These Dreams Which Cannot Last

by Matt Flickinger

  Zain’s first impression is that the band isn’t very good. The drummer keeps missing his cues (have to find out later if this is the correct term), the rest of the band leaving him behind, then slowing for him to catch back up. The singer is off-key, too. The crowd at the front of the stage seems to be appreciating the effort, though. The bass player, Miguel, is definitely the best in the band. Toward the end of the song, he plays a solo that is met with shouts and applause, the loudest from Toni. Miguel nods and smirks. So cool, Zain thinks. By the fourth song, the rest of the band has figured it out, fewer missed cues by all of them, and the singer is closer to the key. The lyrics are hard to understand, but from what Zain catches he thinks it must be about leaving a girl. The crowd is feeling it, Zain is too. He and Charlotte and Toni have been pushed up closer to the band by the growing mass of bodies behind them. As the beat switches again to the chorus, the drummer and Miguel take over, and the crowd starts to jump. It’s definitely a jam! Zain thinks. Charlotte and Toni throw their hands up as they bounce and smile at the stage. Zain bounces along with his hands at his hips, trying not to look over. Toni’s bounces are a bit a more (don’t look), bouncy.

  During the next song, a fast one that Zain catches only a few words of— bitch, wrong, feeling—Toni passes a little smoking wrapped nub of paper to Charlotte. She pinches it in her fingers and takes a puff and passes it to Zain. Charlotte looks over at him as he takes the skunky smelling thing. She mouths over the noise, “You don’t have to.” Zain pulls it to his lips. The smoke is warm and tastes surprisingly sweet, but burns going down (don’t cough, don’t cough). Zain tilts his head back and blows a cloud up over the heads of the people in front of them. Charlotte takes the joint and passes it back to Toni, who takes a big hit, passing it to the guy next to her.

  The Debutaunts finish their set with a not-so-fast song, the singer not quite hitting his notes. As the crowd disperses and the band begins its breakdown, Toni and Charlotte hang out talking about some bands Zain has never heard of. Definitely no River Bitches. Remind me of Sign Design. And so on.

  “That song about leaving the girl was a fucking jam!” Zain doesn’t know what made him say it, but it’s out there.

  “Hell yes, Hall Pass. Shit was lit!”

  Charlotte rolls her eyes at Toni and looks at Zain, “Did you like them?”

  “The singer was a little off, but overall, yes. That was cool.”

  Toni laughs.

  “You’re talking a little loud,” Charlotte says.

  Zain looks to the stage area, a bit freaked out, the singer isn’t there anymore though, luckily. Just a dude handing out little envelopes from a shoe box.

  “Oh, shit,” Zain says, “are they giving those out for free?”

  “Ya, Hall Pass. Maybe your jam is on it,” Toni says.

  “I’m gonna grab one.” Zain slides through the group of smelly kids with chains hanging off their pants gathered in front of them. Toni says something behind him, “adorable” maybe. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what makes him move, either, but moving feels good. He makes eye contact with the CD dude as he takes it. The CD envelope is brown, like a paper sack with a little plastic window. Before he can ask, he sees “Leaving” listed last on the four song list printed on the back of the CD’s paper case. “Yes!” Zain says. Someone scoots past the CD guy to wrap a cord around his elbow.

  “Miguel!” Zain says.

  The bass player looks up from the cord.

  “That shit was lit!” Zain says.

  “Thanks, bro.” Miguel nods. No smirk this time.

  Fingers wrap Zain’s free hand as he slides the CD into his back pocket. “Come on, fanboy,” Charlotte says, as she pulls him away from the stage area.

  “I like when you say my name,” Zain says.

  “Oh, Jesus,” she says, pulling him toward the house.

  “It’s the best sound,” he yells.

  “Still loud,” she says. But even with her back to him he thinks she must be smiling, he can hear it. He’s never thought about it, but you can definitely hear a smile.

  When they’re inside, Toni holds up three red cups, pinching the tops in one hand. Charlotte takes hers and hands one over to Zain.

  “Whikskey!” Zain asks.

  Toni laughs, “bottoms up, Hall Pass!”

  Zain holds his cup out waiting until Charlotte and Toni click their cups against his. Toni giggles, “to Hall Pass’s jam!” Click. He drains the drink quickly, a bit of it landing on his cheek. Charlotte takes his cup and fills it with water from the kitchen tap. He gulps at the water and wipes an arm across his face, “What’s up next?”

  “What time do you have to be home?” Charlotte asks.

  “Ten. What time is it?” Zain says.

  “Eight thirty,” Charlotte says.

  “Sweet,” Zain says, “I’ve got like two hours.”

  “Larry’s Take Out is next. Ska metal band,” Toni says, “they kind of suck, but the trumpet player is hot.”

  Zain is looking to the backyard, not listening.

  “How about a walk?” Charlotte says.

  Zain perks up, looking back at Charlotte. “Just you and me?”

  Charlotte hopes Zain didn’t see Toni’s face. Wishes she wouldn’t have seen it. That hand over her mouth, the look she gave.

  “We’ll be back,” Charlotte says, moving toward the front door, Zain at her heels.

  As they walk, the thin feeling in Zain’s brain starts to thicken back up. The high still gripping his mind around the edges, but not as strong as it was. That must have been it, he thinks, what made him say so much. He was high. Still is, a bit. Walking along the quiet street is better than being in the middle of all that noise. Finally alone next to Charlotte, he can’t think what to say. It kind of doesn’t matter, though, he thinks. Not really. Walking with her is enough.

  “You feeling better?” she asks.

  “I think so.”

  “You didn’t have to take a hit, you know.”

  “It was fun. I liked that band.”

  “I could tell.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to leave tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be pretty busy anyway. Lots of family ‘quality’ time,” Charlotte says, two fingers from each hand in the air.

  “That sounds okay.”

  Charlotte goes quiet. They walk around the back end of a Camaro sticking out over the bottom of a driveway. There are two guys on the porch who go quiet as they pass. When they start talking again, Zain isn’t quite sure, but it sounds like they’re talking about Charlotte. She doesn’t speed up, though, and doesn’t look over at them.

  “I want to meet your sister,” Zain says.

  “When will you be back?” she says.

  “Next Saturday.”

  “She’ll still be here. Maybe we could hang out then.”

  As they pass the next house, the clouds open up and a half moon lights the sidewalk. Zain grabs Charlotte’s hand.

  “Who is in El Paso?” Charlotte asks.

  “My grandparents. My mom’s parents.”

  Charlotte readjusts her fingers to intertwine with his. It is the best feeling all night.

  “And my Aunt Mellie,” Zain says. “She’s really cool. You would like her.”

  “Ya?”

  “She’s really nice. She’s a history professor at UTEP. Just…cool.”

  “Cool.”

  “Weird that she’s my mom’s sister. They’re really different. Like they’re from different families, actually.”

  “Sisters can be that way,” Charlotte says.

  “What about your sister? Are you guys different?”

  “Definitely,” Charlotte says. “Not totally though. I don’t know.”

  Zain waits for her to continue, their arms stop swinging so much.

  “It’s like she understood everything that she was supposed to do and just did it, you know?” Charlotte says.

 
“Sure,” Zain says.

  “She was the president of like three clubs. Grades and activities, she did all of it. Just did all of it right, even if she didn’t want to. It got her out, I guess.” Charlotte unwraps her fingers. “This town is so small,” she says.

  They have stopped in front of a darkened house. Zain tucks his hands into his pockets, looking up the walkway at a red tricycle parked next to the front door.

  “She was better at biding her time,” she says.

  “Biding her time, I like that.”

  “Easier said than done,” Charlotte says, looking back down the street.

  “Definitely.”

  “We should head back, get you home on time.”

  “My mom is sleeping, she doesn’t care.”

  “She might,” she says, shrugging, “she grounded you.”

  And Zain can’t argue with that, even if he only mostly agrees. She is probably asleep and she did ground him.

  Charlotte slips the key into the lock and tells Toni, again, to stay quiet. Toni whispers something in Zain’s ear and kisses him on the cheek. When she pulls away, Zain thanks her. It is the most uncomfortable smile she’s seen from him. “Go to bed, Toni. I’ll be right up.”

  “You got my keys, betch.”

  “Yes, I haven’t lost them on our trip across the yard.” Toni waits with a hand out. Charlotte sets them in Toni’s hand, “go to bed.”

  “I’m going. You two be good,” she says, “or not.” She opens the door softly and stumbles to the stair rail in the darkness. Charlotte pulls the door closed and turns to Zain.

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “She wanted me to tell you that she approves,” Zain says.

  “I’m sure,” she says, moving down the porch. Zain sits next to her on the front steps.

  “That was a fun night.”

  Charlotte leans her head over to rest on Zain’s shoulder. “I kind of like having you around,” she says.

  “I definitely like being around you,” he says, resting his cheek on her head.

  “One week?”

  “Just a week.”

  Like the running, it is an unexpected warmth that fills her as he kisses the top of her head. But maybe the warmth shouldn’t feel so unexpected, she thinks. Because she is more than willing to pull him away from embarrassment at the edge of a grassy backyard punk show stage. And she feels at peace next to him in strange neighborhoods, running away from cops or walking in silence from random oglers. Because when he tries to dance, she roots for him while he finds his moves. Mostly though, it is because of the little secrets they confess, even when they are quiet. For all this, when he takes her chin in his skinny fingers, she lifts her face, breathing into his neck on the way to his lips. She kisses him deeply because the boy is worth it. Worth whatever comes next.

  26

  Same Road

  The drive to El Paso has always felt longer than an hour and a half. As a child, looking so forward to getting there made the trip crawl by, the endless desert landscape so dully repetitive. Minute after minute of cactus, mesquite, cactus, fence, fence, and then some more mesquites, and fence. Kids in movies always ask, “are we there yet?” Zain learned early on not to (his mother most annoyed by that specific question). On one trip his father taught him all about the little green mile markers. Zain would write the miles in his special road trip notebook, marking the halfway point. His father would check it and correct his math when necessary. Driving to El Paso used to mean counting down the miles, looking forward to an exciting weekend away, or couple weeks in the summer. Time filled with new activities, or the same old ones. So many heaping taco dinners, throwing the football in Memorial Park, lying on the floor in front of Grampa’s big screen for a family movie. All of it extra special because of his family and the bigger, mysterious city. But now, every minute ticking forward is thinking back. Every mile is one further from where he wants to be, with her.

  Zain lies in the backseat, knees bent, toes resting on the back door. He holds his sketch pad over him, considering the blank page. How do you draw time passing? A road seems too obvious. Leaving town sucks because of who he is leaving behind, but there’s something else he wants to convey. What is it? he thinks, biting the eraser of his pencil. Every mile they roll over isn’t toward the same place. The drive, like so much else, is different now. Last year, when he left Zain and his mother to ride alone, it redefined so much more than just this drive. That hot park, the front porch, the extra empty house, the trails along the river bank, and now the road to a place that will surely be different too, so much has changed. That’s it, Zain thinks. He sits up and buckles into the middle seat, staring over the middle console. As he sketches the dashboard and its dusty dials, his mother’s hands on the wheel, the late morning light glinting off the dash, the future piece comes into focus. He’ll leave the front window blank. No cliché road. Instead, he’ll fill the empty space in later with pictures. Photos from the albums at Aunt Mellie’s would be perfect. Zain writes himself a light reminder at the bottom of the page, “family album pictures.” It is becoming his thing, his medium. He can almost hear Ms. Feeney yelling over her weird music as they work, “find your vision!” Collage and pencil might just be his. Mixed media, mingling past with present.

  27

  Maybe, Young Squire

  Aunt Mellie doesn’t budge, even as car nears her shins. Just stands in the driveway with her arms open wide in the same old greeting. When the car stops, she ducks and beams a smile into the windshield, first at her sister then at Zain. Her hair is different, super short on the sides, dark maroon bangs falling over her forehead in a perfect swoop. It looks super cool, Zain thinks.

  “Look at this big stud!” Aunt Mellie says, her hands on Zain’s shoulders, looking him over. Zain just smiles as she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him close. He is never embarrassed with Aunt Mellie. Maybe because he believes her. She’s always honest, even when she exaggerates. Two summers ago, the whole family talking over mouthwatering burritos at Delicious Mexican Eatery, he heard his mother commenting to his grandmother on Zain’s acne. She didn’t think Zain had heard, but he had. Aunt Mellie grabbed his hand and whispered close so no one else could hear, “Pimples suck now, but look closer.” Zain tried to pull his hand from hers, but she held it tight. “You popping them?” Zain nodded. “I remember that shit. Standing at the mirror. Feels kind of good. Do me a favor though?” she asked. “What?” Zain said. “Patience, young squire. Stop popping long enough to look. Look deep.” She let go of his hand, looking around the table at the others before coming back to lock in on his eyes, “you’ll see it. Couple years, you’ll be just as handsome as your dad.” Zain looked across the table at his father’s tanned laughing face. He thought of his own pale, ravaged face, “Yeah, right.” Aunt Mellie wasn’t listening though. She had turned back to the family, laughing and munching away with all of the other non-pimply pretty adults. That night Zain tried it, looked deeper. Pointer fingers poised to pop a big whitehead bastard, he paused and stepped back from the mirror. His aunt’s world map shower curtain at his back, he searched his face until he could almost see his father. Maybe in the cheeks, around the eyes. It wasn’t just his dad, though, he thought. Maybe there was something handsome there all his own. Not yet, but maybe soon. Standing in her new driveway two years later with her eyes on his face, she believes he’s there already. Even if Zain is still waiting. But if Aunt Mellie says so, it must be close. Maybe Charlotte sees it too, he thinks. Maybe.

  Zain’s mother pops the trunk behind them and starts for the house, her bag in hand. Aunt Mellie wraps his mother in a hug before she can scoot past. She doesn’t drop the suitcase, but does wrap her free arm around her sister’s neck. “Ready for the tour, sister?” Aunt Mellie asks.

  “Yes. I saw the pictures you sent, though.”

  “Pictures are but shadows,” Aunt Mellie says.

  Zain shrugs his backpack onto his shoulders and slams
the trunk closed. He is jealous of his Aunt’s patience. Even Zain’s dad had his limits, but not Aunt Mellie. She is impenetrable to his mom’s passive aggressiveness. Patience, young squire, he thinks.

  “I’m ready for the tour,” Zain says, holding open the front door. She wraps an arm over his shoulders and squeezes. “Then let us proceed!” she says.

  28

  Borders

  Zain wakes before anyone else and pulls a pair of running shorts from his backpack. He tears the tag off his new running shirt and pulls it over his head. Aunt Mellie had it waiting on the bed when she showed him to his room. Her old house was cool, but only had two bedrooms so he had to sleep on the couch. The new house is a little less hip (according to her), but he’s got his own room. After he ties his shoes, Zain sits on the bed and scrolls through the text conversation with Charlotte from last night. She wanted to know all about El Paso. Most of the details he gave are pretty uninteresting. His longest text is about Aunt Mellie and Charlotte responded that she sounded like a cool chick. Overall, he feels decent about the conversation. He’s definitely getting better at texting. Not as good as Charlotte, though. Her descriptions of the first day with her sister are like poetry. He considers sending a good morning text before he takes off on his run, but thinks better. It’s still a bit early to do anything for most people, but not for Zain. He stands and twists his torso, popping his back. The first practice of track season is just two months away and offseason runs are how to earn victories. He tosses his phone back on the bed, opting for the quiet sounds of a waking neighborhood over music.

  As he closes the front door behind him, he’s greeted by silence and early sunrise. Taking off, he puts together a rough plan for the run. Aunt Mellie’s neighborhood is a grid. He’s pretty sure he can find his way back without too much trouble. If not, he thinks, who cares? Getting lost often leads to the best runs. He strides down the wide street toward the Franklin Mountains. He’s stiff, but about a mile in, he settles into his stride. The breeze and quiet of a different setting and the freedom of vacation settles on him as he runs. Definitely a longer run morning, he decides.