The principal nods.
“That is all. We will reassess your situation in thirty days, and I hope for your sake that you have made some improvements.”
Mom nods and pulls me to my feet.
“Thank-you very much,” she says, and then she drags me out of the office.
4
Wit’s End
“I am without words.”
Mom grips the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles are white. She doesn’t look over at me as she speaks. Her eyes are glued straight ahead and her back is rigid with her shoulders squared. She seems like a panther ready to pounce on its prey.
“I am just without words,” she repeats herself.
That’s a lie, I think as I bring a hand up to rest my cheek on. The roadway blurs by me and the buildings become one giant mass of gray and blue.
Mom always has words. She just doesn’t know how to begin.
I try to start something, to cut her off and lessen the blow, but she talks over me this time.
“Don’t start!” she says. “What in the world has gotten into you?”
See? I knew that the words were coming.
“I don’t know what got into me,” I lie. I know exactly what got into me. I wanted to make my latest video and get closer to Dad. The only way to get closer to him is to get up as high as I can. But, I’m not going to tell her that. She will think it’s stupid and a lie and that I’m covering up the real reason. So, I stay silent on the subject. I look back out the window.
Mom shakes her head roughly.
“What possessed you to go up on the roof?” she continues. “Don’t you know how dangerous that is? You could have fallen over the side and broken your neck, or worse! I don’t need a phone call telling me that my son is paralyzed. Or that I lost you, too…”
Her voice breaks up for a moment and my defensive position breaks as well.
Her jaw is trembling and I can see the tears brewing in her eyes. They stem over, falling down her cheeks like streams.
I sigh.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Really, I am. I brought this hurt upon her. She’s dealing with enough - we both are. But, she’s dealing with the most. “I shouldn’t have gone up there.”
Mom isn’t listening. Her mind is elsewhere.
She pulls onto a side street.
“I’ve had enough of this…” she says, using the back of one of her hands to forcefully wipe away the tears. “I really have.”
What am I supposed to say now? There’s nothing that will make it better.
Mom glances over at me now and her eyes lock on the broken iPhone clutched in my hand.
“Your phone is ruined now, too,” she says. “You might as well have thrown hundreds of dollars off the roof.”
I clench my teeth. She’s right. My phone is now a very expensive paper weight. I need to give her some sort of explanation for the destruction.
“I was filming a video,” I say. “It was for my Youtube channel.”
“That again,” Mom says, really emphasizing the that. Again brushing beneath her eyes with the back of her hand, though there are no more tears. “You think making those videos are going to give you a good future?”
That stings. I didn’t expect it to, but it feels like a knife in my gut. I look away.
I have nothing more to say.
Thankfully Mom seems to be done as well. The rest of the car ride is driven in silence.
We pull into our neighborhood not far from the high school. The sun is just starting to get low on the horizon and the small lawn is bathed in an orange glow. The windows on our house appear to be on fire with the light.
Mom parks on the street, puts the car in park and turns off the engine. But, she doesn’t get out.
Instead she grips the top of the steering wheel and lets out a horrible, guttural sigh. Her head hangs low on her shoulders.
I would go to get out of the car, but something in my gut stops me. I wait for her to speak.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she says, not looking over at me. She keeps her eyes on the steering wheel. “I can’t keep getting calls saying that you were in a dangerous situation. I already lost your father, and I can’t lose you, too.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Really. I didn’t mean to get in trouble.”
“But, you did.” Mom looks up at me this time, her eyes ringed with dark circles. “You keep getting into trouble, and I just don’t have enough patience for it. There’s no way that you are just going to lounge around your bedroom for a month. That’s not what you need.”
This conversation is taking a strange turn. My ears prick up at what Mom just said. Not what I need…
“What do I need?” I ask, my brow furrowed. I grip the straps of my backpack tightly.
“You need discipline,” Mom says. “You need structure. You need to get away from all the memories and the bustle of the city and just take the time to get out of your own head. Those are all things that I can’t provide, though God knows I’m trying.”
She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. Each one makes a single tap on the faux leather.
I gulp.
“So, what are you saying?” I ask, my voice soft.
Mom’s eyes look at me, but they aren’t really looking at me. They’re staring through my chest and there’s a sadness there. Regret.
“I’m saying that you need to go and stay with your grandparents for a while,” she says.
These words strike me like a bullet. I sit back, my shoulders leaning against the cold glass of the passenger window.
“You can’t be serious,” I say. My hands are now so tight around my backpack straps that they are soaking the fabric with sweat.
“I am.”
I begin to tremble. This was not how things were supposed to go. Mae flashes into my mind. My best friend. She’s the one who has been there for me since the tragedy. Now I have to leave her behind. I have to be completely alone. The thought sends chills down my spine.
Stay with my grandparents?
My grandparents live way up north in the woods. There’s nothing there to do except go outside into the wilderness. At least in Boston there are things to do. There are places I can go and be entertained. Up in Maine? That’s the boonies! There’s nothing for me to do up there except mope!
Can that really be what I need?
I am the speechless one now.
Mom shakes her head, again not really looking at me.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
I don’t care if she’s sorry or not.
I open my door, take my backpack with me, and step out onto the front walkway. Then I slam the door shut and head inside, not stopping until I make it to my bedroom.
I look around at everything. The familiar ocean blue walls. The bookcases filled with graphic novels, RA Salvatore paperbacks, and Lego Star Wars models.
I’m going to be leaving all this behind. My world.
My hand releases on my backpack and it falls to the floor. My broken iPhone, which was tucked into the mesh pocket on the side, becomes dislodged and skitters across the Pergo flooring. Its screen glints in the dying sunlight streaming through the windows.
All this for a single video, I think.
Mae was right. It wasn’t worth it.
5
Pine Grove
The drive from Massachusetts to Maine is excruciatingly long. I barely had a chance to call Mae and tell her goodbye before all my things were shoved into a duffel bag and thrown into the back seat of Mom’s car. Not only am I without my iPhone because it is smashed, I have to put up with a track phone that’s to be used only for emergencies. Goodbye social life, I think.
The majority of the drive is spent in silence. Mom doesn’t say anything, and I don’t have much to say to her anyway.
After what feels like forever, Mom pulls off the highway and onto the first of many back roads. There are more trees here than I’ve ever seen
in my life. Everything from the buildings to the sidewalks that are barely existent scream “hometown.” Of course, I’ve been to the country for vacations. But, I barely remember the details.
We come to a long green bridge that looks like it’s being held up by rubber bands and, once across, we are greeted by a green and gold wooden sign that says “Welcome to Pine Grove.”
We’re almost there. As the miles between us and my grandparent’s house become fewer and fewer, I feel this anger welling inside me. I know I don’t belong here. Being sent so far away from my home and my family makes me feel like a criminal. Did I do a criminal act? Yes, I trespassed on a roof, but is that really cause to exile me from home?
Whether it’s fair or not, we pull into my grandparent’s driveway.
Their house is quaint compared to ours. The eaves on the roof are sagging from time and the white paint is peeling off in random spots. The oldness of the house is contrasted with the new life all around it. My grandmother is a constant gardener and the flower beds that line the entire length and width of the house are nothing short of a masterpiece. This is the only positive thing I have noted. There are flowers, and the air smells fresh. Everything else is gloomy.
Mom turns off the engine and turns to speak to me, but I’m not interested in talking. I grab my duffel bag crammed with clothes and bolt from the car.
Grandma and Grandpa must’ve heard us pulling in because they both step out onto the front porch. Grandma opens her arms to hug me, even though the reason I’m here is not because I’m on vacation, and I completely ignore the embrace. I barely slow my steps as I walk up onto the porch.
“Where am I sleeping?” I say briskly.
Grandma stutters for a moment, obviously taken aback by my lack of a greeting, and says, “Upstairs in the guest room.”
I don’t bother to say thank you, and I walk completely past Grandpa and into the house, not stopping until I’m up the stairs and closed inside the guest bedroom.
I’ve been in the room before so it’s not unfamiliar, but I don’t take note of its appearance. Instead I throw my bag onto the floor and fall onto the bed, burying my head into the pillow. Hot tears sting my eyes and I rub my face back and forth against the pillowcase to get rid of them. I don’t need anyone to see me crying.
The window is cracked open a bit and I can hear my mother talking to my grandparents. Their voices are muffled so I can’t hear exactly what they are saying, but the message is clear enough.
Grandma is shocked that I rushed in like this. Mom is still stressed, and she tells Grandma that this is the attitude she needs to expect from me. It’s the one that she’s been putting up with for months. Grandpa, on the other hand, doesn’t really say much.
The talking goes on for a few minutes before I hear footsteps coming up the porch stairs and into the house. They continue up the staircase and stop outside the bedroom doorway.
A knock sounds at the door.
I wipe my eyes one more time to make sure that there is no trace of the tears, and mutter, “What do you want?”
It’s Mom who replies.
“I’m getting ready to leave,” she says.
There’s a long pause.
To break it, I say, “So?”
There is some shuffling outside the doorway, then Mom says, “Don’t you want to say goodbye?”
A wave of heat races through my body and my pulse speeds up. Say goodbye? I don’t even want to look at her.
I remain on the bed with my fists clenched.
“Goodbye,” I say. “See you in a month.”
My shortness must have hurt her, because Mom doesn’t come into the room. She stands there for a few moments and I can hear her breathing. Then she gives up and goes back downstairs. A few minutes later the sound of her car roars to life and she pulls out onto the road, her engine becoming softer and softer until she is gone.
My heartbeat is still racing. I don’t want to do anything besides stay in this bed.
So, I roll over onto my back and drift off into a hazy sleep.
___
I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep, but it must’ve been a while because when my eyes open at the sound of the knocking on the bedroom door, the room is dark. Outside the window I can hear the sound of crickets and peeping frogs singing.
“Shaun?” says Grandpa outside the door. “Can I come in?”
My skin feels all clammy and I reach up to wipe the sweat from my face. I clear the gunk from my throat and sit up.
“Sure,” I reply.
Grandpa comes into the room and stops a few steps in. He’s carrying a plate with steaming food and a tall glass of milk. He looks around.
“Were you sleeping?” he asks.
I nod.
He walks over to the desk and sets down the plate and the milk and then returns to the doorway to turn on the ceiling light.
“You missed dinner,” he says. “I figured you were resting after the long drive, so I brought you something to eat if you’re hungry.”
To be honest, I’m still too upset to be hungry. But I nod anyway. There will be time for the food later.
Grandpa rubs his hands together and looks around once more.
“Do you mind if I sit with you for a while?” he asks.
“I don’t see why not,” I reply, and Grandpa takes a seat on the bed beside me. The springs creak under our weight and Grandpa sighs.
“So,” he starts off. “Suspended from school for a month, huh? You must’ve done something pretty bad to get a punishment like that.”
Of course Grandpa wants to talk about the elephant in the room. I should’ve expected that.
“It wasn’t that bad,” I say. “I was just making some videos, that’s all.”
“On the roof of the school, from what your mother told me,” Grandpa says with one eye squinting a little. “That’s pretty dangerous. You could’ve been really hurt, or somebody else could’ve been. What possessed you to go up on the roof like that?”
I run my hands through my hair.
“I climb up high to get away from everybody,” I say. It’s a stupid explanation, but it’s the truth. “Being up high is the only place where I can get away from everybody and find some peace.”
Grandpa nods.
“It may be peaceful,” he says, “but, that’s trespassing. What about these videos you’re making? Do those need to be up high?”
He’s probing for information. He wants the truth out of me. I don’t know if I really want to tell him, but if I’m going to tell someone, it might as well be him. I take a breath and then jump in feet first.
“I’m keeping a video diary,” I say. “It’s like a journal, except I’m talking to the camera. I’ve been keeping it for Dad. It’s kind of like my way of talking to him.” I close my eyes and shake my head. “It sounds stupid. But, I feel like if I’m up high, I’m closer to him. That’s why I did it.”
I’m waiting for Grandpa to agree with me, but to my surprise he doesn’t.
“That doesn’t sound stupid at all,” he says, looking me in the eye. “I might not be making videos, but I talk to your father sometimes, too. He’s listening, no matter which way we talk to him. I truly believe that.”
We are both silent for a few moments with only the sound of the crickets outside floating around the room.
Then Grandpa continues.
“Your father was a good man. And he raised a good kid. I know that for fact. You might be here for a punishment, but all of us grieve in our own way. So, if you want to make videos, make videos. I’m not going to stop you. Just do me and your grandma favor. Don’t make them on the roof of the school.”
He gets to his feet and heads for the door, turning to give me a smile.
“I know it’s the middle of the week,” he says, “but, you’ve got school at the high school tomorrow morning. Your grandmother pulled some strings to get you in there. So, don’t stay up too late. And try to keep a low profile. This is a small town.” He nods
to the plate and the glass of milk. “Put your dishes in the sink when you’re done. Good night.”
Then he leaves.
My stomach growls just then. Now that nobody’s looking, I hurry over to the desk and devour my dinner.
6
Small Fish, Big Pond
My hopes of slipping under the radar like Grandpa suggested are blown out of the water the first time I set foot in the 1970’s linoleum-lined halls of Buxton High School.
Trying to figure out the combination to my locker, which is written in nearly illegible cursive, I am pulled out of my concentration by a fist banging against the peeled maroon metal door.
I look up to see a very tall, stalky boy staring down at me. He looks like he just stepped out of some CW show. Everything about him screams perfection. His brown hair is perfectly coifed, his eyes are perfectly green, and his attire advertises football captain.
Even with this proverbial king of the jungle staring me down, I try to play it cool and continue with my combination.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
The boy rests one elbow on the top of my locker door and sets a strange grin on me.
“You must be the new kid,” he says.
I turn the dial back and forth between the numbers. Is that supposed to be a seven, or a one?
“Must be?” I reply, not making eye contact with him. “I am the new kid. Do you see me trying to figure out my locker combination? One hundred percent noob here.”
When I turn the dial to the last digit on the combination I am pleased as the lock clicks open. However, when I pull on the handle, the boy standing beside me is holding it shut with his elbow.
I straighten up.
“Do you mind?” I say.
The boy doesn’t budge. There is an awkward silence between us as students bustle past, grabbing their things and preparing for class. The boy licks his lips and puffs out his chest a bit.
“I’m Tyson,” he says, looking away in what I take to be a pose. “Tyson Phillips. Captain of the football team.”
The Aberrant Series (Book 1): Super Charged Page 3
