September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series

by A. R. Rivera

  But it doesn’t matter.

  One need not observe human behavior for long to learn that we require companionship. Some more so than others. Not that it matters. I’m not an actual person. I’m a ghost. So it doesn’t matter.

  It will never matter.

  + + +

  21

  —Angel

  I wake to the sudden flash and buzz of the interior lights.

  My dream lingers on the edge, just outside of confinement. His song sails from my freedom into captivity, making me ache. I’m on my side, facing the wall of my cell, feeling wide awake though my eyes are still closed, trying to see the page, to grasp the moment I held it in my hand.

  Why do you go and where?

  Silent steps—leaping.

  I chase, but you’re too far ahead.

  I sense the dread—heaping.

  I laced our fingers and held my head.

  Choking silence—creeping.

  One of Jakes unfinished songs. He never named it, but wrote the lyrics in a notebook he borrowed from me and told me to keep it. He wanted to let it set for a while so he could think about the rhyme scheme.

  Maybe it was going to be a ballad or his own song, separate from Analog Controller. It might have been the first single on his solo album. I’ll never know because it remains forever unfinished. Like his promising career.

  Like his life. The thought makes my insides curl and twist in devastating knots. The depth of my need to find him is so real, it’s almost surreal.

  I dreamed that Jake was sitting at the foot of my bed, singing and playing his black acoustic guitar. He didn’t look at me. His mouth was moving and I heard that song, but he wouldn’t talk to me or look my way.

  There is no rhyme or reason clever enough to turn this wrong thing to right. Sometimes I feel like the only person in the world who knows what it’s like to lose the truest of true loves. Well, maybe Juliet knows, she never did get her happy ending with Romeo.

  I sit up and turn on my clock radio and take my position on the floor for some morning stretches, determined. Not because I care about being limber or anything—only because I’ve got this one thing left to do and I’m going to do it right and stretching helps sharpen my mind.

  As I finish my morning routine, breakfast arrives through the slot on the door. I take the tray and set it aside.

  When the guard’s scratchy voice calls to me from the open doorway, I see Avery poking her head in from the hall. She’s wearing a big, stupid smile that makes me hate her a little more.

  “Good morning!” She calls to me, waiving like an old friend who’s spotted me in the middle of her Sunday morning stroll. My first instinct is to spit on that moronic grin, but I just ignore her. With Avery less is always best.

  Avery watches, waiting. “Let me guess—you’re still ignoring me?”

  I won’t look her way.

  “I’ll see you later, then.” She waltzes down the corridor as I’m led out. Right before she turns the corner towards the community room, I assume to brag that she can go wherever the hell she wants, her middle finger flies up at me.

  My first instinct is to laugh, but damn, there’s nothing funny about it. Why the hell does she care what I do or say? She gets to remain unaffected no matter what happens to me. I just have to keep pretending like she doesn’t exist.

  +++

  When I am finally back in place, back in my horrible metal chair, safely restrained to the frame, I take a deep breath.

  As soon as my lawyer waltzes in with his signature long jacket, and settles down with his pen and pad, asking how I slept last night. I mumble something sarcastic about how thick and wonderfully soft the beds are and he almost smiles.

  Tight Bun and Quiet Man take their seats, each one scratching a pen to paper, asking me more stupid questions about Avery; if I’ve seen her

  and what she was doing. I answer no to everything, anxious to get through the ritual.

  Before I have a chance to start an orderly is buzzed into our small room. She’s wearing the typical badge and navy blue scrubs. She’s got dark chocolate skin. Her hair is unnaturally straight and pulled back into a twist, held in place by a wide barrette.

  I don’t have to look at the contents of the half-size plastic tray in her hands; I know why she’s here. This is a dance I do every day, though my partner varies from day to day.

  The tray holds three small paper cups. No one has to say, “Open.” I just do it and tilt my head back so she can dump the contents of the first two cups into my mouth. My pills. Next, she holds out the third cup, waiting.

  I keep my hands at my sides, though I could reach up with one if I wanted to. I’m restrained by a lap belt and one wrist harness. They’ve been letting me keep one hand free. Still, I never reach for anyone or anything, because I see how it makes the guards nervous. So, I wait for her to set the cup on the table in front of me. When she has taken her step back, I raise the cup to my mouth and swallow the tap water inside, washing down my prescribed medications.

  Once the door has shut behind her, and we four are once again the only people in the room, I am asked to begin where I left off yesterday. But I feel the need to remind them of something:

  “What happened chronologically is insignificant. It’s how I saw it that matters.” It’s the one point that seems to stick. “My choices have always been dictated by my perception.”

  And then, I pick up near where I left off . . .

  +++

  I’d been bulldozed by another migraine over the following weekend and had missed spending time with Jake. The store where he worked was only a half-mile from my trailer park, in one of Carlisles’ only strip-malls. There were two at the time: one for family shopping, complete with Movie Theater. The one I was heading for had a selection of small shops—the busiest of which was Carlisle’s Largest Hardware Store.

  It was also across the street from the Plain Jane combination convenience store and gas station. They had a Slurpee machine. My plan was to walk there first and pop-in on Jake at the hardware store on my way home.

  The tour would be starting soon and I wanted to spend as much time as I could with him. I didn’t know how if he’d want to stay a few weeks in California or come right back. Either way, I was looking at a stretch of time without Jake and that had me on edge.

  The tall cup that held my Cherry Coke flavored Slurpee was sweating as I crossed the blacktop. Wisps of blurred heat looked like puddles of stagnant water at the edges of the lot. I kept a steady pace across the blacktop, clinging to my oversized cup, until the whoosh of controlled air swept over me at the stores’ entrance. It was cooler inside, but not by much.

  There was a salt and pepper haired woman in a green work vest manning the register. Her name tag said BECKY. She greeted me, offered to help me find whatever I needed, and I waved her off. I stayed in the main aisle near the front, sweeping down each row in search of Jake. I found him near the back of the store, in the open area, surrounded by hanging plants and patio furniture. His back was to me. I wanted to sneak up and throw my arms around his waist, but when I got closer, I saw he wasn’t alone. He was standing beside an older guy, maybe mid-forties with shaggy blond hair, who was dressed in worn-looking jeans and faded brown work boots. Jake was holding a large book, one of the catalogues the store carried. He seemed to be in deep conversation as he rested one of his big feet on a low pile of dry cement bags, pointing at a page in the catalogue. The man leaned back against a large flatbed cart that was stacked with black tubing, and flagstones.

  “Hey, you,” a voice whispered from behind me.

  I turned towards the sound of my name. Troy Bleecher was standing a few feet up the aisle. I waved robotically and turned back to wait for Jake. He hadn’t seen me yet and I didn’t want to distract him, so I stayed planted where I was, several yards up the long aisle.

  Soon, Troy was standing beside me. “That’s my dad.” He gestured, keeping his gaze fixed ahead.

  “That’s my boyfrien
d,” I muttered, unintentionally mocking Troy’s tone.

  “I know,” he said, and turned to look at me. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  My brow furrowed. I never talked to Troy Bleecher. Not since our one date last year, when I found out that he told half our school that he slept with me.

  “For Rosa; she’s kind of a bitch. And for me, too, for the way I acted. What I said was messed up.”

  “Oh,” I murmured, remembering the way he scared the crap out of me in the quad the week before. Maybe he delivered apologies in bulk? “Okay.”

  I turned back to Jake and found he was watching me. What little cool air there was inside the open garden area became heated with the stare Jake was giving.

  Troy’s dad called him and he walked off after him, the two heading for the register.

  My grin was uncontainable as Jake sauntered up the aisle towards me. I held out my sweaty cup of Slurpee. Jake leaned in, locking eyes with me in that salacious way that he had and took a long sip. I could tell by the lack of frosty bubbles in the clear straw that my drink was nearly melted. Once his lips released the straw, they took mine. His mouth was cold as his warm hands affectionately grabbed my face, holding me in place. His tongue burst between my lips, filling my mouth with the cool cherry soda flavor and igniting my blood.

  When I stepped into his grasp, wanting to deepen the kiss, he pulled away. “Tastes good,” he grinned, taking the drink from my hand. I watched him take another long pull. “Good day?”

  I nodded my head. “No more headache. Want me to go get you one?”

  Jake shook his head with the straw piercing one side of his mouth. “I already got one.” I giggled at the silly, mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

  He looked around the store, in front and behind us, then swooped down on me again, closing his lips around mine and pouring cool melted Slurpee into my mouth. I threw my arms around his waist, pulling him closer.

  “Missed this.” He mumbled against my lips. And then his fingers, wet with condensation from the cup, were sweeping down my cheek. He pulled away. “Okay. No more or I’ll get in trouble.” I wanted to fake a pout but just grinned.

  “You know Troy?”

  “No,” I shrugged. “Well, not really.”

  “What were you talking about?”

  I shook my head, “Nothing. I think he was trying to be nice.”

  “Nice? Troy-Shithead-Bleecher? What’d he say?” Jake’s eyebrows shot up with interest.

  I didn’t want to get into it. I couldn’t remember if I ever told him about my one date and there was no way I was mentioning the thing with Rosa. Jake would get upset and there was nothing he could do to keep it from happening again. Besides, I was pretty sure Avery had taken care of it.

  “He told me you were talking to his dad.”

  Jakes bright hazel eyes darkened. “I hate that guy.”

  “Troy’s dad?”

  “No. Troy. He talked some shit to my little brother. Can you believe that? A fucking senior picking on a handicapped freshman? The second he’s eighteen, I’m kicking his ass. And I don’t want you talking to him, either.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Good.” He took my hand and pulled. “Come on.”

  I followed him towards the back patio area that was teeming with young trees and hanging plants. He led the way to the last section of patio furniture near a back corner and stopped in front a covered bench swing. Taking a seat, Jake patted the spot beside him.

  The moment I sat down, he hooked his hand behind my neck and yanked me in for another kiss. It was too quick to enjoy anything beyond the initial spark of contact.

  “So what’s up?” he asked, eyes now shining. “Did you miss me or something?”

  I took the drink from him. “Nope. Not one bit.”

  He laughed and pressed his feet into the cement floor. Starting the swing. “Angel, will you move to California with me?”

  I burst into a surprised laugh.

  Jake stopped the swing. “Don’t laugh. I’m serious. Angel, I need you to come to California with me.”

  My heart leapt into my throat. “You’re staying out there? For sure?” It was the fear and possibility that lingered in my mind since I learned how far away the tour would take them.

  “I’m gotta try. You’ll be eighteen in another couple months. Aged out of the system. No one will come looking for you. We can stay there, together.”

  “But school—”

  “Is out in a few weeks.”

  “I’ll miss my graduation.” Not that I gave crap about it. If Jake wasn’t going to be there clapping for me, it didn’t matter if I walked. But I’d have to leave Avery. The Foster. And as much as that scared me, I was considering it. Seriously leaning towards an emphatic ‘yes!’ because if Jake was going, I needed to be where he was.

  “You don’t have to come right away. If you want, you can wait until schools’ out. But I won’t be able to be at your ceremony. I have to go. It’s now or never for me.”

  “Why? I mean, why so sudden?”

  He grinned. “Not so sudden. My world keeps spinning even when you’re stuck at home. I’ve been talking to a guy named Pierce. He works at a label out in L.A. It’s an independent, but they’ve got distribution. He was visiting his cousin who lives down the street from me. He heard us practicing, Angel. He’s gonna come to our shows in Tempe and Glendale, to watch the auditions. If he likes what he sees, he wants us out in L.A., working the scene. He’ll sign us, babe.”

  A shiver of fear rippled through me. First the big tour with Anemic Psychos and now this. It was starting. This was happening: everything Jake ever wanted might suddenly be within his reach. Yeah, it was only an indie label, but that was just a beginning.

  I knew there was no way that Pierce guy was going to walk away. Talent was talent and label reps never showed their hand. They always acted like they were doing you a favor. But the band had also never been so ready. Pierce was probably worried they’d get snatched up by someone else, which if true, meant there might be more than one shark in the water.

  It was easy for the guys in Analog Controller to pick up and go. They were all out of school. The lease on their place would expire in another month. None of the guys were seriously involved in anything other than music and replaceable jobs. Except Jake. He’d tethered himself to me.

  And he wanted me to go. He was asking.

  “Okay.” I breathed, feeling how easy it was to give him what he wanted. I wanted it too, more than anything.

  “Fuck, yeah, baby! We’re moving!” He clapped his hands and whooped before leaning in to really let me have it; a long, open-mouth, send-the-fire-through-to-my-toes kiss. I melted into his expert touch.

  He mumbled against my lips. “Deanna working tonight?”

  “Yes,” I mumbled back.

  “Good. We’ll celebrate.”

  22

  —Angel

  My unseeing eyes stare at the air of the interview room, still caught in that moment beside Jake. I can smell his deodorant. He didn’t wear cologne very often, so that was the most recognizable scent. And he always smelled so good. I can’t even describe it, because I haven’t been around anything scented in a long time. It was just a Jake smell.

  Without thinking, I try to raise the wrong hand, to run it through my hair, but just feel the cuff cutting into my wrist. My other hand is still free but any sense of freedom that lingered in my memory disappears, replaced with bitter resentment.

  “I’m pretty sure that all of this is my mothers’ fault. Because of her, I have been trapped my entire life.”

  Some people choose to take a lonely path because they like the solitude, but some people have no choice. Some people just live a loveless life: they can’t pass on what they don’t have and so, remain alone. Even after they get married and long after they have kids.

  It’s not a crime to live without love; it’s just a shitty road to take. My mother didn’t love herself so she couldn’t love me. It
’s that simple.

  Taking a deep breath, I let the words I usually keep down, surface with my anger. “She treated me like her perfect little doll: comb my hair, put me in pretty dresses, but don’t feed me. Don’t listen to me. Definitely don’t talk to me, because that might make you want to care. No. Just set me in the car. Don’t let me buckle up. And drive as fast as you can straight into a tree.”

  What recourse is there when the people who brought you into the world reject you? You’re small, helpless, and have no way of knowing that life should be different.

  There was nothing to do but try to deal with being born to a father I never met and a mother who tried to kill me when she killed herself. The part that really eats away at me is that I don’t think she put that much thought into it. For all I know she had no plans to include me at all. I was an afterthought. She decided to drive off an embankment into the trees, and on her way to the car she saw me and thought, “oh yeah, I should do something about that.” How pathetic is it that I want to think she cared enough to plan to my murder?

  Love is the most wonderful and powerful force on earth. It’s the drug that gives you the most powerful highs and lowest lows. It means the most to people like me, who grew up deprived. And when you’re young and desperate, and you’re presented with something you want, you don’t think twice about it. You take it without even knowing what it means. Life with the boy you love, who has no idea he barely knows you—that you barely know yourself?

  Take it. Don’t think twice about what it means to run off a two months before you turn eighteen, to turn your back on the one woman who spent the last year nurturing and caring for you without a second thought. Leave the only friend you ever had to move off to a place you know nothing about. Do it for the boy.

  Jake was that important. I didn’t think twice. Not an ounce of apprehension after those first five seconds of shock.

  With Jake, I felt truly loved by the one person that mattered more than any other and having that was like . . . oxygen or sunlight. I depended on it. As long as I had him, I knew whatever we came across we’d be fine and I gave it no more thought beyond those three words—he loved me.