarette between her teeth, “yum.”

  “They were really good,” Charlotte said.

  After lighting her cigarette, she pulled the t-shirt from her arm. “Happy birthday, bitch,” Toni said, throwing the shirt at Charlotte’s face. Charlotte held it out. Grey block letters stretched across the front of the solid black v-neck, BEnT FENDers. Not a great name, Charlotte thought. As she looked around the back yard, she noticed for the first time that most of the remaining crowd was girls. Now she was stuck holding the shirt when the band reappeared. Just another fangirl with merch. “Thanks,” Charlotte said. And right then, the crowd started screeching as the band returned to the backyard through the patio doors.

  After a brief wave and smile to the crowd, the band broke down the stage, lifting drums off their stands, wrapping cords, and boxing up mikes. A few of the guys left in the crowd helped with the breakdown. The bass player, after talking with a few people, boxed up his bass and followed a couple of guys carrying an amp around the side yard, disappearing into the night. Charlotte worried he might not come back and scolded herself for wanting him to. Standing around like some groupie who was certain she’d shared a connection during a song or two. Toni traded sips of something sweet and strong smelling from her flask with the two girls next to them, trying to one up each other with Bent Fenders knowledge.

  “Heard they might have a deal.”

  “They already have one. Some production company in Austin.”

  “A hundred thousand views on YouTube for ‘Time Again.’”

  “Such a great song.”

  Charlotte interjected, “they’re local?”

  “They’re from here,” Toni said, “but they’re going on tour this fall.”

  “Winter Midwest tour,” one of the other girls said, “they’re opening for Pure X in December—”

  “January,” Toni said.

  “Right. In Omaha.”

  As the others talked tour details of the band, Spring break plans, Charlotte watched the side of the house until her eyes blurred with the darkness. Spring break, seven months away, was too far away to think about. Besides, she already had plans. Her sister had promised to come home for the last four days of her freshman spring break from UT Austin. Not for the first time Charlotte wished she was starting senior instead of junior year. Chloe and Charlotte had been planning their escape to Austin since the summer after Charlotte’s seventh grade year when they’d visited the campus on a family trip. Chloe’s top ten class ranking and extracurricular commitments meant early admission. She’d left two days after graduation, two months ago, for a science research fellowship, leaving Charlotte alone in the house with her parents. Admission might have been easy for Chloe, but was definitely not guaranteed for Charlotte. She was banking on a low A average and the newspaper and yearbook. And a good SAT score, hopefully. But she’d quit the newspaper at the end of last year and wasn’t sure if she’d keep on with the yearbook either. Without those, who knew? Charlotte grabbed the flask from Toni, the blackness of the side yard so empty. “Go, Char!” Toni said as Charlotte took a long pull.

  As Charlotte handed over the near empty flask, the Adonis bass player emerged through the blur. He passed through the barrier between dark and porch light so fast that she almost spit the mouthful of Everclear and fruit punch into the yard. A couple guys blocked his path, slapping his hand, nodding. He patted their shoulders and moved past them, his eyes set on Charlotte. She swallowed just in time.

  “Hey you,” he said.

  He smelled like sweat and leather. Charlotte’s knees threatened to buckle, heart beating in her ears, but she managed a half smile.

  “Hey,” she said, nodding, immediate regret coursing through her arms at such a lame response. The shirt, now a thousand pounds, crossed in her arms. His eyes stayed locked on hers as he slid a sharpie from his pocket. “I gotta go,” he said, grabbing the arm without the shirt, and extending it toward his chest, “but text me sometime.” Charlotte could sense Toni beside her in this new blur, mouth cocked open. He uncapped the marker with his teeth.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “You should.”

  He underlined the name on her arm, Anthony, and shook the hair out of his eyes. He slid the marker tip into the cap in his mouth and smiled, “later.”

  Charlotte watched him disappear around the corner of the yard, spinning the marker in his fingers before returning it to his pocket.

  “Holy shit,” Toni said.

  Charlotte texted him the next day.

  3

  Ralph and Zain and Jackson

  Zain clicks open the clips of his binder, pulling out his answer paper before the bell rings. Pre-AP English is the only class he looks forward to, he’s never even been tardy. For the first time ever, he has read every chapter, every word of a book. Lord of the Flies is hard to understand at parts, but Mr. Zapata has given him so much cool shit to think about that Zain is actually enjoying reading. Making connections, even answering the short answer questions, comes pretty easily. The book is about a bunch of boys marooned on an island, forced to work together or die. There are similarities to high school, except for the dying part (maybe). William Golding, the author, a really messed up guy, believed that humans were naturally terrible. Zain hasn’t decided if he agrees yet, but life on the island has started unravelling in a very familiar way. Human nature is taking over. Violence and chaos and confusion. Definitely like high school.

  Today’s discussion is about Ralph, the main character. He’s hopeful but outgunned. He spends so much time thinking about what he will say, but it never comes out right. The kids on the island are meeting again, in a tribal council, and Ralph is trying but can’t seem to figure anything out. Ralph might not make sense to the boys on the island, but Zain gets him. Totally.

  “Even though he’s unsure, Ralph calls the meeting,” Mr. Zapata says, looking down at his book. “He doesn’t know what to say, but…” Mr. Zapata waits. Giving the beginning of a statement then waiting for an answer from the class is something he’s been doing recently. Even if the class doesn’t usually know how to answer.

  Most of the class already looks bored, a few look down at their notes. Mr. Zapata calls on Isaac, a little red-headed boy who introduced himself last week, on his first day, as “a recent transfer from St. Thomas’s Academy.” Since Isaac showed up, he always has a hand up, even if he’s wrong more often than he’s right.

  “Everyone listens to him,” Isaac says.

  “Do they? Listen to the statement,” Mr. Zapata says. “Ralph doesn’t know what to say, but he…”

  The class sits in silence. Morgan Hudson, the sharp-nosed overachiever next to Zain, raises her eyebrows at a friend across the room. Zain doesn’t need to look at his notes. The answer is obvious. He raises his hand.

  “Zain,” Mr. Zapata says.

  “Ralph says it anyway,” Zain says.

  “Very good. Why?”

  Zain can feel Morgan, next to him, glaring. “He has to,” he says. “He’s trying to figure out how to keep them together.”

  Mr. Zapata nods, “Keep whom together?”

  “The tribe, the society,” Zain says.

  “That’s right, man. Even if he doesn’t know how, he has to try.”

  Isaac raises his hand again. Mr. Zapata points at him.

  “Why?” Isaac asks.

  The class sighs.

  At the end of their eighth grade year, the counselors came into homeroom to help the students pick their classes for the next year. Zain barely listened to the presentation, but decided to take three harder classes. Not knowing what they would be like, he hoped the extra work would be a distraction. He signed up for Pre-AP Biology, Pre-AP Geography, and Pre-AP English. That night, he showed his mom his planned schedule. She looked it over and asked if h
e was sure he wanted to take advanced classes, she didn’t know if it was “such a good idea.” He went into the counselor the next day and switched to regular, academic sections for the other classes, but kept Pre-AP English. As a compromise to himself, or a screw you to his mom (probably both). She never asked again about his schedule. So far, staying with advanced English has been worth it.

  “Because it’s necessary,” Mr. Zapata says. “Society depends on people who don’t know the right thing to do, but try anyways. Even when everyone else is silent. Especially when everyone else is silent.”

  When Mr. Zapata looks down again at his book Morgan rolls her eyes. Most of Zain’s classmates seem to be here because they were pressured into taking the class, or because they’ve been in advanced classes since birth. Some are eager to prove they’re smart. A few of them are actually smart and care about the work. But most of them don’t have anything interesting to say. Since they’ve started studying Flies, Zain is more and more sure he could’ve made it in those other advanced classes. He listens to the rest of the class discussion without raising his hand.

  The class breaks into small groups to discuss their answers to last night’s short answer questions. Morgan designates herself as group leader and starts the discussion with a detailed and boring summary of the first chapter from the assigned reading. She’s good at summarizing the main detail, but she doesn’t seem to know anything important about what’s actually going on. Zain shares the connections he sees with Freudian theory. The group nods and Morgan moves them to the next question with a condescending nod. Zain zones out for the rest of the discussion.

  After class, Zain moves through the crowded hallway. A group of rowdy shit kickers he recognizes from middle school shove each other at the end of A Wing. Zain dodges a skinny boot clad kid pushed from the group, barely saving his toes from being crushed. When he opens the door of his locker, his biology book falls to the floor. Picking up the book, he stands back up. The back of his head slams against his open locker door. “Shit!”

  “Language, sir.”

  Zain turns around, rubbing his head. Vice Principal Archuleta, in a too-tight pant suit, stands with her arms crossed over her think gut, looking past Zain at the crowded mess of papers that has accumulated in the bottom of his locker.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, be better,” she says, moving down the hall. Like it’s that easy, Zain thinks. Zain stuffs the book into his backpack and slams his locker shut. As he watches students clearing the hallways, disappearing into classrooms, Zain thinks about last year. Heading to the locker bay, Jackson was always there at the locker right next to his own. Navigating hallways was better when he had a partner waiting. And Jackson always had something to say, even if Zain didn’t. He misses that.

  Jackson has a locker he traded for before the first day in the Fine Arts wing. And a new group of friends. Maybe, if Zain told him that he misses his oldest friend in just the right way, Jackson would listen. Even if he has moved on. Maybe he could move back, just a little bit, even if it doesn’t make sense to. As the second bell rings through the hallway, signaling another tardy to biology class, Mr. Zapata’s words play through Zain’s mind, “try anyways.” That is what he will have to do, he decides.

  Zain knocks and waits. The Rodriguez porch is always bright. The same old crop of green cacti sit in their colorful, glossy pots, a little taller since he was last here. Mrs. Rodriguez opens the door and greets Zain with a tight hug, her fat breasts pressed against his chest. “Where have you been, mijo?” Her hair smells like expensive shampoo and hairspray.

  “I’ve been around,” Zain says.

  “Not around here,” she says, pulling back, holding onto Zain’s shoulders. “How is your mom?” Mrs. Rodriguez always asks about his mom, even if they have never gotten along.

  “She’s fine,” Zain says with a shrug.

  “Jackson is in his room, studying those lines of his.”

  Zain walks through the kitchen, recently wiped down and clean. Greasy comal glowing under the stove light, as always. The smell of the kitchen brings back a thousand dinners squeezed around the Rodriguez table. He pictures emptied butter containers stuffed with leftover skirt steak and grilled vegetables from tonight’s Rodriguez feast stacked on fridge shelves. Zain’s stomach clenches. He hopes he and Jackson can talk over a plate of reheated fajitas.

  Jackson’s high-pitched voice projects though his closed door, something about leaving this damn city once and for all. The sound of his friend’s voice practicing lines fills Zain with reassurance. Some things don’t change. Zain opens the door softly.

  Jackson paces in front of the window, on the other side of his bed, script in hand, gesturing at the open blinds. He pauses mid-breath, looking out at the darkened backyard, then peeks down at the script.

  Zain laughs. Jackson turns, eyes flashing with anger at the interruption.

  “You scared me!”

  “Sorry,” Zain says.

  “What are you doing?”

  All of Zain’s planned speeches fall out of his ears and sink down his legs, gathering around his feet like a puddle.

  “Just came by…” he starts to say.

  “Shit.” Jackson drops the script on the bed and massages his cheeks. “Sorry to freak. I was in character,” he says. “This show is killing me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so happy to be cast. Not a lot of freshmen have speaking roles.”

  “Cool. Good for you,” Zain says.

  Jackson seems to remember something, “you didn’t answer any of my texts.”

  Zain pulls his phone from his pocket and pulls up his texts. The latest is from his mom asking about Cross Country dues. Below it, Jackson’s thread shows a single unanswered text asking if he needs help with Algebra. It’s from three weeks ago.

  “No. Sorry.”

  “You’re terrible about that.” Jackson picks up the script from the bed. “You remember, Christian? The guy who did the Rent song at the talent show last year? He didn’t even get cast. Don’t get me wrong,” he says again, “I’m lucky. It’s just a lot.” He picks up his script again, flipping pages and mouthing words.

  Zain tries to gather his thoughts again, to recall one of his original speeches. Somehow “I’ve missed hanging out with you” seems like the wrong thing to say at the moment, though. Jackson bangs the curled script against his hand staring at the ceiling, whispering.

  “You need help with your lines?” Zain asks.

  Jackson stops pacing. “Would you mind?”

  “No, man. Of course not.”

  An hour later, Zain closes the front door behind him.

  Thirty minutes in they moved to the kitchen to run lines, while Zain took down two fajitas, still delicious, even if the meat was a bit cold. When they finally took a break to talk about their freshmen years, Jackson dominated the conversation with complaints and half stories about so many different things. About some boy, Wolfgang, who hadn’t been very receptive lately, about the theater program, even about his new friends. Zain had questions, but Jackson just kept talking. So Zain stayed silent, even when the conversation shifted to topics he’d planned to discuss. Once he had mentioned Mary, the kind-of-pretty girl who asked for help in Biology lab, but Jackson didn’t seem to hear him. Zain didn’t get to share at all really. Definitely not about so many trips to his lonely locker. Even things Jackson would have at one point gushed about, he seemed to skim over. Like Wolfgang, who Zain had figured out was Jackson’s boyfriend (first real boyfriend). Even this milestone, one that the two had imagined and guessed at so many times in the late dark of sleepover nights, Jackson only talked about it like Zain already knew most of the story. Like he didn’t really care if Zain was listening or not. So Zain stayed silent on the shore as Jackson skipped across the surface of so many unfamiliar ponds.

  Standing on the porch, among all the old plants in so many old pots, Zain notices for the first time two new pots, fresh buds peeking out
of the dark soil. Still trying to figure out when it all went wrong, it occurs to Zain. Maybe Jackson has always been there, but maybe he’s never been very good at listening.

  4

  Lonely Island

  He’s back. Knows he is dreaming. Doors again and the boring room. Empty couch, overturned chair. He knocked it over when he stood up. Stood so abruptly because of the question. Yes, there was a question. But what was it? Waking life is coming, he feels it. The room’s lines and corners drift. Before it can swim away, he looks around like the answer is somewhere within the small room, but there is only emptiness, only the assurance that there is nothing that matters here. He looks to the doors, the light beneath them fading to blackness as the room disappears.

  Zain’s eyes open. The fan spins in early morning dark below his popcorn ceiling. The alarm clock glows a red 6:22. He clicks on the lamp. The picture of the room and doors he started a month ago sits on the art desk. Still nothing new to add. How do you draw an unanswered question? he thinks. He dresses for practice and stuffs his team bag with clothes for the day. It is the first time in his life he’s had a reoccurring dream. He used to envy people who had the same dream over and over because they must know what to do while dreaming. But after four weeks of the same boring dream, he just envies his old self. The old Zain of many dreams. Every few mornings, at most, he’d have something new to draw. Even the disturbing dreams would be better than nothing. Movie characters twisted and bloody, begging for help. The strange sexual ones, with a rotating cast of strangers and classmates. The ones of his father—(maybe not all of his old dreams).

  Ortega and Michael run through the gate of the chain-link fence surrounding the track ahead of Zain and start the cool down mile immediately. Zain doesn’t bother kicking it in (not that he could if wanted to). He bends over with his hands on his knees, trying not to collapse. Practicing with the Varsity squad is tougher than he anticipated. Keeping up is pushing him, but clinging to the last runners isn’t fun. He quickly learned that losing to stronger runners is not as rewarding as beating weaker ones. His first race was in the freshmen division and he’d finished in the top ten, first finisher from his team. The next week coach moved him up to JV, where he raced for the next two meets. After finishing in the top ten at both, coach called him into his office. Told him Varsity would push him to new levels, if he could commit to the pain. Racing Varsity was exciting, at first. He felt pleased at keeping up with the back of the second pack, until mile two when he saw his former JV team cheering along the course. The JV captain, John Forester stopped clapping when he saw Zain. He looked down at his watch, grinning like a shark with a nose full of blood. Zain picked it up and passed a few runners before the end, but still finished 65th overall out of 80 runners, the 7th and final finisher from the team. He’d run 45 seconds slower than the week before. Tank on empty, belly clenched and lurching, he’d barely made it to the trees before vomiting. He hoped no one had seen him. Puking after other races felt like a confirmation of a hard fought battle, a victory of its own. But to retch after getting last on the team, without improving, just felt weak.