by Otis Hanby
Copyright 2019
ISBN: 978-1-54397-259-7 (print)
ISBN: 978-1-54397-260-3 (eBook)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Contents
Foreword
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Conclusion
Foreword
No Take Backs was a difficult book to write. While it’s true that the content was challenging to convey; the tone was the most difficult. The voice of Corey not only had to be genuine, but all the characters needed to represent teenagers most authentically. With that in mind, you will come across sentences ending in prepositions, passive sentences, and words used unnecessarily to emphasize a point.
Initially, the manuscript was written with strict grammar, but this translated into an adult narration of the inner-most thoughts of a teenager, making it feel disingenuous. Some say writing in a younger voice excuse a lack of perfect grammar. Believe me, this being my debut novel written in teenage inflection was a significant risk for me. However, not all fell into the perfect-grammar rhetoric, as my editor emphasized the young adult tone and that it should remain consistent in thoughts and dialogue between characters. Without her suggestions, I would not have gone this route.
With all that in mind, No Take Backs should be read in the context presented to keep the flow. Ultimately, I hope that when you get to the last page, you take something away from it. But most importantly, I want you to enjoy this book.
Thank you for taking this journey with Corey. It means more to him that you realize.
Chapter One
The year is 1990. My name is Corey, and I am a sophomore at Garland High School in Garland, Texas. It’s October, and the weather is beginning to turn. It’s unseasonably cold this Friday morning as I stand under an overcast sky in the student parking lot, waiting on my best friend. As a light, cold breeze blows against my neck; I draw the collar of my flannel shirt up to preserve what little body heat my 120-pound frame can produce. I love this time of year. October is when autumn has its stronghold on North Central Texas, the cooler weather creating the perfect environment for my inward reflections. It feels like my personal season.
As I wait for Rodney to show up, I have the urge to light a cigarette. With my hand, I feel the soft pack in the front pocket of my baggy jeans, and I reminisce about the first day I met Rodney. I was eight years old and arm wrestling a classmate on the floor of the classroom when I look up and notice an unfamiliar face staring down at me awkwardly. He had dark circles under his eyes, and I think he might be sick. He was skinny like me but super pale. I asked if he wanted to arm wrestle, but he said no. He continued to watch me looking a little vacant. It was later that day when I found out he had lost his mother to cancer months before meeting him.
The memory is still vivid when I see his Firebird rounding the corner into the student parking lot. As the car approaches aggressively, I hear Pantera blasting from the stereo system, accompanied by a cloud of cigarette smoke trailing from the driver’s window. His car stops beside where I am standing, almost brushing against my leg as he opens his door, greeting me with a nod.
“What’s up, man?” I ask Rodney as he slams the car door. The thin, sickly kid from 3rd grade is now a thin, edgy teenager with kinky blonde hair down to his shoulders. He no longer looks sad and sickly as he did when I first met him, but mischievous and a little suspicious.
We walk to the edge of the school’s property to a cluster of bushes so we can smoke without being harassed. As we round the bushes, we find Leann and Marcy already smoking.
“Hey, Corey! Hey, Rodney!” Leann says, in a cheerful voice.
“What’s up?” Rodney asks. He has a thing for Leann, although I don’t think that she notices.
I light my cigarette using Marcy’s. As always, I notice how pretty the girls are. Marcy and Leann are fraternal twins, both with bobbed hair. However, Marcy is a brunette while Leann is a blonde. Otherwise, they couldn’t be more different. Leann is sweet and glowing and tends to have a smile most of the time, while Marcy is quiet and more reserved. Despite them getting along there is a tension between them, although I really don’t know the source of it.
We’re part of the “different” crowd. Leann and Marcy are new wavers who usually wear Doc Martens, tights, and thrift store clothing. Rodney and I are two of the handful of skaters in the school. Our group includes both demographics, as well as a few punk rockers. We’re a sorted bunch where rebellion is the common denominator.
“Can you give us a ride home today?” Leann asks Rodney.
“Yeah, sure,” Rodney responds passively.
“Thanks! I’m sorry if it’s out of your way.”
“It’s not. I take Corey home anyway.”
Rodney takes me home almost every day. I live on the south side of Garland and should technically go to South Garland High, but my parents decided to keep me in familiar surroundings since they uprooted my life the year before my sister graduated. The real story is that my sister raised holy hell when she found out we were moving her senior year, so my parents decided that moving us across town was stress enough, and my sister losing her mind would not make things any easier. Then they decided to keep the trend going with me. Don’t get me wrong; I am grateful. But I think they’re allowing me to continue going to Garland High is just a way for them to deal with one less aggravation.
I snuff my cigarette out on the ground and take a deep breath of cold air. I listen as Leann continues trying to justify to Rodney why giving them a ride home would be a great relief to her recently single mom. Rodney doesn’t need to be appeased. To him, it’s just another mundane experience.
We head over to the school as the first bell rings. I observe the jocks, preps, nerds, gangsters, and bowheads making their way into the school. “Bowhead” is what my brother Will used to call cheerleaders and members of the drill team. I like the term, and I think it’s still relevant, even if he did quit school more than half a decade ago, right in the middle of his ninth-grade year. Will was always a bit of an outsider himself. He was a stoner during his brief stint at Garland High. Still is, I might add. On any given day, he can be found lounging in his room reading paperbacks, drinking beer, listening to Pink Floyd, and smoking the occasional joint. In his defense, he is an exceptional cook and prepares dinner for our family just about every night. Maybe that attribute alone is why my parents tolerate his behavior. Or maybe kicking him out is another aggravation they don’t want to deal with.
***
Sitting in Art class, I look down at the hole in my shoe caused by repeated ollies on my skateboard. I push my sock-covered pinkie toe through the hole to distract myself from my grumbling stomach. I know my stepmom despises my grungy appearance. I can’t seem to make her understand that I am not a viable candidate for preppy clothes, as this would bring me unbearable amounts of criticism from all the cliques of the student body, including my own.
I try to direct my attention back to my art project. It’s a piece of linoleum that I am s
upposed to carve a picture on. The aim is to roll ink on it and make prints. My lack of enthusiasm has left me carving a yin-yang symbol, although I could have taken plenty of ideas from my Thrasher Magazine, a skateboarding rag that I hold in high esteem.
Surrendering to my boredom, I ask Ms. Bauska if I can use the bathroom.
I walk into the bathroom and Lonnie is already in there, smoking a Marlboro. Lonnie’s a headbanger, perpetually dressed in black jeans, a Metallica t-shirt, and leather jacket.
“What’s up, Corey?” Lonnie asks, handing me a half-smoked cigarette.
“Not much. Looks like we had the same idea.” I take a drag.
We reserve our energy for smoking instead of talking. It’s the only thing we have in common, so our dialogue tends to be pretty limited anyway. I light my cigarette using Lonnie’s and hand his back. He takes the last drag, throws the butt in the toilet, gives me a nod, and heads back to class. I continue to smoke, hoping the bell will ring soon so I can go to lunch.
No such luck.
As I return to class, I see Toby, another headbanger, laughing manically and drawing a pentagram on his desk with his own blood. Lonnie’s telling him he’s stupid and that he needs to wash his finger off. He must have slipped with the carving knife on his linoleum project. It bothers me a little, seeing his blood being used to draw a satanic symbol. In my superstitious mind, there are lines you do not cross.
I am about to sit down when I notice a drawing on the ground. I pick it up. It’s a rendition of Mickey Mouse wearing khakis and a bandana, holding a bundle of heart-shaped balloons.
“What you got there, Holmes?” asks a tough-looking Mexican kid from a desk nearby.
“I think this is yours,” I say, handing the drawing over.
“Maybe I wanted it on the floor, eh?” I know he’s fishing for a reaction.
“My mistake.” I place the drawing back on the floor and sit down with my back to him. He grunts dismissively. I’m relieved. I really don’t want trouble with the Mexicans.
I sit in uncomfortable silence staring ahead for a few moments and then the bell rings for lunch. Thank god.
***
Lunch is the only time when my group of friends can be found together all at once. As I approach our table, I see Greg first. He never eats lunch and must be saving his money for a new skateboard. He has baby-fine blonde hair and is very quiet and mild-mannered. At the moment, he’s sorting through a pile of objects he keeps in his pockets — things consisting of loose change, a finger skateboard, rubber bands, and other junk. I sit into a chair and continue to scan the table.
Seth is sitting next to Greg. He’s a senior and happens to be the best skater in the school. Greg is a close second as far as skill is concerned. Seth is trying to annoy Darren by throwing small paper wads at him across the table. Seth makes it a daily habit to try and annoy someone. Darren’s reading a fantasy paperback, doing his best to ignore Seth. I do see him look briefly over the top of his round wire-framed glasses to make his annoyance known before running his hand through his long brown hair and returning to his book. As much of a brainiac as Darren is, I wouldn’t want to push him too far. He’s in martial arts and is known to be pretty good at it.
Brigette, Darren’s girlfriend, is leaning into him and resting her head on his shoulder. She is pretty, short, and mean. If Seth keeps up trying to annoy Darren, she’s the one he’ll have to contend with. Darren and Brigette are a Sid and Nancy kind of pair, two of the few punkers that go to Garland.
Chad and Tyler are sitting to Brigette’s left. They’re best friends and go everywhere together. Chad is a serious, stocky guy with dirty blonde hair while Tyler is tall, skinny, and goofy. They’re a strange pair, but it seems to work for them.
Rodney is sitting next to them and leaning over the table talking to Leann and Marcy. I notice Braydon isn’t sitting next to Marcy as he usually does, and I wonder where he is. They’ve been going out as long as I can remember.
Darren, ignoring Seth, looks up from his book and says, “Did anyone piss somebody off that might have been confused with me?”
Everyone looks at each other, puzzled, and waits for him to make a point.
“Because I found a note in my locker that said to watch my back. And if I wasn’t careful, I could get shot.”
“It’s probably some stupid gangster that got the wrong locker,” Rodney says, making a good point.
“You should make sure you always have someone with you,” Chad states.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” Darren says dismissively, being the realist that he is. But like it or not, we’ll see that he has back up if he needs it.
As I reach for my Dr. Pepper, we hear a loud crash from across the cafeteria. We look over to the source and see that a fight has broken out. It’s a pretty crazy spectacle, chairs and lunch trays flying. It looks like the Mexicans and blacks are fighting. Most of the fights in school are between different races. I’m trying to get a better look, but the crowd of kids is pressing hard, moving like a tidal wave.
“Let’s get out of here!” I hear Rodney’s voice over the chaos. He doesn’t want to be caught in the middle of anything when the authorities show up. The coaches and principal already look at our group like we might spontaneously commit some kind of crime just for the hell of it.
“I agree!” Chad says, just as we hear blowing whistles from a football coach and shouting from the principal. The fight only seems to be growing as they attempt to break it up. We quickly leave the lunchroom and head to our next class.
I stop at my locker on my way to science class, and as I’m fiddling with the combination, I hear a familiar voice.
“Core! What’s up, Braw!” Braydon calls in a surfer accent. Where he acquired this accent is a mystery.
I smile. It’s good to see him. “What’s up, Braydon? Where were you at lunch? You just missed a huge fight in the lunchroom.”
“I was studying for the science test. Are you ready for it?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, not really meaning it. I don’t study … ever. Yet I seem to pass my classes. But I admit, every test I take gives me a feeling of apprehension that this might be the one that I bomb—the beginning of my academic demise.
“Don’t forget you’re taking us home after school,” Leann says to Rodney as she heads off to her class.
“I won’t. And Corey. Don’t forget to meet me by Darren’s locker.”
“Yeah. I’ll be there,” I reassure him, but I can feel anxiety building in my chest. Braydon smiles and puts his arm around my shoulder, ushering me toward class. As we enter the classroom, he asks me what Rodney was talking about. I tell him about the note that Darren found in his locker.
***
It’s seventh-period Geometry, and I’m sitting next to Jodi. Mr. Moore usually lets us put our desks together in pairs as we attempt to solve for angles, circumferences, and things like that. My mind is preoccupied with Rodney, and his anticipation of a potential attack on Darren, but I’m pulled back to reality by Jodi’s breast pressing against my arm. She’s leaning into me and describing how she concluded the diameter of a circle. I nod my agreement, although I am more focused on her breast making contact with my arm. I know Jodi’s not into me. So, the contact, I reason, is not intentional. I’m a grungy skater, and she’s a band nerd. She’s pretty enough to be one of the school’s “elite,” in my humble opinion, but she has sense enough to stay out of that mix.
Just as I’m attempting to keep her leaning into me by asking some inane question about the next math problem, the bell rings. Jodi smiles and retreats to collect her things. Had she lingered for a moment longer, I would have taken it as a sign of interest. Disappointed, I gather my stuff and head to my locker.
When I close my locker, Rodney seems to appear from nowhere.
“Let’s go.” That’s all he says as he turns on his heels. I follow him.
The halls are alive with students. I have to weave my way through to keep up with Rodney. We p
ush through the Commons, run up the stairs to the second floor, and make our way to Darren’s locker. As we get closer, I see Darren pulling books out. Leann is standing with her arms crossed, looking nervous. Marcy’s chewing gum and laughing at something she’s reading in what looks like the school’s paper.
“Did we miss anything?” Rodney asks Darren.
“No. I told you nothing was going to happen,” Darren replies, and I feel relieved. Darren shuts his locker and runs his hand through his hair.
“I’m glad nothing happened. All this crazy shit has me on edge. It’s like everywhere you turn there are people acting crazy. I’m just glad nothing happened,” Leann says. She’s visibly shaken. Internally, I agreed.
Without another word, Darren begins walking towards the exit and the rest of us follow. As we descend the stairs to the rear of the school, we can see through the window where a bunch of police cars are parked, lights flashing, and several black and Hispanic kids are cuffed and sitting on the ground. Police officers are talking with school staff.
“I bet your shooter is in that mix of assholes,” Rodney says to Darren’s back.
“This is the kind of shit that freaks me out,” Leann says, emphasizing her earlier point.
I light two cigarettes and hand one to Leann.
***
Rodney pulls up to Leann and Marcy’s apartment. It’s just the two girls and their mom living there since their parents split up.
“Hey, that’s mom’s car,” Marcy comments. “I wonder what she’s doing home so early.”
“She was supposed to pick Erica up on her way through Dallas. Remember?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Y’all want to come in?” Leann asks.
“Sure,” Rodney says, and we all pile out.
As we walk inside, we see the twins’ mom looking for something.
“Hey, mom!” Marcy says as she shuts the door.
“Hey, Hun. Did you, or Leann, happen to see the check your dad sent? I swear I put it on the coffee table, but now I can’t find it.”
“I put it on the fridge under one of the magnets so it wouldn’t get lost,” Leann responds as Marcy runs upstairs.
