by Nancy Isaak
“Brandon!” It was Andrei, skipping over—plastic plate in hand. “Chicken ready?” he asked, hopefully.
“As you command, bro,” smiled Brandon, heaping a giant helping onto Andrei’s plate. “Can’t vouch for the taste, though. Looks like it might be pretty greasy.”
“Grease is good!” exclaimed Andrei, racing off with his plate.
“Where’s Kieran?” I asked, looking around.
“He’s getting some things ready,” Brandon grinned. “We’ve got a little surprise for everyone in a bit.”
Oh-oh…I immediately began to get tense.
“Dude, take over for a bit,” Brandon ordered. He handed me a potholder and a set of tongs. “I’m gonna’ go find me a margarita or two.”
He walked off toward a table that I hadn’t noticed before. It was covered in bottles of alcohol and mixers.
My hackles immediately went on high alert!
* * * *
Around dusk, it started to get cold, so the younger guys moved into the gym where it was warmer. Andrei, Wester, and Ethan were still racing around with their water pistols, while Rhys sat on a couch, talking to Connor and Porter. Brandon, meanwhile, had gone off into one of the other rooms, to check on Kieran and his secret preparations.
Ian was sitting quietly in a chair next to the fondue table.
“Eat enough?” I asked.
He nodded. “My mom makes fondue for me and her—but she uses cheese.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever had fondue,” I said, sitting down beside him. “It was good. A little sweet for me, but still tasty.”
“You should try the cheese kind,” he said, yawning. “It’s better.”
“Tired?”
He nodded. “A little. We were up early, working on the valentines.”
“You guys really did something special there, you know.”
He yawned again. “Thanks.”
And then we heard it—music.
* * * *
We all stopped, turning toward the doorway that led into the rest of the mansion. The music was coming from there.
Porter was the first to stand up, stumbling over toward me. “That’s “God Bless the Child”, Jacob!” he exclaimed, astonished. “That’s Billie Holiday singing…that’s a recording!”
Suddenly, a figure appeared, silhouetted in the doorway.
It was a woman.
* * * *
Ironically, the first reaction of the guys—after three and a half months without girls—was one of fear. Their eyes went wide and they came straight for me, gathering in close, as if for protection. Even Connor limped over quickly, joining the boys that arced behind me—staring openly at the swaying woman as she came closer and closer.
She wasn’t tall—an inch or two shorter than me—but she was wearing red stiletto heels that brought her up close to my height. The silky dress she wore was dark blue and fell in folds to just below the knees. Her dark hair was shoulder-length and parted, the top half pulled back—held in place with a diamond barrette. On her ears, she wore giant gold hoops that hung down almost to her shoulders and her arms were covered in diamond bracelets.
But it was her face that captivated me—the delicate, high cheekbones, the bright red lips, the aquiline nose.
Because I knew that face—that face was my mother’s.
“Kieran!!” I yelled. “What the hell are you doing?!”
My brother continued to move forward, hips swinging sensuously—lip-synching to Billie Holiday’s song.
Behind him, Brandon came out from the doorway, pushing an old Victrola on a cart. Here was the source of the music—an old hand-cranked record player. A 78-record was spinning on the Victrola—no doubt “God Bless the Child.”
On one of the cart’s shelves was a handful of old 78’s, some still in their sleeves, some without. Porter immediately raced past Kieran, straight for the old records. He went down on his knees, rifling through the selection. “Ohmigod,” I heard him say. “Ohmigod. There’s Stan Kenton’s “Gambler’s Blues” here and Debbie Reynold’s “Aba Daba Honeymoon” and—ohmigod—you’ve got Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog” even!”
Meanwhile, Kieran continued his little performance, sashaying to the music, moving around the room. He kept trying to corner one of the guys, but they all stayed out of his way—spooked by the female get-up.
At one point, Kieran even turned in my direction. I immediately held up a finger, warning him off. “Don’t even,” was all I said.
Kieran turned and went after Connor instead. The poor guy, unfortunately, couldn’t escape quickly enough. His bum leg betrayed him, and Kieran soon had him in a faux-embrace, singing to him and blowing in his ear.
I am ashamed to say that I didn’t rescue Connor.
Instead, I laughed at his discomfort.
I am even more ashamed to say that I still find it hilarious now.
* * * *
“Dude, you’re wearing a dress,” I teased.
“Get over it,” said Kieran, irritated.
About an hour before, Ethan, Wester, Ian, and Andrei had retreated to their bedrooms in the other house. The rest of us were now sitting at a candlelit table in the gym room, playing poker. So far, Connor was smoking us. I didn’t know if he was simply lucky, or if he was using his spatial-superpowers on us.
Whatever the reason—Connor was on fire.
I snuck an M&M from his enormous booty-pile and tossed it at Kieran. “Well, if you’re gonna’ continue rocking that dress,” I advised my brother, “you might want to close your legs. We seriously don’t need to be seeing that.”
Brandon immediately bent down, grabbing a quick peek just before Kieran slammed his legs together.
“Kiki!” Brandon exclaimed. “Like little peaches, girlie! Let me have a feel, why don’t ya’?” He tried to reach between Kieran’s legs, but my brother quickly slapped his hand away.
I could see that, if Brandon wasn’t drunk already, he was certainly on his way. There was a half-finished margarita in front of him, and I’d seen him drink at least three more during the evening’s festivities.
* * * *
“I’ll take two cards,” said Porter.
“You sure you want to do that?” I asked.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you always wiggle your nose when you have a bad hand. And you’re wiggling it now.”
“I do not,” said Porter. He looked around the table at the other guys. “Do I?”
They all nodded.
Sighing, Porter placed his cards face down on the table. “I fold.”
“Don’t feel so bad, Po-po,” laughed Brandon. “You may suck at poker, but now you get to choose the music.”
Instead of being offended, Porter immediately jumped up and raced over to the Victrola. He knelt down, thumbing through the 78’s. “Where did you get this old Victrola anyway?”
“It was actually down in the wine cellar,” said Kieran, rearranging the cards in his hand. “Stuck in a corner. I found it—Brandon didn’t even know what it was.”
Brandon nodded enthusiastically, spilling a little margarita from the glass in his hand. “Thought it wosh-shosh-was side table,” he slurred. “Fugly side table.”
“But I knew what it was,” Kieran said proudly. “Because our grandma had one just like it.”
“Grandma Riker,” I nodded. “In her sewing room. I’d forgotten about that. The Victrola went to Auntie Pat when Grandma died.”
Porter carefully placed a 78 on the record player. Then he cranked it up and set the needle down carefully on the big, black disk. Immediately, a scratchy female voice began singing about a monkey and a chimp getting married.
“Debbie Reynolds,” Porter sighed, happily. “Aba Daba Honeymoon.” He came over and sat back down at the table. “Guess there won’t be any more honeymoons,” he said, sadly. “Nobody getting married these days.”
“Don’t know ‘bout thas,” said Brandon, rising unsteadily to his feet. “I’l
l get married.” Freed of his chair, Brandon knelt down on one knee, facing Kieran. “Kiki,” he mumbled, “not as pretty as Tray, but dude’s still got one hell of a butt…Marry me, Kiks?”
There was a stunned silence around the table.
Kieran looked horrified.
Meanwhile, Brandon was weaving back and forth, so unsteady that he lost his balance, falling forward—his face smacking into Kieran’s lap.
Immediately, my brother jumped up, pushing Brandon’s head away as if it was poisoned. “What the frack, Brandon?!”
But—even drunk—Brandon was quick.
His hands whipped out, grabbing Kieran by the legs. The next thing I knew, Kieran had been flipped onto the floor and Brandon was climbing on top of him.
“Give ush kiss, Kiki,” he pleaded, his lips making kissing sounds.
“Get off of me!” yelled Kieran, pushing at him. “Get off!!”
But Brandon had at least six inches and sixty to seventy pounds on Kieran. He easily grabbed his wrists, pinning my brother’s hands up over his head. “Pretty boy…pretty dresh,” Brandon murmured, his head dropping toward Kieran’s.
Then two things happened—both at the same time.
My brother turned and gave me a beseeching look.
And I leapt at Brandon—straight over the table.
* * * *
I’ve been in a few fights in my life—mostly stupid stuff from elementary and middle school. This was the first time, though, that I’d been in a fight with someone as big and strong as a man.
Brandon might have been drunk tonight, but he still fought like a wild animal. I mean—he was a beast! Even with the other guys pulling at him from behind and me taking shots from the front—he was still winning.
* * * *
Connor was the first to go down—thrown into a corner, his bum leg crumpling under him, his face contorted in pain.
Porter was next—landing a few feet from Connor, his glasses askew, his nose bloody.
Kieran held on the longest—riding Brandon like a cowboy rides a bronco—as the big guy proceeded to punch the crap out of me. Then Kieran, too, went flying—right onto the poker table, rolling off the other side—his dress up at his waist, his earrings long gone.
Now—it was just Brandon and me.
I’d seen this violent-side before—on the football field—when the world of logic and self-control goes black for him. When he becomes brutal and senseless, impossible to control—a mean-spirited bully who just wants to punch and to bite and to kick.
I won’t lie—I was scared.
* * * *
It was Andrei who finally took the beast down.
Brandon had just thrown me over his shoulder and was sitting on top of me. His hands were tightening around my throat and I was beginning to see stars. Suddenly—just as my vision was starting to go—I saw the barrel of a gun move into place against Brandon’s ear.
Click—the hammer was pulled back.
“I will kill you,” said a determined voice. “In three seconds, if you do not let go. One…two…”
The emptiness in Brandon’s eyes cleared; sanity thankfully returned.
I could suddenly breathe as Brandon quickly released his hands. My vision returned next as I turned and looked up at Andrei. He was still holding the gun against Brandon’s temple.
“Don’ shoot, man,” slurred Brandon. “Wash jus’ foolin’ roun.”
“Jacob?” Andrei didn’t move an inch.
“You back, dude?” I asked Brandon—still wary.
He nodded. “Sorry ‘bout thas.”
“Stand down, Andrei,” I ordered, not taking my eyes off of Brandon.
Immediately, Andrei eased up on the gun’s hammer and lowered the weapon. As he did, Brandon rose up, unsteady on his feet. He reached a hand down toward me, intending to help me up.
“I don’t think so, dude,” I growled, getting up on my own.
Meanwhile, there were groans coming from two different corners of the room. I looked over at the other three guys. From what I could see—luckily—nothing appeared to be broken. However, there were definitely going to be a lot of aches and pains in the morning.
Turning back to Brandon, I saw that he was hanging his head and looking down at his feet—ashamed, embarrassed.
“You need to go home and sleep this off,” I barked at him, angry. “And I mean now!”
He immediately turned and shuffled out of the gym, not saying another word. As soon as Brandon was gone, I rushed over to my brother. He was sitting on the floor, tugging at the skirt of the dress, trying to cover his legs. “You okay, bro?”
“My dress is ripped.”
It was so absurd a statement that I couldn’t help but laugh.
A moment later, Kieran was laughing, too. I clapped him on the shoulder, leaving him to check on Porter and Connor.
“How are you guys doing?” I asked, kneeling down between them.
Porter was fiddling with his nose—moving it this way and that. “It’s not broken,” he announced. “Just need to get the bleeding stopped.” He pushed down on one nostril. “Most people lean their heads back to stop a bleeding nose. That’s stupid. You just need to press the nostril together—like this. That way, you’re pressing on the blood vessel that’s bleeding. That’s how you stop a nosebleed. It’s in one of my manuals. But it’s really just common sense…”
He was babbling—obviously a little traumatized.
“Thanks for the lesson, Professor,” I joked. “How about you, Connor? Buddy…are you hurt?”
Connor shook his head; he was staring at something over my shoulder.
I turned to look and found Andrei standing behind me—eyes wide, gun still in his hand.
He looked absolutely terrified.
“It’s okay, Andrei,” I said. “It’s over now. Brandon was just drunk and acting the fool, that’s all.”
Except that wasn’t what had Andrei so scared.
“It’s Ian,” Andrei whispered. “It’s why I came back over here. Jacob, he’s sick again…really sick!”
* * * *
So, now I’m waiting like everyone else, while Porter and Connor try to save Ian’s life.
Andrei is pacing the hallway again. Ethan and Wester are crying in their bedroom. Rhys is sitting with his back against Ian’s door, looking angry and snapping at anyone who comes near.
Kieran, meanwhile, is out in the backyard, cooking up soup on the barbeque—thankfully—sans dress.
And Brandon—apparently—is completely oblivious and sleeping it off in the guest house.
I repeat—worst Valentine’s Day ever!
MARCH
RU’S COMPOUND
Ian was sick on and off until the first week of March. Porter never knew exactly what he had, but suspected it was probably a virulent version of the flu. Unfortunately—as Ian got better—the other boys became sick.
Andrei was the second boy to take to his bed. One moment he was fine—the next moment he was puking and sweating up a storm.
Wester and Ethan were next. They didn’t puke as much as Andrei, but Porter worried constantly about how high their temperatures kept rising.
Rhys went down on March 6th—ironically, our mother’s birthday.
* * * *
I knocked on the guest house door, rapping loudly—again and again.
“This is stupid!” I yelled. “I know you’re in there. I saw the curtain move.”
Finally, the front door opened. Kieran came out onto the stoop, closing the door behind him. “Sorry…Brandon doesn’t want to get infected.”
“Right,” I said, frustrated, “because this is all about Brandon.”
Kieran looked down at his feet, ashamed. “What do you want, Jacob?”
“It’s Rhys.”
My brother looked up at me, horrified. “He’s got it?!”
I nodded.
“You coming to see him?” I asked. He immediately looked back at the door to the guest house, worried. “You c
oming to see him?” I asked again—this time more forcefully.
“Of course,” he said, quickly. “Just give me a sec.”
Kieran turned around and went back inside the guest house. I could hear Brandon and him talking inside, but their voices were too low for me to hear any words. From their tone, it appeared that they were arguing.
A few moments later, the door opened and Kieran exited. He was carrying a small backpack and I could see the butt of a gun sticking out of it.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “I heard you guys fighting.”
“It’s nothing. Let’s go.”
We started walking up to the main house.
“How’s he really doing?” asked Kieran. “Is Rhys going to be okay?”
“Porter and Connor are doing everything they can, but we ran out of antibiotics with Wester and Ethan.”
“I can walk into Malibu,” offered my brother. “Down near Webb Way, they’ve got that pharmacy. It will only take about four hours to get there and back—even quicker if I use a bike. I could look for some antibiotics there.”
“That’s an idea,” I replied. “But first I’m going to try Ru.”
“You going to the Locals?”
I nodded. “I’m hoping that I can interest him in a little trading.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “One of us needs to be here for Rhys—just in case.”
Kieran didn’t look happy about that. But, for once, he didn’t complain like he usually would have—just walked along beside me, frowning.
