Jim could take Gwen asking him if he was okay—she was supposed to be concerned for his well-being—but Darren? No, not Darren or any of his other friends. “Look,” Jim said. “Greg died five years ago. I’ll always miss him, but I’m okay now. I mean it’ll always be a thing for me, but I’m good, really—unless my parents find out where we’re going. They’ll flip.”
“Dude, are you sure about this?”
“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” he said harshly, the annoyance factor finally getting to him.
“Hey man, just want to make sure,” Darren said, holding up his hands in a defensive manner. “It was Paul’s idea to go there, and well, he can be a little self-centered.”
“I know.” Jim sighed, then leaned against the car door frame, putting one leg over the other. “Paul’s been that way since we were kids.”
“He’s a character,” Darren said.
“I’m sorry, man,” Jim said, shaking his head. “Didn’t mean to come at you like I did. Just a few minutes ago I went through this with Gwen. She’s worried about me, and I don’t want her to…don’t want any of you to worry. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, man,” Darren said, and slapped Jim on his shoulder just as Darren’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from its case on his belt. His face brightened as he looked at the screen. “My future coach. I got to take this. See you tonight, Jimmy-Jim.” He put the phone to his ear and headed to his car.
Jim climbed into his Honda Accord and shut the door, killing the annoying car chime, and breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn’t believe he had lost his cool with one of his best friends. Tonight’s event at Witch Island must be bothering him more than he knew.
He sat back, wanting a minute to relax before he started the car, when he felt as if he was being watched. He looked to his left and saw a 1968 Chevy Camaro parked in the spot next to his. The ride was beyond sweet, with a cherry-colored paint job and chrome rims. The windows were blacked out, making it impossible to see who was inside, but Jim knew it was Billy Montgomery’s car. Jim had been so focused on tonight and getting home that he hadn’t noticed the vehicle.
Son of the sheriff, Billy got away with everything. The kid was never pulled over by anyone but his father. He was never ticketed for his blacked-out windows, for speeding—which he was notorious for—or any other traffic infractions, like driving while stoned or drunk. Two summers ago, Paul was issued a ticket for the tint on his Jetta’s windows only a day after getting them done. On top of losing money on paying the ticket, he had to remove the tint or face more summonses. Billy had the same blacked-out windows he always had, yet never suffered any consequences.
Jim understood how the world worked, how some people received special treatment because of their position in society—cops, judges, politicians, etc.—but Billy was a total waste of flesh and bone. The kid was always getting high, starting fights, disruptive in class. There was no doubt that if it wasn’t for Billy’s father, that kid would’ve been expelled from school, and probably serving some kind of stint in prison.
Jim continued to stare out his window, seeing his own reflection stare back at him from the black sheet of glass on the Camaro. He noticed that the window was rolled down about an inch. A blast of white smoke billowed out. Most likely, Billy and his stooge, Damien Kellogg, were smoking a big, fat blunt. Jim wasn’t against smoking weed, but not at school. The loser couldn’t even wait until they left the grounds. Then again, it seemed like Billy and Damien were always high. Every time he saw the kid, his eyes practically glowed red. He wondered if the window had been open like that when he and Darren had been talking.
Jim cracked open his own window, and heard heavy metal music coming from Billy’s car. It was noisy outside, kids hollering, cars honking, music blasting, but he would have remembered hearing that noise from the asshole’s car.
Jim stuck the car key into the ignition and started the engine. He rolled his window up and backed out, looking forward to getting home and not having to deal with the likes of Billy Montgomery ever again.
Billy grinned. “Did you hear that?” he asked.
Damien nodded, his eyes fixed on the joint Billy was holding between his fingers. “You going to light that up or what?”
Billy picked up the lighter that had been resting on the dashboard, stuck the joint between his lips and lit it. He puffed a few times. The end of the joint glowed brightly, cascading the car’s interior in an orange hue. Smoke clung to Billy’s face like some phantom beard.
With the joint fired up and cooking nicely, Billy took a long drag, watching the paper burn away as the smoke poured into his lungs. He held it in, fought against coughing and passed the marijuana cigarette to his friend.
Damien mirrored Billy’s actions, holding in the smoke.
Finally, Billy exhaled. He didn’t know why he held it in for so long. Only so much could get absorbed before it was just wasting time.
Damien let loose his smoke, adding to the car’s already foggy interior.
“Damn,” he said, “this is some primo shit.”
Billy was holding in another hit, and passed the joint to Damien. “I know,” Billy said, coughing and exhaling at the same time. He passed the joint to Damien who took a long drag, then passed it back.
Billy sat there for a moment, letting the weed do its thing. It seemed like minutes passed and Damien still hadn’t exhaled. “What are you trying to do, kill yourself?” Damien shook his head, his face turning red. Billy smacked him upside the head and the kid coughed out what little smoke remained.
“Dude, do you really think holding it in that long will get you higher, cause it won’t. Saw a show about pot and how to smoke it properly.”
“What were you saying before?” Damien asked, eyes lined with red capillaries.
“Nothing.”
“Yeah, you were about to say something, remember? When that douchebag Jim Ryan was talking to that ’roid freak.”
“Oh yeah, right. Did you hear what they were talking about?”
“Something about a party.” Damien took what was left of the joint, now a roach, and smoked the life out of it before placing the remains in the ashtray with about ten other roaches. They’d roll them up later and smoke them too.
“Yeah, a party. Those fags are going to Witch Island.”
“Fuck that place. I ain’t going there.”
Billy punched his friend in the shoulder. “You stupid or something? That’s just a rumor.”
“So why haven’t we gone there?”
“Why the fuck would we want to?”
“Good point.”
“But now we have a reason to.”
Damien sat back in his seat, his eyes barely open. “And what’s that?”
“To ruin those assholes’ good time.” Billy turned up the music. Damien started playing air guitar. “I fucking hate those motherfuckers.”
“Me too. Fucking douches. And their bitches are uber bitches. Think they’re all that and shit. Fucking whores, though I wouldn’t mind doing one or two of them, especially Shay Washington. Mmmmhhhmmm, she’s hot.”
“Well, it sounds like a small group of them are going to that island and camping out.”
Damien grinned, flipping his long hair back. “Party crash?”
“Don’t you know it. We’ll teach those pricks a lesson. I owe them all, especially Ryan. Fucker slammed me into a locker a few weeks ago because I was staring at Gwen’s ass. It’s free to look, isn’t it?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“Yeah. You screw with Billy Montgomery, you’re going to pay.”
Chapter Two
Steve Mayfield stared at the bottle of Oxycontin in his hand. The medication was his mother’s. He’d swiped it from her drawer of pills while she was passed out drunk in her usual spot on the living room couch.
Five years ago, his father had walked out on him and his mother. The bastard sold his dental practice and moved across the country with his new twenty-two-year-old secretary, or whore, as Steve’s mom often ref
erred to her as.
Steve’s mother had had a nervous breakdown. All her life, she’d been a stay-at-home mom, taking care of the house and helping with the banking and bills. Feeling like her world crumbled, left with no job skills, relying on government assistance and minimum alimony payments from her husband, she turned to alcohol. The woman drank daily. A friend of hers was able to get her a job at a bank as a teller, but she lost the job after only working there for two weeks, having shown up late repeatedly. Then she lost the house, which she had received in the divorce.
Steve had called family in to help, but they could only stay for so long, and his mother was lost, the woman he knew gone.
After losing the house, Steve and his mom moved into a one-bedroom apartment above a Chinese restaurant. He slept on the couch in the living room, the same place his mother sat every day until she passed out and he carried her to her bedroom.
Welfare covered most of the rent and what little food his mother ate. Steve got an after-school job delivering pizza, refusing to become a dropout, knowing that path would lead to nowhere he wanted to end up. He took home the leftover pizza every night and used some of his earnings to help pay the bills, managing to put very little aside for himself.
One day, drunk off her ass, his mother fell down the stairs. She broke her hip, back and wrist. After her hospital stay, she was sent home and given a prescription for Oxycontin, falling in love with the drug within a week. Her low-life doctor kept prescribing her the stuff. Her lies about constant pain, plus a little extra cash, were all she needed to keep her high.
If all that wasn’t enough to push Steve over the edge, he hadn’t gotten into any of the colleges he’d applied to. His grades, thanks to his busy schedule, just weren’t good enough. He’d have to attend community college, and hopefully get his grades up so he could attend a four-year school. All his close friends were going away, except for Melinda, who was going to stay in town and join her sister’s salon. Without Darren around, he guessed he wouldn’t see her much, as they had very little in common, besides Darren. Steve hadn’t told his friends the truth about his situation, lying instead about his desire to stay home and work, save up, then go to school after he knew what he wanted to do with his life.
His girlfriend, Kelly, had dumped him about halfway through senior year. She had been the one good thing he had going, the reason he found life worth living. They had been together all through high school, but now that school was ending, she was heading off to college and wanted to “see what was out there.” Yeah, Steve thought, see what other guys’ dicks taste like.
Though a complete bitch to him and everyone else, she had been his girlfriend and spent time with him. Sure, they did most of the stuff she wanted to do, but she always wanted him with her. When he didn’t get into college, he at least had her, thinking she was going to get a job and live in the area. But she had secretly applied to a school in Iowa, saying she did it just for fun, not thinking she would get accepted, but she did. She didn’t want to go away with her mind back home half of the time, and as part of her last year of high school, she wanted a clean break, to be a senior without any attachments or baggage.
Steve’s body felt heavy, as if the atmosphere were crushing him. He popped off the lid on the pill bottle and gazed inside at the tiny round spheres of medication. Didn’t his mother realize she had a son? He hadn’t left. He had stayed, and was always there for her. But the pain she felt was too great, he guessed. She chose the easy way to deal with shit. He and his mother could’ve been a strong team, used each other for support, to flourish. Fuck his dad, they’d say.
Steve shook his head, tears blurring his vision. Fuck his mother too.
He brought the container to his lips, wondering how long it would be until his body was discovered. Would his mom even care?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. His mind screamed at him. His heart pounded. He upended the bottle. His mouth flooded with the highly addictive drug, tongue absorbing the awful, chalky taste of the pills. He cringed, ready to chew and swallow, when his cell phone rang.
Like a smack to his head, he saw the half-empty bottle of pills in his hand and wondered what the hell he was doing. He spat out the pills, making sure every last one had been ejected, then checked his phone and saw that Jim was calling.
He hit the green phone symbol and said, “Jim, hold on a sec,” then tossed the phone onto his bed and rushed to the bathroom. He cranked the cold water handle on the sink and shoved his mouth under the faucet. He rinsed, spit, rinsed, spit, repeating the process in OCD-like fashion. His gums ached from the cold water. His mind raced with uncertainty and elation. He wondered if a bit of the medicine had absorbed into his body, and if so, would he be okay? Even after rinsing, he still tasted the medication. He turned off the water, then opened the closet and withdrew the extra-large bottle of Winter Mint flavored mouthwash. He rinsed a few times with the harsh liquid, which seemed to do the trick.
Damn, how could he have been so stupid? He could’ve seriously messed himself up, or died. He grabbed onto the sides of the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. “You’re okay now.” He still worried that some of the medication had dissolved into him, but then convinced himself that wasn’t the case. He was just being a little paranoid. The pills had only been in his mouth for seconds, then he’d spit them all out.
He turned the faucet back on and splashed his face with cold water, then patted it dry with the hand towel hanging on the shower door. He went back over to the mirror and saw a foolish, pale-faced teenager who deserved better than what he was getting out of life.
He remembered Jim was on the phone and headed back to his room, his heart still racing. He needed a moment to calm himself and didn’t want to feel rushed about doing it, nor did he want to put on an act. He needed his emotions straightened out, not covered up for the sake of conversation. Picking up his cell phone, he saw that the timer was still counting and realized Jim was still waiting. He hit the red phone symbol and ended the call.
Steve sat on his bed and closed his eyes. He counted to ten, and took long, measured breaths. His room was still. He couldn’t believe what he had almost done. He wondered if his cell phone hadn’t rung, would he still have spit out the meds? He’d never know. The only thing that mattered now was that he had spit them out.
He had been in a dark place, but somehow he’d seen the light, and he wanted to live.
Chapter Three
Jim looked at his cell phone again, seeing if he was still connected, when he saw the flashing timer, indicating that the call had ended. He cleared the screen and dialed Steve’s number again.
At times, Jim had felt bad for the kid. Steve’s mother was a wreck, and everyone knew it. His long-time girlfriend, Kelly—too long as far as Jim was concerned—was a total bitch that no one liked and had broken up with him. Along with everything else, Steve wasn’t going to college, which was something Jim knew he wanted to do. Jim had seen a thin envelope from Cornell University on the kitchen counter at Steve’s house just before the start of the school year. Thin envelopes usually meant rejection. Jim couldn’t be sure, but he guessed his friend hadn’t been accepted anywhere, and was too embarrassed to say anything, which was stupid, because Steve’s friends cared and would understand.
Anyway, for the immediate future, as in tonight, Jim worried that Steve would try and back out of the party, hence the reason he was calling. An evening away from his house, his mother, his job, would do Steve some good.
“Yeah,” Steve said, answering his phone. “Sorry, accidentally hit the end call button.”
“You’re still coming tonight, right?”
“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Oddly, Steve sounded upbeat—no, excited. Jim couldn’t help but smile. His friend had been distant lately, quiet, and kept to himself more than usual. He wanted to be there for Steve, like Steve had been there for him when his brother died.
“Good to hear,” Jim said. “High school is over. Tonight,
nothing else matters. Nothing. Got it?”
“I actually think I do.”
“Screw yesterday and tomorrow. We’re living for today only, for one awesome night, if that makes sense?”
“It definitely does,” Steve said. “You know, you’re right. I mean, really. Fuck tomorrow. We aren’t guaranteed there will be one. Tonight is all that matters. Good friends, booze and my right hand.”
Jim laughed. It had been a long time since Steve sounded happy, revved up and ready to go.
“See you at 7 p.m., then?”
“Sure.”
“Later.”
“Bye.”
Jim hung up the phone, and called Gwen.
“Hey, babe,” she said.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“Just dropped off my grandmother at her friend’s house. It’s card night. Now I’m off to Shay’s to meet her and Melinda. Oh, and guess who else has decided to join us tonight?”
“Who?”
“Julie, Melinda’s cousin.”
“Julie?” Jim asked. “As in the Julie who came to Shay’s cookout last summer? As in the Julie who was hot for Steve, and if it wasn’t for that bitch, Kelly, might’ve hooked up with him?”
“Yup.”
“Perfect.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Gwen asked.
“That maybe her and Steve could pick up right where they left off the last time they were together, except now he’s a free man? Yes, that’s what I’m thinking.”
“Great minds.”
“Great minds,” Jim agreed.
“Love you.”
“Love you too. See you tonight.”
Jim hung up, and not a second later, his mom poked her head into his room. She stood in the doorway. “Big plans for tonight?”
“Just a little get-together with the gang,” Jim said, sliding his cell into his pants pocket.
“Do you know what today is?”
Jim sighed. “Yes. How could I forget? I think about him every day.” He turned and took a seat on his bed. His mother walked into the room.
Witch Island Page 2
