Gravity (8 page)

"... but I want to call you later and discuss
the things Florence suggested."

"Right, call when I won't be here." I drop my
fork into the bowl. "It's not like I didn't tell you about Jake's
party."

"...we'll be home on the 25th."

I drag my hand down my face. The 25th is
three weeks away. I hate that they're never here. It's like I have
ghost parents and they only talk through the answering machine.
"Shit." I push the unsatisfying bowl away from me.

“… on a happy note, she informed us that your
grade point average—“I turn off the answering machine, cutting away
Mom's delighted tone. I can't stand this shit anymore. I know where
the one sided conversation is headed. The car I'm dying to have
will be mine. I've been meaning to lower my average so it doesn't
look so much like a lie, but again attention gets the best of me
and the car is hot. I hate how happy they are when I'm on the ball;
it only makes me feel bad that I've never earned it fairly.
Listening to their praises makes me sick to my stomach, but so does
their disappointment. Sometimes the car doesn’t matter. Today the
car doesn’t matter.

Alex

Jake's lawn smells like chemicals. A large
hand nearly covering my crown shoves my head further into moist
soil. “I don’t know what’s funnier,” Hunter’s voice spits into my
ear, "you thinking you could get in or this sad-ass sweater you're
wearing. Did you time warp from the eights?”

I press my lips shut and attempt to turn my
head to avoid eating dirt. I huff out grass blades. “Get off
me!”

“What’s your name pee-wee?”

Pee-wee?

A boot heel digs into the center of my
back.

“Fuck!” I mumble into the ground. Hunter
takes my arm and pins it to my back while my head is pulled away
from the grass. “You know my name, asshole? What the fuck are you
doing? Get off.”

“You hear that guys? He thinks we know his
name." He presses my arm hard into my back, “How would we know the
name of some piss-ant I’ve never seen in my life. Even if I’ve seen
you, which I haven’t, why would I even bother to ask your name? How
do you even know Jake?"

“I’m Jake’s best friend.”

The Crew laughs. "Jake’s never mentioned you.
Matter of fact I’ve never seen you at the center table."

"Find Jake and Pete!"

“Pete? Jake’s best friend is dead.”

“What?”

“Pete’s dead, asshole and you don’t look like
Pete to me.”

My cell rings. Hunter snatches it out of my
pocket.

“Greetings, this is Random Douchebag’s phone.
Douchebag’s not available may I take a message?”

I hear Mom's distant
'who is
this?'

Hunter throws the phone at Davis. “Take care
of this bitch, will you?”

In which Davis chuckles, “Hello… ah—your
son?... He’s tied up right now…. Yeah, he’s sucking some guy’s
dick… yeah, he's really into it… Alex? Who’s Alex? ...oh you mean
Douchebag… ” Davis hits end and throws the phone over Jake’s
house.

“Who did you bag this time, Hunter?” Jake
calls out from the porch.

Hunter lets me go. I get up slowly, holding
my side where the boot dug into me. My fingers feel a funny
material and I look down at my clothes. It's an ugly over-sized
stripe sweater hanging off my body. I'd never wear something like
this—ever. My boxers are over my jeans like the prank on Lucas
Reiner. I would never leave my house like this. Hunter and his crew
are laughing as I make my way past them.

"Jake!" I shout. “What the hell is going
on?”

“It’s okay I know him.” Jake sips his beer in
one hand and the other is around Cher’s waist.

Hunter and his crew back away from me.
“Serves you right freak." I hear one of them say.

"Are you with him now?" I ask Cher.

“What was I supposed to do? You didn’t want
me.” She rubs Jake's chest.

"Of course she's with me, Pete's dead." Jake
smirks.

"Pete's dead?" I look down at my feet to find
Pete's body beaten to a pulp. Hunter's Crew bashed his head in.
"How could you let this happen?" I approach the porch.

"I'm sorry. You can't enter." One of Hunter's
Crew blocks the way. "You're not on the list."

I've had enough of this shit. Everything's
backwards. "Jake, what's going on?"

"I don't let freaks into my parties. You are
the biggest freak of them all. To think I was your friend. Friends
don't lie and they don't take their friend's girlfriends."

"But that's what you're doing." I clench my
fists. I hate seeing her at his side.

"Pete's dead. And you're still a liar. And
you owe me money for the alcohol."

A sudden high pitch sound brings me to my
knees. I cover my ears and open my eyes. Everyone is staring,
laughing and their mouths are moving, but nothing I can't hear
anything except the ear piercing ringing.

Someone grabs me. Their fingers tear holes
into the ugly sweater. I slip from their grasp and run across
Jake's front yard, passing the line of cars parked to the corner.
The Crew is after me. I can't shake off the ringing sound in my
ears. I make a quick turn on to a busy street. Somehow the Crew is
still close at my heels. I dart into an alley and hop the fence.
The damn sweater gets caught. I slip it off, leaving it hanging
like a dirty rag. The Crew hit the fence like fish caught in a net
and start climbing like rats. I flee out of the alley and head to
the school.

The ringing seizes. The sound of my breathing
and silence confirms there's no people; no sign of Hunter's Crew.
I'm not taking and target the school doors. They're locked at this
time of night but the windows in the music room aren't.

I jog around the building and climb in. I
land on a desk, but not a school desk; an old fancy desk like the
one in Jake's dad's den. Mrs. Rubio doesn't have a desk like this.
Perhaps I entered the wrong classroom. I slide off the desk when
something sharp hits my cheek. I lean away from the object to find
my eyes adjusting at a taxidermy falcon. Its beak is open; the huge
wingspan takes up my entire vision and its talons just inches from
my neck. Perhaps this is one of the labs or science rooms. I slip
by the still-life. There's cluttered things unrelated to school
piled everywhere like a storage unit.

I follow a narrow and dimly lit path beyond a
stack of chairs. I hear the type of bell that chimes when one
enters a store. I proceed out of the strange packed room and it
open to the outside. It should be the school hall but what I see is
an empty town street and lamp posts. Outside of the door is a sign:
Antiques
. I'm in a store. There's no doubt this is a dream;
the ugly sweater, Hunter's crew, Pete's death can't be real. I
chuckle to myself—thank God.

Out of the shadows, across the street, Hunter
and his crew appear. I back away into the shop and shut the door. I
peep out of the window and watch the gang search the street. I have
no choice but to stay in this smelly place.

I
would
never make the choice to enter an antique shop. Who in their right
mind would go voluntarily and buy useless shit. The only thing I'd
consider is vinyl; music and films are timeless, but who the hell
needs a stuffed bird—really? The smell reminds me of Grandma
Aisling's house where everything is old; stinks of dead flowers and
mothballs. This place sucks.

Walking up the aisle I hear I'm not alone. A
young scrawny boy with glasses and dark brown hair writes on a
black board
'I will follow the leader'
repeatedly
.
A
man too young to run an old shop stands behind the counter. He
clearly looks out of place with his trendy style jeans, simple
black t-shirt, and a wicked looking belt buckle. He could model
definitely. I can picture him at a hardcore rock concert not an
old-hole-in-the-wall antique shop. The man's hair is incredibly
black which reminds me of pen ink that once exploded, ruining a
pair of my favorite jeans.

“What’s that kid doing?” I approach the
counter.

The attractive guy's smile is incredible.
“Carver, you may go."

The boy pushes his glasses up and the man
behind the counter hands him a photo of a girl. "Don't forget your
homework.” The boy nods and leaves without a glance in my
direction. I try to listen to their thoughts, but I can't pick up
anything. This is definitely a dream.

Hello Alex.
The man's soothing voice
calls to me like a lullaby. Like a mood ring his eyes change too
quickly to recall the colors. I stare into the rotating color
wheels for eyes. The man's smile is just as impressive. He's
handsome enough to be a celebrity. I like him instantly.

Alex, you can hear me and I can hear
you.

I'm confused. How did he know my name? Is he
a telepath?

Yes I am.
The man smile widens.
Let's converse this way
.

That's easy. Talk without talking.
What
did that kid do?

His path is none of your concern. I'm Red
by the way.
He holds out his hand. I take it. A strange current
like a magnet clamps our hands together. It startles me so much, I
let go.

Sorry about that.
But Red doesn't look
sorry at all. The glint in his eyes looks more like he's testing
me.

What was that?
I massage my palm.

I suspected you to be a certain way and now
I know that you are.

I'm what.

Able.

That word means a lot; able to do; able to
be; But I'm not able. I'm not anything. I find the word comforting
for some reason. Perhaps is the messenger not the message that
makes me feel this way. I'm not sure.

There is nothing in your life you don't have
influence over, Alex. You've made plenty of choices where you reign
supreme, but your burdens are yours to bear. It's the only thing
you haven't chosen to master.

If you're like me, then maybe you'd
understand how overwhelming it could be. All the lies, so many lies
my head feels like it's gonna explode.
I rub my head. Finally
talking about myself to someone feels liberating but it's also
makes me want to cry. I'm not sure why. Maybe I've held it in for
too long.

I watch his eye color stop changing, rest on
an ocean blue.

We are similar in respect to telepathy, but
we're different, you and I. Where I've chosen control, you've
relinquished your will to do so.

Are we talking about the same thing?

Yes. Telepathy and your ability are the
same.

There's too many other things—outside things
that interfere with my head, I can't control that.

You will.
Red reaches under the
counter and places a shiny gold box on the counter.
I have
something for you
. The box has an open top to reveal smooth
metal disks lined up like a cylinder. The inner workings look like
clockwork; with gears that would move, but the parts are still. The
outside has a lever in which to rotate the metal disks inside.

A music box.
I'm proud I identified
the object.
Can I try?

Red nods and I crank the lever. A long rod
with comb prongs wait to be set off, but there is no raised area on
the disk for the comb prongs to pluck.

I look up at Red disappointed that it doesn’t
play. "Such a pretty thing and it doesn't even work."

"You'll have to fix that, Alex."

Hearing his real voice suddenly zaps my
nerves to life. The atmosphere of the dream seems real. Red seems
real.

"But I don't know how?"

"You write music. Write a song."

A song.
If I wrote a song the music
box would work again. The prongs would play a song. I wonder what
kind of a song I should write.

Maybe something... Romantic?
Red tilts
his head.

Yeah, for someone special.
I add.
But for who?
Cher isn’t special in that kind of way. I can't
think of anyone, all the girls I know are just… girls. Maybe that’s
the problem. I don’t have anyone to inspire such a song. It's sad.
There’s really no one I have in my life that I can call
special.

I don’t think I can do it
. I close the
lid.

What about for her?
Red's eyes turn in
colors again.

A brief image of a young woman comes to mind.
It's someone I have never met before. She has a bright smile; the
kind that’s not afraid to laugh. Innocent brown eyes I could stare
into all day. Her wavy hair bounces and her eyes smile just like
her pretty lips. There’s gentleness to her face; kindness radiates
from her. I think she's beautiful. I could see myself with her. I'm
sad to see her happy face disappear from my mind. If I were to
write a romantic song, then it would be for that girl, but I don’t
know her.

I look at Red who pushes the music box toward
me. "When you meet her, trust what she says. It's the truth."

“You mean I'll meet her? She's real?”

“Yes. Very real. Now wake up. You don't want
to miss Jake's party.”

***

Alex

I take great care in what I look like, making
sure I won't be missed. The gold strands in my hair, shine, make my
amber eyes stand out. No ugly sweater, only a crisp new shirt, new
dark blue jeans, new sneakers, even new underwear. My parents left
me a credit card which I use frequently. The spending can get out
of hand. But I'm used to getting my way. My parents can't say no to
a straight-A-student. 'A' for Aisling. My father says I'll pay it
all back when I enter a good school. My future will pay them back
all the money I've spent when I'm making the big bucks. I don't
care about that. All I care about is right now. I spritz on cologne
and I'm ready to kill. 'A' for awesome.

I jump into my car and my cell rings.
Shit!

"What do you want, Cher?"

"Pick me up."