by Ash Night
A year later, I got expelled for fighting back against my bullies after school. They got suspension, despite them egging me on. I threw the first punch so it was seen as self-defense. My dad yelled at me for an hour that night after he got off the phone. My mom just cried. Rachel, in her elementary-school mind, tried to make me feel better by offering me her coloring book.
I locked myself in my bedroom and punched a hole in the wall. I spent the next weekend with spackle and plaster of Paris, patching up my wall. After that, I went to a different school to finish eighth grade and thankfully was able to start high school on time. In high school, I met an older kid who introduced me to the guitar. He had a Les Paul, passed down from his old man who used to be a roadie back in the sixties.
I saved up money for my own guitar, a cheap used one that cost me three weeks’ pay at my job as a library assistant after school. Using every library book available, I taught myself to play. My first time playing in front of an audience was in front of the entire school at the high school talent show. Rachel showed up with roses. Mom and Dad both had to work but Rachel had gotten a ride from a friend’s mom.
Rachel was normally very quiet and almost painfully shy, but she hooted and hollered when they announced I had won. She didn’t even go to that school, but she made sure everyone around her knew I was her brother. The look on her face was one I would never forget.
The one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar prize money got me a newer, nicer guitar. Playing the guitar got me through all four years of high school. I had a few friends that stuck with me, but most friendships I had destroyed because of my illness. I saw a therapist four times a week. She specialized in music therapy so we would play together a lot. She played bass.
I hadn’t thought of putting a gun to my head in a long time. I’d made a life for myself here in this house. Playing bars and the occasional county fair was fine, but I dreamed of saving up enough money for a professional recording session. It cost a lot and I’d been saving for nearly seven years, but affording rent and my meds, while neither on their own were outrageously expensive, together every month killed my savings.
My boss, a woman old enough to be my mother and who smoked enough cigarettes to sound like my father, was stingy with overtime. I got overtime once a year if I was lucky. Most of the overtime went to the workers with seniority. I’d only been working at the station for six months. Before that, I’d been a bagger at a local mom-and-pop grocery store. I’d gotten fired for having sex with the owner’s daughter a month in. She was worth it though. The sex was great.
Standing up, I went outside for a quick smoke before bed. It had crossed my mind to quit smoking as a way to save extra cash. I made it a month. My breaking point was when I dented a guy’s car after he almost ran me over at a stoplight. I spent a few nights in jail. He didn’t press charges. I decided that bail money was more expensive than a few packs of smokes. As a penance, I allowed myself three cigarettes a day, one in the morning, one on my smoke break when I worked or after lunch on the days I didn’t work, and one before bed. Cutting back saved me money so it was definitely worth it.
Stubbing it out under my shoe, I threw the cigarette butt in the outside ash tray and walked quietly past Layla’s room. Crawling into bed, I glanced at my guitar and smiled. One day, I would make it to that recording studio. It didn’t matter if I was old and gray by the time I did. I would make it.
Chapter Nine
Layla
Ryder had a big grin on his face as he came into the kitchen, a few shopping bags hanging from his arm. He laid out the contents of the bags out on the small island. A bag of sugar. Brown sugar. Flour. Baking soda. Butter. Eggs. And the holy grail of ingredients, two packages of chocolate chips. Those delectable little morsels were my kryptonite. Basically anything chocolate was my Kryptonite...
“What’s all that?” I asked.
“We’re making chocolate chip cookies!” Ryder said, rummaging through the cabinets and pulling out a mixing bowl and a baking pan. He set a metal whisk and a set of measuring spoons beside the bowl. I stared at him. He nodded toward the sink. “Well, what are you waiting for? Wash your hands.”
“You didn’t wash your hands,” I accused.
“I didn’t get pulled off the streets.” He snickered as I slapped his arm. “Just kidding! Just kidding! I’ll wash my hands too.” I moved over so he could wash his hands as I dried mine.
I eyed the ingredients warily. “I told you I didn’t know how to cook. I barely made it through making mac and cheese once when I was twelve. And that was from a box.”
“Ah, young Layla, don’t worry. I’ll teach you. Making cookies isn’t that hard. And we aren’t cooking. We’ll be baking.”
I smirked. “Hope you got a fire extinguisher,”
He chuckled. “Nope, but we got baking soda,”
Baking soda. I bit my lip.
The day after my seventh birthday, my dad and I came home from getting ice cream to find my mom passed out on the couch. We hadn’t seen her in three days. Dad had told me she’d been visiting an old friend for a few days when in reality, she’d been on a coke binge.
The burning smell from the oven was acrid. Dad rushed into the kitchen to turn off the oven. I followed him and saw him throwing baking soda into the oven. After a minute, he donned an oven mitt and carefully pulled out a gloopy mess of a cake. At least Mom had almost remembered my birthday. That was more than I could say for other years.
Pulling myself from the memory, I smiled. “That’s good, wouldn’t want an oven fire.”
He smiled wide. “Of course not! Can you preheat the oven?”
“That I can do What temp?”
“Three seventy-five,” he said as he cracked two eggs. The shells split evenly, not even a speck of shell in the bowl. For most people, that probably wouldn’t be so impressive, but I had never seen someone crack an egg so cleanly. Whenever Dad had cracked eggs for breakfast on Sundays, he used to have to pick shells out of the bowl and there would always be a few left over in the food. Dad would laugh and say it was just extra protein.
Turning the oven to three seventy-five, I saw Ryder dumping spoonfuls of brown sugar into the bowl. I watched him without a word until he was done, his lips silently mouthing the numbers. He looked up. “You can dump the chocolate chips in after we mix the dough.”
“That reminds me, why do we need two packages? Seems like a lot of one batch of cookies.”
“One is for the cookies. The other is to eat. I thought you’d like that. You seem to like sweet food.”
“That’s…really thoughtful. Thank you.” I was taken aback by his kindness. I wasn’t used to guys being nice to me, except when they wanted something in return. Ryder didn’t seem like he wanted anything. He just smiled and went back to putting the rest of the ingredients into the bowl, like it was no big deal that he had done something so nice.
It was like that day when I asked for waffles. Any other guy I knew would have complained about how I was too picky and how it was a waste of money. But Ryder hadn’t commented on it. He just went along with it. My needs mattering to anyone was a strange feeling.
The mess of ingredients was starting to look more and more like dough as he stirred it. “Okay, time for the chocolate chips.”
I was ready and waiting, the package already open. After carefully pouring them into the dough, I grabbed a spoon and swiped a bit of dough to taste. The sweetness danced on my tongue. It was wonderful.
Ryder laughed, stirring in the chips. “Any good?”
“Perfect. Can’t wait to see what they taste like when they’re baked.” I smiled. Baking cookies was really fun. This was the most fun I’d had while sober in a long time. I wanted the feeling to last.
“I can make eggless dough next time if you really like it that much.”
“Teach me how to make that! Please!” I begged.
He chuckled and nodded. “Sure. It’s basically just like this without using eggs, or the oven.”
&nbs
p; I opened up a brown bottle labeled ‘Vanilla Extract’ and sniffed it. “What is this? It smells amazing!”
He laughed again. “You’ve never smelled vanilla?”
“I have. I’ve just never seen it this way. Didn’t bake much as a kid, at all actually.”
“Vanilla extract doesn’t really do anything on its own, other than smell good. It’s used to enhance the other flavors in a recipe. Or to get drunk, if you’re desperate.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Drunk? There’s alcohol in this?”
“Yup, about forty percent,” he replied. “My dad, he was alcoholic. Trust me. When your dad sweats out the stuff, it doesn’t smell that great. He used to drink this stuff whenever he’d run out of beer money.”
I was amazed he had said that without looking the least bit upset. It was something he just accepted. It made me admire him.
“My mom was a coke addict,” I blurted out. “My dad loved her anyway. She did drugs even while pregnant with me. I was a crack baby.” A nervous giggle escaped my lips. “I didn’t start using again til fifteen years later.”
“Oh, wow, that sucks,” he said earnestly. “I really hope you can kick the habit, Layla. I’ll help any way I can.”
I opened my mouth to say something about how touched I was by his sentiment, but what came out was something entirely different. It shocked both of us.
“Mom was high the night she died.” My brain screamed at me to stop talking, but my mouth wouldn’t listen. Damn, was that vanilla extract some kind of truth serum? Well, there was no turning back now.
“She called my dad, freaking out, late that night. Like the loving husband he always was, he dropped everything, told me he loved me, and that he’d bring mommy home in an hour. After finally getting her out of the drug house, into the car, and buckling her in, he started driving home. As they went down a straight stretch of road, Mom suddenly jerked the wheel. She was freaking out again, probably saw the eyeless monsters again. She saw those a lot. Dad tried to right the car, but Mom still had her hands on the wheel. They plowed through a guard rail and flipped, rolling a few times down a steep hill, landing upside down in a ditch. Mom died instantly. The impact had broken her neck. My dad held on a little longer.”
Ryder placed his hand on mine. I barely felt it, but I knew it was the only thing tethering me to safety, away from the world of flashing lights and pain. “Layla, you were at home. How did you-”
“Know all that? I was in the back seat. I hid there until Dad brought Mom out of the house. He was furious with me but once I told him I’d just wanted to make sure Mom was okay, he softened. He told me to buckle my seat belt and that he loved me. We were both singing along to the radio when it happened. I walked away with a few cuts and bruises from the shattered windows, a broken collarbone from the seat belt, and one hell of a concussion. My dad died on the way to the hospital. An EMT told me my dad kept asking about me right up until the end. The EMT was able to assure him I was okay, so that was slightly comforting.”
Ryder’s mouth was hanging open slightly. “Layla, I’m so sorry…”
I put on a happy face to disguise the fact I wanted to cry. “It’s okay. I’m starving. Let’s get those cookies baked, huh?”
Smiling, he sprayed the pan with cooking spray. It made me sneeze. He grinned, grabbing a strange metal thing that looked like a spoon within a bigger spoon and a weird handle. Ryder explained. “This is so we can get the scoops of dough even so the cookies will be pretty much the same. See?” Digging the strange spoon into the dough, he scooped a good-sized chunk out and squeezed the handle. The chunk of dough formed a perfect ball on the pan. He handed the spoon to me. “This’ll be your job.”
“Okay,” I said. I mirrored Ryder’s actions. The scoop came out looking the same as the one beside it. Producing another identical spoon out of a drawer, he stood on the other side of the island and scooped from that side. Working together, we ended up with two pans of cookies. Placing both pans in the oven, he set the timer for eight minutes.
He turned back to me. “Great job, team!” He held his hand up for a high-five. I indulged him and gave him a high-five.
“God, you are such a nerd.” I couldn’t help but smile. Even though it was nerdy, it made me feel good. It was nice, having a friend again. I hadn’t had a real friend since high school. Having a friend, especially a guy, who didn’t expect anything from me was really nice. A nagging part of my mind told me not to get too happy.
Good things never lasted long.
Chapter Ten
Ryder
My head was pounding when I woke up. Ugh, it was going to be that kind of day. Stretching, I got up and went to the kitchen to take my morning meds. Baking with Layla yesterday was fun. She seemed to really like it. She ate two cookies as soon as they were ready. She told me they were delicious. Even though I wasn’t a big fan of sweets, I tried one and they had turned out good. I was happy I could make her happy. Especially after what she told me about her parents.
I think her telling me that came to as much of a shock to her as it did me. She just kind of blurted it out before she really knew it. Her eyes told me she was dying to get it off her chest. She had been through a lot. I couldn’t imagine what she had seen.
Thinking about it made my blood run cold and my hands clench into fists. If I ever saw the guy who hurt her, or any of the guys since I assumed there was more than one, I’d fly into a blind rage. Closing my eyes, I took a few deep breaths to get myself back under control. I would have to file that thought under the ‘Don’t think about it unless you want to flip out’ category.
I also didn’t like thinking about losing my parents. Who did? Even my father. Because even though I wasn’t on speaking terms with my dad, I couldn’t deny that we had had good times once. There weren’t many, but there were at least one or two. The thought of losing either of my parents terrified me. That was why I didn’t want to check up on Mom.
It was easier to pretend she was going to live forever if I ignored the problem. Was it healthy? No, but it was better than facing reality. Because I knew one day, I would eventually have to call Rachel back.
Coughing came from the other side of the bathroom door followed by the sound of watery vomit hitting the inside of the toilet bowl. I stopped outside the door. “Hey, Layla, you okay in there?” It was eight in the morning. Too early for her to be up. Too bad germs didn’t know that.
“Not really, Blue Eyes. You may want to start digging a hole in the backyard,” came her weak reply. She sounded as if she had the chills.
“Flu?”
“No, dumb ass. Try sixteen hours without heroin.” That response had a little more life to it. Maybe I wouldn’t need to dig her a grave just yet.
“Do you need me to call the hospital? An ambulance, maybe?” I asked, really starting to worry.
“No, no, no hospitals. I’ll be fine.” Another round of vomiting.
“Are you sure?”
“Daniels, I said no hospitals, unless you want me to puke on you.”
I chuckled. “No, thank you. Vomit louder if you need anything.”
“Fuck you,”
“Yes, please, sweetheart.”
“Do you want me to hit you with shampoo bottles?”
“I’m going, I’m going,” I promised, walking into the kitchen to grab my meds and a glass of water. Pouring myself a bowl of cereal, I sat down to eat.
Layla came out as I was rising out my bowl. A thin sheen of sweat covered her forehead and her tan, sun-kissed skin looked flushed. I wanted nothing more than to wrap her in a blanket, park her on the couch, and sing her to sleep. Something told me she would beat me if I tried.
She smiled weakly at me. “Told ya I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you look great!”
She chuckled. “You’re lying through your teeth. I look like death warmed over and you know it.”
“Are you still sure you don’t need anything?”
“What do you say we go for a walk in t
he park? I feel like going for a walk.”
I eyed her skeptically. “You’re sure you’re up to it? You’re sick.”
“Yeah, the fresh air will do me good.”
“Want any breakfast?”
Laughing, she put on her shoes. “My stomach is empty and it wants to stay that way. Any way I could persuade you to bring your guitar? It’s a beautiful day for an outdoor concert.” She winked at me, a little energy in her smile.
I smiled. “I will see what I can do,”
Chapter Eleven
Layla
I was determined to prove to Ryder I was okay. In reality, I was ready to curl up and die. My whole body ached like I had the flu. Ryder kept glancing at me when he didn’t think I was looking. He was concerned. That was new. I wasn’t used to anyone being concerned about me. I was too stubborn to give in now.
“Where’d you learn to play guitar?” I started off with an easy question. Truthfully, I wanted to know everything. Today, the door would be open. No more secrets between us. I wanted this. For the first time since my parents were alive, I wanted another person to know me. I wanted to let him in.
“I taught myself. There was this kid in high school, he was a senior, that had a guitar and he was always in the music room every chance he got. I haven’t heard from him in years so I don’t know if he ever made anything of his music, but he could have. He was good. Really good,” Ryder said wistfully as we walked. The sun warmed my back. I was happy it was so warm out. Inside, I was freezing.
“Why didn’t you just learn from him?” I asked, my eyes on a yellow butterfly resting on a flower.
He looked up at the sky and laughed. “I asked. His exact words were, ‘Fuck off, kid. I don’t teach newbies. Learn how to play and then we’ll talk’. So, I did. Eventually, I was good enough that I walked into that music room as he was playing a song and I started playing it too. When we were done, he smirked and said, ‘Awesome, kid. See you took my advice. Name’s Jimmy’. We sat and played every day after school. He said his parents named him after Jimi Hendrix, but the doc didn’t know that so he spells it the way it’s spelled on his birth certificate.”
