Use Somebody

by Riley Jean

  Vance.

  The goober was waiting me out. And he had picked the perfect spot along the sidewalk. I couldn’t get anywhere without passing him.

  Doing my best to ignore him, I kept walking. He didn’t let me get any further than the door before the passenger side window rolled all the way down.

  “Need a ride?” he asked, no resentment in the fact that we’d already had this conversation.

  My cheeks heated in the darkness. I didn’t care if Vance thought I was a carless loser. But now that he saw me walking home, he’d likely feel burdened to help. “No, thank you.”

  As my steps continued on the sidewalk, the truck rolled along at one mile an hour right beside me to keep pace.

  “It’s late,” he called down from his truck. “You’re not intending to walk all the way home, are you?”

  “What’s it to you?” I said. Didn’t see how that was any of his concern.

  Ever so slowly, the truck matched my speed. I sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to give up.

  “Can you please just let me drive you home? One way or another I can’t leave you walking out here all by yourself.”

  I stopped. The truck stopped. I considered his offer simply because I truly believed he’d follow me all the way home if I refused. But this was about more than a ride home. This was about trust. I didn’t know Vance… should I trust him?

  I looked at the road ahead and almost laughed at myself. Two minutes ago I was fearless, convinced that I could handle any dangers of the night. Now here I was worried about whether or not to trust my goober coworker for a measly eight-minute commute.

  Boy, did I have problems.

  I knew I was over-thinking this, but sometimes these precautions were necessary. I considered what I knew about him. He talked a lot. Gwen seemed to like him. If anything were to happen to me, the managers would know exactly who had seen me last. All in all, I narrowed it down to one point.

  “You really have a girlfriend?”

  He blinked. “Yeah…”

  Screw it. I took the final steps towards his truck. Don’t get me wrong—I was still on guard. This wasn’t me giving in. This was just… doing his conscience a little favor.

  “No funny business,” I warned, climbing into the cab and buckling in. It was warm and smelled pleasant like peppermint and spice.

  “No promises.” He chuckled a little, then slipped the clutch into gear and carefully pulled away from the curb. To my surprise, no further chastisement came.

  A familiar punk rock song played quietly through the speakers. I noticed his iPod plugged in. Reading my mind, he turned up the volume.

  “You know The Ataris?” he asked.

  My response was a soft snort. Of course I knew The Ataris. San Dimas only had three claims to fame: Raging Waters water park, Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, and The Ataris.

  They weren’t a super famous band, but if you were a local, you definitely knew who they were. They grew up in our city and graduated from our high school—even gave it a shout out in one of their songs. We were all just a little too young to know them personally, but some of our oldest siblings remembered.

  Vance continued though I hadn’t spoken. “This CD was my favorite. It got me through high school. Can you believe their songs were never played on the radio?”

  “They played Boys of Summer on the radio,” I countered.

  “It’s a remake you know.”

  “I know, but I like it better than the original. And it counts.”

  “Fair enough.” He flipped through his iPod and landed on my song. The familiar guitar riff filled the air between us, and I relaxed a little into my seat. “Yep, this is a good one. I’ve always wanted to go to one of their shows. You ever seen them live?”

  “No,” I answered honestly. I wasn’t even sure if they were still touring.

  “What concerts have you been to?”

  That could take a while. “The Cab, Marianas Trench, All Time Low…”

  At the thought of music, a smile almost… almost touched my lips.

  If writing had been my passion, music was my obsession. And I loved a good concert most of all. There was something about the power of a live performance that moved me each and every time. It was a thousand emotions unleashed from one stage. It was the real talent and personality behind the performer. It was getting lost in a room full of people who all shared a common love. It was the energy of a pulsing crowd, sweating and swaying as a single entity. It was in the eyes of a musician when he heard an audience singing along to his words. It was lyrics that you felt down to your very soul. It was lighters and cell phones shining in the dark like stars. It was the ringing in my ears that lasted for days later…

  “I can’t believe it,” Vance interrupted my reverie with a chuckle, and took a moment to glance at me before returning his eyes to the road. “We like the same music.” He sounded a little surprised and quite honestly so was I. Not that this conversation was particularly deep, but it seemed as though we had something in common after all.

  My song ended and he began flipping though his iPod again. He landed on another familiar song. “Do you know this one?”

  The distinct, gritty instrumentals started through the speakers. I knew the answer immediately, even before any words were sung. “Rise Against.”

  He continued through his playlist to see how many bands I could name. He was—dare I say—right about one thing… we shared an affinity for rock music. Hard rock, punk, alternative, emo, grunge; I loved it all. And apparently so did he.

  We played this little game for the rest of the short drive home, only stopping at each song for a few seconds. His disbelief increased dramatically as I named each and every band correctly. By the end of the drive he was downright impressed.

  “My girlfriend can’t tell Pearl Jam from Linkin Park. She only listens to pop music. Bleh!” He made a face at me and laughed, as if I was in on some kind of inside joke.

  Curiosity piqued, I glanced up at him. “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

  He smiled broadly at the road and flipped on his blinker. “The most beautiful name in the world… Evelyn.”

  Wow. If he wasn’t such a goober, that might have been kind of sweet.

  “This one’s my house,” I pointed it out.

  He whistled and pulled up along the curb. “Nice place you got here. My condo’s seriously less than a mile back that a-way, so if you ever need a lift, I really don’t mind—”

  I had the door open before the truck even came to a complete stop. “Thanks for the ride,” I called as I jumped out.

  “Anytime!”

  I shut the door and walked briskly up the long driveway, hugging myself against the chill. The spring air was cool and crisp up here by the canyon. Only a couple street lamps lit up the cul-de-sac; everything beyond our row of houses shadowed in inky black. The sounds of frogs and a trickling creek could be heard in the distance.

  I pulled out my keys and approached the front door cautiously, aware of Vance’s headlights spotlighted across the porch as he waited by the curb for me to enter. I took a deep breath, unlocked the door and stepped inside, exhaling my relief when it was also still and silent.

  Home sweet home.

  * * *

  [Past – Two months ago]

  They say my older brother, James, was born on the wrong side of the crib.

  It was the only logical explanation. He’d been like this as far back as I could remember. When we were small and learning to ride bikes, he would kick the tires and curse its stupidity every time he fell down. When we played video games, he would throw the controller across the room and claim it was the console’s fault that he lost. Walls and toys suffered the wrath of his tantrums, and he turned on our parents when they tried to calm him down. There was no way to comfort him; he just wanted to be left alone.

  So the happy-go-lucky little sister who came along with songs and dances and other such forms of torture was doomed to become the bane of hi
s existence.

  Although I was three years younger than him, I learned quickly about his irrational compulsion to lash out and blame. Often, I found myself on the receiving end of his bullying. For most of our lives, I chalked it up to normal sibling rivalry. That changed for me when I was fourteen.

  I was squealing with excitement to attend my very first concert—Yellowcard—with my clique of friends. But when James found out, he proceeded to tell me that my friends and I were spoiled brats, and our music sounded like butt piss.

  That’s right… Butt piss.

  It was a stupid comment, and pathetic that I even took it to heart. What can I say? Generally fourteen-year-old girls are lacking in the thick skin department.

  I’ll always remember that concert because that was the night I reached my limit with his hostility. He hated my parents, he hated me, he hated the world; he made himself into a victim and for no good reason. He was never going to see me as anything more than a nuisance. So what was the point? I was tired of his constant negativity and contempt, tired of living in fear for every misstep. I didn’t tell him directly—not that he would have cared—I just made up my mind and stopped trying to pretend we had any semblance of a relationship.

  The only kind of little sister James ever wanted was an invisible one. So that’s what I became.

  Did it make him hate me less? No. His annoyance only became more sensitive until things like eye contact and breathing set him off. We weren’t siblings, we were two strangers separated by a wall much thicker than the wood and plaster one between our bedrooms. And so it remained until I left for college.

  But now with the four of us living under one roof again, tensions were higher than ever. So when I heard the voices rising outside my bedroom door, I knew exactly how fast it would escalate.

  “Stop wasting your life away on these brainless video games, James.”

  “What I do with my own damn time, in my own damn room, is my own damn business.”

  “Not while you’re living under my damn roof, it’s not. And don’t you use that tone with me, boy. You wanna come and go at all hours of the night? Grow up and get your own damn place.”

  “Oh don’t worry, I will. And once I’m gone, I’m sure as hell never coming back. So you can shove it up your ass, old man.”

  “You’re almost twenty-two years old! When are you going to grow out of being an ungrateful little shit?”

  “I don’t know. When are you going to grow out of being a fucking asshole?”

  I hid my head under a pillow, but it wasn’t enough to drown out their vicious words. I hated when they fought. James’ room was right next to mine, so when the yelling started I could hear everything. Unfortunately it rarely ended there. Soon words would turn into fists and the violence was too much for me to endure.

  I needed an escape. So I did what I always do on nights like this—I typed out a message on my cell.

  Scar: door or window?

  This was our code when it was a particularly bad night. No further explanation needed. Silence meant he was out or “busy.” A response within 30 seconds meant come on over.

  Ricky: window

  This meant that his dad was home, but most of the time he was already passed out or too oblivious to notice Ricky’s bedroom companions. He was cool, albeit a little neglectful as a parent. For the most part, Ricky had the whole place to himself, which was probably the main reason he never moved out.

  Lots of young adults around here still lived at home with their parents. And many of us that moved out ended up coming back. It was hard to justify the cost of an apartment unless you were in school or had your parents’ help financially, which was only pseudo-independence in my book. The jobs were too few in this economy and the rent was too damn high.

  Well thank goodness Ricky answered. I couldn’t stay here another minute and let their maliciousness rot my ears. As quietly as possible, I slipped out of my bedroom window and climbed down the lattice like I had a hundred times before.

  That’s right—this little goody-two-shoes had one act of rebellion in my teen years: I had mastered the art of sneaking out.

  My parents never checked on me on nights like these anymore. In the past, if they found me missing, they believed I’d gone to Lexi’s house next door. As strict as they were, sometimes my parents could be moderately aloof.

  Besides, if I’d made a spectacle outside someone else’s bedroom door, I’d likely be too embarrassed to confront them, too.

  * * *

  James Rossi and I may have shared the same parents, but Ricky was the closest thing I ever had to a real brother. Ironically, they were best friends when we first moved to California (before James became completely socially challenged), so I had known him since elementary school.

  Even though I was three years their junior and at my annoying peak, Ricky had always been kind to me. He let me win at foosball. He let me tag along when James told me to get lost. He even practiced flashcards with me when I was learning how to read.

  Despite what everyone else saw when they looked at him, this was the Ricky I knew.

  “Shit, kiddo,” he said as he slid the glass open. He pushed back the black, silky strands of hair out of his eyes, but they fell right back into place. “Forgot about your car. I would have given you a ride.”

  His offer was sweet but unnecessary. I had been crawling into Ricky Storm’s window since before I could drive, even after he and James had their falling out.

  He was my fellow insomniac. My sanctuary. My escape.

  Our friendship wasn’t conventional or consistent. Ricky was like the breeze, blowing in and out of my life unpredictably. Sometimes we went months without speaking. And when we did converse, it was light and surface-y at best. We had separate lives that never overlapped with our friendship, and that’s the way it worked for us. But he’d been there for me when I needed him, when I had no one else to turn to, and I hoped he knew I’d do the same for him.

  “It’s fine,” I sighed and dusted off my palms. I never minded walking. There was something about the darkness and the silence that called to me these days.

  He took a quick inventory of me. “Where’s your journal?”

  “Gone,” I replied, unblinking. Tonight I was less of a conversationalist than usual.

  “Hmm.” He didn’t make me elaborate. Between the black hair and exhausted eyes, I must have looked awful, but he knew better to ask those kinds of questions. “Want some paper?”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t felt ready to start writing again since I moved back home. Once my pen touched that page, I’d be forced into memories and emotions too painful to face.

  Devoid of my usual outlet, I didn’t quite know how to deal.

  “Working on anything new?” I asked, moving towards his work area.

  He snatched his sketchbook off his desk and held it high above his head. “Maybe,” he smirked. “But you can’t see it until it’s finished.”

  I smiled weakly at his bout of playfulness. I was certainly the wet blanket tonight. Without my journal, I had nothing to do but mope.

  Reading my mind, he looked around the room in thought, then pulled a book off a shelf and tossed it to me. The Count of Monte Cristo. Of course Ricky would own this book. He was sitting back at his desk and sketching again before I had a chance to express my thanks.

  Grateful for the distraction, I climbed to the top bunk, only to find a bag of skittles on my pillow. I glanced at Ricky, but he had his back to me with his earphones in, busily sketching away. I tossed a skittle at him. It missed and landed on his desk. He picked it up and ate it without turning around.

  I laid on my stomach, ankles twisted in the air, popped a few candies into my mouth, and opened the book to the beginning.

  * * *

  “Ricky?” I whispered into the dark.

  I had no clue what time it was. At some point he had stopped sketching, turned out the lights and crawled into the bottom bunk. I stayed silent when he called out to me, feig
ning sleep. But now, restless, I was drowning in impossible sorrow.

  “Hmm?”

  He never minded when I slept in his room on nights like this to escape the fighting at home. But things had changed since those early days. I’d give anything to go back to that time of innocence, where the only thing that haunted me at night was the sound of yelling.

  “Does it get easier?”

  As a general rule, we avoided any serious topics at all cost. Our time together was intended to be an escape, not a group session. And Ricky was even less inclined to open up than yours truly. He had his own demons to deal with. While I didn’t expect us to hold hands and sing Kumbaya, I was hoping he wouldn’t deny me a few words of encouragement. He always had a way of grounding me.

  He let out a long-suffering sigh. “It’s not the same thing, Scar.”

  “I know,” I admitted quietly. I was rolled into a ball on my side, arms wrapped around my knees. “But it still hurts.”

  In the last month, I learned the worst kind of pain went far deeper than muscle or bone. Grief had burrowed its way under my flesh, decaying one piece of my soul at a time. That kind of pain was a long, inescapable, tortuous suffering. A heavy mass pressing on your shoulders, weighing you down everywhere you went. It was so many emotions, you eventually stopped trying to distinguish them, until all you felt was a vacant numbness.

  He was quiet for a long time before he finally took pity on me. “It’ll always hurt,” he said bluntly. “But you know what’s stronger than hurt?”

  “What?” I asked anxiously. Anything… I’d give anything so long as I didn’t have to feel like this forever.

  “Anger,” he confessed in the darkness. It was so low, I almost didn’t hear it.

  I laid there and processed his words. I had known anger. I was familiar with its flame. James certainly had a fiery temper, which he inherited from our hot-blooded father. Ricky, while controlled most of the time, had a history of getting into fights as well. But not me. I had always been positive and level-headed. Until recently.