PART 1        KEITH

Chapter 1: The Body

Keith had gone unnoticed for a month before the accident. At some point in his adolescent years, he wondered if he could become a magician; his greatest feat: to make two hundred twenty pounds of freckled white flesh bound to a six-foot body disappear.

He had been walking up the hill almost daily to see the sunset since he found the granite bench buried underneath the kudzu. It felt like a throne. The stone always stayed cool in the shade, and he liked the feeling of it on his hamstrings.

He saw the headlights slowly coming round the corner, and took a couple of back steps, but it wasn't enough to avoid contact with the car in the narrow lane. It happened so fast. After hitting Keith, the driver slammed aggressively on the brakes, making a squeal.

“Oh shit, Frederick, you killed him!” said Richard, rushing to the body.

“I didn’t see him! He came out of nowhere!”

“You didn’t see him? How could you miss that?” he said, exasperated, pointing at Keith lying on the gravel.

“How do you know he is dead?” asked Freddie from inside the car, his voice cracking.

“He is not moving—he is dead!” Richard was shouting. “Turn the music off!”

Heaven Is a Place on Earth by Belinda Carlisle was blasting from the green classic Impala, drowning Keith’s gasps for air before passing out.

“But he is not even bleeding…” whispered Freddie now that the music was off. “How do you know he is dead?”

“Obviously, all his organs ruptured! He is probably hemorrhaging as we speak. Blunt force trauma, instant death—he is mush,” Richard poked at Keith—now passed out—a couple of times on the back, nervously. “We are going to jail. We are screwed. I don’t want to go to jail a virgin, Freddie!” He thought for a moment, pacing back and forth. “Get out of the car… we need to get rid of the body—fast!”

“How are we going to get rid of the body?” Freddie was getting increasingly panicked. “Stop calling him the body!”

“You are calling him the body too!”

“Let’s roll him down, make it look like he fell,” said Richard, his eyes wide open, pupils dilated. He was acting crazy. “We need to hurry before someone else drives by here.”

They pushed and pushed and hardly gained ten inches; there was too much friction on the pavement, and they lacked the coordination to push at the same time.

“Come on, Richard! I am doing all the work!” said Freddie. “On the count of three.”
“Wait!” said Richard. “I gotta pee—I drank too much Red Bull.” He looked at his hands. “I am shaking, Freddie. I don’t feel so good.”

“Of course, you don’t feel good! We just killed someone! No time to piss around, we need to go. Just leave him here.”

“We? Shall I remind you, sir, that it was you who was driving this fine classic vehicle?”

“Did it dent the car?” Freddie said, his mind was scattered—perhaps the nerves.

Neither of them noticed Keith regaining consciousness. He slowly rolled onto his back, reaching for his stomach. He groaned, as he listened to them argue, it was insane.

Keith finally spoke, exhaling a lot of air, in pain. “Shit, what happened?”

Richard screamed, as if a zombie was awakening. His penile sphincter relaxed abruptly, and he conspicuously urinated in his khakis.

Freddie impulsively reacted to Richard's scream, kicking Keith in the stomach.

Keith screamed. “I don’t have any money! Leave me alone!”

“Stop, Freddie!” Richard said, “Stop! He is alive! What are you doing?”

Freddie felt as if he was losing his mind. “I got scared! You said he was dead!” He leaned down to reach for Keith. “Here, help me,” he said to Richard.

They wrapped Keith’s sweaty arms around their necks and, with tremendous difficulty, helped him to lean on the hood of the car.

They were huffing, adrenaline was rushing, and it was quite warm.

“You didn’t die!” said Richard, through labored breath.

“I am not sure I didn’t…” replied Keith, still disoriented. He was unsure of where he was hurting. He noticed Richard’s wet kakis and he pointed down with his index finger.

Freddie looked at Richard’s pants. “You pissed yourself, Richie!”

Richard flushed instantly. He kicked his shoes off, turned around, and pulled his pants and white briefs off in a few kicks. He fitfully walked on the gravel, pouting, to get the key from Freddie to open the trunk. The headlights from the vehicle put a spotlight on his partial nudity. Keith turned his head to avoid the sight.

Fortunately, Richard’s dirty exercise clothes were in his duffel bag; he and Freddie had been working out together earlier that day.

Keith was trying to process what had taken place.

“Are you okay?” asked Freddie, with genuine concern. “Lord, I was scared! I am so sorry.”

“I think I’m okay,” said Keith. “It’s not like I am bleeding or anything.” He looked at his limbs, full of dirt, but no blood.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” urged Freddie.

“I…” Keith hesitated; he thought for a couple of seconds. “I won’t tell anyone. But what will I say if I have a concussion and I have to rush to the ER at night? That a deer rammed me?”

Richard butted into the conversation, now dressed, “Right! That would be a good idea. It was a deer as big as a moose, fire coming out of its eyes!”

Keith laughed, with a snort, and reached for his abdomen. “Ouch, uh!” It hurt to laugh. “That would be funny. Then the deer speaks, and knows my name and tells me to fight for the throne.”

“Oh boy… you two were made for each other,” said Freddie. “We better get off the road before we get hit. Can you walk?”

“I think so,” said Keith.

“We’ll give you a lift,” said Freddie. “Richard, you take the back seat, and don’t put those pissed clothes on the upholstery.”

“I can walk. I’m fine,” said Keith.

“No sir, please… we’ll drive you,” said Freddie.

Keith found Freddie very compelling and persuasive.

“Just a minute, I gotta go again,” said Richard.

“What’s wrong with you? You just pissed,” said Freddie.

“I told you I drank too much. I didn’t finish voiding—I have a small bladder!” Richard rushed to the tree line to urinate, facing away from the guys.

Keith tried to knock the dirt off his clothes and struggled into the car.

“Hi, sorry to have killed you. I’m Frederick, Freddie.” He reached out a hand.

“Keith.” He shook his hand. Freddie gave a confident squeeze. “I hope I didn’t hurt your car. What’s that smell?”

“That would be a skunk!” said Richard, getting into the back seat. “Ready? Let’s go. We have the body. Let’s get rid of it.”

“Don’t mind him… he never stops,” said Freddie. “Where should we take you, Keith?”

“Do you know the trailer park by the service station with the Krazy Krispy Chicken at the end of Magnolia Avenue?”

“Yeah, the station across the entrance to Jenkins Uni,” said Richard. “We start school there this Monday—well, not there, Woodruff Institute.”

“I know, I’m going there too,” said Keith.

“I knew you looked familiar!” said Richard. “You were on the Jenkins team during the dodgeball thing in initiation. You just stood there, with your face covered. The balls kept bouncing off you!”

“That would be me. I actually already knew your names,” replied Keith in a flat tone. “Frederick Strauss from Evergreen, and Richard Newsome, from Cedarston, uncircumcised, with a small bladder. I’m good with names and stuff. I remember our roll call.”

“Wait a minute, are you going to Jenkins or Woodruff?” said Richard. “And there is nothing unnatural about being uncircumcised.”

“I mixed up the groups. I am at school with you guys,” said Keith. “But I don’t think anyone noticed.”

Freddie turned the key, igniting the engine in its classic roar, followed by Belinda Carlisle. “This bad boy is going to town—fasten your seatbelts, gents.”

“You gotta tell us all about you,” said Richard. “That’s cool. We are going to school together. I sense the birth of a brotherhood of knights with this serendipitous encounter.”

“There is not much to tell, just the normal stuff, I guess,” he looked out the window and saw his reflection in the side mirror—he avoided it.

“Everyone has a story, man,” said Freddie.

“Some are not worth telling; better to let them be forgotten.”

“You must be hallucinating,” said Richard. “Coming back from the dead can’t be easy.”

“I don’t think I died. Honestly, I think the car barely touched me—you were not going that fast,” said Keith, looking down at the floorboard. “I threw myself down when I felt the impact was coming. The kick was more painful than the car.”

“Sorry about that,” said Freddie. “I panicked.”

“Now that I think of it… it’s pretty damn stupid to be in a car with the two people that thought had killed me and tried to roll my body down the ravine,” said Keith.

“We are criminals, Frederick. Nasty scum,” said Richard. “We deserve punishment.”

“I am pretty sure you are only a criminal if you actually commit a crime though,” said Keith.

“You don’t get it,” said Richard, he pulled with both hands at his tight curly head of black hair. “It’s probably in our flawed DNA.”

What's the deal with these two? thought Keith. I think I like them.

“What were you doing up there anyway?” asked Freddie.

“I like it there. It’s quiet, you can see the whole town—and the campus.”

“Like fort!” said Richard.

“Yes, pretty much like it, actually. Like I am on top of the world,” said Keith. And then thought, it’s better than the world being on top of me.

Keith arrived in Fairweather, GA, on the tenth of August of 2007 to attend the fall term at the Woodruff Institute, a new adjunct school on the campus of Jenkins University.

As the only son to a highly dysfunctional single mother, he spent most of his free time working from the age of sixteen at the local bookstore, saving every dollar he could to leave home as soon as it was legal. Sharon, his mother, held him back for as long as she could—a full three years.

“You can’t leave me, I am all you have,” she would say. “I will die without you. How can you do this to your own mother? I gave you life! And you… you only take it from me!”

Conversation was seamless on the ride to Keith’s home.

“Geez…” said Richard under his breath as they entered the trailer park. Keith did not hear him. They drove around slowly with curious folks in their rocking chairs locking eyes into them.

“Slow down,” said Keith. “That one, the one with the cactus plants.” He pointed at his unit.

Freddie parked in front of the single-wide mobile home. The skirting desperately needed replacement. It was on the very back of the lot. Two fingers poked through the metal blinds, an old man could be seen peeking.

“All right, Body, we’ll see you in school Monday,” said Freddie. “Sorry again, I’m glad you are okay.”
“Glad to be okay too,” said Keith. “See you, Frederick. See you, Richard. Beware of the deer with the fire in his eyes.” He let out an awkward forced laugh, and a snort.

“It’s Richie—makes me sound cool.”
“All right then, Richie. See you guys.”

Keith walked up the steps to the door with bright eyes and pain on his abdomen. He called me Body, he thought, a quirky smile forming on his face. Did I just meet my best friends?
He stood under the fluorescent light of the porch and rang the bell. He knew the old man was aware he was there, but he wanted him to ring the bell; “it’s polite,” he always said.

The door opened fast, there stood Mr Brown with his usual worn-out white tank top, jeans, and cranky eye-brows. Relatively strong for a seventy-five year old.

“You are late!” the old man scolded.

“Sorry, Mr. Brown,” said Keith. “I ran into some friends from my school.”

“Friends? Since when do you have friends?” asked Mr. Brown. “And why do you look so filthy? I told you to quit messing with those damn vines; I don’t want chiggers all over this house.” He chewed some words under his breath and then said, “supper is getting cold.”

Keith sat awkwardly, trying to find comfort on the flimsy metal chair. Mr. Brown always studied Keith as he ate. His head tracked Keith's utensils and every bite he took. It made Keith feel very uncomfortable at first, but he had gotten used to it.

“Thank you, Mr. Brown. This was very good,” said Keith, pushing away from the table.

“Not so quick, there is dessert,” said Mr. Brown. “Get it out of the fridge. But don’t you rush me! I am not finished with my beans—some of us know how to pace ourselves.”
Keith went to the fridge, which was terribly old and made a racket when cooling, but it was kept pristinely clean.

Of course, thought Keith. Dessert was two very small bowls with a few pieces of canned fruit, and a measly dollop of yogurt, wrapped with plastic film.

Keith sat back at the table, impatiently looking at Mr. Brown eat. He would carefully scrape the bowl, putting only a few beans on the spoon and sucking them down with his large lips, making slurping sounds, chewing his twisted teeth. His prominent nose had a few long hairs poking out that Keith always wanted to pull off; he often wrinkled it incessantly—like a rabbit—after wiping and blowing it loudly.

“Foot!” the old man shouted.

“Sorry.”

Keith had a nervous habit of shaking his foot when he became exasperated. He was ready to go to his bedroom to eat from his snack drawer. He was never satisfied with the portions Mr. Brown served, but he was grateful nonetheless. Some days he would eat a few pieces of fried chicken from the gas station and a couple of biscuits before arriving to dinner with Mr. Brown, who was very fuzzy about meal times—a total shift from his mother, so drunk by 4 p.m., asking, “Keith, is there something to eat?”

Keith got lost in thought as he waited.

“Time for dessert,” Mr. Brown announced.
Keith ate it in one and a half spoonfuls and got up to get started on the dishes—he was eager to go to his room. He could hear Mr. Brown rambling about something, but he didn’t bother to make sense of the words being thrown into the air.

“So you will remember?” asked Mr. Brown, louder, asking for attention.

“Remember what?”

“Well… rent of course!” said Mr. Brown impatiently, confirming Keith hadn’t been paying attention. “You arrived on the tenth, Monday is the tenth, and I expect it no later than the tenth.” He continued rambling into the air, cleaning up a bean stain from his shirt. “…kids these days, I tell you. That’s why I never had any—you need to be able to kick them out of your house when it pleases you.”

“I am still here…”

“Well, that’s no mystery to me. You are blocking the light, and I can’t see what I am doing!”

“Good night, Mr. Brown.”

“All right. Good night, kid.”

Keith could not make up his mind fully about Mr. Brown. There was something likable about the grumpy old man. He liked how he called him kid, or son, or young man, even if it was to tell him he was doing something wrong.

It was very warm and humid. Keith hated the feeling of the sheets sticking to his skin. He could leave the door open to let in the cooler air from the window unit in the common area, but the sacrifice was worth his privacy. The box fan pointed straight at him kept some mosquitoes off and helped just enough with the heat.

He usually had difficulty falling asleep and often woke up abruptly in a pool of sweat. He felt guilty for leaving his mother. He left with no warning, only leaving a small note behind so that she would not call the police.

Mom,

I am okay. Don’t come looking for me. Contrary to what you may believe, I do love you.

Keith

He wondered how she was doing, or if she was still drinking too much, or if one of her boyfriends would hit her again and she would have to make up another lame excuse as she usually did, “when are you going to learn to close the kitchen cabinets after you are done, Keith? Look what you did to my eye!”

It was past midnight. Keith stared at the ceiling, thinking about his day, and meeting Richard and Freddie. He thought of school, and the girls he had seen during initiation. His senses were heightened. He covered his head with the sheets and felt his pulse thumping on his ears. He felt around his underwear, and chose to ignore what was happening underneath, almost angrily.

He could hear Mr. Brown dragging a chair and going about in the cupboards—glass jars clinking together. It was difficult to resist the temptation to see what was inside.

“Don’t you ever open this cabinet,” the old man said as one of the few house rules.

Keith had wondered if it could simply be a test for trust and loyalty. Brown seemed like the man that would do that. Keith was not really a curious young man, but the limit presented a temptation.

The insomnia proved relentless, and Keith tried to think about girls again, but instead he began to feel anxious. He thought of the new people he would meet, and what they might think of him. Why can’t I just disappear?

Chapter 2: First Day

The long uphill road past the iron gates of Jenkins University felt like penance—a challenge worth conquering for the chance of a new life.

The row of ancient crepe myrtle shaded the walk but also retained the moisture on the ground, which suffocatingly evaporated with the morning sun.

Keith felt embarrassed knowing that the sweat had gone past his undershirt, and he still had a third of a mile to walk. He could feel the beads of sweat running down the arc of his back into his buttocks.

“Hey, Body! Get in!” Richard shouted from the Impala.

“What are you guys doing out? I thought you lived on campus.”

“We do, but Richard said that we need to make an impression and arrive in a car, you know? Being cool.”

“Yeah, be cool with the chicks. Get some numbers and get laid!” said Richard.

“He thinks he is getting laid…” said Freddie. “How many Red Bulls have you had already, Richard?”

“Two! It’s gonna be a good day, I am so pumped!” said Richard. “The start of a new era, the three muchachos out to conquer. Here, Body, get you some smell-good.”

“I think you have enough for all of us,” said Keith.

And it was true. Richard applied copious amounts of Dark Temptation Axe body spray. He was compulsive about his hygiene and overall appearance. He wore ironed khakis that he held at waist level with a belt, his polo was always tucked, and his shoes were never dirty. His adoptive parents instilled in him the principles that would yield a healthily self-aware individual, but perhaps as an overcompensation, or as a result of his neurodivergence, he developed a much stricter standard.

“Shit, I’m getting nervous,” said Richard.

“I suggest you don’t piss yourself again,” said Freddie.

“Does that happen often?” asked Keith.

“Of course not! Don’t listen to his nonsense,” said Richard.

“You did say you have a small bladder…”

“Well, I do, Body. But I also thought Freddie had killed you.”

Freddie parked the car in a terribly crooked manner, taking more than one space and prompting eye rolls from other students. Keith waited for their reactions to trail off before stepping out, pretending to have misplaced something in the vehicle.

“Come on! We are gonna be late!” yelled Freddie.

The central parking lot in the campus—the oldest section—was the closest to Jenkins Manor, the repurposed mansion for the Woodruff Institute.

Jenkins University was established during Victorian America in 1889. Prominent architects close to the development of Central Park in NYC were major consultants in the design of its campus. No expense was spared by the Jenkins family, who sought to make the deep South a player in amongst the prominent education houses.

Mismanagement, family tragedy, and scandals during the civil rights movement halted their ambition. The exclusion from the Ivy League solidified the intellectual’s rejection of the Jenkins' academic rigor and social influence.

After three decades, a new influx of academic values and fresh wealth propelled the university to new heights; making it a highly sought-after alma mater for conservatives with ambition to establish themselves on the highly profitable, less crowded, South.

Keith, Richard, and Freddie entered the manor. The monumental wooden doors were heavy, and the hinges squeaked. There were orchids on marble stands, and Persian rugs.

“Thank you, Lord, air conditioning,” said Richard.

“Welcome, welcome. Welcome to the Woodruff Institute,” an old lady kept saying, passing out hardback booklets bound in leather with the school’s crest.

“Shit, I feel underdressed,” said Keith, through clenched teeth.

“That would be, because you are,” said Richard. “You should show more respect for this fine institution. See that plaque?”

“Eighteen fifty-two.”

“Yes, twelve years were spent building this mansion and you wear dock shorts.”

Keith looked at Freddie, who was wearing the exact same type of clothes he had on, yet he looked so presentable in them. His wavy dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, bushy brows, prominent chin, and three-day stubble made him look like he belonged in that place—the rebellious, underdressed son that was late for dinner, whose tuxedo waited in his chamber—or at least so Keith thought. He pulled at his sweaty shirt to adjust it, and straightened out his shorts, as if doing so made any difference.

Jenkins Manor underwent significant renovations to serve for the institute. But the smell of old wood, leather, and damp parchment from the library had not worn out.

The heart pine running throughout the mansion had been milled around 1840. Scoffs and marks from dignitaries’ ball shoes, rocking furniture from secretive love affairs, and spilled champagne were all part of the patina.

“I feel like I am entering a period drama,” said Keith.

“More like a comedy, or a whodunit!” said Richard.

“Do I get to play the Body?”

“We all know who done that one…” said Richard.

“Nobody died!” said Freddie. “Not even a scratch on the car. We move on, we forget about it. In the past.”

The only row of desks available at the great hall was the one at the front of the room. Everyone had already taken the safety of the back. Richard didn’t mind, he wanted to be front-and-center. Freddie lacked self-awareness, he did not care where he sat. Keith tried to make himself smaller, bringing his shoulders closer to his chest.

I’m gonna be sick, thought Keith looking around the room, surrounded by dark hardwood paneling, old artifacts, and monumental paintings.

The gothic windows offered a view to the old vineyard. Keith noticed a raven staring right at him, cawing. His heart rate rushed up, and then dropped. He felt light-headed, and his foot began shaking rapidly. He felt a strong squeeze on his shoulder blade, shooting electricity down his spine, like a blast of water onto fire.

“Dude, relax. It’s gonna be fine,” whispered Freddie.

Keith nodded in affirmation, and noticed Freddie pointing at his foot. He stopped. His ears turned red, and he wondered if Freddie had noticed.

“Pst…! Be quiet!” said Richard.

The clock chimed nine, and the door opened, and through came an old man wearing a polka-dot tie and matching socks, followed by two women in loud stilettos and suits.

Keith noticed Richard adjusting his posture to look proper.

“Welcome, welcome students. Welcome to the Woodruff Institute,” began the old man, with a tired, whiny voice and animated hand gestures. “Today, history and innovation amalgamate to give way to a bright future; one in which a new generation of modern leaders forge their paths and create their own lanes to take us into the peak of our civilization.”

Right, what a load of bullshit, thought Keith, looking around the room. This pile of misfits forging a path—to Blockbuster, maybe.

The old man carried on incessantly around a speech that he clearly didn’t believe to be true. After exhausting every possible way to say you are the future, he finally took a forced bow to a few arrhythmic clapping hands in the room, and left with visible relief. Once the door closed, the shorter of the two women began speaking.

“Well, you have met the president of our institution. Mr. Arthur Augustus Jenkins—from the old guard. He oversees Jenkins University, under which our institution finds its home. My name is Dr. Barbra Miller, and I serve as the provost for our Woodruff Institute. I would like to introduce you to Dr. Joy Woodruff-Jenkins, our Dean and head of Research and Development. She will also serve as your professor for Personal Studies. As you might remember from Induction Week…”

I don’t, I wasn’t here, thought Keith.

“Personal Studies is a mandatory subject for all, regardless of your chosen curriculum after Discovery Month. You will not be scored—you will either pass or fail. In order to pass, you simply must attend. Those of you who are recipients of the generous Azalea Bursary are required to maintain hundred percent attendance in Personal Studies, else you may jeopardize your financial support.”

Great, what the hell is Personal Studies? thought Keith.

Half an hour that felt like two hours must have passed. Keith could have sworn that he heard someone snoring. He looked around the room, and other than Richard, everyone seemed to have trailed off into other thought, or no thought at all. Now Dr. Joy was speaking. He saw the raven jump up into a post—it had a rodent, tearing it apart, its guts coming out.

“Mister…” said Dr. Joy, eliciting a response.

“Psst… Keith!” Freddie whispered.

“Oh, shit,” blurted Keith. “Sorry, Language! K…” he stuttered. “Keith, ma’am, it’s Keith.” A few laughed.

“Ok, Mr. Keith Rayburn then!”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Tell me, Mr. Rayburn: why are you here?” asked Dr. Joy.

Keith struggled to find an answer. “Dunno, same as everyone else?”

“Ok, that’s exactly the answer I was looking for,” said Dr. Joy.

Keith noticed Richard looking at him intensely.

“Ok, everyone. You have ten seconds to make groups of three,” said Dr. Joy. “We have twenty-one students, form your groups and then we will all divide around the manor—go! Ten… nine…”

“Keith! Frederick! Come on!” Richard called with enthusiasm, as if they weren't only a few feet away.

“Ok, now… shuffle teammates!” announced Dr. Joy.

“What? No! This was the dream team!” said Richard, careful to not be heard complaining.

The students scattered apathetically and formed new groups.

“Now that you have your teams, you will talk to your peers and learn from them why they are here,” Dr. Joy said. She had the most beautiful, soothing voice—or so Keith thought. “Walk around the manor, explore the rooms, and become acquainted with your home—this is indeed your home. You have ten minutes.”

Richard was displeased, while Freddie seemed to fit anywhere—there was a magnetism about him.

Keith was the last one to find his group. He walked around the manor in awkward silence with his two peers. The floors creaking beneath his feet, and the vibrations from the steps making side tables dance a little—it made him feel uneasy.

“I guess we have to do the stupid talk,” said the girl with the unruly curly blond hair.

“Yeah, guess so,” replied Keith. “Why are you here?”

“ADHD,” she said.

“Same,” said Keith. “Adderall?”

“Yeah, XR. The other one gets me fucked up. Lexapro too. Anxiety—a gift from my father,” she said.

They both looked at the short slim boy with the cowboy hat, waiting for a response.

“What? Do you want something?” he asked.

“Why are you here?” asked Keith.

“Same. ADHD, ODD,” he said.

“What’s ODD?” she asked.

“Oppositional Defiant Disorder. Some new-age bullshit way to explain why I am an asshole,” he replied.

“I probably have that too. No diagnosis, but pretty sure I have it,” she said.

“I guess that’s it,” said Keith. This is going to be great, just lovely, he thought.

“Shit fire! What’s that?” the girl asked, pointing out the window.

“He must be following me around,” said Keith. “He was outside the great hall chugging that mouse. Sickening.”

“That has to be bad luck,” said the girl.

“That’s what I was hoping,” said Keith.

“Who needs bad luck? That makes no damn sense,” said the boy.

“It’s not supposed to make sense—it’s sarcasm,” said Keith.

“Whatever. Don’t come too close to me. I don’t want it rubbing off on me,” said the girl.

Keith walked behind them the rest of the time. They really think I have bad luck now—amazing, he thought.

Back in the great hall, Freddie was hitting it up with a small group of students. He was vividly telling stories, arms flinging up in the air, big facial expressions—everyone was laughing on cue. Richard was standing next to Dr. Joy, who had her attention focused on some other student. Keith thought Richard was exhibiting frustration for not being able to get a word in.

Dr. Joy smiled at the student and signaled with her arms for him to go back to the group.

“Everyone, time is up,” announced Dr. Joy. “Please follow me to the vineyard. We will sit in a circle in the patio.”

“Ma’am, it’s too damn hot outside. Can’t we sit in a circle here?”

“Trevor Smith, is that right?” asked Dr. Joy calmly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Well, Mr. Smith, I appreciate your initiative, but not your language,” said Dr. Joy. “I agree with you that it is very hot, and perhaps we shall be more comfortable inside. Does everyone agree?”

Several affirmations were heard.

“Ok, we’ll stay inside,” said Dr. Joy. “Move your desks in a circle—don’t worry about the floor.”

Loud metal dragging against the floor made a few students cringe and overreact.

“Mr. Rayburn, Keith, we will begin with you,” said Dr. Joy. “Who were your partners?”

“Her, and him,” said Keith, pointing.

“Ms. Sandra Baker and Mr. Trevor Smith,” said Dr. Joy. “Ms. Baker, why is Keith here?”

“ADHD,” said Sandra. “I have it too, plus anxiety. He doesn’t—at least he does not say he does. Trevor here has us beat though, he has the ODD to top it off—Oppositional Defiant Disorder; pretty sure I may have it.”

“Thank you, Ms. Baker,” said Dr. Joy. “We can explore why you may think you have ODD in Personal Studies.”

Dr. Joy asked some other students the same question, getting similar answers with a varied array of neurodevelopmental and conduct disorders: ADHD, OCD, ODD, dyslexia, and the lot.

Dr. Joy walked to the chalkboard and screeched a fresh piece of chalk against the surface, writing the word WRONG.

“I regret to inform you that, so far, all of you are wrong. While it is true that we all share that common thread—yes, I am just like you—you are not here because you have OCD, or ADHD, or because you land on the spectrum of autism.

“You are here because you are extraordinary. You are here because I believe with all my heart that you can help humanity to shape a better future. You are here because I believe you are meant to create transcendental art. You are here because—perhaps—you will develop a computer program that will change how we work, forever. Many, like you—like us—have been misunderstood for so long, we have been relegated to the back of the bus, to the storage room, to the shadow. It is my mission—it is this Institute’s mission—to help you find why you are here.”

Everyone was captivated. Keith looked around the room. She is a mermaid, he thought, we have all been enchanted by her voice. Some eyes were glistening—the body’s response to feeling seen, for the first time—a cleansing from rejection and loneliness.

“With your application, you were required to submit an essay detailing why you were deserving of a seat at our innovative institute. We received over a thousand applications, and you are here because you demonstrated that you are deserving. One of you wrote the most satirical, creative, contrarian piece I have ever read. Another one of you just sent a pencil, charcoal, and ink drawing. It was gorgeous—so visceral and raw, while perfect in technique.

“I had to ask my husband to play on the piano the sheet of music one of you sent, and we both cried—it was so lovely, like a lullaby for broken adults. Isn’t it amazing? A drawing, an original composition—no explanation, no warning—that was your answer to why you are deserving. You are deserving because of how you think, and how you feel, and how you can help us all see differently.”

Dr. Joy walked to her desk, where she had placed her designer oversized leather bag, pulling out some papers.

“‘…but when I open my eyes, I’m still here,’” she began to read, “‘and it is all still here with me: the shame, the guilt, the pain. Why can’t I just disappear?’” Dr. Joy cleared her throat. “You are here because you are worthy of being seen. You are here because if you disappeared we would miss your light, shimmering unpredictably like a kaleidoscope—your mesmerizing light.”

Not one sound was made. Everyone was entranced by Dr. Joy’s vulnerability. There was nothing divergent about the group—there was perfect synchrony.

“So now, Keith, why are you here?” asked Dr. Joy.

Chapter 3: The Better Side

“What the hell was that about?” blurted Richard as soon as they were let out.

“What the hell was what about?” asked Keith.

“All that nonsense about us being the future in that room, and someone sending a drawing—a drawing! And all that shit about disappearing,” said Richard.

“I thought it was quite funny,” said Freddie.

“Funny?” said Richard. “You have a very different damn idea of what funny is. Sickening. How disappointing. Body, did you send that drawing?” he said mockingly.

“No, I didn’t,” said Keith.

“What did you send, Freddie?” asked Richard.

“Dunno, my sister did it,” said Freddie.

“I didn't I even send one. My mother’s family has been friends with the Jenkins forever—I was admitted before there was a program,” said Richard.

“So, you're rich then?” asked Freddie.

“My parents are, I guess,” answered Richard.

“Well, that explains a lot,” said Freddie.

“Explains a lot like what?” bit Richard back.

“Nothing…” he said.

Keith was silent, listening to them take turns at each other. I suppose eyes were not really glistening and no one but me was enchanted by Dr. Joy, he thought.

“Body, where are you going?” said Richard.

“Home,” he said.

“At least say goodbye, show some manners,” said Richard. “What’s wrong with you now?”

“Let us take you. Let’s go for a drive first, and then we’ll drop you off home,” offered Freddie.

“Nah, I’ll be okay,” said Keith. “Thanks, I’d rather walk.”

“It’s hot, Body. Your balls are going to chafe,” said Richard.

“I’ll be alright, thanks. See you tomorrow, guys.”

“Don’t disappear!” shouted Richard mockingly as Keith trailed off down the long driveway.

Keith faced the ground as he exited campus. He could hear enthusiasm in the laughter and loud chatter surrounding him. He first looked up after crossing through the iron gates.

Magnolia Avenue was a transitional divide—it supported the mythology of living on the wrong side of the tracks. But for Keith, the wrong side felt like the better side; it was at least familiar. An area in which the stain of orange soda on his white undershirt was not embarrassing, where dried out sweat and a bit of musk was not repugnant or out-of-place.

Keith entered the service station to the noise of loud condensers keeping the cola cold, a squeaky ceiling fan, and the smell of fresh biscuits and hot grease from fried chicken.

“Big boy! How was it?” asked Robert, the owner of the station.

“It was alright, I guess,” said Keith, lacking enthusiasm.

“Just alright? How is that so?” said Robert, walking to the chicken counter with his usual huff and puff. “You make any friends?”

“A couple.”

“Well, that’s good. A man needs friends,” said Robert. “I met my best friend the first day of high school—now I wish I had not met the son of a bitch. He calls me every morning, eight A.M.—sharp. Same horseshit, every day.”

“I’ve met him,” said Keith.

“Yes! I forget, you sure have.”

“The day you came back from fishing on Lake Clarke. He caught more than you, and you kept getting the hook caught on the tree.”

“Is that what he told you? That son of a gun…,” said Robert. “Anyway, enough of that. Three-piece special?”

“I’ll just take one piece and two biscuits today,” said Keith, counting coins he had in a zipper bag.

“You know what? I made too much—two pieces extra are on the house,” said Robert. “What’s old Brown up to lately?”

“Same as usual, I guess. Just grumbling and complaining about everyone around.”

“Sounds ’bout right.”

“You really don’t have to give me extra, sir. I can pay for it next week,” said Keith.

“No, you are alright, big boy—my treat,” said Robert. “For your first school day. Say hi to the old cuss for me.”

Keith ate the chicken as he walked home—wiping off the grease on his shorts. He never ate too close to the bone. There was always enough left for Momma, the opossum he had been feeding for a couple of weeks.

Mr. Brown was gone when Keith arrived home. Thank God, he thought. He threw himself on the couch facing the door. It was quiet—except for the small ticking noise of the clock above the door—Brown’s guiding drum, now a metronome to Keith’s thought.

Minutes wasted away unnoticed. Not even the sudden racket from the fridge, announcing intervals of passing time, seemed to get Keith up.

He noticed the time. He must have fallen asleep. Suddenly, there was an urge to do chores—to make up for lost time. He didn’t want Mr. Brown to find him in his current state.

He frantically went around the shared space of the trailer, sweeping and tidying as he saw fit. The door to Brown’s bedroom was mostly open. He felt curiosity to peek inside, but he simply pulled the door shut. He knew Mr. Brown was coming back soon—he never stayed out very late—and he still wanted to shower.

Keith was relatively modest, unlike Mr. Brown, who had little inhibition. Brown had given Keith no reason to feel uncomfortable; he simply preferred to shower when Brown wasn’t around, or really late when he thought he was asleep.

The water ran hot over Keith’s body; his tense back temporarily felt relief from it. It was cramped in the bathroom—much smaller than the one at his mother’s trailer. At least here there was quiet, and no drunken boyfriend of Sharon's walking in mid-shower to urinate.

“What you looking at, boy? Never seen a real man’s dick?” Bruce, his mother’s perpetual ex-boyfriend had said on more than one occasion.

Keith stood in front of the window unit to cool down, with his towel open. He heard Brown’s aggressive footsteps on the porch, like he was knocking off dirt from his boots.

Shit, shit, thought Keith, hurrying up to cover.

“Hot, ain’t it?” said Mr. Brown, coming inside without his boots on. “House looks good, kid. About to be supper time, go get dressed.”

Clearly, Mr. Brown thought nothing of it. Yet Keith felt embarrassed.

Dinner was quiet. Tuna sandwiches, with an inadequate amount of mayo—or so Keith thought.

“Why don’t you eat the edges? What are you, two?” said Mr. Brown.

“They are not good for you,” replied Keith, sheepishly.

“Who said that?”

“My mom…”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Brown. “It’s the same thing as the rest of the bread. It’s the exact same dough all throughout. Have you ever made bread?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, get on one of the fancy machines at school to see if the edges are bad for you… time to grow up,” said Mr. Brown. “There’s no telling what all you have wrong that she told you. Parents say the most stupid things to kids, just ’cause they can.”

Keith felt a sting from hearing him talk about his mother that way, yet it was also empowering.

“My mother told me that it was bad to get a haircut too frequently—that it stunted your growth—and I believed that shit,” said Mr. Brown. “My wife—may she rest in peace—she was the first one to tell me that wasn’t true. My mother probably didn’t have enough money to get me haircuts all the time, or she felt lazy to go to town too much, so she made that shit up. And I believed it—she was my mother, you know?”

Keith thought for a minute and then rolled all the edges together into a ball with determination and ate them in a single bite—the most satisfying bite he had had all day.

“Attaboy!” said Mr. Brown. “There’s dessert. Get it from the fridge.”

“I don’t feel like dessert, sir, thank you,” said Keith. He was in no mood for a measly taste of sweet. He had chocolate bars in his room.

“Well, hell… I do!” said Mr. Brown. “Get it for me!”

Keith stood up, still thinking of his mother. He opened the fridge, and on the top shelf was a small grocery store cake. Through the plastic cover, Keith could read, Happy First Day of School. Keith felt a hole in his stomach.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Brown. I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t—that’s the point of a damn surprise. Don’t be moping around and get the plates,” said Mr. Brown. “And don’t get too excited. It was on sale for cheap.”

Keith noticed the Reduced for Quick Sale sticker on the dome.

Old cake had never tasted so bittersweet—the feeling of having rejected kindness—unknowingly—layered with the feeling of being seen.

“That was delicious, sir. Thank you,” said Keith.

“It’s alright. Too sweet.”

“I really enjoyed it. Thank you very much.”

“And all of that is fine and well, but you still gotta pay rent. It’s due today.”

“Right. My apologies.”

Keith retrieved the money from under his mattress.

“Two hundred and fifty,” said Keith, handing the money.

Mr. Brown counted the money as Keith took care of the dishes.

“You are short three,” said Mr. Brown.

“What?”

“You are short three dollars.”

“Ok, I will add three to next month.”

“Pardon? Not in my house, not in my lot. You pay it, timely, in full, or you are out,” said Brown, firmly, in a paternalistic tone. “You don’t tell Walmart, sorry, I owe you three. So you don’t tell me that either.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Keith. “I got it in change.”

“Change is worth the same. Go get it.”

Who cares that much about three dollars? thought Keith, as he dropped the coins into Mr. Brown’s wrinkled hands.

Brown shuffled the coins on his palm with his bent arthritic index finger.

“Good. That’s all now. Rent due next October tenth—in full,” said Mr. Brown.

“Understood, sir.”

“Now get to bed, you got school tomorrow.”

“Thank you again, for the cake,” said Keith.

“Ok,” said Mr. Brown.

Chapter 4: Personal Studies

Friday arrived in a dreadful blink, like having sand in your eyes, it is still fast, but it is gritty and you dread to do it again, or so Keith thought.

School had been subpar, the best development of the week had been that a very generous donor had granted every student a daily meal pass for the main cafeteria in Jenkins for the remainder of the school year; reason for which most passes would go unused. Most students at Woodruff preferred to peal off the wet napkin from their sandwiches underneath a tree if it meant they could eat it alone.

Keith did not thrive in crowds, but neither did he crumble in them. Freddie was unaware of his magnetism and how it helped him integrate. Richard… there was no way to know about Richard.

“Body, fix your hair, man,” said Richard.

“Why are you still calling me that?”  asked Keith.

“That’s your nickname, we all have them,” said Richard. “Freddie, Richie, and Body, the three amigos.”

“Only you call yourself Richie, and Freddie is Freddie,” said Keith.

“And you are a big ole body,” snapped Richard.

“I knew that was the reason!”

“Whoa, whoa, you two… calm down. It’s just some silly name thing,” said Freddie. “Richard, drop it, he doesn’t like it.”

“Whatever,” said Richard, crossing his arms.

It was out of character for Keith to stand up for himself. In a way, he didn’t; he attacked out of fear, like a beta dog. What Richard didn’t know is that Keith was dreading attending his first class of Personal Studies. He had heard from the other students about the class.

“She fucks up with your mind, wanting to talk about your childhood and shit,” Trevor, the one that wore the cowboy hat told Keith, “I am done with that bullshit, I left home and she ain’t taking me back to it with her bullshit mind games—fuck, I hate that woman.”

In reality Keith didn’t terribly mind being called Body, he had liked it at first, but the way Richard said it at times felt like mockery. Keith was big, but he was big like a rugby player; he possessed remarkable innate strength, and his legs were very muscular. The few extra pounds were perfectly healthy. His body, on a more confident person, with some upper and core strength training would have been quite intimidating.

“Freaks!”, someone snarked as they made their way through the cafeteria. Keith’s shoulders caved in slightly more, the straps of his backpack tight; Richard’s chest was puffed up, like a cartoon; And Freddie remained nonchalant and at perfect ease, girls smiled at him, and young men looked curious as if to say, do I know you?

“You want my bread, Body? I don’t eat cornbread,” asked Richard.

“Sure,” said Keith.

“Richard, you are the first black person I’ve met that does not eat cornbread. This is some good eating!” said Freddie with a mouthful. “Got your black eyed peas, got your collards, corn casserole, fried catfish—it’s like thanksgiving every day here. Your mom cooked like this, Keith?”

“Not really, it was more like Spaghettios and fried bologna on white bread,” said Keith.

“Shit, who eats that?” said Richard.

Keith had learned to ignore most of Richard’s petulant remarks.

“Ok, guys, don’t look,” Richard whispered, “five o’clock, behind me. That’s the one I’ve been telling you about. The one with the retro afro and the yellow dress.”

Keith and Freddie immediately looked up with no discretion. Neither looked at the right place.

“Guys! be more discreet, jeez!”

“Which one?” whispered Freddie.

Richard turned to point, and by that time she was walking right past him. Freddie smiled, and she smiled back.

“Well, played, Freddie, that one,” said Richard, still whispering. “I don’t think she noticed.”

“She is pretty,” Keith said.

“You kidding? pretty?” said Richard, “She is gorgeous. Our son will be the next Barack. My parents swear he will be the next president.”

“Who is that?” asked Keith.

“Barack Obama, he went to school with my father, he is running for president,” said Richard.

“Richie, exactly how wealthy are your parents?” asked Freddie.

“They are a big deal in the deep South. Lawyers, big firm, lots to do with the agriculture sector and all that crap.”

“More like crop than crap!” said Freddie, hoping for laughs.

No one laughed.

“Shoot, I’m gonna be late,” said Keith, rushing to finish his plate.

“Late for what? You are not done today?” asked Freddie.

“Personal Studies,” he answered.

“Good luck talking about Spaghettios, Body,” said Richard. “Don’t you cry.”

Keith stood up from the table with his tray saying not one word. He heard and felt that last one; he walked back to Woodruff Manor with Richard’s words playing on repeat. It became duller each time, but it still cut. Why does he have to be such an asshole, he thought. What does he have against me?

Woodruff manor was quiet. Keith’s was the last class of the day—and of the week for that matter. It was such a different feeling walking in there when only the cleaning staff, and Dr. Joy’s secretary were there. It was quiet, and grand.

The strong scent of sandalwood and eucalyptus in Dr. Joy’s room was the first thing Keith noticed. He had never been in a space quite like this. Deep dark paneling, lush plants soaking the light through the stained glass windows, paintings with gold-leafed frames, tufted leather couches facing each other across a black marble-top table with bronze legs. Perhaps when one grows up wealthy, an environment like this could be considered warm and cozy, but when you grow up like Keith, it is intimidating, or at least, that is how Keith felt.

“Can I offer you some water?” Dr. Joy’s assistant asked as she showed Keith where to sit. “Dr. Joy will be out in a minute.”

“Yes ma’am, thank you,” said Keith.

He sat impatiently on the couch, which was the most comfortable piece of furniture in which he had ever sat. It did not cave in under his weight, and the ridges from the deep tufting were comfortable on his legs. He imitated the way he had seen Richard sit, and he wondered if there were cameras in the room seeing him adjust.

“Sorry about the wait!  I hate being late,” said Dr. Joy.

The clock chimed.

“Oh, I suppose I am not late, then! Good!” said Dr. Joy. “My father was very strict about time. But I must say, it’s a virtue to be punctual—I am grateful for his discipline.”

Keith sat in tense silence.

“So, Mr. Rayburn welcome!” said Dr. Joy, sitting on the couch opposite to Keith’s. “Would you rather me call you by your first name, Keith?”

“Keith’s fine,” he said.

“Well, now that we have that established, Keith, do you know what this class is about?” she asked.

“Dunno, some say you talk about their past,” he said.

“That would be because they want to talk about it. It is not a requirement, Keith,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“This class is about you, and only you,” said Dr. Joy, “We are here to learn together about you. We can talk, we can sit in silence, we can meditate, there are no rules.”

“Except to attend to not lose my bursary,” he said.

“Unfortunately, yes, that is true,” she said. “But, I think you may find that this class can be quite useful.”

“Is it like, therapy? You are a therapist, right?”

“I am, yes. But only if you need me to be, or want me to be,” she said. “Do you think you could benefit from therapy?

“Well, you read my essay. You tell me."

“That is fair,” she adjusted her posture and reached for her water, “however, it would be unfair for me to make an assessment based on a facet of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I believe that humans are multifaceted,” she said. She stood up and picked up a small cannon ball that was serving as a paper weight. She handed it to Keith. “What shape is it?”

“Round,” he said. It was heavy on his hand.

“Is it smooth?”

Keith studied the ball, turning it on his hand. “No and yes at the same time. It has dimples, like flat spots too, but it is round.”

“Right. I think your essay is just one of those dimples, or facets,” she said. “Maybe it represents more than one. But if I look at it that way, I can stand on the side facing that part of you and miss what is on the other side.”

“I can see that,” he said. Carefully placing the ball on the marble top.

“We humans are beautifully complex and well rounded. We are remarkably adaptable and resilient. We do, however, break,” Dr. Joy said. “If one of our facets has a crack, it can continue growing until it reaches the other side, and fracture us.”

Keith leant forward, hands together, eyes looking towards the window. “Do you think I’m going to fracture?”

“I hope you wouldn’t, Keith,” Dr. Joy said, leaning forward to collet the canon ball. “And if you would honor me, I would love to see you mend yourself.”

“Do you think I’m broken?”

“Not anymore than I am, we are all broken, we are human,” Dr. Joy said. “Love can mend it all, even those who have shattered.”

“Nobody loves me.”

“Then perhaps we can start by you learning how to love yourself.”

Keith looked forward to meet Dr. Joy’s gaze who was smiling at him; it must have been a split second—he immediately turned back down, where it was comfortable, or so Keith thought.

Ten minutes must have gone by, in silence. Dr. Joy was not lying when she said that they could simply sit there. She accompanied Keith on his silence, occasionally she would write something down, or have a sip of water. But she never once pressed or prompted Keith with her actions.

“I would like that,” Keith finally spoke.

“What’s that, Keith?

“To learn how to do that, what you said could help me.”

Dr. Joy knew well what Keith was saying, he was speaking of learning how to love himself. But it was such a new concept that he was not ready to give breath to the words. She softly spoke, “Then we shall do that, Keith. Class is over,”  she smiled.

Chapter 5: The Weekend

“How did it go?” said Freddie. He was waiting along with Richard on the wooden bench underneath the weeping willow.

“What are you guys doing here?” asked Keith.

“It’s the weekend, Body!” said Richard enthusiastically. “Our first weekend as freshmen! We are so getting laid.”

“Laid on our beds, maybe,” said Keith. “Ok, guys, see you Monday.”

“No, wait a minute, where are you going?” asked Richard.

“Home,” said Keith.

Keith walked away, with the sun on his back. He could hear them argue, but the words were indistinguishable. He must have walked about a hundred feet already when he heard footsteps running behind him.

“Keith! Wait up,” said Freddie, who was catching up to him. He was short of breath. “Are you okay?”

“Why does he keep calling me Body?” snapped Keith. There was hurt in his voice.

“I don’t know, man. I don’t like that he does, to tell you the truth,” said Freddie. “It was funny at first, but it’s wearing me out too. He does things like that. I don’t know if he understands that it’s not nice.”

“He is nice to you, though,” said Keith.

“I am the first person he met here, and the only one that can stand him so far.”

Shit, Keith thought. He felt sorry for Richard.

“You are right. Maybe he doesn’t know he is doing it,” said Keith.

“I don’t think he does,” said Freddie. “Give him a chance. Just think of Body as buddy.”

“Don’t know, maybe he’ll get tired,” said Keith.

“Pick you up at nine?” asked Freddie.

“Where are we going?”

“Don’t know, man—out! To have fun,” he said.

Keith hesitated. He really didn't feel like dealing with more of Richard’s insensitive ways. “Alright, I’ll go. But don’t let him have any more energy drinks,” said Keith. “I’ve had enough of how much he’s had!”

Freddie laughed and patted Keith on the back. “See you at nine!”

Supper with Brown was uneventful. It was oddly quiet. Brown was acting nervous, or so Keith thought. He kept looking out the window, and he ate faster than he usually did. Hardly any words were exchanged until Keith announced his plans.

“I’m going out tonight,” said Keith.

“Going out where?” said Mr. Brown.

“Dunno, with friends,” said Keith, picking up the plates.

“I am going to have to meet these new friends of yours,” said Mr. Brown.

“Why?” asked Keith.

“I can’t have a ruffian living under my roof,” said Mr. Brown. “We are the company we keep, kid. I don’t want you falling into bad company. That school of yours, that’s a different kind of school.”

“They are not criminals,” said Keith. “Honestly, they are pretty harmless.”

“Invite them over, next Friday. We’ll sit out on the deck if the weather is good.”

“Sure…” said Keith, deflecting the situation.

Keith changed clothes a few times. It wasn’t as if he was going out on a date, but he had not been out with friends in many years. He adjusted his posture while looking in the mirror. The shirt he chose was a bit tight, but he thought it made him look good. He stood outside the trailer waiting for the car. It was the first not-hot night since mid-April.

He could hear some animal making a racket in the garbage bin, probably a raccoon, or maybe Momma trying to get some nourishment for the little opossums in her pouch.

The green classic Impala, purring, had curious neighbors peeking as it drove through the trailer park. It drew a lot of attention.

“Yo, Body! You ready to rumble?” shouted Richard from the front seat. He was wearing a bright yellow polo with a white collar, and a thick gold chain around his neck.

Keith sat in the back with no seat belt; he uncomfortably fit in the middle.

“Keith, your grandfather is seeing you go through the blinds. You should wave,” said Freddie.

Keith looked back to see Mr. Brown peeking through the blinds, as if he could not be seen. Or maybe he wanted to be seen, Keith wondered. He waved; Brown did not wave back, he just closed the blinds.

“He is not my grandfather,” said Keith.

“Oh, I thought he was,” said Freddie. “How did you end up living with him?”

“It was about the only thing I could afford,” said Keith. “Kind of wish it hadn’t been.”

“Where are you even from, Body?” asked Richard.

“Small town a few hours from here, nothin' to do,” said Keith. “Lost industry, historic monument, and one main street with shops and stuff; main revenue is speeding tickets. We do have good fish tacos, though.”

“Sounds grand,” said Richard.

“Do you drink beer, Keith?” asked Freddie.

“I don’t,” said Keith.

“Well, tonight you do!” said Richard, pulling out a credit card and a driver’s license. “I paid fat money for this puppy. This is the mac daddy of fake IDs.”

Freddie parked at a fringe service station with lifted trucks blasting country music and hunks flirting with girls in diminutive shorts. At the opposite station, there were classic cars with spinner wheels, extra chrome, and hip-hop music. It was a harmonious cultural clash.

The boys collected their beer under blinking fluorescent lights, being loud and animated.

The clerk, whose voice was raspy and flat, spoke after ringing up the three six-packs, chewing gum, Red Bull, and Doritos, “can I see some ID, boys?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Richard, smiling from ear to ear. He handed her his fake ID.

“Alright, Mr.… Tyrone Smith,” said the cashier, with disbelief in her voice. She grabbed her barcode scanner and scanned the back of the ID. “It won’t scan, baby; can’t sell you this beer, store policy.”

Richard’s smile was instantly replaced by a guilt-ridden, nervous face, Keith thought.

The clerk looked at Freddie. “You don’t got your ID on you, baby?”

“No, ma’am, left it at home.”

She quickly responded, “You should not be driving without your license, baby. Coppers are real hungry ’round here, with you boys having your first weekend from school and all.”

Richard’s guilt turned into frustration; it was not just Keith thinking it. He was about to explode, his chest inflated with air. But before Richard could speak a word, as he lifted his index finger, Keith spoke.

“Here, try mine,” said Keith, handing over his ID.

“Alright, Mr.… Rayburn, let’s see,” she said. “Oh! Lakeland? My sister stays in Lakeland. You know a Patricia Miller?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You are lucky; she is a bitch,” she said. “Here you go, Mr. Rayburn,” handing back the card after scanning. “That’ll be all for you, sweetie?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Keith.

Keith looked at Richard, signaling to pay. Richard awkwardly snapped out of his thought and pulled out his credit card.

“Nah-ah. Can’t do that, baby,” she said firmly. “I’m selling it to him, not to you.”

Richard looked at Keith with begging eyes.

“How much is it, ma’am?” asked Keith softly.

“Thirty-eight fifty-two,” she said.

You are shitting me, thought Keith. He knew he only had around seventy dollars in his debit account, and an overdraft penalty would put him behind. He had not received his bursary yet, and it was not due for at least another week. Richard was looking at Keith with anticipation, and now Freddie’s piercing blue eyes were on him too, as were the big brown eyes from the clerk.

Keith handed over his card.

“Thank you, boys. You have a safe and fun night,” the clerk said, packing their purchases in thick plastic bags. “And if you go back home and you see my sister, you tell that bitch she still owes me money—piece of work.”

“Sure will. Thank you, ma’am,” said Keith.

The boys got in the car. There was silence for ten seconds while they pulled out of the parking lot. Then Richard exploded in excitement.

“You son of a gun, Body! You saved the day!” said Richard. “Shit, man! That was so cool. You are our hero!”

“That was unexpected, Keith; pass the Doritos,” said Freddie. “How old are you, man?”

“Twenty-one, almost twenty-two,” said Keith in low volume. “How old are you guys?”

“Shit, I’m eighteen,” said Richard.

“Same,” said Freddie.

Keith could not stop thinking about the money, but he was nervous to ask. He knew Richard was admittedly wealthy, or at least his parents were—it should not be awkward. “Hey, Richard.”

“What up?”

“I wasn’t expecting to pay,” said Keith. “I don’t drink.”

“Body, I will get you paid, my man! We just gotta run by the ATM,” said Richard. “And tonight you do drink; it’s all on me. My treat.”

I shouldn’t have come, thought Keith.

“Where are we even going?” said Keith.

“The old quarry,” said Freddie.

Freddie looked like a movie star, or so Keith thought. The lights from neon signs, the wind blowing through his hair, his elbow rested on the window frame of the car, it was all very cinematic.

“What’s in the quarry?” asked Keith.

“Nothing! Just a big ole hole in the ground with freshman girls, music, and a big ole party,” said Richard.

Great, sounds like fun. Like Dungeon and Dragons with just dungeon and no dragons, thought Keith. He had seen the scar the quarry had left in the ground from his throne, which he had not visited since the accident.

The quarry had operated in Fairweather for nearly two hundred years, extracting stone and minerals from its anomalous location—the only rocky wrinkle in a hundred-mile radius. It became a significant contributor to the emerging wealth of the town. The rail system connected the quarry all the way to Savannah. In the late nineties, it was proven that the quarry was contaminating the main source of water for the town and contributing to the presence of heavy metals in the nearby river tributaries in ways that harmed the ecology.

“Guys, are we sure about this?” asked Keith as they parked outside the gate to the quarry. Freddie refused to drive in, fearing to hurt his car.

“It’s gonna be fun, don’t worry,” said Freddie.

Keith found Freddie’s words more reassuring than Richard’s manic enthusiasm.

It was uncomfortable for Keith, going past the bent metal gate clearly stating with many signs: Private Property, No Trespassing, Violators Will Be Prosecuted. He could hear the echoes of dance and electronic music crescendoing the more they walked into the quarry. Loud masculine cheers could be heard after the "go, go, go, go, go," of someone being encouraged to chug a drink. Keith’s heart was racing; he was not prepared for this.

“Alright, we all finish one right now. Freddie, you only get two all night,” said Richard, passing them each a pint-size beer.

“I don’t know about that; I don’t like to drink,” said Keith, already holding the can.

“Come on! It’s our first weekend; it will be fun!” said Freddie. “I got you; I will make sure you arrive safe.”

“Body, come on, we are missing all the fun,” said Richard, opening his can. “I bet you they have wet t-shirts and everything down there. We are starring in our own movie!”

If it is a dumb sitcom about three losers getting drunk, Keith thought.

Freddie wrapped his arm around Keith. He was just tall enough to do so. “Ready? Cheers?” said Freddie. Keith was not used to that physical closeness with a friend—the last time he had a best friend was when he was thirteen. It was very foreign and terribly persuading.

And before Keith could think about how it happened, the last drop of the once-cold beer hung from his lips as he tipped over to not spit out the last mouthful. Shit, Keith thought.

It was a long walk down to the pit where the party had unleashed. It wasn’t every weekend that the quarry was the venue for reckless students. It was a coordinated effort, and some believed there even was a secret committee dedicated to choosing the dates and dealing with keeping the cops away. Now, in 2007, Facebook had made it possible to reach more students, so the parties kept growing in size, and exploits.

Keith felt like a hypocrite, and it was painful, yet rewarding. He had so quickly caved into the pressure. He gave in to the one thing that destroyed his childhood.

After ten minutes of hesitant walk in partial darkness, the boys made it to the party.

Why does he do that? Keith wondered as he saw Richard puff his chest up and push his shoulders back to walk into the crowd. He could see them looking at Richard, as if they were making fun, but he seemed oblivious to his environment. Richard’s movements were those of a caricature.

Freddie drew a lot of attention, effortlessly. It was to be said of Freddie that he always smiled when someone locked eyes with him. Keith found it disarming, and he believed others did too. He was always surprised to see tough dudes tilt their heads back in an acknowledgment of him, as if to say hey.

It is unknown if Keith felt confidence from the first pint, or if he got enough confidence added that he sought more in the second pint he took from Freddie, who was carrying the beers.

“Woah, woah, Keith. Slow down, man,” said Freddie.

“I’m real thirsty,” said Keith.

“I see that!” said Freddie, letting out a chuckle. “This ain’t sweet tea now—just take your time.”

“It tastes horrible,” said Keith.

“Does not look like you find it that horrible,” said Freddie.

They were both shouting; it was difficult to hear each other over the loud music. As Keith became mildly intoxicated by the alcohol, he felt less self-conscious, and he was enthralled in conversation with Freddie.

“They are looking at you,” said Keith.

“Who?” said Freddie.

“Those girls, over there. I think they like you,” he said.

“Nah, I don’t think so. They just don’t know who we are,” said Freddie.

“Shit, they are coming over,” said Keith, pulling another pint from the pack. This one he only held.

“Hi guys,” said the blonde one of the two. Both girls were looking at Freddie, as if Keith wasn’t there.

“Hi,” said Freddie.

“Are you a freshman?” the one with the ponytails asked.

“We are,” said Freddie. “Woodruff.”

The blonde girl whispered in the other one’s ear.

“Ok, boys… we’ll see you around,” she said, waving goodbye sexily, or so Keith thought. They laughed as soon as they turned their backs.

Keith swallowed half of his pint. “Told you, they were interested in you.”

“I thought they were kind of nice,” said Freddie. “I saw them looking at you, dude.”

“Yeah, because they think I’m a freak,” said Keith. “People love a freak; the circus was successful for a reason.”

“What are you talking about?” said Freddie. He was genuinely baffled. “They said they will see us around, and they asked if we were freshmen.”

“No, they asked if you were a freshman, not if we were freshmen,” said Keith, without scorn.

“It’s hard to hear; I am sure we’ll see them again, they were nice,” said Freddie.

He does not know, Keith thought. He has no idea he looks like he just finished a photoshoot for the Abercrombie catalog. Keith would have never expressed that thought out loud. Though he had no attraction to the same sex, he recognized that Freddie’s gravity on others originated in his looks. But not for Keith; he genuinely liked him, and thought of him as kind.

“You are a good guy, Freddie,” said Keith, the beer speaking.

“You too, dude!” said Freddie, smiling. He noticed Keith becoming slightly uninhibited. “Where is Richard?”

Richard was bouncing around like an awkward bee. Rejected by every clique he visited, yet totally unaware.

He can’t tell that they are laughing at him, Keith thought as he saw Richard make a fool of himself. The way they all looked at each other while laughing before looking back at Richard was terribly revealing. He was mistaking the loud noise of ridicule for the melody of belonging.

Richard finally returned to his friends after making his rounds, slightly inebriated.

“Not one girl worth my time,” Richard said. “My wife is not here.”

“Which wife?” asked Keith.

“The future mother of my children, the girl from the cafeteria,” said Richard.

“Right, yes. She was beautiful,” said Keith.

Richard made an awkward face at Keith’s comment, but he moved on to ignore him. He did not seem to appreciate Keith commenting on the girl.

“How much longer do you guys wanna be here?” asked Freddie. “If it is just us hanging out, we might as well do that somewhere we can hear each other.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Keith, shouting. “To go somewhere else.” He finished his beer in a few gulps.

“Let’s go then,” said Richard, finishing his beer as well.

Richard and Keith continued drinking as they went to where the car was parked. Keith had never had more than a few sips of beer, which were generally incited by one of his mother’s boyfriends. Even though it was a pleasant 72ºF, Keith was perspiring a little, but he was unbothered. His head was light, and the feeling of gravity pulling at his weight seemed to have lifted some.

“I gotta take a leak,” Keith announced.

“Me too,” said Richard.

“Might as well,” said Freddie.

Keith went over to the edge of the winding upward road on the quarry to urinate. He was surprised when he became aware that the guys had stood somewhat close to him, facing the same way. He urgently needed to go, but he could not do it.

“Oh, that feels good,” said Richard, as he began voiding.

Freddie was next, and then Keith finally followed, mirror neurons firing.

They were cloaked by night, and Keith felt a bit drunk, but he was not used to that sort of male camaraderie. He grew up an only child, had no father around, and had developed a sort of trauma from his mother’s boyfriends being so overtly vulgar. But just like eating the edges of the sandwiches with Mr. Brown, there was something freeing in this action, normalizing something that ought not to be shameful, or crude.

“Where are we going?” asked Freddie, as they pulled out.

“To the throne!” said Keith enthusiastically; he was very buzzed.

“Where is that?” said Freddie.

“The place where you ran me over, where I died and came back as your friend,” said Keith.

“Let’s go!” cheered Richard.

The ride to the city overlook was loud. Keith was matching Richard in volume and hype. They sang in drunken dissonance to Nights on Broadway by the Bee Gees—Richard’s falsetto was pitch-perfect—and The Winner Takes It All by ABBA. Freddie’s quirky taste in music somehow was compatible with the boys.

If Keith had been slightly more drunk, he might have cried. He knew exactly why he had learned the lyrics to that ABBA song; he had heard his mother wailing it on repeat in front of the mini component stereo system after one of her messiest breakups. After she fell asleep on the rug, Keith covered her with a blanket, and slept by her side on the floor. The following morning, he woke up by himself on the rug to see his mother cooking breakfast for the man that had broken her heart the night before; it wasn’t the last time it happened.

The boys parked on the overlook around midnight. The city was mostly asleep. From there, they could see the glow of the party on the quarry, but there was no noise. Only a hooting owl and the crunch of twigs under their step could be heard.

There was hardly enough room for the three boys to sit on the granite bench. They were shoulder to shoulder. Richard sat in the middle. The transition from loud singing to quiet was stark; euphoria had been replaced by slight dizziness and introspection.

“It’s nice here,” said Freddie, as he opened his third pint, one more than he had intended.

“I like it,” said Keith. “You can see it all, and no one can see you.”

“You sound like a voyeur,” said Richard, laughing at his own joke. “You like to perve on the women at school, Body?”

“Whatever,” said Keith.

Richard had a gift to touch a nerve unintentionally. Perhaps if he was more aware, he would have noticed Keith recoiling a little after his comment of being a voyeur.

“I know what this night is missing!” said Richard, reaching into his front pocket. “Hello, Mary Jay!” he said as he dug out the small pre-rolled joint of cannabis from a plastic sandwich bag.

Keith had been around drunks all his life, but never around drugs.

“What are you doing with that?” asked Keith.

“What does it look like?” said Richard. “We are gonna smoke it. The last one I have till I go back home—a gift from the Senator’s son.”

“We are not smoking it, you are,” said Keith.

“He is right, I’m not doing that again,” said Freddie.

Again? Keith thought. Inexplicably, he felt a little disappointed to hear that; a bit ironic, given that he was drunk, and Freddie was mostly sober—but emotional judgment at times follows no reason.

“Whatever, more for me,” said Richard. He stood up from the bench and lit his joint.

That smell, thought Keith.

“You… assholes!” said Keith with unusual bravado, but not meaning to intimidate.

“What?” asked Freddie.

“You were high when you ran me over!” Now Keith was standing up.

Richard was coughing from the cannabis. “Were we?” he said looking towards Freddie.

“We… might have been,” admitted Freddie, looking away to the horizon.

“You said it was a skunk…” said Keith. The bravado was gone; it had been replaced by a lied-to child inflection.

“Did I?” said Richard, holding in laughter like steam in a pressure cooker. But then, the laughter came out, exaggerated by his latest stupefacient.

Freddie followed laughing, and in numbers there was strength; there was no seeming transition between tension building and comedic relief. Freddie stood up and wrapped his right arm around Keith, still laughing some. Keith’s tense face was replaced by neutrality.

“I love you, man, you alright,” said Freddie to Keith as he pressed him against his chest in a side-hug.

Keith said no word, he looked away, and smiled. No friend, no man, had ever told him I love you. It didn’t matter how casually it had been said, or the preamble around it. When the soul is hungry even crumbs yield satiation.

Chapter 6: Hungover

The taste of nacho cheese Doritos in his dry mouth was the first thing that Keith noticed as he began to wake up. The light coming through the blinds was intense and unusual—his bedroom faced west. He covered his eyes, which were pulsing as if wanting to come out of his skull—or so Keith thought. The sheets were soft and not stuck to him, the air was conditioned, and it smelled different. Where am I? Keith thought as he peeked through his swollen eyelids. How in the world did I end up here?

Richard was splayed on the couch, facing down. Keith turned in the bed to study where he was. In the bed next to his was Freddie, who was already awake, leaning shirtless against the headboard playing Pokémon on a Nintendo DS.

“Morning, sunshine,” said Freddie. “How are you feeling?”

“Thirsty,” said Keith through a swollen throat.

“I think there is water in the mini fridge—there might even be one of Richie’s Gatorades,” said Freddie, still engaged in his game. “Get whatever you want, we are going shopping today anyway.”

Keith started to roll out of the bed when he realized he only had his underwear on. All inhibitions lost to the alcohol came back gushing like water reversing into a dam.

Richard bounced out of the couch. “That was an awesome night!” he enthusiastically said, bolting across the room, putting on his sweatpants. Keith noticed his musculature. Richard went out the door swiftly.

Keith looked around to see if he could spot a pile of his clothes—unsuccessfully.

“You need something?” said Freddie.

“My clothes,” said Keith. There was embarrassment in his voice.

“On the chair, next to the mini fridge,” said Freddie nonchalantly.

Keith nervously got out of the bed. Richard was out, and Freddie was not looking—that was his window of opportunity.

“Where is my shirt?” asked Keith.

“You don’t remember?” said Freddie with surprise.

Oh, no, no, no. What did I do? thought Keith. His brow was getting humid. He felt a little lightheaded. “I guess not,” said Keith.

“Richard threw up on you when you guys were horsing around wrestling.”

“I don’t remember…”

Keith was glad he had worn an under t-shirt.

“You were both pretty drunk. I could not tell at some point if you were playing or fighting.”

Keith looked out the window, away from Freddie. “Was I bad?”

“Bad?” asked Freddie in surprise. “No, man! You were hilarious. Those stories you told were awesome. Who knew you were such a good actor?”

What stories? What acting? What happened last night? Keith thought. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten.”

“Why did I stay with you guys?”

“You said Brown would be angry if you arrived drunk.”

“That was probably wise.”

“It was pretty late, and you said he wakes up awful early on Saturday.”

Richard came through the door.

“Body, that was a good, good night. Sorry about your shirt,” said Richard. “I’m way too hungry to stay here much longer. Y’all wanna get showered and go for breakfast?”

“Let’s do it,” said Freddie, getting out of bed. “Keith, you wanna have a shower? There are four showers. Everyone else in the suite—except for Trevor—are gone home for the weekend. Though I’m sure they wouldn’t care even if they were here.”

“I didn’t know you guys shared a suite with Trevor.”

“Yup. Eight of us: four rooms, four showers, four clogged toilets, one shared fridge, and a couch you don’t want to smell,” said Richard.

“Anyway, you coming? There are towels provided by the school and soap and fancy shampoo,” said Freddie. “You can borrow something to wear if you wanna change.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t fit in your clothes, but thank you,” said Keith. “You guys go ahead. I better head home.”

“You sure? You can just wait on us—it won’t be but a minute,” said Freddie.

“No, I better head home. I don’t feel great.”

“All right, Freddie, he has spoken,” said Richard. “I’m hungry, let’s hit it.” He started to go out the door. “See you, Body. Great night. Let’s do it again.”

“See you,” Keith waved. He wished he had found the courage to ask about his thirty-eight dollars.

“You gonna be okay?” asked Freddie. “Get a Gatorade—will do you good.”

“I’ll be fine. See you guys Monday.”

Keith grabbed a drink from the mini fridge. On his way out, he could hear Freddie and Richard laughing—their sound echoing in the tiled communal bathroom. He looked around the suite as he exited. This is nice, he thought. He stood in the living room for a minute, daydreaming, thinking that maybe one day he could afford to live on campus. He had considered a student loan for the second semester, but he had no idea how that worked.

The sun was blinding and more aggressive to his eyes than usual. He felt nauseous for a moment, but it rescinded some as he drank the cold orange Gatorade in a rush. He felt terribly hungry and bloated at the same time. This was all uncharted for him.

He had seen his mother hungover many times, but she usually just swallowed pills with sweet tea, lit a cigarette, and went out for a walk. She made it seem easier than it was.

The walk back seemed to activate Keith’s body. He began perspiring and feeling slightly more human as his heart pumped fresh oxygen around his system. With feeling better came clarity, and with clarity came doubt. What did I tell the guys? What stories is Freddie talking about? he thought. It could not have been that bad if they were so friendly this morning. Shards of memories, glistening in his mind, revealed fragments of the night. Did I do that? he wondered. Some pieces were dull and hard to see through, others were clearer, and they stirred around an awkward smile on Keith.

He was past the gas station when he remembered having heard the words, I love you, man, you alright.

Brown wasn’t home when Keith got there. There was a note on the fridge:

Must have been a good party. Don’t bring trash to this house. There are leftovers in the Tupperware on the bottom shelf. Back late tonight. Don’t make me regret taking you in, kid.
Brown

Keith felt slightly confused about his living arrangement. Brown was—indeed—not his grandfather. There had been no indication in his advertisement in the paper that there were familial expectations with renting the room. But how can humans not try to make a home when living together? Or at least so Keith wondered. He had somehow become intertwined with Mr. Brown while knowing nothing of him but beginning to feel close to the cantankerous cuss.

Keith attempted to read but fell asleep. He called Freddie to see what they were up to when he woke up, but there was no answer. It was already dark. He had never felt like he was missing out, but neither had he felt like he belonged to a group of friends, even though it felt so fast to him. He felt emotionally and physically drained—and lonely, he thought. He felt jealous of Trevor, who had his friends available at all times.

He ate a whole box of frozen chicken nuggets with mayo, ketchup, and chipotle when his appetite returned. He watched The Basketball Diaries with Leonardo DiCaprio on cable TV in the living room and thought of his new friends, and of his mother. He felt inspired, and he penned a few words during the ads that he then ripped to shreds and tossed in the bin.

He went to bed with the door open. It was early, but he was exhausted. He left the porch light on for Mr. Brown, and the small LED light above the range that he was allowed to leave on. Mr. Brown was very conservative with utilities and saw them as a waste. “There is enough light coming in from the streetlight, young man,” he always said when Keith kept lights on longer than needed.

The jars clinking around midnight woke Keith up. He rolled over to see the shadow of Mr. Brown cast on the linoleum. He was on a stool doing his usual night rite in the forbidden cabinet.

“Good night, Mr. Brown,” Keith said, yawning, nearly unintelligibly.

“Good night, boy,” said Brown, without stopping his activity.

Keith heard footsteps headed toward his room. He covered himself with the sheets.

“You had a good day?” asked Mr. Brown.

“I did,” said Keith. “How about you?”

“Good. It was a fine day,” he said. “See you in the morning. I got sausage from the country store on 85.”

“Something to look forward to.”

Mr. Brown started to close the door.

“You can leave it open.” Keith rolled back and fell asleep—soundly.

Chapter 7: The Glade

The smoke from the frying sausage set the fire alarm off.

“Doggone it!” shouted Mr. Brown in frustration. “Boy!”

Keith woke up in a panic; the greasy smoke lingered over his room. He went out in his boxers to help Mr. Brown stop the fire alarm. Keith could reach it just by extending his arm. He opened all the windows and the door, leaving only the screen door closed.

“It’s almost ready; you gotta get it crispy!” said Brown, rolling the sausage in the cast iron pan as if nothing was happening. “Get the juice out—can’t sleep the whole day away.” Brown was unusually spry.

Keith looked at the clock; it was only 6:30 AM. He set the table and went into his room to get some clothes on. He thought about his friends and the night before and wondered again about what stories he had told and what Freddie would have found so funny.

They sat down to eat. Mr. Brown said a word of prayer. “God is great, God is good, let us thank Him for our food. Amen.”

“Amen,” said Keith, with a piece of sausage already in his mouth. He was pretty sure the old man noticed.

“How you like it?” asked Brown.

“Real good,” said Keith. “Kind of hot.”

“Best I’ve ever had. But not as good as it used to be,” Mr. Brown said, chewing between words. “Junior can make it, but nothing like the old man. I think when he left the recipe to him, the son of a bitch probably left something out on purpose.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Legacy—going down as the best. If his son is better, he should be able to figure it out. No one helped Charlie figure it out.”

“You can’t know that,” said Keith. “What if someone did help him, and he never said?”

“Look at you, all snappy,” growled Mr. Brown. “Is that school growing your nuts, or is it them new friends of yours?”

For a man who cared so much about being polite, Mr. Brown sure could string together some crass lines, or so Keith thought.

“Sorry, I was just saying,” apologized Keith.

“You are growing a spine, son. I like it,” affirmed Brown, his twisted teeth covered in sausage bits. “Just don’t let that sack drag you down if you ain’t ready to bear the weight from it.”

Somehow the old man’s testosterone-laden words landed softly on Keith’s ears. There was something very affirming about not being treated delicately. Sharon, his mother, had a gift to clip his wings with words. Keith was free to fly, but how far could he have gone with no wings? It was just the illusion of freedom—an invisible cage of deception, lies, and manipulation.

Keith’s thought was interrupted by Mr. Brown speaking.

“So, how was your party? You meet any girls?”

“A couple, but they fled when they realized we are retards,” Keith said. “They just liked my friend.”

“Quit calling yourself that—you are no retard.”

“I go to a school for retards…”

“Well, that don’t make you one,” said Mr. Brown firmly. “I think you are smart. You could use some learning, but you got a good mind, kid. Good soil to plant some good sense into you.”

“Dunno…”

“Why do you say they like your friend? Why not you?”

“Oh, Freddie?” said Keith. “Everyone likes him; he always looks good.”

“So you think he is handsome?” asked Mr. Brown. He was looking right at Keith’s face now.

“No, I’m not like that.”

“What? You think a man can’t think another one is handsome?” said Mr. Brown. “That don’t make you no kind of way other than human. I hate snakes, and I can tell you which snake is better looking than another snake.”

“Anyway, they were only interested in him,” said Keith with embarrassment.

“I was the ugliest of my friends; my best friend—he was a handsome devil. My wife—may she rest in peace—wanted to date him, so we became friends,” said Mr. Brown. “She fell in love with me and forgot everything about him quick.”

“I don’t think that will be my fate.”

“You may be right…” bit Brown back. He had no patience for Keith’s self-deprecation. “I need you to come with me today; do you have time?”

“Where are we going?”

“I need help with something.”

“I suppose I don’t have anything to do.”

“I thought so. We leave at 9 AM.”

Keith was unsure how Mr. Brown had arrived at the conclusion that he had agreed to go. His availability didn’t mean willingness—though the old man seemed uninterested in hearing more about it.

Keith got an SMS from Freddie.

Freddie 08:52 AM: Goin 4 a drive. Wanna cm?

He could hear Mr. Brown readying the truck for whatever they were doing. He was outside in the shed gathering rakes, pruners, and other yard tools. Keith regretted saying he was available.

Keith 08:54 AM: Can’t, going out with the old man.

Freddie 08:55 AM: nxt time.

He wished he could go with them. Is Trevor going? he wondered.

Keith was quiet on the road, as was Mr. Brown. They probably drove about ten minutes before a word was said. It was a beautiful morning. They drove with the windows of Brown’s old pickup truck down. The wind in Keith’s face was hypnotizing. He had never been on a boat, but that was how he imagined the wind on the ocean feeling.

“You miss home?” asked Mr. Brown.

“No, sir.”

“Bad father?”

“No father. Imperfect mother,” said Keith, turning his head to look out the window. They were not going very fast now; an old dirt road was shaking all of Keith’s bones.

“You ain’t perfect either.”

“True. But she has me beat—I think.”

“You talk to her?”

“Nope, have not talked to her since I left.”

“One day you won’t be able to tell her anything,” said Mr. Brown, now turning to look at Keith. “Think about that one.”

“I don’t know I have something to say to her,” said Keith. “I know what she would say to me though, ‘I got a bad feeling, Keith, you shouldn’t do that,’” he said, mockingly. “Some people never change, no matter how long you wait.”

“These new friends of yours, do I need to be worried?”

“I don’t know why you keep asking that. No, you don’t have to be worried…”

“Watch your tone, boy,” Brown warned. “I know you never had the chance to respect a father, but you will sure as hell show respect to me.

“I don’t like a thief, I don’t like a liar, and I don’t like a bad drunk. You can have all the fun you want out in your parties, just don’t disrespect my house. That was a good call to not arrive the night before if you would have embarrassed yourself.”

“Understood,” said Keith, still looking out the window.

“I had fun when I was young,” said Mr. Brown. “And I liked to drink more than I should from time to time. But I never disrespected my house.”

Keith was unsure what Mr. Brown meant by disrespecting the house, but he had sense enough from the good literary works he had read, and from the manners he had picked up on movies, as to what was acceptable and not. It was often said at the time that children should not be raised by a television, but when it came to childhoods like Keith’s, televisions were the better parents.

There was no restriction or parental control at home. Sharon would sleep a lot and be drunk often when awake. One of her boyfriends, Randy, got off knowing that Keith could hear them moan. He often wondered if it hurt his mother, and it created a repugnant mixture of arousal, confusion, and disgust. It didn’t help that, when he was fifteen, the Forbidden Nights portion of a cable channel aired the movie Baise-moi, in which a grotesque rape scene was depicted; that was the first time Keith saw a fully developed, erect male genital entering a female. An irrepressible hormone explosion took control over him, and he experienced terrible guilt in finding such pleasure. Sharon never spoke with Keith about sex, and back then—at least in his school—it was a topic that was taught so ambiguously and reluctantly that it was hardly educational at all. Most of the factual knowledge he obtained about sex came from his boss at the bookstore, who was tremendously insistent on being a mentor to Keith.

“We are here,” announced Mr. Brown.

“Where are we?” asked Keith, looking around. It was a vast field, with a plentiful stand of young pines surrounding like a horseshoe. It went on forever. The barbed wire had many kinds of signs—from metal, to plastic, to painted on wood—warning: Private Property, No Hunting, Keep Off, We Don’t Call 911.

“We are not going in there.”

“Yes, we are,” said Mr. Brown. “Relax, we are not gonna get shot. I know the owner. Grab a rake, the loppers, some gloves, and the cooler.”

“What are loppers?”

“The long handles with the thing that can cut your pecker off.”

They walked what felt like a mile to Keith. It was getting hot; the beautiful morning was replaced by the evaporating moisture of the woods. Mr. Brown was in really good shape for his age. He walked strong and had ‘good wind’, as he often said. Keith wondered if he could age like him, or would he end up like his uncle, at an early age in a nursing home.

“Where are we going?” asked Keith as he marched through thorny vines.

“Not far now.”

When they finally arrived, it suddenly made sense to Keith why Mr. Brown had been showing up so dirty lately; the red Georgia clay on his boots dried out like baked in a kiln and made a mess on the porch.

It was a small, round clear in the woods, maybe 15 ft in diameter, with a haphazard deer blind and disturbed soil. Many years of ivy had reclaimed the glade and sprawled in every direction. There was something special about that spot. The edges were covered in moss, and unusual boulders protruded from the ground. The pines that hugged them were mature, and there were oaks and sycamore. Keith wondered if they were anywhere near the quarry.

“Well, you can start now,” said Mr. Brown.

The beauty suddenly was replaced by the reality of the mammoth task to which Keith had inadvertently agreed by making himself available.

“Where do you start? This is a lot.”

“Then it should not be difficult to choose where to start. There is plenty from which to choose.”

There was silence, and Keith stood there with the loppers, wondering at what point he had agreed to help, and how this was part of his life with Brown—he felt like he owed him nothing other than rent.

But he didn’t say a thing, though he wished he had. Mr. Brown was not really a friend; he was a tenant, but he felt bad for the old man. Same reason why he always sat for longer than he wanted to, listening to him ramble about the news, the weather, and the good ole days. The truth was, Keith didn’t find him interesting at all. He trailed in thought every time. Brown just enjoyed having a warm body at which to speak. Keith knew that it was nothing special about him that compelled Brown to share his monologues; he was never interested in what Keith had to say. It was a mere exercise of word-dumping.

After an hour of cutting, Keith began to enjoy it. Mr. Brown was smug about it—he could tell Keith was into it. He had that look on his face of I told you so. Keith had forgotten how displeased he was about being there, and not with his friends. Sweat had him soaked, he had scratches from briers, his heart was thumping, and he was cutting vines aggressively. He was grunting and exhaling air forcefully—he felt alive, and at war against the vines.

The noon sun illuminated the glade with might. The dappling of the trees shimmered in the shade where they sat to eat their lunch. Mr. Brown had taken his shirt off; they had worked for a long time. They unwrapped egg sandwiches and leftover sausage from breakfast. Keith felt ravenous but strangely uninterested in overeating—perhaps the physical exertion.

“I brought a beer for you, if you want it,” said Mr. Brown, digging in the cooler. “I brought one for myself too.”

“Do you want me to have it?”

“What does it matter if I want you to?” asked Brown. “Do you want it? No right or wrong here.”

“I’ll have it.”

“There you go. Here,” said Brown, passing the ice-cold beer.

Keith drank it slowly. This is pretty good, he thought.

“What is this place?” asked Keith.

“This, young man,” Mr. Brown said, standing up, extending his arms to point, “is my happy place. I’ve been coming here for many years.”

Don’t look like it, Keith thought.

“Who owns it?”

“Friend of mine,” said Mr. Brown.

They worked for a few more hours, taking breaks from time to time. Mr. Brown was tired for the last portion of the day, but Keith insisted on continuing by himself.

The ride home was uneventful. There was quiet exhaustion and a sense of partial accomplishment. Keith kept checking his cellphone to see if he had received an SMS from his friends.

“You got a girlfriend?”

“What? No.”

“You keep looking at that thing like you did.”

It was around 5:30 PM when they arrived at the trailer. Keith was surprised to see Richard sitting on the porch.

“Hey, what are you doing here? Everything alright?” asked Keith.

“Came looking for you,” said Richard.

“And who might you be, young man?” asked Mr. Brown as he approached.

“Hello, sir. I’m Richard.” He reached out a confident hand. “I’ve heard a lot of good about you.”

“Is that so?” said Mr. Brown.

“Most certainly,” said Richard. “Keith speaks very highly of you.”

That’s not true, thought Keith. But he was impressed with how well Richard could carry himself.

“Wanna come in?” asked Mr. Brown. “I can turn the AC on. We just got back from work.”

“I appreciate it, sir. I came over to see if Keith felt like grabbing a bite to eat.”

“That’ll be up to him, of course. I’ll leave you fellas to it. This old man is tired.”

Brown groaned all the way to the door. Once inside, he lifted the blinds so that he could see Keith and Richard.

“What’s up?” asked Keith.

“I was walking around and thought to come see if you wanted to eat something.”

“Why didn’t you text?”

“I don’t have your number.”

“Freddie does…”

“He’s been gone all day with Trevor. Have not seen him at all.”

Oh, that’s odd, Keith thought.

“So, wanna grab a bite?”

“Yeah, let me change these clothes. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Keith took all the quarters out of his coin bag after putting on clean clothes.

Richard was waiting outside. He was very composed and normal, or so Keith thought.

“Where do you wanna go?” asked Richard.
“Dunno, somewhere cheap.”
“The Train Stop?”
“Love it.”

Keith was surprised that Richard wanted to go to The Train Stop. They chatted vividly as they walked.
“No way—he is not the best Batman.”
“There is no greater villain than Poison Ivy.”
“Oh, Nicole Kidman. Shit, I still think of her when—you know.”
Who is this guy? Keith thought.

Their chemistry was electric. It was as if they had known each other since childhood. They shared the same interests, and they both snorted when they laughed. Keith remembered their silly banter about the deer with the fire in his eyes, the day of the accident.

“Boy, that smells good,” said Richard, animated, when they entered the diner.
“Welcome to the Train Stop, y’all. Someone will be out there with ya.”

Robert, the owner of the service station with the Krazy Krispy Chicken, owned The Train Stop. It was located just outside the wealthy historic neighborhood that juxtaposed Victorian houses and mature gardens with meth labs, government housing, and dogs in chains. Two blocks divided death-bound flesh wrapped in Lilly Pulitzer or from those wrapped by second-hand polyester.

Keith found peace in the cacophony of dishes clinking, loud sizzling of bacon, hash browns, and sausage, the exhaust fan, chatter, and the lilt in southern-speak. The Train Stop attracted people from both sides of the tracks. Long-haired homeless veterans sat next to dignitaries, who sat next to students, who sat next to retirees.

“I’ll take today’s five ninety-five special, thank you,” said Keith to the waitress taking their order.

“Ah-right,” she said.

“I’ll have the ham and cheese omelette, hash browns, burn them, make them a double, whole wheat toast, hold the butter—I don’t want no butter. Side of bacon and a sausage, large chocolate shake, please, and thank you, ma’am,” said Richard.

“You got it, baby,” she said with her deep smoker’s voice. “It’ll be right out for ya.”

“Hey, Keith, I got this one. I owe you for the beer.”

You still owe me more than that, he thought.

“You don’t have to do that,” said Keith.

“Nah, I got you.”

Keith wished he had said something.

“So, how come you didn’t go with Freddie and Trevor?”

“Are you kidding me? Thank God I got a break from him. He is driving me crazy.”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you guys were cool.”

“Yeah, we are. But it’s too much. Everywhere we go he wants to be the center of attention. Have you seen how he smiles at everyone?”

“Yeah, but I think…”

“I know! It drives me fucking insane,” Richard interrupted in low volume, conscious of the crowd. “He waltzes himself like he owns the place, acting all humble and cute.” He was getting more animated. “And dude, his feet stink. I don’t know what is wrong with him. He showers and stuff, but his feet always stink.”

He hates him, Keith thought. What is happening?

“I didn’t know. I thought you two were thick together,” said Keith.

“Oh, no… we are. I just need a break from time to time.”

“Well, if you ever need to talk about it, you can talk to me about it.”

“Nah, there is nothing to talk about. It’s all good,” said Richard, dismissively. “Here comes the food!”

Richard ate at his pile of food with gusto, slurping on the milkshake while Keith observed. The special was considerably less food than Richard’s grease spoon extravaganza.

They enjoyed a perfect outing—or so Keith thought.
“See you tomorrow in school, bud!” said Richard when they parted ways on Magnolia Avenue.

Other than the uncomfortable situation with the money, there was nothing for Keith to forgive. It had been a perfect time. Keith dropped up some of Ritchie’s leftovers to Momma, who he had not seen the last couple of days.

He didn’t even call me Body once; maybe it’s the medication, Keith thought, or maybe Dr. Joy is working with him on being less of an asshole. But, what’s the deal with him and Freddie? I thought they were best friends.

Chapter 8: Your Father’s Eyes

“Yo, Body, get in!” Richard shouted from the front seat of the Impala. He and Freddie were parked at the entrance of the trailer park, waiting for Keith. The Bee Gees came through the speakers.

Keith thought of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The Richard Newsome who ate with him at The Train Stop was gone; this was Richie. Keith could not discern his own emotion. He sat quietly in the back, listening to their amicable banter. He was as good as a mat on the floor; it was as if he wasn’t there. At least they came to pick me up, Keith thought.

Richard and Freddie were so engrossed in themselves that they didn’t really notice Keith was acting off—a lot quieter. The second week of school involved many questionnaires and forms. Discovery Month was designed by Dr. Joy to be a quest to find the students’ individual strengths.
“An azalea will thrive with well-drained soil, with an acidic pH, under the shade of pines,” had said Dr. Joy, “but that same bush on a low area, with its roots saturated in water, will perish. Together we will learn what will help you blossom and thrive.”

There was a slight chance that Freddie and Richard were simply as fed up with school as Keith was, or at least so Keith hoped. The alternative—being unnoticed—hurt and was awfully familiar.

From Monday to Friday, it all felt the same to Keith. Ironically, he was eager to attend Personal Studies with Dr. Joy. He would have guessed that after a week of trying to answer questions about himself and writing short essays, he would be sick of it, but the time with Dr. Joy felt like the real discovery Keith was interested in.

He was running out of money, and he was worried. The cafeteria meals were proving helpful. He could not imagine how he could have managed.

“Hey, Keith, wait up!” Freddie was trying to catch up to Keith.

“Hey.”

“Hey, man, you okay?” said Freddie, his intense blue eyes right on Keith. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, but every time I’m about to, Richie says some dumb shit. He can’t ever be serious, or calm! I’ve been trying to get away from him all week—but he is always there!”

Am I losing my mind? thought Keith. They act like lovers, and they ignore me!

“I’m alright. Just tired, you know,” lied Keith. “Crazy week.”

“Seriously, it’s been rough. I think they are going to assign me to the Arts Department; theater. You know, for the class we take in Jenkins,” said Freddie. He took another look at Keith. “You sure you are alright?”

Keith ignored the last question. “Same—Arts Department, English Literature.”

Each Woodruff student was to be placed in a regular class with the students of Jenkins—a tremendous source of anxiety to most.

“Man, that’s awesome! Maybe we can hang out after class if it works out, get away from Richard some,” said Freddie. “I think he is going to the other side of the campus, something to do with business—can’t see how that would work out. Maybe they think he can handle his daddy’s money.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

They ended their conversation with a few trivial exchanges, and Keith made up a lame excuse to avoid the cafeteria before Personal Studies. Freddie’s interest in his well-being was as affirming as it was confusing. From his point of view, Richard and Freddie were best friends, but from their own words, they could hardly stand each other. Keith refused to support either one of them in their venting process; he felt equally for them, even if from an altogether different place. Freddie was warm and kind; Richard had very similar interests to Keith’s—at least when they were by themselves.

Dr. Joy opened the class—or rather, session—with pleasantries regarding Keith’s potential placement in English Literature and some bland and generic questions. She was in the middle of encouraging him to pursue his writing when Keith interrupted.

“They don’t understand!”

Dr. Joy adjusted her posture and changed her speaking tone. “And who is ‘they,’ Keith?”

“My friends, Freddie and Richard.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Richard is an asshole most of the time, and Freddie isn’t. But neither care that I am around, and now they complain about each other to me.”

“And what is it that they don’t understand, Keith?”

“That I care about them, and I hate being in the middle of their drama.”

“Well, have you told them?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then please, tell me: how is it?”

“I just want to be part of the group. They live together, and they can talk whenever, or not. I live with an old man, in a trailer park, and they probably don’t even want to be friends with me. They just think I’m charity or something.”

Dr. Joy studied Keith’s expression and left room for a small silence. She stood up and went to the window, looking out.

“At home, did your dad ever talk about your mom? Or did your mom ever talk about your dad?”

“Never met my father. My mom said, and I quote, ‘I wish he had not been such a good fuck; you would not be here if he hadn’t been. You got his eyes; I hate those eyes,’” said Keith, stone-cold. The kind of cold so frigid that it numbs the pain.

“Did that make you feel anything?” Dr. Joy turned back to face Keith.

“What do you think?”

“Well, I would have been hurt. But that does not mean you would have felt hurt.”

“I hate my eyes. They are my father’s eyes.”

“That’s your mother’s opinion, Keith—not yours.” She hesitated briefly, considering her words. “I think your eyes are kind, Mr. Rayburn.”

“Are you allowed to say that?”

“Well, I am not really sure if I am allowed… but if I have offended you, I apologize.”

“My mom had many boyfriends,” Keith was looking away from Dr. Joy. “Some were nice, not many. She always spoke bad about them, and they spoke bad about my mother to me—always using me to get something from the other.”

“Sounds similar to your friends… doesn’t it?”

“I guess so,” said Keith, disappointment from revelation in his voice.

“How did that make you feel?”

“In the middle, invisible, like I didn’t matter—but that’s stupid.”

“No one wants to be invisible.”

“Dunno… sometimes I do.”

Chapter 9: The Train Stop

Keith and the boys got drunk again Friday night. It was a lot of fun, or so Keith—from his recollection—thought. Richard did not pay Keith the money he owed him.
Mr. Brown forgot all about wanting to have Keith’s friends over, but he did have an opportunity to meet Freddie when he picked him up before going out.

“Aren’t you a handsome devil?” Mr. Brown had said. “You must be quite popular.”

“He is,” said Keith. “I’m ready.”

Freddie blushed and said nothing. They left.

Keith woke up in their dorm room again the morning after their drunken adventure. He walked back when Richard and Freddie were getting ready to go get breakfast—he couldn’t afford it. He wondered if Trevor would join them; he was in the shower room with them.

I need a job, Keith thought. On the way home, he stopped at the service station on Magnolia Ave.

“Fun night?” asked Mr. Robert.

“I guess so,” said Keith.

“Want a biscuit? Gotta toss these out. Hate to see them go.”

“You sure?”

“I am—if you don’t tell the inspector.”

“I won’t.” Keith was really hungry. “Mr. Robert…”

“Sir?”

“I need a job,” said Keith, embarrassingly.

“Don’t got anything here, kid,” he said, as he put the biscuits in the paper bag. They were so buttery it changed the color of the bag. “But… how you like doing dishes?”

“Love them. Grease does not stand a chance with me.”

“No, I’m serious. My dishwasher fella at The Train Stop just got arrested for…” and before he continued, he looked around to make sure no one was there, “sexual exploitation,” he whispered, “of minors.”

“Shit!” said Keith without much thought. “Sorry, I should not talk that way.” He apologized.

“No, shit is right. Shit and many other things that I have said already. The son of a bitch had the balls to call me to bail him out.” He slapped his hands on the counter. “He can rot in jail for all I care. I am a God-fearing man, you know I love my Jesus. I hope he finds the Lord and goes to Heaven, and I also hope he goes to prison!”

“I’m sorry you are going through that.”

“Thank you. I’ve been a mess. I’ve known Frank for 13 years. Couple of his kids still call me uncle Bob,” said Robert. Keith had never heard his vulnerable side. “They grew up in that kitchen, you know?”

Mr. Robert continued on a ramble about Frank, and the arrest—he was really hurt. Keith listened intently, until there was a pause for him to speak.

“I’ll take it,” said Keith.

“Take what?” Robert had forgotten what they were talking about.

“The job.”

“Right. The job. Because Frank is a perverted pedophile and he is in jail right now, and I have sweet Chloe doing dishes and waitressing.”

“Yes, that.”

“You are hired!”

“Just like that? You don’t want references or anything?” asked Keith. “I worked at a bookstore for a few years, I can have him call you or something.”

“Nah. You can’t be worse than Frank,” said Robert. “Can you?”

“Oh, Lord. No, never. I like mature,” said Keith, impulsively.

“Ha! Me too!” Robert’s mustache exaggerated his smile. “My wife don’t believe me, but I like her more the riper she gets.”

“Thanks, I didn’t need to know that.”

“Ha!” Robert slapped the counter again, and he handed Keith the biscuits. “When can you start?”

“When do you need me?”

“Yesterday, but today would be fine.”

“I need a shower…”

“Yes, you do,” said Robert, pulling another bag and putting some pieces of chicken in it to give to Keith. “Aren’t you gonna ask about the pay, or schedule? Don’t you have school?”

“I suppose I do. What’s the pay, and what are the hours?”

“You need to be careful, kid. Not everyone is a good boss like me,” said Robert. “Go today, from 12 to 8, give ’em a hand, we’ll see how you do, and we go from there. I’ll give you a hundred dollars, but just for today, for being such a last-minute thing. If you get the job, we’ll talk about an hourly rate and we’ll do the whole thing right.”

“I can’t pay for that right now,” said Keith, taking the chicken.

“I know that. I am giving it to you—a bonus.”

Keith arrived ten minutes early to his shift. The back entrance by the garbage bins was littered with half-finished cigarettes which lay atop the mildewed brick sidewalk.

“Can I help you?”

Oh, em, gee, Keith thought upon seeing her for the first time.

“No,” he said, in a low voice.

“This is the staff entrance, you are not allowed here.”

“I’m Keith. I’m new,” Keith put his hands in his pockets.

“Oh, thank God!” Chloe said. She went towards Keith and pulled him by his arm to the sink.

“Our savior has arrived!” she announced. “Everyone, this is Keith. Be nice to him. Bobby said to treat him extra well—we want him to stay!”

Everyone clapped. A couple of the kitchen staff banged on the pots.

“Yeah!” someone from the diner shouted. They all laughed.

“Here,” said Chloe, giving Keith a rubber apron. “It should fit you.”

Keith’s fingertips touched Chloe’s hand receiving the apron. He felt an electric current rushing through.

“The water gets super hot—be careful,” she started. “Wash, rinse, sanitize,” Chloe said, pointing at the three sinks.

Erica, the bus girl, dumped another pile of plates.

“You okay?” asked Chloe.

“Yes, sorry,” said Keith. He realized he had not said a single word.

“No need to be sorry. I’m so glad you are here. You will do great—holler if you need anything,” said Chloe. She patted Keith on the shoulder.

He became self-conscious and wondered if she noticed him blushing.

Wash, rinse, sanitize, Keith thought, and repeated, wash, rinse, sanitize.

And so, he did. He effectively spent eight hours—with only one short break—doing that.

“You know you get a thirty-minute lunch, right?” the middle-aged woman with the deep voice and heavy blue eyeliner had said to Keith as she smoked a cigarette.

“I know, but I am good.”

“Not me, baby. I need my bathroom breaks,” she said, lifting her hand with her two fingers holding the cigarette to make emphasis. “I need my lunch, my smoke breaks, and I need any minute I can get outside that place—I’ve been there what feels like my whole life.”

Keith thought of her—Chloe—the whole time. He tried to minimize his head movements when she would poke through the opening of the bar area into the kitchen to shout out an order.

“Drop a hash brown—scattered, crispy, not burnt. Ham and cheese omelette with onions, extra fluffy; side of sausage. White for the toast—make it into a grilled cheese. Make sure there are two apple butters on the plate.”

There was a rasp to her voice, and a tonal warmth quality to it. It was resonant without being too nasal.

She has a beautiful nose, and eyes—she has beautiful eyes; I’ve never seen eyes that big and perfect, Keith thought.

“Mr. Doscher is here—same as usual, no butter on the grits. He has a doctor visit tomorrow.”

Keith didn’t stop thinking of her a minute.

The way her brown ponytail falls on her shoulder, Keith observed, and that smile; always a half smile, with dimples.

“You are a rock star!” Chloe said to Keith at the end of the shift. “Please come back,” she said, putting her hands together dramatically.

“If you want me to.”

“Of course I want you to—are you kidding me?” Chloe said. “We all want you to—we need you!”

“Then I guess I will. I have to talk to Mr. Robert about it though.”

“I’ll take care of Bobby! Leave him to me. You are staying—I call it,” said Chloe, raising her hand in authority.

“Ok,” said Keith. He could not look at her in the eyes for very long. Her gaze was intimidatingly captivating.

“Awesome. What’s your number? I’ll send you a text after I talk to Bobby.”

Keith gave her his number. He didn’t have time to process what had happened—he would have given her anything she asked for without much thought.

Mr. Brown didn't much care about the details of Keith’s new job.

“Good, a man has to have a job. You are not a kid,” he said. “You have rent to pay. I’ll save on dinners if you are gone—much better.”

Keith was too tired. He normally half-listened to what Brown said; this time he was quarter-listening. The energy he had left was focused on staying awake as his thought meandered to think of Chloe. Twenty-four hours prior to this moment, he was opening a beer with Richard and Freddie, and now he had not even thought about them the whole day. He looked at his phone to see if either of them had written—but mostly, he was anxiously awaiting a message from Chloe.

He sent Freddie a text and did the same for Richard. He mostly wanted to tell Freddie but didn’t want to exclude Richard in case they were together.

9:35 PM — Keith: Got a new job. I have to tell you everything about it.

His phone buzzed shortly after, and he expected for either of the boys to have replied. Instead, an SMS from an unknown number came through:

9:37 PM — 706-889-9203: Ur in. tomorrow same time if u can. if not call bobby in the mrnin to let him now. Ur the best.

9:37 PM — 706-889-9203: save my number! xoxo cHloe

Keith stared at the screen of his Nokia cellphone, his eyes moving over each line as if he were trying to crack a code. It took him a few minutes to compose a reply.

9:41 PM — Keith: I’ll be there. Save me some dishes.

That was stupid. Who says that? Keith thought. “Save me some dishes…” he said aloud under his breath, to hear how dumb—to him—it sounded.

The phone buzzed twenty minutes later. Keith was staring at the ceiling, and he saw it illuminate. He frantically grabbed the phone. His eyes had a hard time adjusting to the brightness of the screen.

10:01 PM — Freddie: That’s great. where at?

Keith didn’t feel an interest in replying.

His phone buzzed again.

10:02 PM — Richieeee: Why? Bummer.

Keith must have fallen asleep. He still had the phone in his hands. It startled him a little when it buzzed again and the room illuminated.

10:53 PM — cHloe: LOLlolololol! ur funny : ]b

An hour into his shift, Keith became exasperated and went out on a ten-minute break to get some air. The extractor fan was acting out and the kitchen was excessively muggy.

“One of them days, sweetie,” said Sylvia, the woman with the heavy blue eyeliner. “Care for a smoke?”

“No thank you. I don’t smoke.”

“Good for you, baby. I buried Meemaw with cancer, Sissy, and Aunt Pearl,” she said, exhaling smoke with every word. “These things will get you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t be sorry. I’m making my choice. Uncle Chuck lived to be a hundred, and he smoked every day of his life and had vodka and sausage for breakfast.”

“Where is Chloe?” said Keith abruptly.

“She don’t come on Sundays.”

“Huh.”

Sylvia studied Keith’s expression, taking a big drag at her cigarette. “She is a pretty thing, ain’t she?”

“I gotta go back inside,” said Keith.

The shift felt twice as long as the one the day before. Chloe’s voice was not breaking the monotony. Instead, Sylvia’s forced husky laughter after every silly statement she made—followed by “I’m kidding, I’m kidding—you know I like to play”—added a rough layer to the dissonance of the kitchen.

Keith’s feet ached after the shift. It was a terribly muggy night. He stripped to his briefs and laid on his bed with no sheets on. Brown was in his room watching TV, and Keith felt increasingly more comfortable around him. The more time he spent with him, the more he softened towards him.

Keith felt compelled to find the best in Mr. Brown, and he felt safe and at home—something that he had never experienced before. Only his former boss at the bookstore had ever offered a sense of stability and confidence. Keith spoke to him about everything—though primarily in the form of answering questions.

Mr. Brown was rough enough with Keith that it felt familiar to him. He had never known family love that was untroubled.

Keith heard Mr. Brown go out to the kitchen.

“Good night!” Mr. Brown said.

“Night, sir.”

She said to save her number. I can write her, Keith thought.

9:49 PM — Keith: Missed you at work.

Keith fell asleep close to midnight. There was no reply.

Chapter 10: Unfaithful

“Body! Are you going to eat your fries?” asked Richard. “Body! Hello? Anyone there?” He waved his hands at Keith; there was no acknowledgment. Richard started eating the fries. “What’s with you lately?”

Keith had not seen Chloe at work again. He sent her a text saying, I hope you are okay—which he regretted having done. It had been four days. He wondered if she only worked Friday and Saturday. He could have asked, but he was afraid his interest in her would show.

“It’s a girl.”

“You’re pregnant?”

“No, fool,” said Keith. “It’s a girl—the reason why I have not been acting like myself. I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Who is this mystery girl?” asked Freddie with intrigue, putting more ketchup on Keith’s fries.

“I met her at work. I have only seen her once. I would not have told Robert I would work as much if I had known she was not there that often,” said Keith. He was moving around some dried-out, cold mac and cheese on his plate. “She is perfect,” he exhaled.

“I know the feeling, Body,” said Richard with a mouthful. “Kendra, my future wife—I can’t stop thinking about her. She saw me the other day.”

“Did you speak to her?” bluntly asked Keith.

“Of course not! Are you crazy?”

“I’m pretty sure you are supposed to meet your spouse before marrying them,” said Freddie.

“Easy for you to say, Casablanca,” said Richard, his eyes looking over his glasses straight at Freddie.

“It’s Casanova,” corrected Keith softly.

“Whatever, Casablanca, Casanova, same difference. They all want you!”

“Ok, Richie, breathe,” said Keith, putting a hand on Richard’s shoulder. He could see the fire in his eyes igniting.

“I’m getting tired of it,” said Richard.

“Ok, here we go. What have I done now? Did I forget to put powder on my stinky shoes?” Freddie was uncharacteristically elevated. “Did I forget to put my peanut butter spoon in the sink?”

“No! No! No!” Richard’s voice crescendoed. “It’s easy for you because they all think you are attractive.” Richard stood up and slapped the table. “I’m Black, and Body is unfortunate!”

Ouch, thought Keith. Freddie did not respond.

There was a pause. Richard sat down again and took the whole plate of Keith’s fries.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” finally said Freddie.

“Oh, here we go again. Don’t come to me with that act,” said Richard, chewing aggressively.

“No, wait!” Keith stopped Freddie from replying. “Enough.” Unconsciously, his back straightened, and he pushed his chest forward before speaking. He looked at Richard. “I don’t think he realizes it.” He then turned to Freddie. “I wish I looked like you. You think everyone is kind, but they are kind to you, because they yearn to know you, because you are a good-looking dude—and you can’t help that. Own it.”

Only Richard’s loud chewing could be heard for thirty seconds.

“I just think people are nice,” said Freddie, sheepishly.

“Whatever. You two fix your problems—I’m getting tired of it. I have enough on my own.” Keith stood up, taller than he had ever been. “By the way, her name is Chloe. You know, the girl—the one I’m not giving birth to.”

Wash, rinse, sanitize, Keith could hear her voice as he performed each task. He thought he was hallucinating when he heard her voice in the real world, outside his head.

“Grilled cheese, coffee, and a strawberry shake, Silvie—thank you, darling.”

“Uh, just a shake. Chocolate, or whatever,” said another voice—a male voice.

Keith dripped water and soap all the way to the opening to see if that was Chloe; but what he thought was a good idea proved wrong when the double swinging doors slammed on his forehead as Silvia came in to put the order in and gave him away.

He reached for his forehead with his right hand, covered by a soapy glove, and gave a small wave with his left.

Chloe barely turned her chin towards Keith, lifted her right hand, waved with her fingers, and cracked a partial smile, holding back a laugh.

“That’s her boyfriend, you know?” said Silvia. “The mayor’s son—old money.”

Keith could not erase that half smile from his mind the rest of his shift, which concluded early.

It was nearing sunset, and cool was descending from the mountain when Keith sat down on the granite bench—his throne—to eat the BLT wrap Silvia had put away for him.

“I messed up the order, sweetie—hate to throw it away,” she had said with a suspicious wink.

Why does everyone give me food? Keith wondered.

The quiet in the crisp evening was interrupted by the purring engine of the Impala slowly going up the hill. Keith heard the gravel crunching towards him, and he moved to the side to allow space on the bench—he didn’t turn back.

“I thought I would find you here,” said Freddie. “You didn’t answer your phone.” He sat next to Keith.

“I was at work.”

“I know. I went to pick you up after work.”

“You did?”

“Yes, I did. I wanted to talk to you, and just hang out.”

“I left early.”

The cicadas were loud in the distance. The city lights began to blend with the purple and burgundy from the darkening sky.

“I think I met Chloe,” said Freddie.

“How would you know it was her?”

“It had to be. She looked like a girl I think you would like.”

“What do you know about what I like?”

“She was wearing a pink blouse, with her shoulders showing.”

“Yup, that’s her.”

“She was with that douchebag from school, don’t know his name. I think he plays tennis—like, professionally.”

“He is the mayor’s son,” said Keith. “What did you want to talk about?” He changed the subject.

“About earlier.”

“What’s there to talk about? Did you and Richard fix your problems?”

“I don’t think we ever will.”

“I hope you will,” said Keith. “He is just jealous.”

“But jealous of what? He is stinking rich, I know it,” said Freddie. “I hear him talking to his parents. He sounds like a different person when he is on the phone with them. Like a really rich person, you know?”

“It’s not about that,” said Keith. “He is loud, and nervous, and erratic, and you are the opposite.”

Both young men looked out at the horizon. Their eyes never met. Their elbows were close, yet there seemed to be so much distance between them.

“Growing up, you know… my sister had challenges,” said Freddie. “There was an accident. She stayed too long under water when I was supposed to be looking after her. I couldn’t hold my breath long enough to get her,” he paused. “She was never the same, and it was my fault. My parents hate me. She was special and then she wasn’t, and I wish it had been me under the water.” He pulled on nasal drip and continued. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”

Keith wished he had something wise, or warm, to say; instead, he went for the easy, “I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s okay. I just…” Freddie’s words didn’t come out. “Am I for real good-looking?” He let out a goofy laugh.

“Painfully—yes. Only a secret to you.”

“Do I have a chance with you?” joked Freddie.

“Like hell you don’t,” said Keith. He adjusted his tone to be more serious and asked, “Are you…?”

Freddie laughed and gave Keith a side hug. “No, I’m not.”

“Not that I would care, I don’t have a problem with that.”

Keith’s phone beeped loudly in his pocket. He pulled it out to see what it was.

“Is that Richard?” asked Freddie. “I’m not with you.”

“Yes, you are,” said Keith, “And no—it’s Chloe.”

“What does it say?”

Keith showed Freddie the message.

8:07 PM cHloe: hope ur head is a-okay, lololol. C u at work tomorrow. xoxo

“What do I say?”

“I don’t know, ‘see you at work?’”

And so Keith did. And there was no reply after.

The following day, at work, Chloe acted casual and charming—or so Keith thought. But what would have been electric had been insulated by seeing her with her boyfriend.

He tried to be dry towards her, but it was impossible. She had gravity that pulled at Keith’s heartstrings in a constant rhythm.

“Alright, sweetie, see you tomorrow,” said Sylvia to Chloe. “Keith, thank you for staying with her, baby. I really have to go.”

Sylvia walked past Keith on her way out. “Don’t have children,” she said bitterly under her breath as she looked for her lighter in her purse. A cigarette was already hanging from her lips, staining it with red lipstick. “Make sure she does not close alone. The padlock on the back is real stubborn—give it a good press.”

And so, Keith was left in the kitchen with Chloe to close. He sat in a booth as she took inventory for Robert in the pantry.

“Where is all the Splenda going? I swear it was just yesterday that I ordered some.”

“You weren’t at work yesterday.”

Chloe poked out of the pass-through.

“I know that, silly. I’m just saying it keeps running out—you are funny.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Well, you are different. Also, you don’t really have to wait for me to leave. I close all the time.”

“I told Miss Sylvia I would.”

“I know, but you really don’t have to—I’m fine. I'm packing heat.”

“What does that mean?”

“I got a pistol in my purse.”

“Shit, really?”

“What? I know my way around one. I’ve been around guns all my life. My dad was military. I learned how to shoot before I could talk. Your dad never took you hunting?” asked Chloe as she counted items in the fridge.

“No, he didn’t,” said Keith, turning his head to see out the window.

That would have required for me to meet him, thought Keith.

Chloe looked at her phone and smiled as she replied. Keith wondered if she was talking to her boyfriend. Her dimples looked so beautiful, highlighted by the glow of the cell phone—or so Keith thought. He wondered if that is how she looked every time she typed LOL.

“Here is the thing,” said Chloe, putting away her phone. “A friend of mine asked if she could come over. I didn’t know Sylvia would ask you to stay. She just parked out back, and she is coming in. Please don’t tell Bobby—he would probably have a fit. You really can go if you want to. We’ll be fine.”

“But I said…”

“I know what you said,” interrupted Chloe, her head tilted to the side, her tone almost teetering on patronizing. “Look, you can stay. You can be our bodyguard, but you can’t tell Bobby a thing,” she said as she walked to where Keith was sitting. “She is drunk—she just broke up with her boyfriend. I’m gonna make some coffee, we are going to make a couple of shakes, and put every dollar bill I have from today’s tips into the jukebox. And don’t worry, I’ll pay for whatever we consume.”

“Sounds fun…”

The words barely left Keith’s lips before a loud banging on the metal door startled both of them.

“Bitch, let me in!”

“Her name is Kendra—you are going to love her. I hate you have to meet her like this,” warned Chloe as she went to open the door.

“Oh, girlie!” said Chloe as Kendra melted into her chest, sobbing. “He is not worth all that. Come on, we’ll fix you up.”

Keith could not believe it—Richard’s Kendra, whom Richard had never met, was there. He felt so intimidated, and he curled his head inwards, like trying to put his forehead to his chest.

“Hey, Tucker-trucker!” shouted Kendra at Keith.

Keith uncurled his head, like a turtle coming out of his shell, and did a small wave.

“Oh shit, you are not Tucker. Who are you?” said Kendra.

“This is my friend Keith. He works here. He is making sure we are safe when we leave.”

“Oh, hi, Keith. I’m Kendra. I just broke up with my boyfriend because he cheated on me with, like, every girl that exists,” she said, sitting across the table in Keith’s booth.

“He does not sound nice,” said Keith.

“Right? He wasn’t. I mean—really—he was. He was actually very nice. Maybe too nice, to too many other girls too.”

Chloe was pulling out things from the fridge, getting a pot of coffee going, and digging the dollar bills out of her purse.

“Are you nice to girls, Rick?”

“It’s Keith.”

“Oh my God, you are so funny,” she said to Keith, and then turned. “Chloe, he is funny. Way funnier than Tucker—he is always so serious.”

Chloe looked at Keith and rolled her eyes.

“Here, play some music,” said Chloe, handing Kendra a stack of dollar bills.

Kendra queued Unfaithful by Rihanna six consecutive times and wailed to the lyrics as she alternated between a strawberry shake and black coffee.

“Rick, do you think I should forgive him, maybe?”

Chloe was smiling, seeing Keith interact with Kendra, as she continued taking inventory.

“My mother has been cheated on many times, and she always forgave them, and they always did it again,” said Keith.

“Oh my God, you are an angel. You are exactly who I needed tonight, Keith. You are a real gentleman,” she slurped the last of the shake. “Gentle, man. I guess a gentleman is supposed to be gentle, don’t you think?”

“What are y’all talking about here? Having all the fun without me?” said Chloe as she finally joined them, sitting down next to Kendra, who laid her head on Chloe’s shoulder.

“Chloe, why had you not introduced me to this gentle man?”

“I just met him, silly.”

“He knows a lot, about a lot of things. Y’all must have the best talks. He was just telling me about how men cheated on his mother.”

Keith was just looking out the window.

“I don’t think we’ve had much chance to talk to each other past half-eaten omelettes and stuck-on lasagna,” said Chloe, studying Keith, as if seeing him for the first time.

“Oh my God!” said Kendra.

“What is it?” asked Chloe.

“You are that guy that hangs out with the weird guy that always puffs up his chest when I walk by,” said Kendra. “And the other one—the one that looks like he came out of an Abercrombie catalog,” she turned to Chloe. “He is… hot.”

“What? What are you talking about?” asked Chloe.

“My friends, Richard and Freddie. Freddie is the hot one she is talking about.”

“I guess I’ve never met these friends,” said Chloe.

“We just met,” said Keith.

“Touché,” said Chloe.

“Do you guys even, like, do something in Woodruff?” asked Kendra. She did not sound any more sober than when she first arrived.

“Wait, you go to Woodruff?” asked Chloe.

“Yes,” said Keith.

“Oh my word. Why didn’t you say?”

“You never asked.”

“I’m Joy’s daughter,” said Chloe. “I’m starting freshman year this winter term in Jenkins. Mom said I was too young to start. I was homeschooled, I’ve been done with school for two years.”

And suddenly the beautiful voice made sense. A mermaid’s voice, like her mother’s, thought Keith.

The rest of the night included vomit, Lysol, breath mints, and more Rihanna. Chloe hardly said goodbye to Keith, as she was preoccupied getting Kendra into her Jeep—which Chloe drove.

“You are a wonderful man, Keith,” Kendra had said. “I wish I could meet a man like you,” and she kissed his cheek.

Being called by his name, and not Rick, made him feel special, seen. On his walk home, Keith could not stop thinking of Chloe and how little he knew about her. He thought to send a text to Richard but realized it was past midnight.

What just happened? Keith wondered, as he thought back on each and every moment as he walked back home, cloaked by night.

12:37 AM cHloe: thnks 4 tonite. U really were a gentleman. Xoxo

Chapter 11: Fair Weather

Saturday night the boys stopped at the Train Stop when Keith was leaving work.

“Yo, Body, get in,” Richard had said. Trevor was in the back seat of the Impala.

“You guys go have fun, I’m too tired,” said Keith.

What they didn’t know is that he was indeed too tired—too tired of their back-and-forth. Keith felt something in his gut to see them laughing and acting out like nothing had happened after their word explosion in the cafeteria the day before—and Trevor was there. He knows I hate to be called Body, why would he do it in front of Trevor? Keith had thought.

Work was rewarding for Keith. Robert agreed to pay him weekly, and he shared a very small percentage of the tip jar. Georgia allowed for their servers to be paid the minimum federal wage for tipped employees, which was $2.13, but Robert felt disgusted by those who did. “That’s criminal, no one can live on tips alone.”

And so, he paid a fair wage, which encouraged servers to perform, which encouraged customers to tip.

“Look, I’ve had a lot of single mothers working for me through the years, I’ve had students that have gone from the hood to being a doctor. I don’t have the heart for that two-dollar bullshit. Kid, I ain’t missing a thing. I gotta leave it all when I go to meet my Jesus, might as well share it now. These cold fingers will turn loose of everything they got when I go. And hell, I ain’t sharing nothing—y’all are earning it!” Robert told Keith when they talked about how much he would get paid.

Keith loved Robert’s long-winded monologues. He felt admiration for such a gruff-acting character that had already shown him so much kindness through the simplest of acts—he redefined masculinity for Keith.

It was the first noon that brought mildly cool weather. Girls in school were wearing diminutive denim shorts, with the threads hanging out, and oversized plaid shirts, and baseball caps. It was as if they had already agreed on the clothing ensembles for when the weather turned.

Richard had arrived at the cafeteria an hour later to save a seat on the brick patio. “It’s gonna be full of hot chicks,” he had said, “which means my wife will be there.”

It was like a celebration of the new season. Everyone was in a great mood.

The brick patio was indeed crowded. It overlooked the pond that the swans guarded. The hundred-year-old weeping willow dipped its branches over the water and danced in the light breeze with tranquility. Its trunk had been a shoulder to broken hearts, a back to daydreamers reading literary fiction, a wall for first-time kisses, and a shelter for stressed-out students before a test.

“Body, Trevor is a beast—you would not believe it,” said Richard.

Keith didn’t comment.

Freddie was not smiling back at every girl the way he used to; he was simply locking eyes.

“He had half the bottle by himself, I swear,” carried on Richard. “I thought he was going to be flat on his ass, but he just got funnier and funnier. Freddie, remember the way he flipped the tire down the ravine?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, oh, everyone quiet. Here she comes.” And Richard puffed up his chest and pulled on his shirt.

He looks so stupid when he does that, thought Keith.

Kendra was wearing oversized designer sunglasses and a mustard yellow plaid shirt with only a couple of buttons closed.

Freddie stared right into her shades with intensity, as if he was trying to break through and see behind the crystals.

“Hey, Keith,” Kendra said kindly as she walked by with her tray.

“Hi,” said Keith softly, with a half-smile.

“See you around,” she said. And then she looked at Freddie and smiled.

Kendra went to her table and vividly greeted everyone. Tucker, Chloe’s boyfriend, was sitting there. He had a sports coat and shorts, penny loafers with no socks, and a big watch. Dick, thought Keith.

Richard’s eyes were opened twice their usual size. “Uh, Body, care to explain?”

“She is Chloe’s best friend,” said Keith.

“Who is Chloe? Why does she know your name?” Richard’s tone elevated. He spoke the last few words through clenched teeth.

“You never listen,” said Keith.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Chloe is the girl he likes, from work,” said Freddie.

“Lower your voice, Freddie,” said Keith. “Please, you guys. Her boyfriend is sitting right there.”

“My wife has a… boyfriend?”

“No, Chloe’s. Kendra had a boyfriend. They’re over now—we think.”

“We think?” said Richard. “Since when do you include yourself in her thought?”

“It’s a long story,” said Keith.

“Well, I got all day, Body.”

“I don’t,” said Keith, standing up. “I gotta go to class. See you guys later.”

Keith’s opportunities for interaction with Chloe kept increasing. Sylvia often took advantage of Keith’s willingness to stay later to help Chloe with closing. Kendra frequently visited and started developing a sweet friendship with Keith.

“You are so wise, Keith. Where have you been all my life?” she had said.

“In Lakeland.”

“And funny! Isn’t he funny, Chloe?”

Kendra could tell that Keith was infatuated with Chloe. But the closer that Keith got to Chloe, the further he felt. Becoming friends only meant that he was no boyfriend material, and he never stood a chance anyway—or so Keith thought.

I’m nothing like Tucker, he often thought. Why does she even bother sending me nice texts?

Keith’s hardship and stories became increasingly candid—to Chloe, and Kendra, whose only struggles growing up had been not getting the right color designer bag for Christmas—Keith was a direct connection to a world they only had ever heard existed somewhere.

“But, wait a minute. Why did your mom not kick him out after that?” had asked Kendra.

“I dunno… I guess the only worse thing than being unhappy with someone was being unhappy alone,” said Keith.

Chloe mostly listened, with an open heart and empathy—almost achingly. Kendra liked the details, and the whole story. But Chloe would just look at Keith, as if she could see past his newfound storyteller voice.

“Why do you even work, anyway?” asked Keith to Chloe one day. “It’s not like you need the money.”

“I like it. It’s something I do for myself. I’m tired of having everything handed to me.”

“Not me,” said Kendra. “You couldn’t pay me to work.”

Chloe and Keith laughed.

“What?” asked Kendra, clueless.

“That’s kind of the idea of working, for most people, Kay-kay…” said Chloe. “To get paid?

“Oh, right!” she said, still not understanding.

At school, Kendra was polite, and she always waved, but she never just talked to Keith like she always did at the diner during closing hours. Keith understood, and never expected anything from her.

Personal studies shifted beneath Keith’s feet without his awareness. It became Keith’s favorite day of the week. Chloe always worked Friday, and he got to attend personal studies.

“Come here, Keith,” said Dr. Joy. “Stand right here.” She was standing in front of the mirror.

“What?”

Dr. Joy was smiling. “Notice anything different?”

“Not really.”

“Your face—take a good look at your face,” encouraged Dr. Joy.

“Do I have something?”

“Opposite—you are missing something.”

“What?” And he began smiling, a bit nervously and playfully.

“Your frown,” said Dr. Joy proudly. “It’s gone.” And she walked to stand next to Keith. “When I met you, your brow was always furrowed with concern; and now, you shine—I see you, Keith. But most importantly, I think you see yourself.”

“I’m done with her anyway. I’ll look for better,” Richard drunkenly said about Kendra one day when they were out.

The boys had fallen into a good pattern as their friendship became more superficial. Trevor occasionally joined them, and he always took the spotlight. Keith became an observer mostly, and less of a participant. Trevor worked for Freddie and Richard because he was shallow and casual.

“Tucker is going to the lake house with his parents for the weekend,” said Chloe. “I hate to miss the opening day at the fair.”

“What fair?” asked Keith.

“Oh my God, we should all go,” said Kendra. “Yes, we are doing it.”

“Where is it that we are going?”

“To the fair. It’s a big deal here. Last weekend of October. Back in the day, they would have a fair to celebrate the harvest, trade livestock, show new technologies and such. It had to do with weather then, and people would say, ‘it’s getting to be fair weather,’ so that’s how the town got renamed.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Kendra. “Anyway, it will be fun. We’ll eat corndogs and cotton candy, and we’ll spike the punch. We are living our own small-town Americana movie.”

“I don’t know, y’all should go—I don’t like clowns.”

“There are no clowns, silly! We need a strong man to look after us—Sylvia would not allow it if we said we were going by ourselves,” said Chloe. “Please?”

Keith couldn’t say no to those eyes.

“Alright… but no clowns or scary rides,” said Keith.

Keith noticed in the mirror that his clothes were fitting more comfortably. He no longer had to pull on his shirt to separate the fabric from his abdomen, and his chest looked strong. Freddie had insisted that he start working out with them a couple of weeks prior.

“Looking good, son. Who is the girl?” said Mr. Brown, who was standing at Keith’s doorway wearing a poorly tied housecoat and briefs.

“No girl—just a friend,” said Keith.

“My wife—may she rest in peace—she was also just a friend,” said Mr. Brown, shaking his index finger at Keith. “She was just a friend until one day she wasn’t.”

“This is different.”

“How so?” defied Mr. Brown, crossing his arms.

“She is too good for me, and she has a boyfriend, and he is rich—and she is rich too.”

“Well, that has never stopped a man from dreaming,” said Brown. “I think you are quite a catch, if you ask me.”

Keith wondered if he should have been talking to Mr. Brown about Chloe all along. He realized that now that he was fonder of Mr. Brown, he was spending significantly less time with him.

“Maybe you should bring her around sometime,” said Mr. Brown, “so that I can see who this mystery girl might be.”

“I don’t know, sir. I don’t think so.”

“What? Are you embarrassed or something?” Mr. Brown took two steps forward. “Never be embarrassed unless you truly have something to be embarrassed about. Living in a trailer, working hard, doing better for yourself than your mom raised you to be—there is nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“That’s alright. I was young too,” said Mr. Brown. “Unless she is dog-ugly, then don’t bring her—ha!”

“She is far from that.”

Keith sat on the back of Kendra’s Jeep on their way to the fair. The air was cool and dry, and there was a lingering smell of hardwood smoke. People were burning their fireplaces even if it meant to do it with the windows and door open. The town came alive with charm and an autumn feel. Some trees had just begun to change with the sudden cold snap.

Chloe’s perfume and shampoo smell were swirling past Keith as the wind blew through the topless Jeep. Both Kendra and Chloe had oversized hoodies that they clasped on the sleeves.

Kendra had burnt a CD with songs for the road. The girls sang to A Thousand Miles by Vanessa Carlton, and Bubbly by Colbie Caillat; and, of course, Unfaithful by Rihanna—which made Kendra smile when she heard Keith chew up a few of the lyrics out loud.

“Did you get a haircut?” asked Chloe when she saw Keith lit by the warm lights of the welcome sign.

“No, just showered.”

“Well, you should do it more often—it looks good on you,” she joked.

Kendra came back with their entry bracelets.

“Ok, my lovelies, we have all-access.”

“How much was it?” asked Keith.

“Nothing, my treat. I love the fair, and I love hanging out with you two. We have access to all the rides—you can get me a cotton candy.”

Keith had only been to a fair once. The owner of the bookstore had taken him after learning he had never been. His mother had promised on multiple occasions, but she always had an excuse why it would be better to just stay home.

Keith was smiling. He followed behind Chloe and Kendra like a bodyguard. Kendra was in a silly mood, as was Chloe. There was something lively and sweet about going to a place where everyone went with the intention of having a good time.

“Ok, time for the Ferris wheel,” said Chloe.

“Uh, no ma’am, I don’t think so. You said no scary rides,” said Keith.

“Scary? That’s not scary,” said Kendra. “That’s scary,” she said, pointing at The Zipper.

“Right, that one is scary too, just a lot scarier. Like the Ferris wheel realized its full potential for terror,” said Keith.

“Come on,” said Chloe, holding Keith’s hand and leading him to the Ferris wheel.

Chloe’s hand felt so small next to his own. He wondered if she could feel his pulse elevate in his wrist from the softness of her hand on his. He wished he could put his lips on her hand, just gently, just for a second—and confess to her his attraction. Is this love? he wondered. He felt ashamed for allowing his infatuation to develop into something unlike anything he had felt before.

Their cart was tilting on the side of Keith, even though both girls were sitting on the opposite side of him. The Ferris wheel began elevating, and Keith grew nervous. Once they were past seven feet, his breathing became short, and like a magnet, his hands found familiar territory pressing against his eyes, wishing it could stop, wishing he could disappear.

“Keith,” said Chloe. She put her hands on his legs. “Keith, it’s okay, we are safe, open your eyes,” and she grabbed his hands and pulled them down, resting them on his legs.

If the world had been upside down, Chloe could have flipped it back in that moment—or at least, so Keith thought. From panic came ultimate bliss, and calm, and the beginnings of tender sexual arousal—one which connected every nerve, to every memory, to every sensation. For a second, he forgot that Kendra was there, or that Chloe had a boyfriend. But that second was interrupted when Keith looked down.

“Aaaaahh!!!!” he hollered.

Chloe and Kendra laughed, and they joined him in hollering.

After the Ferris wheel, Keith agreed to do all kinds of rides with them. They loved to hear him scream. Keith enjoyed being amusing to them, even if it was at his expense.

“I wasn’t scared, you were!” said Keith.

“Uh, you are darn right I was scared. That was horrible,” said Kendra.

It was like a cousins’ reunion—a group of young people remembering what it’s like to be a child. Keith was not part of their world, but he felt like he belonged.

“What up?” a deep voice said, approaching. A semi-tall, muscular young man, accompanied by three other men of similar build, stepped forward.

“Hi, and bye,” said Kendra, rolling her eyes at her ex-boyfriend and turning away. “You and I are over.”

“This is a new low for you, Kay-kay. What are you doing hanging out with this fucking loser?”

“Get lost, Jordan!” spat Chloe.

“No one spoke to you, Chloe. Does Tucker know you are here, with this fucking freak?”

“That’s none of your business—goodbye!” said Chloe.

Keith was looking straight to the ground. He was the same size as the man that was provoking them, but he felt so much smaller.

“She is not interested,” said Keith, barely loud enough for Jordan to hear.

“What did you say, freak?”

“Keith, stop. It’s not worth it,” said Kendra.

“Yeah, Keith, stop,” mocked Jordan.

“I said she is not interested,” said Keith a little louder, looking up just with his eyes, his face still almost parallel to the ground.

Jordan walked to meet Keith, his chest out, chin up. Keith could feel his abdomen against his. He began breathing heavier. He never looked up or said a word, though he wished he could.

The face-off only lasted around five seconds before Jordan self-declared himself the winner.

“That’s what I thought. Do what she says… freak,” said Jordan as his closing statement.

The ride back was quiet. The wind rolling by Chloe still smelled of Chanel No. 5, but it was no longer lively to Keith. All color and warmth had been stripped from the night.

Kendra dropped Keith off at Mr. Robert’s service station. Keith didn’t want them to drive him home—he was indeed embarrassed, as Mr. Brown had thought.

He walked in the cold night, with his head down, and the frown on his brow more pronounced than ever before. He thought of Chloe holding his hand, taking him to the Ferris wheel, and all the happy memories that he could have had—all stolen by reality, once more.

Chapter 12: Guts

Saturday morning Keith woke up at 5 AM to the loud noises of ammunition being sorted.

“Are we going to war?” asked Keith, rubbing sleep off his eyes.

“No, it's deer season. Time to put meat in the freezer,” said Mr. Brown. “That’s what you should be eating, not that shit that Robert feeds you.”

“What does it taste like?”

“It depends, tastes kind of like a nosebleed sometimes.”

“Sound delicious,” said Keith.

“Ever been hunting?”

“No, never.”

“No day like the present. I could use your help—bad shoulder.”

“I don’t know how to use a gun.”

“There’s nothing to it. Eight year olds are probably already in the deer blind with their dads,” said Mr. Brown. “It’s getting cool, the deer are going to be moving around.”

Keith served a glass of water and sat on the table with Mr. Brown, still groggy. He thought of the time at the fair, his memories flickered red and yellow. A confluence of conflicting emotions clashing. I didn’t stand up for them, he thought. They probably think I’m a freak too, because I am. The touch of her hand, and her laugh. That was the best day of my life—how pathetic. Then, Chloe’s voice, like a mermaid’s reprised in his head, ‘Your dad never took you hunting?’

“I would like to go,” Keith said.

“Attaboy!” Mr. Brown said enthusiastically.

They hunted in the glade, Brown’s special place.

“Are you sure the owner doesn’t mind?” Keith had asked.

“For the tenth time: he doesn’t,” Mr. Brown whispered with exasperation. “And stop talking, for fox sake’s, you are going to give us away.”

“Sorry.”

“Hush, now.”

It was eerily quiet. Keith was not used to it. His right side was making full contact with Mr. Brown. He could feel the rhythm of the air moving through Brown’s lungs, smell his breath and the oil on his scalp. Keith’s stomach made sporadic noises which felt louder to him than ever—perhaps the gas he was withholding, or the nerves. His fingers ached from the cold, and his nose was dripping.

“Relax. Take a full breath. And when your sights are right behind his shoulder, take the shot,” Mr. Brown softly whispered as the eight-pointer majestic buck crunch a few twigs and leave beneath his weight.

“Keith, are you ready?” he whispered, warning.

The recoil from the gun was stronger than Keith anticipated. The deer dropped before Keith could acknowledge what had taken place.

“Clean shot, boy! You are a natural!” Mr. Brown celebrated, pulling Keith to his chest by wrapping his arm around him.

Keith ears were still ringing as he felt Brown pulling him close. He noticed the blood running out of the deer as life left its eyes. The buck fell to its side, making a thump that neither men acknowledged.

What have I done, Keith thought as he saw the lifeless animal laying at the edge of the glade.

Mr. Brown cut the belly of the deer and insisted that Keith pulled out the guts.

Though Keith did not understand the praise he was receiving from Mr. Brown for having taken a life, he warmed up to it on the ride home.

“Let me take you to the Train Stop for lunch, my treat,” Keith had said.

“Look at you, deer slayer. I’m making a man out of you—I’ll accept.”

They dropped the deer off at the processing place before making their way back. The young fella at the country store on 85 who made the sausage on  had agreed to take care of if for him—in exchange for some of the back strap.

Mr. Brown ordered food without consideration to Keith's budget. Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground by Willie Nelson played on the Jukebox.

“That was her favorite song,” Mr. Brown said.

Keith remained silent, eating his food. He knew who Mr. Brown was talking about—his deceased wife. He wanted to say something, or ask how he felt, but he thought a man perhaps ought to not ask such things.

There was a new sense of camaraderie that was unexpected—rooted in shared discomfort, a mutual unspoken understanding.

The cool morning turned into a humid blazing hot afternoon.

A strong smell of death was seeping from underneath the trailer, made alive by the heat of the day and the condensation from the cold snap.

“What’s that stench?” Keith asked pulling his shirt to cover his nose.

“What? I can’t smell,” said Mr. Brown.

“It stinks like dead rat or something, it’s awful!” Keith complained.

Mr. Brown went around sniffing the corners of the common area.

“I can’t smell a thing, you must be still smelling the guts of the deer,” said Mr. Brown.

“It’s coming from underneath,” Keith said in a voice muffled by his t-shirt.

Mr. Brown thought for a few seconds, and he finally spoke, “ I know what it is. It’s that damn opossum that has been eating my cactus. I forgot all about setting the trap.”

No, no, no, Keith thought, Momma.

“It’s been about a week since I set the trap,” Mr. Brown added. “You are going to have to go under to check it, boy. It about killed me to go under there to set it.”

Momma’s closed eyes stayed with Keith. He could have cried as he carried the opossum he had been feeding to a garbage bin. Her putrid smell and her lifeless expression turned Keith’s stomach and tainted the early memories of the day in which death of an animal had made him feel like a man.

PART 2       SHARON

Chapter 13: Maroon Stains

Sharon had been sober for seventy-eight days this Sunday. The day that Keith left (August 10) she nearly choked on her vomit while sleeping with her head dangling from the couch. She crushed some of Keith’s Adderall and snorted it, she consumed nearly two fifths of vodka, and had lousy sex with Bruce, her perpetual ex-boyfriend.

Her new job bagging groceries was the longest work streak she had accomplished in many years. Her voyeuristic side enjoyed seeing what people were taking home.
You ain’t tricking nobody, sweetheart, she often thought as she packed multiple calorie-free drinks with frozen pizzas, candy bars, and copious amounts of chips and ranch.

Sharon’s judgement of others was detached from her personal struggles. She often wondered if people could see the desperation in her eyes as she bagged the wine in brown paper bags. It was to be said, no one did a better job ensuring the safety of the bottles than her.

“City policy, ma’am, can’t sell you that medicine till after 4 PM on a Sunday,” said the clerk to the woman with the huge sunglasses.

“It’s close enough, sell me the damn bottle!” she barked.

“Ma’am, Imma have to ask you to leave the store,” said the clerk.

Sharon followed her to the parking lot with the excuse to collect some carts.

“Warm Springs sells wine all day on Sundays, 8 miles down that road,” said Sharon. “You are welcome,” and she winked.

To see another drowning was a reminder that she was now afloat. A selfish exercise of grandstanding and self-consolation.

“I miss it, Judy, so much—it’s not getting easier,” had said Sharon to her new friend from work.

“You mean, you miss him—your son. You have to remember why you had to stop, what you already done lost, girl.”

Every day felt like penance to Sharon, a purgatory of her own making in which hell was calling louder than heaven. With sobriety came lucidity, and torture. In the vacuum of the bottle there was no pain, no guilt, no consequence. The length of a day was a reminder of all the life she missed with Keith.

At home, in her 1980s single-wide, she had spent so much time cleaning the linoleum that the white in the paisley pattern had reemerged. She got rid of the love seat with the flowery upholstery that had accumulated so much soil it could almost grow real blooms. But crying on the new vinyl chair that had supplanted the love seat felt as miserable as crying on its predecessor—and at times even worse, because Keith was nowhere around to hold her hand as he did.

No, I won’t, Sharon thought as her hand gripped the cabinet handle where the wine was stored. She read Keith’s letter one more time, which she had taped to the inside of the door after she opened it.

Mom,

I am okay. Don’t come looking for me. Contrary to what you may believe, I do love you.

Keith

It had been seventy-eight days and she had probably seen that note over a hundred times. She had saved the best bottles—those that cost more than $7—in case she ever had a reason to celebrate; she could always moderate and not get drunk, or so Sharon thought.

When the telephone rang she jumped. “Lord, have mercy!” she shouted into the air.

“Sharon?” the voice said on the other side of the line, “I don’t want to be alone tonight. Mom is not doing well. I don’t think she has much time.”

“Bruce, I can’t. I’m not feeling strong today,” said Sharon, holding her chest.

“Come on, baby, please. I’ve given you enough space. We don’t have to do any of it,” he said, beggarly. “Please, baby, I need you. I just can’t be alone right now.”

Moderation proved to be a mirage, a falsehood not even Sharon believed as she told herself it was possible.

“Get the fuck out of here!” Sharon screamed as she angrily kicked Bruce out of her house

“You said she was not doing well and she is playing cards at your sister’s—get out!”

They were dancing closely to Send in the Clowns by Frank Sinatra when Bruce’s phone kept vibrating in his pocket. His sister was calling to ask about some trivial detail of their childhood their mother was recalling.

Once alone, Sharon did not stop. The bottle she had opened would go bad if she just left it open. At this point, she didn’t even care that the spill from earlier had begun to dry out on the linoleum, staining it with maroon.

Chapter 14: Past Due

Sharon didn’t hear the phone ring, or the three voicemails being recorded spanning three hours, crescendoing in tone.

It was 11:30 AM when she finally rubbed her eyes awake, as she kept trying to keep them inside her skull—or so Sharon felt. She leant heavily on the sink as she splashed cold water on her face and drank directly from the tap. The last gulp chased down into her system four aspirins and two Adderalls.

“Fuck me,” she said out loud.

Her diminutive shorts hung loosely on her bony body. She had fallen asleep with her bra on, leaving red marks under her breasts from the wires. She draped a shawl over her shoulders and sat on the entryway to smoke a cigarette.

While she was on the porch, the phone rang one more time.

“Piggly Wiggly,” the robotic voice announced.

The phone rang until the answering machine came on:

Hi, it’s Sharon, she could be heard.

And Keith! Keith’s adolescent voice said.

We are saving the world from an alien invasion, Keith’s voice added.

Never mind, you know what to do after the beep, Sharon’s voice finished.

And after the beep, the manager’s voice came through: “Don’t bother coming back. We all knew you couldn’t do it. Shame on you. Bruce came shopping early and told Judy not to expect you here. You two had a great night by the sound of it.”

The wet mascara stained Sharon’s hand as she wiped a tear. She was pulling long drags at her cigarette as if the smoke moving through her lungs was poison gas and it could speed up her death.

The post lady started to leave the stack of mail on Sharon’s rusted-out box, but instead she walked to hand her a stack of envelopes with several marked Past Due and Severely Past Due.

“It’s gonna rain, don’t want your mail to get wet,” she said as she handed the post.

“Thank you, but I couldn’t care less if it all flooded away, and I went down with it,” said Sharon.

As her hand reached for the liquor cabinet, she noticed an envelope that read: Woodruff Institute | Azalea Bursary. It was addressed to Keith. Sharon opened it in desperation. The contents were a statement of financial support received.

Oh, my baby, she thought. She pressed the papers to her chest as if she were holding a letter from Keith. “My baby is still in Georgia,” she said out loud.

Sharon was relatively familiar with Fairweather. She had spent nearly a year there before Keith was born attending frat parties, swimming topless in Lake Clarke, and posing in small clothing for a photography student.

What am I doing here? she thought. For the first time she was not late on her rent, and the place was fixed up, but she had just lost her job, and felt terribly alone. There were three days left in the month. This place is going to kill me, she thought. He said to not come looking for him, and I didn’t, and I wouldn’t be looking for him—I know where he is now.

“I have nothing without him,” she said.

Sharon left behind most of the condiments in the fridge; she only took the ketchup and the pickles. It was a struggle to leave all the wine in the cabinet; she nearly took a bottle. In the trunk of her old Camry she shoved all her clothes and shoes. The front seat was occupied by an oversized suitcase full of memorabilia, trinkets, and documents obstructing the side view mirror. Her makeup and personals were perfectly organized in a professional-grade pink and aluminum trunk.

Her hands gripped the steering wheel with strong resolution.

“Mommy is coming, baby,” she said as she pulled out of her driveway.

PART 3       KEITH

Chapter 15: Halloween

Keith had not seen Chloe or Kendra since the fair. Both girls had sent Keith a text asking, Are you okay?—to which he had not replied.

He confided in Freddie about the incident but asked him not to mention anything to Richard. Though he was sure his request had not been followed, given Richard’s behavior at the gym on Monday; he was making rabid-dog noises every time Jordan walked within a fifteen-foot radius—the laughter and the pointing only fed Richard’s Red Bull–ignited theatrics.

Then he wonders why they call us freaks, Keith had thought.

The students of Woodruff had already begun their classes to integrate partially with the students at Jenkins.

“Why does he not get graded the same way we do?” the petulant blonde boy had asked the professor on Keith’s first day. “Oh, that’s right, because he doesn’t go here. He is… different

“Quiet! You will respect Mr. Rayburn as an equal in this class,” had said the professor in return.

‘As an equal.’ The ‘as’ suggests exactly what they believe to be true—that I am not an equal, Keith had thought. Words matter, isn’t this English Literature class?

Most Woodruff students skipped their Jenkins classes. The anxiety they experienced was paralyzing. Dr. Joy had inadvertently created a perfect storm that had proven to be a much bigger challenge than she had anticipated.

Keith actually enjoyed his class; he had read most of the material while working at the bookstore. “You gotta start with the classics,” his former boss had told him.
Freddie had been garnering popularity amongst the Theater students. Richard never spoke of his class to them.

“I love Halloween,” Richard said. The boys were sitting on the brick patio after lunch. “This is the perfect day for it too, it has that scary feel to it. Right, Body?”

“If you say so,” said Keith. He noticed that Richard froze, looking past him.

“You boys have any room?” Kendra said, carrying a tray. “Late lunch for me today—crazy schedule today.” She pulled a chair and sat.

“What are you doing?” said Keith.

“Eating lunch, you?” said Kendra. “I’m so hungry.”

“They can see you,” said Keith softly, his eyes focused on the table at which Kendra usually sat.

“I know, I am not a ghost,” said Kendra, and began taking the first bites of her salad. “Oh, hi, I’m Kendra,” she introduced herself to Freddie and Richard, covering her mouth with her left hand.

“Richard, Newsome.”

“Hi, Richie,” said Kendra. “Nice to meet you, I feel like I already know you.”

“Freddie, Strauss.”

“Hi, I’m more of a Mahler girl myself.”

Freddie smiled, having no clue what her composer’s joke meant. Richard laughed, with a genuine laugh, like the ones that Keith had witnessed when it was only the two of them. Kendra noticed and smiled in return to Richard.

“So, what do you guys have planned for tonight? Any great costume ideas?”

“I don’t know, do we have a plan, gents?” Freddie took the lead.

“I gotta work,” said Keith, still shocked that Kendra would be okay being seen with him on campus. Her usual friends kept talking in secrecy and laughing.

“There will be plenty of time to get ready after work,” Kendra said, and then lowered her voice, noticing a school prefect walking by. “Huge party at the quarry.”

“Body, come on, it’s Halloween,” said Richard.

“What does Body mean? Is that your nickname?” asked Kendra.

“It’s not—only he uses it,” said Keith.

“Well, what does it mean, Richie?” asked Kendra.

Richard began scratching his palms and shaking his foot. “Well, before school started, Freddie and I—” said Richard. “Actually, Freddie, he was driving.”

“You were the copilot!” interrupted Freddie.

“We kinda ran over Keith,” said Richard.

“They didn’t actually run me over,” interrupted Keith.

“But we thought we did,” said Richard, his confidence returning. “So, we were trying to get rid of the body, and then Freddie called him Body, and I guess it stuck.”

“You two are criminals,” Kendra said, with an emotionless expression, almost accusatory.

“I told you, Freddie! We are criminals, we ought to be ashamed of ourselves!” Richard elevated in his usual theatrics.

Kendra began laughing. “I’m playing—of course you are not criminals, it was an accident!”

Richard sat back down.

“It’s a good story, but it sounds like only you like the name that came out of it,” said Kendra.

“Anyway, gentlemen… pleasure meeting you. I gotta run,” she said, picking up her tray.

“You two—I’m picking Keith up after work. You are welcome to ride with us or follow behind.”

“I never said I was going,” said Keith.

“Chloe is going dressed up with Tucker. I can’t go by myself.”

“You have your friends…” said Keith.

“What friends?” said Kendra, and smiled at Keith. “Eight-thirty. Dress up!”

Kendra’s attitude left a nearly palpable tranquillity after disruption, like dust settling with sun rays breaking through after the galloping of a gypsy horse which fades into the horizon.

Keith hated walking past the usual spot where he used to feed Momma. The sight of her face still haunted him. He remembered the raven the day he started school, tearing up the mouse apart, and he thought of that being Momma’s fate.

Great, he thought, when a raven landed on the mailbox of his unit with Mr. Brown. “Are you here for more Momma?” he said out loud—the raven did not move. A feeling of unease sparked across Keith’s flesh, igniting his body with an electric feeling of goosebumps. He shook his arms violently. “Cha! Go away!” Keith screamed at the raven.

Keith rang the bell to announce his arrival to Mr. Brown and opened the door to let himself in.

“Mr. Brown? Sir? I’m home.”

Keith went to his room to leave his backpack and noticed the raven had perched outside his window. He drew the curtain shut.

“Mr. Brown?” Keith repeated after he didn’t acknowledge his greeting.

The door to his room was wide open. Keith walked towards it slowly, announcing himself one more time. “I’m home.”

Keith pushed the door open, making a screech from the rusty hinges.

“Sir?” Keith asked with surprise and caution. Mr. Brown was sitting on the floor, naked, with a few dollar bills scattered, and a jar, counting receipts as if he were counting money.

“Seven, eight, ten, thirteen, twenty-one,” he was saying, nearly unintelligibly, as he shuffled the papers. “Seven, eight, ten, thirteen, twenty-one.”

Keith squatted down for his eyesight to meet Brown’s, which was focused on the paper he was shuffling, seemingly unaware of Keith’s closeness. Keith noticed Brown’s thinning hair, moist with sweat; his large testicles were resting on a dollar bill, and there was a cut with dried-out blood on his left thigh.

“…eight, ten, thirteen,” he kept counting.

“Mr. Brown, sir. Let me help you up,” said Keith, lending a shoulder, inviting Brown’s right arm to wrap around him.

“Thirteen, twenty-one,” said Mr. Brown, and finally looked up. “Help me up, then,” he said, disoriented but regaining his usual facial expression. He leant heavily on Keith as he helped him up.

Keith could feel Brown’s flesh against him; his body odor was strong, and there was no inhibition.

“Are you feeling okay?” Keith asked as he helped him to sit at the edge of the bed.

“Oh, I’m okay—hot, ain’t it?” said Mr. Brown in his usual tone, a bit weak, if something—or so Keith thought. “Hand me some underwear, will you?”

And so Keith did.

“Are you sure you are okay?” insisted Keith.

“Never been better,” said Brown, who was still leaning against the edge of the bed.

Keith couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Brown during his shift. He was concerned not about what had happened, but what could be happening. That’s not normal, he thought. Maybe Dr. Joy can advise me if she thinks there is something I should do.

Kendra had sent a text to Keith earlier saying, don’t forget to pack a costume in your bag for work, I’m going as Sailor Moon. Stupid party, how did I agree to it? he thought as he finished a big pile of dishes. Oh, no… wait, I didn’t agree to it, he told himself.

It was a mad rush at work. The servers were overwhelmed.

“Trick or treat my ass,” said Sylvia. “I’m about to go home. I’m about tired of this shit. Where is Chloe?” she asked Keith.

“I don’t know, is she working today?” said Keith.

“Robert said she would come at least from four to closing. It’s nearly five!” she said. “Speak of the devil…” said Sylvia as the back door opened.

Chloe was dressed like an angel of seduction, all in black. She was wearing high heels, and mini black shorts, and a black lacy blouse with embroidery, and she was carrying a set of black-feathered wings.

“Sorry, I’m late,” she said.

“Well, I ain’t going home anymore. Tips will be high,” said Sylvia. “You are proper jailbait.”

“Oh, stop… how do I look, Sylvie?”

“Stunning,” Sylvia said. “Right, Keith?”

“Yeah, looks good,” said Keith, without holding his eyesight up long enough, and turning back to do dishes.

Keith kept looking out the pass-through, offended at the way the male clientele—and the female—were looking at Chloe. She is not a piece of meat, he thought—wishing he could speak it out loud in her defense. But, at the same time, she chose to dress that way, he thought.

The crowd began to thin near closing time. Chloe had exchanged a few trivial words with Keith, the first since the day at the fair.

“Kendra insisted I go,” had said Keith. “I borrowed a hat from Mr. Brown and a wig that he claims to not know where it came from.”

“Let me see!” said Chloe.

Keith put part of his costume on, and Chloe laughed vividly.

“Two eggs, sunny side up. Bacon and a hash brown, soft. Two slices of tomato. No bread,” announced Chloe from the pass-through.

No, no, no, it can’t be, Keith thought. He could hear his mother’s voice like a recording placing that same order throughout his life. As the double swinging door slung back and forth, the unmistakable smell of Lancôme Trésor hiding Marlboro Reds reached Keith. She is here, he thought. Keith didn’t dare to look out.

Earlier that day, Sharon had gone to Woodruff Institute and met Dr. Joy as she was going out. “Hi, I’m Sharon Rayburn, Keith’s mother,” she had said.

“Oh, hi, Miss Rayburn. How can I help you?” said Dr. Joy, professionally.

“I’m embarrassed to say, but Keith has not been taking his medicine. I know it because Dr. Simpson said Keith didn’t have his prescription sent somewhere else, so I’ve been picking it up, but I didn’t know where to find him. Has he been acting well?”

“I am afraid I am not at liberty to discuss that or to advise about his medication. As you know, Mr. Rayburn is an adult—an exemplary one, actually—so the best I can do is to inform him of our meeting when I see him next.”

“Can you tell me where to find him, please?” said Sharon in a firm tone, a bit harsh and desperate.

“I’m afraid not. Bye for now, Miss Rayburn—I must go,” said Dr. Joy, leaving the building.

“Dammit!” fitfully said Sharon, echoing in the hall.

Dr. Joy’s assistant, who had been witnessing the exchange, spoke: “I hear the Train Stop has excellent breakfast all day long,” and she gave an exaggerated wink.

“What is she wearing?” said Keith, gently pulling Chloe away from the opening to the bar, out of sight.

“Who?” asked Chloe. “What’s wrong with you?” she said, pulling her arm out of Keith’s gentle grip.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he apologized, realizing it had been inappropriate to pull Chloe like that

“The woman that wants the two slices of tomato.”

“Oh, that one… a real peach. Animal print shirt, real bright pattern, super tight jeans, big tacky belt across her waist, big loop gold earrings—who wears those anymore?”

“My mother,” said Keith.

“What?”

“Big hair, roots showing, smells of cigarettes and Trésor,” said Keith. His eyes were shifting left and right.

“Oh my Lord, Keith—that’s her.”

The thick air from the kitchen suddenly was thin, and the noise of metal spatulas against cast iron abruptly was replaced by a high-pitched ringing noise.

“Woah, woah, woah, Keith, are you okay?” said Chloe, trying her best to keep Keith steady.

“Sit down.”

And so Keith did.

“I don’t feel great,” said Keith, quietly.

“Clearly. Let me get you some water.”

“No,” said Keith with difficulty, saliva flooding his mouth. He reached for his stomach—he felt his heart beating as if it wanted to break out of his chest. His bowel suddenly was begging to release. “I think I… need to use the bathroom.” The embarrassment didn’t help; his breathing began to increase, and cold sweat was forming on his forehead.

“Breathe. You are having a panic attack. You are okay, you are okay—just breathe,” said Chloe as she knelt down to meet Keith’s eye-level. “You are okay,” she repeated while dabbing Keith’s sweat off with a kitchen towel.

After a minute that felt like ten, Keith’s body finally gave him back partial control. Chloe’s hands were resting on Keith’s knees, and she was rubbing gently. The disassociation must have been over because he noticed the shape of her breasts, and her eyes so close to him. Control yourself, swine, Keith thought.

“I’m okay now. I’m sorry,” said Keith.

“I get them too,” said Chloe as she stood up. “Mom has helped me a lot, but even her Dr. Joy powers can’t stop it. We have considered medication for it.”

“I didn’t know,” said Keith.

“Of course not, I’m a good actress. Speaking of which, I better go out and put an Oscar-worthy performance before your mother complains her eggs have gone cold,” said Chloe, getting up to collect her tray. “You leave her to me,” she said as she exited.

Keith was still sitting down when Sylvia dumped more dishes on the sink. “Get to work, baby, them dishes won’t do themselves,” she said, letting out her signature fake husky laugh. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding—you know I like to play. Have a smoke break.”

Keith stood up to return to his duty. He was grateful that the rubber apron could conceal his involuntary erection.

Every time the pass-through door opened, Keith looked away. He was terrified that he could be seen.

“She just asked me if I got to school at Woodruff,” said Chloe anxiously.

“What did you tell her?” asked Keith.

“The truth, that I don’t,” said Chloe.

“Right, you don’t,” said Keith, and paused. “She knows I’m here, but how?”

“I don’t know. I can’t believe I’m talking to your mom after hearing all those things about her.”

“I know, it’s my fault,” said Keith.

“Nah, ah… stop it with the ‘it’s my fault’ thing. Stop saying you are sorry for once,” she said, waving her index finger at Keith. “It’s sweet, but you are way too hard on yourself. She is not your responsibility,” Chloe said, and crossed her arms.

“Yes, Dr. Joy,” said Keith.

“Oh, stop it!” said Chloe. She smiled and playfully slapped Keith’s arm. “I did almost sound like her—didn’t I?”

“Same voice… but sweeter,” said Keith without much thought. An I’m sorry nearly left his lips, but Chloe had just said to stop apologizing. Is she… blushing? Keith wondered.

“So, what are you going to do?” asked Chloe. “She clearly plans to stay here ’til closing. She is draining us out of coffee.”

“I’ll go out, to wipe tables before closing,” said Keith reluctantly. “And I’ll talk to her,”

“You got this,” said Chloe, squeezing his hand.

Chapter 16: Masks

All the customers had gone; only Sharon lingered. Chloe had already closed her ticket, but she still asked for more coffee—with tons of creamer and Splenda, which she kept slipping in her pocketbook.

“I got the tables, baby. You go talk to momma,” said Sylvia, taking the musty damp rag from Keith and pointing with a head nudge. She had been overhearing Keith and Chloe. “She ain’t leaving till you come out.”

Keith let her take the rag. He pulled his rubber apron off and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he went through the double-swinging doors.

Sharon was at the jukebox. Blue Bayou by Linda Ronstadt came on as she turned around. She looks so thin, Keith thought. His hands formed a fist.

“Hi,” said Sharon.

“Hi,” said Keith.

“Can you sit for a minute?” said Sharon, signaling with her hand for the stool at the bar next to hers. “I was wondering if you would come out.”

“I wondered the same,” said Keith, sitting down. He could hardly look at her.

“What’s wrong?” asked Sharon, reaching for Keith’s forearm.

“Nothing,” lied Keith.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” asked Sharon.

“Why are you here?” asked Keith, bitingly.

Sharon’s expression shifted. “I don’t have to be—clearly I shouldn’t be.” Her tone elevated, and she reached into her purse, jingling things around frantically. She pulled her pocket mirror out and put an extra layer of red lipstick. Her lip was quivering.

“Goodbye, Keith,” she said as she stood up.

“Wait,” said Keith. “Sit down, please. I simply asked why you are here. I asked you not to look for me.”

Sharon sat down, pretending to hold back tears by tilting her head and pressing her index fingers against her lower eyelids.

“Well, I wanted to see my son,” she said. “But I guess my son doesn’t want to see me.”

“I am doing well in school. I have friends,” said Keith.

“Well, I never stopped you from doing that,” defended Sharon. “You just wanted to be with your stupid books and with that creep from the bookstore.”

“His name was Matthew, and he was a decent man,” said Keith. “I’m probably only alive because of him.”

“Excuse me?” said Sharon. “I kept you alive, Keith. I gave you a roof. I gave you everything I had. And now, I’m even going to do better. You can’t smell alcohol on my breath, Bubby. That’s because I don’t drink anymore. I’ve been sober for eighty-one days,” lied Sharon.
Keith didn’t respond.

“I don’t like her for you,” said Sharon, pointing with her finger towards Chloe, who was outside the building waiting for Tucker. She was shivering, and she kept looking back at Keith with concern.

“I gotta go,” said Keith. “My friend is coming to pick me up. It’s Halloween.”
Keith stood up.

“Trick or treat!” said Sharon playfully.

“Ma’am, we are closed right now. I’ve been on my feet for ten hours. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave now,” said Sylvia, who had been overhearing from the kitchen.

“I guess those are my cues,” said Sharon. She stood up, teasing her hair, looking at her reflection on the mirror across the bar area. “Bye for now, Bubby.”

“Are you going back today?” asked Keith.

“I don’t know. I may stay around for a bit. Maybe you’ll give me a chance,” said Sharon.

Sylvia turned the light off; the only light inside was from the coolers and the jukebox.

Sharon exited, and Sylvia locked the door behind her.

“You alright, baby?” asked Sylvia.

“I’m okay, thanks,” said Keith. “I gotta get my costume on.”

“Well, you are gonna put that costume on outside, because I am not staying here another minute,” said Sylvia, getting her things. “I did owe you for the times you have stayed to close, but I’ve been ready to go for hours.”

Keith nervously changed by the service entrance. He noticed the security camera blinking and imagined Robert’s confusion if he ever saw the footage. He realized then—for the first time—that all the times that Kendra had been visiting after hours, or all the extra breaks that Sylvia takes, are not necessarily unbeknownst to him. What a cool man, he thought.

Kendra parked at her usual spot. Keith had dressed all in black with Mr. Brown’s strange hat that resembled that of a pirate, or a thief of old; and that strange long-hair wig he found, and sunglasses—he was unrecognizable. Kendra approached slowly, but when he lowered the shades she confirmed it was him.

“Oh, darling…!” she said as she wrapped her hands around Keith’s neck, resting her blond pony-tailed wig against his chest. “Chloe wrote me and told me.”

Keith was taken aback. Her hug was very warm and genuine. Keith hesitated to hug her back; she was dressed like Sailor Moon, and his skin could make contact with hers. Other than his mother, Keith had never hugged another woman; but this was not like he imagined hugging Chloe would be. He respected Kendra, and maybe even loved Kendra—as a friend—but he didn’t know she might love him too. He felt so unworthy of anyone’s love that he only felt he could be interesting or entertaining. It was comforting, or so Keith felt.

“Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?” asked Kendra.

“I’m okay. I thought I would never see her again,” said Keith as he pulled away from their warm embrace. “It’s difficult, because…” a knot formed on Keith’s throat as he spoke, “…because I love her so much, and I have missed her so much. But I’ll never be anything if she keeps dragging me down.” Keith pulled his shades up again to cover his eyes as they began to flood.

Keith looked away from the light of the street lamp towards the trash bins.

“How do I look?” said Kendra, deliberately deflecting. “‘I am Sailor Moon! I stand for love. And I also stand for justice. And in the name of the Moon, I will punish you!’”

“I’m totally scared,” said Keith, lifting his arms to assume surrender. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Freddie and Richard arrived in the Impala. They were listening to the Bee Gees. Kendra smiled as the song became muffled when they raised the windows up.
Richard came out first. He was dressed like a nerd, which was totally believable—or so Keith thought. It didn’t look like he had put on a costume. His pants were only slightly higher than usual, and the suspenders he wore looked perfectly fitting.

“Hi, where is the science room?” asked Richard. “And what is the formula to your heart, madam?” he said, handing Kendra a rose.

She laughed.

Keith noticed the way Kendra looked when Freddie got out of the vehicle. He was wearing a tuxedo, and he looked striking—or so Keith thought. He wondered if Kendra’s reaction was merely because she was dressed as Sailor Moon, and her character’s love was Tuxedo Mask—was that the spark of attraction, or the irony of the coincidence?

“Tuxedo Mask!” Kendra said in a fragile voice.

Freddie didn’t respond. He got out of the car and walked towards them.

“Hey,” Freddie greeted. “You think the car is safe here?”

“It should be fine,” said Keith, then turned to Kendra. “I don’t think he knows who Tuxedo Mask is.”

“Y’all ready?” asked Kendra.

“Have never been readier!” said Richard, louder than usual, jealous of the spotlight.

Kendra danced with Freddie. Richard burned with jealousy and went on a binge drunk with Keith, who was having the most fun he had ever had.

Keith stood up—tall, strong, and drunk—against Jordan the moment he approached Kendra.

“Get… the fuck… away… from… her,” he said in the deepest voice he could muster—the hurt and alcohol speaking. He could see Chloe kissing Tucker in the distance—though occasionally her eyes would drift towards Keith. Jordan said no words and continued walking past them. His eyes were intensely focused on Freddie, to whom Kendra clung in response.

Somehow Keith ended up with someone’s mask, and he danced in the crowd. He pulled Richard to dance with him, who didn’t need a mask to dance in the crowd.

“They are going to think we are queers,” shouted Richard to Keith as they jumped arrhythmically to the music.

“Who cares! They already think we are retards!” shouted Keith as he wrapped his arm around Richard to bounce with him.

It was only when Keith was vomiting on the curb on the way to campus to spend the night with the boys that he thought about Mr. Brown and the fragile state in which he had been earlier.

“Keith! Where the hell are you going!” screamed Richard as Keith began to walk away from the car after he had barfed.
“I gotta see Brown, he wasn’t feeling good,” said Keith, almost unintelligibly, as he walked away stumbling from side to side.
Oh my God, what have I done? Keith thought. What if he is not well?

Keith didn’t ring the doorbell, as was customary; he simply let himself in. The screen door slapped loudly as it bounced back.

“Who the hell is that!” Mr. Brown screamed, bouncing from the bed. “I will shoot you, you son of a bitch!”

“Oh, thank God! You are alright,” Keith said, hugging Mr. Brown, who had exited his room holding a flashlight like one holds a weapon. “I was so scared, thank God you are alright.”
Mr. Brown was taken aback by Keith’s embrace, and he reluctantly reciprocated with a few pats on the back.

“You are drunker than hell, young man,” said Mr. Brown.

“Yes sir, I am,” admitted Keith. “I’m so sorry, I know you told me not to disrespect your house, but I got worried when I thought of earlier.”

“Well, I forgive you for that,” softly said Mr. Brown. “Thank you for caring. But if you care about me, don’t go on giving me a damn heart attack.”

Mr. Brown walked towards the kitchen.

“Here, have some water,” said Mr. Brown.

“I don’t think I can,” said Keith.

“Trust me, you need it.”

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” said Keith, drinking the water.

“I am too—but I will let this one slide. You go to bed now, you have school tomorrow. It’s two in the morning, son.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Christ, stop saying sorry! Own a damn thing for a moment, even if it’s something bad.”

“S…” started Keith, and then stopped. He was still wearing his costume. He began taking it off. He stripped down to his underwear and socks in front of Mr. Brown—who was wearing the same.

Keith poured more water, as Mr. Brown studied his every move.

“My mom is in town,” said Keith.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, and I wasn’t great to her. I didn’t give her a chance, and look at me tonight.”

Keith started to go to his room, and Mr. Brown interrupted.

“It’s not the same, kid. Don’t confuse a life of mistakes and neglect for a night of fun. You came back home, and you are safe. You never hurt nobody—you are not your mother.”

Keith wished he had said something, but he was too drunk to acknowledge Mr. Brown’s words. “Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, son.”

Chapter 17: High Cotton

Keith ached with uncertainty. Not seeing his mother again the following day proved more difficult than having encountered her.

Dr. Joy tried to open the door into talking about it with Keith in the most professional way possible, but he deflected.

“How are you feeling, Keith?” she had asked with more humanity than usual.

“Same, I guess.”

“I’ve always found October to be a month filled with such melancholy,” pried Dr. Joy.

“Have never noticed,” said Keith. “I’m enjoying my literature class—they always seem to cling to melancholy.”

And though Keith knew he should have sought advice or guidance in Dr. Joy, he was all too familiar with the pain rejection caused—except he had never been on the side of inflicting it. He never thought that the blade would cut deeper by the handle.

He recognized her car parked outside the Planet Fitness on Magnolia Ave. on his way to work. Her makeup was scattered on the dashboard, and several empty cigarette packages decorated the floorboard next to some of her shoes and a couple containers of ramen noodles. It was seeing the pillow that nearly brought him to tears.

“She is sleeping in her car,” Keith said to Chloe. They had not spoken about it again since the Halloween party at the quarry. Keith didn’t remember that he had asked Tucker if he could talk to Chloe for a moment.

“How do you know?” she asked, putting down a tray of food, not caring if the fries went cold.

“I saw her car parked outside the Planet Fitness,” said Keith. “One time, when I was like ten, one of her boyfriends sort of took over our home because he had paid a couple of months of rent and helped with a few bills. They got in a fight and he kicked us out, but she basically said we were going on a road trip. We spent many nights in parking lots, and we would go to a gym for showers.”

“Oh my word,” said Chloe in disbelief. “Why would she let him do that?”

“We ended up in a motel in Ashland, Nebraska, for like two months—called The Blue Bayou. It had a pool—best days of my life,” said Keith, taking off his rubber apron. “She worked there, and the Indian owners were so good to us—best food ever.”

Chloe’s smile was an odd mixture of empathy, intrigue, and even jealousy—or so Keith would have thought, had he noticed. Chloe worked so she could relate to people like Keith, and so that her privilege felt less uncomfortable when sleeping on organic cotton sheets.

Richard showed up at the end of the shift. He introduced himself to Chloe.

“We have met, Richard Newsome,” said Chloe with a laugh. “I had never met anyone that could keep up with me screaming and bouncing to Mr. Brightside.”

“I am not responsible for anything that happened that night, Body—I mean, Keith—he was rallying.”

“You were a perfect gentleman other than when you told my boyfriend he wasn’t even that good looking,” said Chloe, smiling, tilting her head with her eyes dripping charm—or so Keith thought.

“As I stated before, I can’t be held responsible for that night,” said Richard decisively. “Now, can you make a large chocolate shake that can help ease my pain?”

“On it, Mr. Newsome,” said Chloe.

“What are you doing here?” asked Keith.

“Last I checked, this was a public establishment, and anyone who could purchase the product—regardless of gender, color, religious belief, or sexual orientation—was allowed to be a patron,” said Richard.

“You know what I mean,” said Keith.

Richard was pulling his napkin to shreds.

“Well, the thing is,” said Richard, “my father is having a big party for his fiftieth birthday, and I am going home, and…” he hesitated. “And he… I… I mean, we would like for you to come.”

“And why was that difficult to ask?”

“Because I… I don’t know,” said Richard.

“Chocolate shake for a fellow Killers aficionado,” said Chloe, handing the drink.

“I’ll go,” said Keith. I need to get out of here, he thought.

“You don’t have to,” said Richard, slurping on the shake. “Thank you, it’s perfect,” he said to Chloe.

“Going where?” asked Chloe.

“Richie’s house—his dad is turning fifty.”

“Fun! Don’t you work the weekend?” asked Chloe.

“No, the wife of, you know…” said Keith, “the one with the legal trouble, the one before me.”

“No way!” said Chloe.

“No, not him—his wife. Robert hired her some.”

“Are we still talking about my father’s party?” asked Richard, confused.

“Yes, and no,” said Keith. “I’m not working. I’m going to the party.”

“Are you sure?” asked Richard.

“Yes, I need to get out of here.”

Keith packed his better T-shirts and jeans in a small bag. He had never been to a friend’s house, much less to a wealthy home. School was the closest he had ever gotten to experiencing riches.

Pick you up at 8 AM, Richard had texted the night before.

The black BMW X5 was already parked outside when Keith came out three minutes past eight.

“Are you sure you are going to be alright, sir?” Keith had asked Mr. Brown.

“I told you: I’ve never been better. Go!” said Mr. Brown. “I got a lot of pornos to play full volume. I miss having this place to myself.”

“See you tomorrow night, Mr. Brown,” had said Keith.

“Ah’ right then.”

The leather seats on the BMW were slippery, and the car smelled new. The driver was black, and he was very fit and presentable. He spoke softly and behaved inconspicuously.

“Water, Mr. Rayburn?” the driver offered.

“No, thanks. I’m good,” said Keith. He was not used to being addressed so politely by someone who otherwise would be an equal. Only Dr. Joy ever showed him that kind of respect, and it was basically her mission to do so—or so Keith thought.

“Mom’s name is Elizabeth—everyone calls her Lilly,” said Richard as they went past the entrance of the institute.

“Where is Freddie? He’s not coming?”

“I didn’t invite him.”

“Oh, sorry. I thought…” said Keith.

“So, Mom is Lilly,” said Richard, swiftly moving on. “Dad’s name is Thomas, and everyone calls him Thomas, but he will probably ask you to call him Tommy.”

“Easy enough.”

“Now, Grandma is very old-fashioned—my mother’s mother—don’t even go near her. She won’t be nice.”

What have I done? Keith wondered. He grew nervous.

They stopped at Chick-fil-A to have breakfast. Richard paid. He bought them coffee for the road and six chocolate cookies. They ate cheese Ruffles, Tornadoes from the gas station, and dipped it all in sour cream and onion dip.

The first album of The Killers looped a couple of times.

“I’m so glad you came,” said Richard, tipping the bag of Ruffles over, eating the powdery bits.

“Really? I kind of thought you didn’t want me to. I was feeling bad for saying yes—I just needed to get out,” said Keith.

“Do you remember our talk?” asked Richard.

“I kind of do,” said Keith. “I was pretty drunk.”

“Me too.”

Cedarston was nothing like what Keith had nervously envisioned. To his surprise, it was a depressed little town with one streetlight, a McDonald’s, a Dollar General, a BBQ joint, a tax clerk, a bail and bonding service, and a Mexican restaurant. My town is not as bad as this, Keith thought as he looked around.

After taking the left turn at the streetlight, they were surrounded by cotton fields. It looked as if most of it had already been picked by the harvesters—not a person in sight. Keith noticed the fluffy white fiber sticking out from the giant wraps of pink plastic. A mill looked in ruins with the kudzu growing through it. Infrastructure of a once vibrant industry had been replaced by heavy machinery scattered throughout the fields.

“My grandfather owned that one,” said Richard. “We ship it all to China now.”

Keith didn’t comment. It was beyond his ability to fathom the struggles of cotton mill owners—most of his garments were ninety percent polyester.

Keith almost grunted as the driver paid no regard to the rough terrain when they turned onto the dirt road. Crap, he flinched when the BMW slammed into the pothole.

“We are almost there,” Richard announced. It was nearly noon, and the sun was glaring.

The live oak trees afoot the electric iron gate—which squealed due to the weight in the hinges—were magnificent.

“Holy shit,” said Keith out loud.

“Welcome home, young Richard,” said the driver.

Keith still had not gotten used to the walk into campus with the row of crepe myrtles, but Richard’s entry corridor provided a contrast that made Jenkins University seem like the Disneyland version of it. This reeked of private wealth, or so Keith thought.

“Young Richard, Grace will welcome you. Your parents and Junior will arrive shortly. She will show Mr. Rayburn his room.”

“He is staying in my room,” said Richard decisively.

“I’ll inform Grace before she greets you, sir.”

“Is everything okay?” asked Keith. “I can sleep anywhere.”

“You are staying in my room. You are not a guest.”

“Technically, I am,” said Keith.

“You are my friend—not some D.C. lobbyist bullshit.”

Keith was unsure of what was unfolding, and he didn’t know if that made him feel more welcomed or less so.

The row of trees opened into a circular drive with a monumental marble fountain. The glistening light sparkled in Keith’s pupils almost blindingly. The antebellum home had a convertible Mercedes, a pristine classic Toyota Land Cruiser, and an ostentatious customized Tacoma where once horses would have been lined up with carriages.

Keith remained silent until Grace walked them to Richard’s room. It was too much for him to process—too much marble, too much staff, too much space. I thought he was rich, but not Bill Gates rich, Keith thought as they walked by Remington bronzes and old Native American artifacts in glass cases.

“Thank you, Gee-Gee,” said Richard.

“I’ve missed you so much, my Richie,” said Grace, placing her old shiny hand on Richard’s face. “This place is not the same without you.”

Keith thought that Richard’s eyes might have been holding back tears for a moment.

“She was like a mother to me,” said Richard, explaining himself. “I said ‘Gee-Gee’ before I said ‘Momma,’ I’m told. My brother is a cruel prick to her.”

“So, your brother is…” started Keith.

“Their actual son—Dad’s seed, Mom’s egg,” Richard interrupted. “They were told they would never have children. They adopted me, and then he happened.”

“How old were you?”

“Two,” said Richard, leading the way into his bedroom. “Welcome to my fort.”

Keith’s eyes wandered through Richard’s shelves, which were slam-packed with highly sought-after collectible action figures. The walls were littered with posters of DC Comics heroes and Marvel.

“Holy crap, no wonder you still think of her,” said Keith, pointing at the poster of Nicole Kidman as Dr. Chase Meridian in Batman Forever.

“She helped me to sleep a lot,” said Richard, shaking his hand in a fist up and down. “Oh, man, I miss this bed.”

“Where am I sleeping?” asked Keith.

“Right here. We’ll put pillows in the middle—plenty of room.”

“Okay, she won’t be helping you to sleep tonight then,” joked Keith, pointing at the poster.

“I got a bathroom and a stack of Playboys and Hustlers in there, the good stuff—from the nineties—help yourself as needed.”

“Thank you. I don’t do that,” said Keith, putting down his bag.

“Wait a minute, what?” said Richard, dramatically landing on the leather chair by the corner.

“What?”

“You don’t bate?” said Richard in disbelief, shaking his fist again.

“Not really, no,” said Keith, sitting at the edge of the bed. “I mean, I do it some, but not a lot. Certainly don’t have to do it in your house.”

“Like, how often?”

“Do we really need to talk about this?”

“I think we do, buddy,” said Richard, crossing his arms.

“Dunno, once every ten days or so,” lied Keith.

“Holy shit! No wonder you are so damn wound up all the time!” Richard said. “We have to fix this—your dick is broken.”

We don’t need to fix anything, thought Keith.

“How often do you do it?” asked Keith.

“At least twice a day,” said Richard. “Did it first thing in the morning in the shower—will have to do it before going to bed.”

I know that’s a lot, thought Keith.

“Does it hurt?” asked Keith with intrigue. “The… you know, the hood.”

“The foreskin? Like hell it don’t. I’m so glad I have it. Did you know there are about fifteen thousand nerve endings in your foreskin?” said Richard. “Well, there were—I’m assuming you don’t have it, since you’re asking.”

“Right, I don’t,” said Keith. “And I didn’t know that.”

The door suddenly slammed open and their conversation was abruptly interrupted. A tanned, dark-haired, green-eyed, muscular, handsome young man in a tank top and running shorts let himself in and dropped into the bean bag seat by the bookshelves.

“What the hell are you two weirdos doing?”

Richard’s expression morphed, as if all joy and confidence had been stripped out of him. “Keith, this is my brother, Hunter.”

Hunter stood up and reached out a confident hand to Keith. “Nice to meet you. I’m his brother from another mother.”

“Couldn’t have told,” said Keith, his voice gritty with sarcasm. Hunter didn’t get the joke.

“Anyway, quit playing dolls and come down—Dad wants to see you,” said Hunter, and exited the room.

There was an awkward five seconds of stillness.

“He is charming,” said Keith.

“Isn’t he? A total peach—if peaches grow in hell!”

The spiral staircase that emptied into the grand foyer didn’t help Keith’s feeling of smallness.

“My boy!” greeted the heavyset, sweaty, red-faced man with the two-day stubble, wearing a polo that was too tight, gym shorts straight from the mid-nineties, and hyper-cushioned sneakers.

“Hi, Dad,” said Richard, leaning over to receive his father’s kiss on the cheek that followed with a tight hug.

“And you! Come on down here, give me a hug!”

What is going on? Keith wondered, confused as the air left his body from the tight bear hug.

“Hello, sir. I’m Keith,” he said as he pulled away and offered to shake a hand.

“Tommy Newsome,” said Mr. Newsome, with an aggressive, childish handshake. “I’ve heard so much about you, I feel like I already know you! I’ve been looking forward to meeting my son’s best friend.”

Keith turned to see Richard, who was looking away, a bit embarrassed—or so Keith thought.

“Now listen, Richie told me that you probably don’t have clothes for the party, but he was right. We are the same size. You can wear one of my stupid costumes,” said Mr. Newsome.

“Uh, I didn’t know it was a costume party. I could have brought mine from a few days ago.”

“No, no—sorry! My bad,” said Mr. Newsome. “I meant a suit—God, I hate them. I feel like I am wearing a costume when I have one on—like a clown! I hate the collar tight around my neck. I left the trailer park many years ago, but no one told me I was joining the circus!” said Mr. Newsome, letting out a forced, fake—authentic—laugh.

Keith smiled in confusion and looked to Richard for his cue.

“Where is Mom?” asked Richard.

“Where do you think? Burning money at the salon,” said Mr. Newsome. “Eight hundred dollars to do your hair—can you believe that?” he said, turning his head to Keith.

“It would take me over two weeks to make that,” said Keith.
“I know! That’s what I keep telling her. I can convince a judge about it, but I can’t convince my wife,” said Mr. Newsome. “Anyway, you guys have fun. Come to my room around seven and we’ll get you suited up. The circus starts at eight—it will be fun!”

Richard insisted that they took the Land Cruiser to spin some mud. Keith had never done such a thing. It was exhilarating, comedic, scary, and terribly fun. The words best friend kept swirling back into Keith’s mind every few minutes, slapping him with a smile as the mud flew.
I didn’t know I was his best friend. I’ve never really had a best friend, Keith thought.

“Is this still your land?” Keith kept asking.

“Yes, this is still my parents’,” Richard would say. “Over there, where the pines get scruffy, that’s where the neighbor’s start.”

Keith kept trying to see the scruffy pines, but it must have been really far away because all he saw was perfectly cared-for acreage. The pecan orchard looked like a postcard. There were rows and rows of mature pecan trees.

“This, right here, this spot,” said Richard, “is my favorite spot in the world.”

“It’s nice,” said Keith, getting out of the muddy SUV.

“Nice? This is my heaven. I got my first blowjob here.”

“Bullshit,” said Keith.

“I’m serious, I did,” said Richard. “Right on this boulder.”

“With whom?”

“Girl from school. We came here every weekend senior year,” said Richard, and then noticed Keith looking at him intently. “What? What is it?”

Keith had noticed Richard’s expression change as he reminisced.

“Nothing. You are doing that thing.”

“What thing?” said Richard.

“That thing you always do with your face when there is more but you don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Okay, Dr. Joy—give me a break.”

Keith didn’t add anything. He had indeed learned from Dr. Joy to give space for thought and to allow the other to speak, if that was their desire. “Curiosity often dresses up as compassion, Mr. Rayburn,” Dr. Joy had said.

They walked along the bank of the tributary. The water was low. I shouldn't have said anything, Keith thought. The twigs breaking underneath their footsteps accentuated the silence.

“I loved her,” finally said Richard.

Keith remained silent. He merely looked up away from the ground to meet Richard’s gaze, who distractedly poked at the ground with a stick.

“She was embarrassed to be with me. That’s why we met here,” said Richard. “I was her fetish, and nothing else.”

“What do you mean?”

“She just had curiosity about black. I’m not even that big, it was a the idea of it. She used to call it her Toblerone.”

If silence could have gotten louder, it would have. What do I say? Keith wondered.

“I’m a virgin,” shared Keith.

“I figured,” said Richard.

“What a minute—what do you mean you figured?”

“The last one to make it to the car thinks Superman is better than Batman!” screamed Richard, sprinting to the Land Cruiser.

Keith was out of breath; he had not sprinted since PE in middle school. He forgot all about Richard’s comment.

Chapter 18: Different

The suit fit.

“You could be my son!” said Mr. Newsome. “Lilly, doesn’t he resemble me?”

Lilly let out an awkward smile, or so Keith thought.

“You almost clean up, kinda like this one,” said Hunter, slapping his brother, Richard, on the shoulder.

Costume was right, Keith thought, as he saw Mr. Newsome performing for the audience. It was a total transformation—the humble once-from-the-trailer-park boy had donned bravado and exuberance—like being country was a gimmick.

It hurt Keith to notice Richard’s longing for affirmation from his father. He was parading his Hunter around like a show dog.

“I would hate to see him play in the NFL, but I hear they have their eyes on my Hunter.”

“He is top of his class—got the looks from his mom… and the brain from both!”

Keith wondered why they were following closely and not just hide away somewhere in the corner. He had never tasted champagne previous to this night, but he was grateful for its warming effect. The only good thing about that day was that he felt as if he was invisible. No one seemed to notice him or Richard. They were as good as staff, or decorations.

“That one over there is the Secretary of Agriculture,” said Richard. “Dad wanted his job.”
Keith listened while chewing on bread with cold slabs of butter, dropping crumbs on his suit.

“That one over there, she inherited the largest tract of blueberries in the South—huge scandal. Everyone thought her brother should have gotten it.”

Keith was sneaking champagne to Richard. The staff knew that Keith was of age, so they were instructed to give it to him.

“Use some restraint, young man. It is a virtue,” Mr. Newsome had warned.

Caution flew into the wind by their third flute. Keith, who had just begun his experiences with social drinking, didn’t understand the alcohol content of each serving. Suddenly, the bubbles were pushing the corners of Keith’s lips upwards into a smile and giving him friendly eyebrows.

“Boys, come here!” waved Mr. Newsome.

“Shit, what does he want?” said Richard under his breath. “I’m pretty drunk, dude.”

“Just act normal—for a change,” said Keith, and laughed.

“Quit it,” said Richard, holding back a laugh.

They walked to meet Mr. Newsome and the black gentleman that was standing with them. He was wearing beautiful fabrics of purple and gold that adorned his suit.

“Sir, let me introduce you to my son, and his best friend,” said Mr. Newsome.

“Hi, pleased to meet you, sir,” said Richard, shaking the man’s hand.

“Hi,” said Keith and followed Richard’s cue.

“Do you remember Scott Jenkins?” said Mr. Newsome to the man. “Well, his wife started a new school for different young people. She…”

So this is why I was invited, Keith thought. The conversation lasted around five minutes. Richard and Keith stood there as props as Mr. Newsome showcased them like a QVC ad and explained to the likely future Secretary of Education about the Woodruff Institute.

“They are trying great things with them…” had said Mr. Newsome.

We are not a fucking experiment, thought Keith.

Oddly, Keith didn’t feel self-conscious—perhaps the champagne. None of this meant anything to him. The taste of caviar still lingered in his mouth and he could not wait to chase it away with bacon and grits. There was nothing inherently wrong with what was being discussed, it was merely descriptive, and it was the accuracy that stung the most—but Keith was only feeling the sting for Richard, who had seen his father show off his brother like a Ken doll to every other guest prior to this exchange before pulling out the ragged doll.

Gee Gee insisted that they ate something before going upstairs for the night. They were visibly drunk, though dripping with cheer. Keith smiled in silence as he saw Richard lean against Gee Gee with a side hug. He really loves her, he thought. It must be nice to love someone that way.

The moonlight stained the bedroom with blue. The division of pillows in the queen-size bed pressed firmly against Keith, who occupied slightly more than his allotted portion of the bed. Both Richard and Keith laid awake, in silence, staring at the ceiling. Lights of cars driving away from the grand party would cast a light intermittently as they were driven around the fountain to collect some important drunken guest.

“How are you?” asked Richard.

“The bed spins when I close my eyes,” said Keith.

“Good, it’s definitely the bed then.”

They both laughed.

“Oh, it hurts to laugh like that,” said Richard.

“I know. It’s been a great day. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Blanketed in night, Keith allowed himself to fully smile and let his eyes flood as the feeling sunk in.

“I met my real mother a couple of years ago,” said Richard.

Keith waited a few seconds to hear if Richard would continue, or if this was a cue for him to ask more about it. Richard didn’t add more.

“What was she like?” asked Keith.

“She was beautiful, strangely familiar, though I had never met her,” said Richard, and then paused for a moment. “Her skin was so smooth, and her voice, I don’t know—it wasn’t your typical nice voice, but it lingered, it carried so much—I think she liked to sing.”

“Have you seen her much since then?” asked Keith.

“She passed,” said Richard. “Overdose.”

Keith had never quite felt that sinking feeling often described in literature, at least not until this moment. His heart, and his stomach, sank.

“I’m so sorry,” said Keith.

“It’s my fault,” said Richard, with a knot forming in his throat.

“Why would you say that?” asked Keith.

Through the knot in his throat, Richard spoke, “She was clean when she found me. And all I could ask is why she had given me away.” Richard pulled on nasal drip.

“So what? That’s not your fault,” defied Keith.

“Yes, it was. I should have been better to her, I should have given her a chance...”

Keith rolled over the pillows to see Richard face to face. The tears glistened as they fell down Richard’s dark skin, as if pain had taken the shape of water.

“Listen to me, it’s not your fault. The same way it is not my fault that my mother is a drunk. We are not responsible for our parents, they are supposed to be responsible for us,” firmly said Keith. “It is not your fault, you hear me?”

Richard nodded with a quiver in his lips as he held back more tears, and rolled over to the edge of the bed, facing away from Keith.

Keith couldn’t help but to think of his own mother, and the chance he was being given. But now, that didn’t matter. The bed no longer spun, and his heart had found its usual beat. For now, all that mattered was his friend. He laid back down again on the dawn pillow, facing the ceiling.

“You are my best friend, and I hate to see you like this,” said Keith.

“And you are mine,” said Richard, “and you can’t really see me unless you have night vision, like Wolverine.”

“Don’t make me get my claws out,” said Keith.

“Goodnight, Keith.”

“Goodnight, Richie.”

Chapter 19: The Library

Keith wished the weekend could have lasted longer. Though unspoken, in sobriety, Keith and Richard’s bond solidified like a two-part epoxy.

The sun was setting when the driver pulled in front of Mr. Brown’s unit.

“Best weekend ever,” said Keith. “I’ll remember it forever.”

“You just liked the caviar so much,” said Richard.

“How could I ever return to commoner’s food again, Sir Richard?” said Keith in a remarkably good put-on British accent.

As Keith opened the door of the BMW to step out, in synchrony, the door of Mr. Brown’s trailer swung open.

The bright pink accessories and shoes clashed with the leopard print and black shorts, or so Keith thought. He didn’t turn to see Richard’s reaction.

“Hi, Keith,” Sharon said as she walked past Keith, who stood outside the SUV, trying to process what was taking place.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, I am your new neighbor,” said Sharon, combing her fingers through her hair. “Nice man. He gave me a break on the deposit. Whose ride?”

“My friend’s.”

Sharon leaned over to try to peek through the mirrored windows, with no success—just waving at her reflection, deducing someone was back there. The driver blew the horn softly a couple of times before driving away.

“So, I guess I’ll be seeing you around,” said Sharon, walking away, turning back only once to see if Keith was still watching. “Love you,” she mouthed almost inaudibly.

Keith wished he had said something in return, but he just waved.

“You are back!” greeted Mr. Brown. “How was the party? You never said your mom was so pretty.”

“Why was she here?” asked Keith, containing his tone.

“She is renting the Chinaman’s unit. He is gone—left last Monday.”

“Why would she come to you for that?”

“I collect the rent, of course,” said Mr. Brown. “You hungry? I baked beans.”

“No, sir, thank you. I better finish my homework.”

“You don’t know what you are missing,” said Mr. Brown, pulling out the small Corning Ware out of the oven.

I do know what I am missing, thought Keith.

Keith had a hard time concentrating on his essay, which he had been working on for a couple of weeks. He had taken it upon himself to write something worthy of the opportunity he had been given to take part in his literature class—even if his essay would not be scored the same as everyone else’s.

Why are they acting so casual about it? Keith wondered.

An SMS came through from Richard, igniting conversation, effectively distracting Keith from his homework.

9:17 PM — Sir Richie!!: r u okay? I’m assuming that was your mom.

9:18 PM — Keith: yes, that’s her. My new neighbor.

9:18 PM — Sir Richie!!: great, what’s next?

9:19 PM — Keith: dunno. Have to finish homework for tomorrow. Don’t know how I’ll go to sleep.

9:19 PM — Sir Richie!!: Nicole K nevr failed me… just sayin

9:20 PM — Keith: she might be cheating on you with me tonight

9:20 PM — Sir Richie!!: that’s my boy! we fixed you. see u in school.

He thought of Chloe in her Halloween costume, and then of her kissing Tucker as he reached his climax. Post-ejaculation guilt lasted less than fifteen seconds. It had been nearly a month since Keith had last done it. He fell soundly asleep.

Keith felt awkward the morning after when Freddie picked him up to go to school. Trevor was sitting in the front seat, instead of Richard.

“How was your posh fest?” asked Trevor.

Good, at least they know, thought Keith.

“It was fun,” Keith understated, protecting his weekend.

“So… is he stinking rich?” asked Freddie.

“His parents have done well,” said Keith, guarding his friend.

“I told you, it’s that government corruption bullshit,” Trevor escalated. “Those pigs belong in a corral, and we should be able to shoot them all. We need anarchy.”

Keith noticed the vein on Trevor’s big forehead popping as his ears filled with blood, making them turn red and hot. There was an unfortunate quality to some of his features, which reminded Keith of a vulture when he became angry.

The rest of the ride was a monologue of rage coming out of Trevor, as if indoctrinating Freddie—who seemed awfully uninterested—about anarchy.

Keith noticed that Freddie acted relieved when Trevor marched back to their dorm room.

“Fuck this, I don’t feel like going to class anymore,” Trevor had said.

Freddie walked in silence with Keith, but it was not uncomfortable. Their minds had drifted elsewhere.

Finally, Keith spoke. “So, how was your weekend?”

“It was alright, nothing like yours, I don’t imagine,” said Freddie. “Did you have fun?”

“I did,” admitted Keith with hesitation.

“That’s good! I would hope for you to have fun,” said Freddie. “Did he ridicule you?”

“Not once,” said Keith.

“Wow, that’s new.”

“It is,” said Keith, guarding his friend again.

“Ok, here is where I take my turn. We are having Drama class by the pond today,” said Freddie. “Wish me luck. I don’t know if my feeble heart can stand it,” he said with a broken voice.

“Since when do you know how to say feeble?” joked Keith.

“I used it right, though, did I?” asked Freddie with anxious eyebrows.

“You did, perfect placement. See you at lunch.”

The spiral in Keith’s notebook was barely keeping the paper tidy. His nervous fidgeting of the pen across the metal ribs was tearing it up. He leant on the weeping willow, which had begun to shed its petal-shaped leaves, to finish his essay. Keith hated his handwriting, but enjoyed the overall unintentional messy aesthetic of his notebook, which reminded him of punk-rock lyrics with doodles and bold titles.

“Hello, stranger,” said Chloe, walking hand in hand with Kendra.

“Hi, precious!” said Kendra, imitating Gollum’s voice from the Lord of the Rings movies.

“My precious,” said Keith, pushing his notebook to his chest, using Gollum’s voice. “What are you doing here?” asked Keith, directing his question to Chloe.

“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Campus Officer. Last I checked, anyone could walk this place,” jokingly said Chloe.

“Can I see your permit?” asked Keith, standing up.

“Well, look at you!” said Kendra. “All confident and all, it must be the precious.”

“Not really, I’m actually very nervous.”

“Why?” asked Chloe.

“Literature class. We have to present our essays, and I didn’t type mine. I don’t have a computer.”

“The library has computers…” said Kendra.

“Computers, and people,” said Keith, looking away.

The brief pause of awkwardness wasn’t felt by Keith.

“How long is it?” asked Chloe. “I can type super fast.”

“Me too,” said Kendra. “What time is your class?”

“You don’t have to do that,” said Keith, nervously. He thought of them reading his essay inevitably as they typed it.

“Nonsense, we are doing it,” declared Chloe.

Five minutes later, they were in the library. The gothic timber-frame that housed Keith’s anthropophobia now contained all the confused turning heads that followed him, Kendra, and Chloe in awe. The whispers were loud, like cicadas, as they made their way to the modern build that housed the computers and electronic devices. Kendra and Chloe walked decisively ahead of Keith, as if they were escorting him. They walked just closely enough to suggest that they were indeed there with him.

“You really don’t have to do this,” said Keith. “I made it to the computer. I can take care of the rest.”

“Hand the notebook,” said Chloe.

And so, Keith did.

“I knew you had some punk in you,” said Chloe, noticing Keith’s notebook.

“If punk is chaos,” said Keith.

“Ok, y’all, enough of that. I will have class in an hour. We’ll break it into sections, and then we’ll print it.”

It was cool and dry in the library, but Keith could feel the single droplets of stress-sweat running down across his torso occasionally. Kendra’s looks of empathy, surprise, and tenderness proved troubling to Keith.

“What?” he asked when she looked at him as if trying to break through the barrier of his eyes, as if trying to see his soul—which he already felt was in full display.

“This is really good,” said Kendra.

“I’ve been itching to say the same,” said Chloe.

“Since when do you think?” joked Tucker, who had snuck up on them from behind.

Great, thought Keith.

“Oh, stop it, Tucker. We all know where y’all children will get the brain from,” said Kendra.

Chloe stood up to greet Tucker with a kiss.

“Hey, man,” said Tucker, reaching out his hand to Keith.

“Hey,” answered Keith back, shaking his hand. Keith’s fingers bent under the pressure of Tucker’s handshake. He noticed the way his strong forearm delineated his musculature as they shook hands, as if the one was trying to assert power over the other one. Keith possessed remarkable innate strength, but he refused to use it.

“How much longer do you have?” asked Tucker to Chloe.

“We are almost done,” said Chloe.

So, that’s who she was texting, thought Keith.

“I hear you are quite the writer,” said Tucker. “What do you write about?”

“Nothing great, just feelings and stuff,” said Keith, bringing his shoulders forward, and his neck inward—retreating to his shell.

“Feelings? I thought us men didn’t have them,” said Tucker, playfully.

“Oh, stop it!” said Chloe, slapping him on his hard chest playfully. “You were bawling with The Notebook.”

“Well, that’s different. That’s a good movie,” said Tucker.

“I’m pretty sure you don’t bawl at The Notebook unless you have—what you call them? Feelings,” said Kendra. “And come on, you two, we have homework to complete. Tucker, you can wait.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Tucker, offering a military salute to Kendra.

Keith could not help but notice the way Tucker was tenderly caressing Chloe’s leg. Tucker was being discreet about it. It didn’t feel intentional or animalistic as a way of dominance—they were flirting. He noticed from the corner of his eye that Chloe’s chest would inflate suddenly in an exaggerated way. Is she getting turned on? Keith wondered—as he fought to contain his body, wishing it was him.

“Done! We better head off. Tucker has practice—big match coming up,” said Chloe as she stood up. Tucker followed suit.

“You are not fooling anyone, girl,” said Kendra playfully.

“Oh, hush now—he does have practice,” said Chloe.

“Whatever, thank you for your help—you go, love birds,” said Kendra.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Keith. “You really didn’t have to.”

“I know, I was happy to. I hope to get a chance to read the whole thing soon,” said Chloe, followed by a smile, and a head tilt. “Ok, see y’all!”

“See you, man,” said Tucker, reaching out a hand to Keith; his left hand was tucked away in his pocket.

“See you,” said Keith. His voice didn’t come out as strongly as he had wished.

At his class, Keith’s mind kept wandering. For the first time, he couldn’t wait to share something with Richard. He thought of Kendra’s kindness, and Chloe with Tucker. He remembered Trevor’s rage about Richard’s wealth, and he thought of his mother moving to the same trailer park. I didn’t know Brown collected the rent for other units, he thought.

“So, next Wednesday, I will bring a copy for each student of the essay that is graded highest,” announced Professor Culpepper. “We will all read it, in turns, and we will examine it as our assignment for the next two classes. See you Thursday, class dismissed.”

Good, I know it won’t be mine, Keith thought.

Keith walked past the library on his way to Richard’s dormitory. He had never noticed the architectural beauty of the building. I can’t believe this is my school, he thought.

“I come in peace,” announced Keith, going into the suite, which was open. “Richie, you decent?”

“There is nothing decent about him,” said Trevor from the corner of the living room. He was torching a cricket with a magnifying glass.

“Lord!” loudly said Keith. “You scared me. What are you doing?”

“He won’t be keeping me awake anymore,” said Trevor through clenched teeth.

Keith walked to Richard and Freddie’s room. He knocked a couple of times.

“Come in,” said Richard.

Keith walked in, covering his eyes. “Are you decent?”

“Oh, shit, let me put it away,” said Richard. “Of course I am, come in—close the door.”

Richard was sitting on his computer, looking at election polls and forecasts.

“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with him today,” said Richard.

“He was literally torching a cricket in the living room when I came in, like evil Cyclops.”

“He can be fun. I like drinking with him,” said Richard. “But some days, he just flips.”

“I know, that’s all you would always talk about,” said Keith.

“That was, like, a month ago.”

“Right, a long month ago,” said Keith with sarcasm. “Part of me wishes it was still a month ago, though.”

Keith looked out the window.

“Have you seen her again?”

“No, but I’m sure I will.”

“It can’t be all that bad,” said Richard.

“It was pretty bad. Not as much her, as her boyfriends, though. At least she doesn’t have one right now.”

Keith had never really discussed much of his past with Richard, nor with Freddie. It was easier to tell Kendra and Chloe, by whom he felt heard. Prior to their weekend out, Richard had teetered on being obnoxious and rude. Keith couldn’t really understand the sudden change, but he was grateful—he felt seen, and safe in that he could, too, see. As if having gone behind the curtain and now seeing Richard for who he truly was.

The most difficult part about Keith’s memories was, perhaps, admitting to himself, and others, that he had been held in a cage with the door open.

Chapter 20: Seen

The interactions with his mother were infrequent, brief, and casual. Keith noticed her change—it was undeniable. It was true, also, that he had wanted to see the undeniable change many times when growing up.

On his way home Wednesday, he saw her watering the plants that Mr. Liu had left behind, and he let out a half smile as he waved at her. But like a muscle healing, his heart recoiled, as if overstretching could reinjure it. With pain as a form of warning, Keith recalled the time that her boyfriend refused to stop fondling her in front of him—he was only ten.

“Cover your eyes, sweetie. If I can’t see your eyes, I can’t see you,” Sharon had said.
Keith pressed so hard that no light could come in—effectively feeling as if he had disappeared. It was only the sudden gasps and moans Sharon made that would ground him back to reality. Stop hurting her, stop hurting her, he kept wanting to shout. The tears broke through the dam when Sharon pulled his hands away.

“It’s okay, sweetie. He is leaving,” had said Sharon.
When he opened his eyes, like through a kaleidoscope of flashing lights through crystals made of tears, Keith saw his mother’s boyfriend smirk as he went through the door.

“You are early,” said Mr. Brown as Keith arrived. He was sitting on the porch, drinking coffee, dressed in flannel.

“Better than late,” said Keith.

“I taught you well, son,” said Mr. Brown. He took a sip of his coffee and coughed aggressively. Keith had learned to not ask if he was okay. “You never talk to her,” said Mr. Brown, moving his bushy eyebrows in the direction of his mother.

“I need time,” said Keith.

“We never have as much time as we think we do. Make sure you don’t waste yours,” said Mr. Brown.

Keith knew Mr. Brown was right, in principle, but he also knew Mr. Brown didn’t understand his emotional trauma—no one did, or so Keith felt.

Keith stopped to see Robert at the service station. He had not seen him in a long time.

“My God, let me get you some chicken,” said Mr. Robert playfully. “You are about to disappear!”

“What? Why?” Keith asked, confused.

“You’ve done lost some weight! Are they working you too hard in the kitchen?” said Mr. Robert. “That Sylvia, she is a tyrant.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” said Keith, studying his shape. “She is nice to me, Sylvia.”

“She can be,” said Mr. Robert. “Just don’t get on her wrong side; she’ll chew you up.”

“I bet,” said Keith, putting a pack of chewing gum on the counter and an orange soda.

“So, I hear your mom is in town—staying in the Brown’s Estate.”

“She is,” said Keith. “What do you mean Brown’s Estate? Does he own Liu’s trailer?”

“Liu’s trailer and the lot of them.”

“Wait, all of them?” Keith was confused.

“Of course he does. He says he doesn’t, but that’s bullshit. He tells everyone he just collects rent—old fool thinks everyone is after his money.”

“I had no idea,” said Keith.

“I would not believe everything he tells you—but that’s just me,” said Mr. Robert. “That’ll be two forty-five.”

Keith sat at the bar after his shift finished at the diner. He didn’t feel like going home. He was harboring an odd feeling of betrayal from Mr. Brown. Though it’s true Keith had never asked—or cared—if he had money, every memory he could recall displayed a man trying to convince him of the opposite of riches.

It’s money in the jars, Keith thought. Was he testing me?

A man of Keith’s build and height, though clearly restrained by gym attendance, sat next to Keith. He was wearing a corduroy sports coat, dark jeans, and cowboy boots. His hair had begun balding, but it looked professorial, or so Keith thought. He noticed his watch, which was large and made of gold, wrapping around his strong wrist and hairy hands.

“How are you, ma’am?” asked the man with a resonant, confident voice.

“Could be worse, I guess,” said Sylvia, who Keith had learned had never really had many days better than could be worse. “What can I get ya, honey?”

“That’s why I come here. You are nicer than my wife,” the man joked. “Just a coffee and one of those apple pastries.”

“Out of apple pastries. We run out early of those,” said Sylvia.

“Well, you should consider making more if you keep running out,” said the man.

“You tell that to Robert, not me. I ain’t the owner. Just coffee then?”

“Yes, ma’am, just coffee.”

“Alright, honey, I’ll be right back with it.”

Keith admired people’s capacity to have non-confronting confrontations. He would have needed to talk about it and apologize for being abrasive, but neither side did so, and the exchange ended with ‘alright, honey.’

“Daddy!” said Chloe, coming out of the kitchen.

“Hey, baby girl!” greeted the man.

Chloe gave her father a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Nice jacket!”

“You like it? I wasn’t sure. Your mom hates it.”

“I think you look very handsome,” said Chloe. “Daddy, this is my friend Keith. He goes to Mom’s school.”

“Oh, brilliant. You are one of the reasons I might have to go bankrupt,” said Chloe’s father, reaching out a hand. “Dr. Stewart, Jenkins.”

“Keith Rayburn,” said Keith, shaking his hand.

“Keith is an artist, Daddy,” said Chloe. She then turned to Keith. “Daddy is a gallerist.”

“Oh, really? What kind of art do you make?” asked Stewart.

“I don’t know,” sheepishly said Keith, looking at Chloe, confused.

“He is being modest,” said Chloe.

No, I’m not, thought Keith.

“Keith is a writer. You should read his essay.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Jenkins received the coffee from Sylvia. “I’m sure it’s great. Nice to meet you, Keith,” he said and then turned to face away from him.

Keith sat quietly for a minute or so. He then stood up to leave without saying goodbye. Chloe and her father were speaking as if he wasn’t there—which Keith understood. Mr. Jenkins wasn’t there to see him. In fact, he was relieved he didn’t show interest in hearing about his writing.

The next morning, Keith saw his mother sitting on the porch looking at a local paper. He remembered Mr. Brown’s words, ‘We never have as much time as we think we do.’

He approached her. “Good morning. First Baptist has the best potluck.”

“Funny you say that. I’ve been thinking of going to church,” Sharon said, putting down the paper.

“Wow, you really have changed.”

“I used to be in the choir, you know?” She exhaled cigarette smoke.

“You might want to give those up if you are joining the choir again.”

“Sinatra smoked,” casually defended Sharon. “How is school?”

“Odd. I only like Literature.”

“You should study English,” Sharon encouraged. “You have a gift.”

“How would you know that?”

“I read most of what you would throw away.”

“That was private,” said Keith.

“I never said it was right, but I did it,” she said as she put her cigarette out in a Maxwell House coffee can.

“I better get going. I don’t wanna be late.”

“Okay, darling. I’ll be seeing you.” Sharon opened the newspaper again. “I love you.” Her eyes still on the paper.

“Love you too,” muttered Keith.

Keith arrived early to Literature class. He sat in the classroom enjoying the total quiet. There was so much noise in his life, from the kitchen to the trailer park—silence was a strange commodity. The classroom was modern—too modern, or so Keith thought. He would have liked to take this class in a setting like the old wing of the library or the classrooms of Jenkins’ Manor, which virtually felt like a museum to Keith.

“Oh, perfect, the student I wanted to see,” greeted Professor Culpepper.
Keith realized he was the only student in the room, and he still looked around to see if there was someone else.

“Did I do something wrong?” asked Keith.

“No. On the contrary, you did something very right,” said Culpepper, sitting down at his desk. “I chose your essay for the class, and I thought I would let you know to not catch you off-guard. Don’t let anything of what the class says make you flinch. Participate normally as you would if we were reading Homer.”

Keith was petrified. “Yes, s-sir,” he said in hesitation.

Why mine? he wondered.

Keith would have almost rather been unconscious, naked, on a metal laboratory table being dissected by the students.

“The language is not elegant, but it works,” said one student.

“Why would you say that, Rogers?” asked Culpepper.

“Well, I don’t know if it is a choice—but it has grit. It’s granular in which you can feel what the author says.”

“Would it benefit from more sophisticated language?” asked Culpepper. “Jones,” he directed the question to another student.

“No, sir, I don’t think. It would take away from the authenticity. It’s visceral.”

“Rayburn, what was your state of mind when you wrote this?” asked Culpepper.

There was a collective sound of surprise made by the class, as all heads turned to Keith.
All sets of eyes wide open, staring right at him, awaiting a response. His body responded with all the usual signs of anxiety irrepressibly building—and then he remembered Chloe telling him, ‘Breathe.’

“I was better when I finished than when I started,” bravely shared Keith.

“Excellent answer. Would you say it was perhaps cathartic?” asked Culpepper.

“Yes… healing, even,” said Keith. Being candid was uncharted territory. “Like I needed to know that about myself.” In his vulnerability, he found strength.

“The way you use the analogy of the bird and the cage, I think we can all relate to a certain degree. That cage was exclusively yours, but maybe we all have one. Well done, Rayburn.”
Keith felt the quiver in his lips, concerned that the light beaming on his eyes would make the tears he was holding back sparkle when everyone in the room clapped. It was a dry clap, arrhythmic, like hesitant raindrops on a tin roof. Keith noticed his classmate with the big brown eyes clenching the cuffs of her sweater, as her expression morphed into tenderness, the sweet face of empathy. Keith felt as if she was telling him, I see you.

Chapter 21: Vines

Keith had always feared being seen. But after twenty-four hours under a new light, he realized that perhaps the world beyond his cage was not as scary as he had made it out to be.

“The thing with trauma, Keith, is that you never know when it will surface,” shared Dr. Joy. “The fuse that detonates our memories varies in length and volatility. It is my belief that with time and work, we can learn to notice the spark sooner and use tools to prevent it from flaring up.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Keith.

“That’s a valid question, and I apologize if I have led this dialogue more proactively today,” said Dr. Joy, in a calculated manner. “You have shared with me some difficult memories about your childhood…”

“And now my mother is here,” interrupted Keith.

“Yes.” Dr. Joy paused briefly, readjusting her posture. “As you know, I had not mentioned it in our previous time. However, your mother said something that was concerning to me.”

“And what was that?”

“She said that you have not been taking your medication—I wonder how you are feeling without it.”

“Same as always. I never really took it.”

“May I ask why?”

“I hated it—hated the way it made me feel. It was that Dr. Simpson who said I should take it, but how could he know I needed it in one session?”

“And… please forgive me, Keith, this is unprofessional. May I ask why your prescription kept being refilled?”

“Mom,” said Keith plainly.

“I see.”

Keith received a text from Freddie Friday night.

8:04 PM — Freddie: We r going out. Clean up. Pick u up at 9:30 PM

As he waited for his friends to pick him up, Keith noticed his mother out on the porch. He was wearing all black and his nice sneakers. He walked over to see her.

“Hey,” greeted Keith. “Cold night.”

“Oh, I’m loving it—it’s all cozy and nice.” She was wrapped in a knitted blanket that Keith recognized from their home. “Are you going out?”

“Yeah, with friends…”

“No girlfriend?”

“Mom…”

“I’m just curious. You look good, sweetheart.”

Silence fell momentarily, and the neighbors in unit 14 could be heard arguing.

“She is a real bitch, that one,” Sharon said.

Keith laughed. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

“Oh honey, I’ve been following it every night.” Sharon lit a cigarette. “She is manipulative, jealous, controlling, and crazy!”

“I’ve never been able to understand what they fight about.”

“Oh, I heard it all clear here from the porch; the sound flies right to my door.” Sharon was getting animated. “The other day, she threw all his clothes out and said she was gonna burn ‘em because she could smell perfume that wasn’t hers.”

“And you ask if I have a girlfriend?”

“Not all girls are as bad as Yolanda—or me.” The last words were full of regret.

Keith could hear the roar of the Impala approaching.

“That’s my friends.”

“Better hurry then. Have fun—and be safe,” said Sharon.

“I will,” said Keith. “Enjoy the soap opera. I’ll come back for the juicy details.”

“I look forward to it.”

Freddie must have noticed Keith under the porch light because he pulled right in front of Sharon’s trailer.

Richard lowered the window on the backseat. Keith could smell his loud cologne as he approached. “Hi, Miss Rayburn!” he waved animatedly.

Sharon smiled and waved back at Richard.

They stopped at the gas station at the end of town to buy beer. Keith and Richard stayed in the car. The clerk liked Freddie, and she never asked for ID.

“I thought it would only be the three of us,” said Keith.

“I know. We didn’t invite him, but he saw us leaving, and he just said, ‘I’m coming too,’” Richard said impatiently.

“I guess it’ll be alright,” said Keith. “He can make you laugh when he is drunk.”

“I just hope we get the fun Trevor and not the cricket killer…”

The drive to their usual drinking spot was loud and chaotic. Trevor couldn’t stand the Bee Gees, so they listened to Blink 182. Keith could not understand how Trevor’s neck could stand the violent shaking or how Richard could drink so much Red Bull.

Trevor was in his own world. He sat on a log at a distance from the boys, smoking a joint. Keith, Freddie, and Richard were having terrific fun.

Richard stood on the granite bench—Keith’s throne, which he no longer visited—and shouted into the sky, “We are going to see big titties tonight!” He chugged his beer.

“What?” Keith was surprised.

“You didn’t tell him?” asked Richard to Freddie.

“I figured he would not want to go if I did,” confessed Freddie.

“Go where?”

“To Vines, the house of the most exuberant dancers in all of the South. Home of lust, desire, and vigor in Fairweather,” Richard sounded like a radio announcer.

“I don’t know about that,” said Keith.

“I told you,” said Freddie. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell him.”

“Come on, bud—it’ll be fun!” Richard got close to Keith and wrapped his arm around him. “You can’t leave me alone with Trevor.”

Keith hesitated. He had never been to a strip club—and he wasn’t sure if he would like it.

“Okay,” Keith finally said.

“Really?” asked Freddie.

“Yes, what the heck.” Keith chugged his beer. He thought of Chloe, unattainable—distant. He thought of how nice he actually thought Tucker was and how he was more deserving of her.

“Titties!” shouted Richard, lifting his fists into the air.

Vines was located on the outskirts of town in a small strip mall with a pawn shop, a tax clerk, and a Waffle House. Keith was no stranger to this setting, but he was surprised how at ease Richard looked. He had limited understanding of Freddie’s socio-economics. It was odd to think how little he actually knew about him. Warm does not mean personal, Keith thought.

Trevor looked ridiculous to Keith, standing in front of the group as if he was leading. There was something Napoleonic about him with his small stature and inflated ego.

Keith noticed the odd mixture of luxury and poverty vehicles parked at—presumably Vines—because the Waffle House only had a few people eating inside; it was near midnight.

The women were scattered around the place, walking around in high heels and lingerie. There was no one on the stage, where the pole was lit by a red and purple light.

“Look at her,” Richard said, his body close to Keith’s, pointing at a black dancer.

“Beautiful,” said Keith, noticing Richard’s smile, like a kid in a candy shop.

They sat at the table closest to the pole, under the spotlight.

“Hey, boys,” greeted one of the waitresses, who was wearing more clothing than the rest. “What can I get ya?”

“A bottle of Cognac. Keep the tab open,” said Trevor, slapping down his Black American Express on the table and tapping on it with his index finger.

“Girls like nice things,” said Trevor to Keith, as if he was teaching him a lesson.

Keith didn’t comment.

The cognac under the purple light was glowing like a bulb in the dark, which attracted bugs—but in this case, it was dancers.

They just think we are stupid rich idiot kids, Keith thought. Which I guess they are.

Keith noticed how Freddie’s left hand was moving in his jeans pocket. It was terribly odd for Keith. Ironically, Richard, who kept shouting titties on the drive there, was the only one behaving like a gentleman.

The lights of the place dimmed. Loud sound effects of thunder, wind, and Caribbean sounds came through the massive sound system. An emcee announced:

“And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for. Our girls take the stage. Please welcome Wisteria!”

Only the stage was lit, and from the red velvety curtain came out Wisteria. She looked at Freddie when she arrived at the stage, and Freddie lifted his chin with a squint, as if checking her out. Trevor immediately stood up and put a five-dollar bill in her lace panties. She blew a kiss to him.

Keith noticed her cesarean scar. He wished he had drunk less before arriving. His emotions were heightened. This was everything but arousing.

“Are you okay?” whispered Richard to Keith.

“I’m fine.”

“We can go if you would like,” said Richard.

“No, I’m fine. But thank you—I wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

“Anything for my best Body,” teased Richard. “I’m kidding… no more Body.”

Wisteria dropped her bra to Freddie’s lap, which he picked up and smelled. Keith felt a hole in his stomach. Who is this guy? he thought. He noticed the upset look on Trevor’s face.

Keith grabbed the bottle of cognac and poured a shot’s worth—which he drank in one gulp. The sight of her swollen breasts, with her big areolas, was too much like the image that would appear in an anatomy book under the word ‘motherhood’.

“Attaboy!” Trevor shouted.

Wisteria danced to “Black Coffee” by Peggy Lee for her slow song, a clashing contrast to the aggressive movements she performed during her opening song, “Back in Black” by AC/DC.

During the last bars of the song, Wisteria must have noticed that Keith was not paying attention. Though the sound of her stilettos was drowned by the music, Keith could almost feel the vibrations as she approached him. Keith felt her nails touch his chin when she reached for his collar. All he could think of was the moment of Fatality in the video game Mortal Kombat. He felt as if she was going to lift him with supernatural strength and pierce his stomach with one of her high heels. Instead, she simply guided him to stand up. Her hands sensually followed the curve of her obliques into her panties, which she partially pulled down to signal for a deposit to be made.

Keith wondered if the whole club could hear his heartbeat. He felt a kick to the sole of his shoes from Richard, who was inches from him—grounding him back in the moment. Keith looked at Richard with confusion, who rubbed two fingers against his thumb and mouthed the word “money.”

Keith rushed to dig in his pockets to pull out a bill. He knew he had a twenty, a hundred, and a few fives. He didn’t want to pull it all and look for one, so he took a chance and just pulled out the first bill his hands grabbed. He only saw the currency under the flashing purple and red light and through Wisteria’s smile. It was a twenty-dollar bill—which Keith would have rather not handed out. She lowered her laced underpants a bit more for Keith, further revealing her buttocks for Keith to put the bill.

Keith would never forget the way Wisteria’s face transformed from a put-on beggarly damsel-in-distress act to genuine gratitude and humanity when instead he placed the bill in her hand. Her quarter smile reminded him of the Mona Lisa—who then reverted back into a sensual muse of Greek origin embodying seduction.

Once Wisteria was off the stage, she walked to their table wearing an oversized plaid shirt, which barely covered her breasts, exposed from the lack of a brassiere.

“Hello, boys,” she greeted, shouting to be heard over the music. “Can you buy me a drink?”

“Sure. Have a seat,” shouted Trevor, taking the lead.

Wisteria signaled for the waitress, who came with the menu of drinks for the girls. There was a different menu for the dancers. Depicted were fancy mocktails with prices ranging from fifteen dollars to a hundred.

The waitress handed Freddie the menu, who passed it on to Trevor. Trevor tapped with his finger, signaling the most expensive drink, Poison Ivy.

Wisteria pulled a stool, sitting between Trevor and Freddie.

“So, where are you guys from?” said Wisteria.

“From all over. We go to school here,” shouted Freddie, visibly drunk. “Jenkins.”

Why did he lie? wondered Keith.

“Smart boys,” said Wisteria. “Are you going to be politicians? Lots of my clients once were boys like you.”

“You never know, but I’m already a man, no longer a boy,” said Freddie.

“My parents mingle in politics,” shouted Richard. “I don’t think Mom would like Dad to be coming here.”

Wisteria smiled at Richard’s innocent comment. “You would be surprised, darling. I might already know your father.”

The whole table laughed, and they all drank a shot.

“Over there is the VIP room. That’s where I will see you guys when you become important.”

“I could go there already!” shouted Trevor over the music.

“Is that right?” said Wisteria. “I love this song. Do you want a lap dance?” She leant over to Trevor. “Thirty.” She put three fingers up to avoid confusion over the loud music.

“Put it on the tab,” he replied.

Wisteria lifted her three fingers into the air to the waitress, who observed them like a hawk.

A power battle between ownership and longing broke while Wisteria danced on Trevor’s lap, as her eyes drifted frequently to Freddie, whose posture and body language were demonstrative and even seductive, or so Keith thought. He noticed how Trevor kept looking at Freddie, as if Wisteria was just a prop to prove his masculinity.

“I have a boner,” said Richard to Keith, leaning over, trying to be discreet.

Keith looked and noticed Richard’s conspicuous erection, which he was trying to cover by having his leg crossed and his arms over.

“I don’t think anyone would care. Look around,” said Keith, pointing at the drunken man who was flirting with Bougainvillea next to them. “How can you be excited?”

“I’m not. It’s this place; it breathes sex. Trevor is grossing me out,” said Richard.

“I know,” said Keith. “And what’s with Freddie? He is really into this.”

“I’ve been telling you about it. Always wants to be the center of attention—you just don’t see it.”

“I don’t know. I think he’s changed.”

“He seems the same to me,” said Richard. “I gotta piss.”

“How are you going to pee with that?” said Keith, pointing down at Richard’s pants.

“With great difficulty, sir,” he said. They both laughed.

Keith wished he had gone to the bathroom with Richard to avoid the sight of Trevor and Freddie. He thought it would not be prudent to follow behind to the bathroom with his friend who was trying to conceal arousal.

Trevor signaled Bougainvillea to come and whispered something in her ear. Keith deduced that he requested a lap dance for Freddie because she signaled the waitress the same way Wisteria had, and then she began dancing for Freddie.

Wisteria and Bougainvillea were exchanging looks, as if they could communicate telepathically, or so Keith thought—he was heavily inebriated. He thought of his mother and Mr. Brown. He recalled the strange feeling of deception he felt when learning Mr. Brown was hiding his alleged riches from him. I’m not a thief, he thought.

Both girls raised their hands again, as the music switched, and continued dancing on their laps. What’s taking him so long, Keith thought, looking around for Richard. Keith noticed the way Trevor was looking at Freddie while receiving his lap dance—it was an intense gaze. Trevor’s features were always exaggerated by how dry and lean his body was.

“Black pearls,” announced Richard.

“What is that?” asked Keith, receiving the glass from Richard.

“Red Bull and Jägermeister, the pearl of the sea.”

“Cheers,” awkwardly said Keith, who was already intoxicated and desperately felt like escaping his thoughts and sights.

“Cheers, my boy!” shouted Richard over the loud music.

Bougainvillea looked of Hispanic origin. Jasmine had a touch of Asian. Akebia was Black. Jessamine was a heavy-set brunette. Moonflower was pale blond, almost Scandinavian.

Vines was Keith’s introduction to the fetishization of race. The words that Richard had shared regarding his secretive high school fling and the Toblerone pet name for his genitalia acquired new meaning. To this point, Keith thought of objectification and sexualization being something rather exclusive to women due to its unspoken nature when it came to men. He wondered of the impact that being objectified and reduced to the size of his genitalia had had on Richard.

Keith had never experienced double vision from drunkenness until this moment. The strobing lights made it all feel like a series of confusing freeze frames. It must have been 3 AM the last time he saw the clock over at the bar. He couldn’t understand why Wisteria was drunk if the girls were supposed to only drink those overpriced mocktails. They must drink in the VIP, he thought.

“I’ve never had a friend that I love like you,” drunkenly said Keith to Richard. “You are my best, best, best friend.”

“I love you too. I’m sorry I called you Body.”

“I actually liked it. I just didn’t like how you said it.”

“I love it when friends love each other,” Wisteria said, with little control of her torso as she spoke. “You are Black, and you are White, and you love each other—too cute.”

“We do,” shouted Keith. “He is my brotha from a Black motha!”

“And he is my brotha from anotha cracker motha,” shouted Richard, drunk. “Cheers!” The glasses clinked so hard they nearly broke.

PART 4         DR. JOY

Chapter 22: My Name

Dr. Joy liked red wine. What could have been perceived as temperance was merely built tolerance. She increasingly drank later into the evening, starting earlier in the afternoon. A bottle a day did not seem excessive when broken into four glasses over several hours.

“It’s not working,” said Dr. Joy.

“What are you talking about?” asked Stewart.

“The institute,” slurred Dr. Joy, gulping down the fourth glass of Pinot Noir within two hours. She stood up; the stool made a loud screech against the polished marble floor. She reached for another bottle.

“I think you’ve had enough, Joy.”

“Really? You are going to tell me about drinking?” said Dr. Joy. “You had to give it up altogether because you could not stop. I know when to stop.”

“It’s not the same,” said Stewart.

“Of course it’s not the same. I never did cocaine, or pills, and I never had rich friends, and yacht parties, and all that you had.”

“You do now, so please behave accordingly,” firmly stated Stewart. “You are embarrassing yourself.”

Dr. Joy seemed to pay no notice to her husband’s words. “You know,” she started, “my best student—you would like him—his name is Keith.” She filled the glass to the rim. “There is nothing wrong with that boy. He is bright,” she drank. “…boy is he ever bright. He reminds me of you.”

“You need to go to bed.”

“He is not different. He is normal, like you, and Chloe, and everyone else on this goddam place.”

“Joy, enough. You are drunk.”

“Am I? Because I am feeling really good,” said Dr. Joy through clenched teeth.

“Goodnight, drink plenty of water. We have the brunch at Charles’ tomorrow—the board will be there.”

“I hate that pathetic man,” she sniffed her newly poured wine.

“You are a vile woman, Joy,” declared Stewart as his cowboy boots announced his exit.

Stewart stopped before heading to their sleeping chamber, turned around, and with his finger pointed out as if he had drawn a pistol on her, he declared, “Don’t mess this up.”

“Mess what up? What are you gonna do?” defied Dr. Joy.

“You know damn well I never wanted to open the institute. We are drowning in debt and my family cannot afford another failure related to the school.”

“It can all burn down for all I care,” said Dr. Joy. “Isn’t it ironic?”

“What’s so ironic to you?” Stewart’s hands went to his hips.

“My name: Joy!” she burst into drunken laughter laced with sorrow.

“Joy, listen to me: we have elections coming up. Newsome is already talking to the secretary of education. Do not mess this up.”

There was no hangover, physical nor emotional. Dr. Joy’s slight consumption past the tipping point was only slightly abnormal.

Light was flooding the grand Victorian kitchen, which overlooked the enormous southern magnolia surrounded by azaleas and camellias. The wild birds found sanctuary in their backyard. The historic district, Midtown, preserved the echoes of a grand South in which architects relished in the expenditure of wealth in a climate that allowed for carefully planned gardens and harmonized them into old-growth woods.

The loud noise of the industrial-grade blender crushing and binding frozen berries, almonds, chia seeds, yogurt, and powdered greens prevented Dr. Joy from hearing Chloe digging in the pantry.

“No. Too many calories,” reprimanded Joy as she saw Chloe unwrapping a sports granola and protein bar.

“I’m hungry,” said Chloe.

“A woman is always hungry, sweetie. How do you think I have kept this figure?” Her hands followed the contour of her body. She poured her glass and pulled an extra one for Chloe. “Throw that away; those are your father’s—I’ve told him to stop eating those.” She pushed the small glass of smoothie across the granite counter.

Chloe threw away the bar and noticed the wine in the trash bin. She sat down with her mother in quiet awkwardness.

“Your hair looks pretty,” said Dr. Joy. “I wasn’t sure about the bangs when you cut them, but it looks cute—playful.”

“Thanks.” Chloe was staring down at her smoothie.

“How are things going with Tucker?”

“Same as usual; he is really sweet,” answered Chloe.

“Are you being careful?”

“Mom, stop. I’m a virgin. We are going to wait until I’m eighteen.”

“I thought you were going to say ‘til I’m married.’”

“His parents wish, but it’s not gonna happen. We love each other too much.”

“Just don’t come home pregnant.” Dr. Joy locked her eyes on Chloe.

“You know? This was a lovely mother-daughter time.” Chloe stood up, untying her hair.

“Finish your smoothie,” ordered Dr. Joy.

Chloe put on a ditsy attitude. “A girl is always hungry. Have fun at the massacre at Charles’.”

“Chloe, adjust your attitude,” Dr. Joy tried. “Stop right there.”

Chloe left the room.

Dr. Joy noticed how dry the house plants looked. Stewart refused to take care of the plants that she kept bringing home, and he had instructed Clara, the maid, to stop helping her. “She needs to keep at least one alive; she is a woman, for God’s sake,” had ordered Stewart. Dr. Joy simply replaced the plants each time they died.

“Good morning, darling,” said Stewart, kissing her lips. “I didn’t hear you coming to bed.”

“I slept in the guest room,” said Dr. Joy. “Smoothie?”

“No thanks; Charles will expect me to overeat at brunch.”

“Why do I even have to go?”

“Because we are in this mess because of you.”

“Shall I remind you that you seemed to think that it could advance your non-existent career? The gallery is a failure, Stewart. It only works if we have something to show—and everyone loves art from marginalized, different people.”

“You are right; maybe you should stay.”

And so, Dr. Joy did.

Her home office was quiet and bright. She had insisted on painting off-white over the carved dark walnut—a victory over Stewart, who had called her a peasant for wanting that. She was surrounded by all the books she had ever read and the big shelf of all she hoped to one day read. The silver-plated picture frames on her desk held memories of easier times, when marrying into wealth was light-hearted fun. She could almost taste the limoncello, the mussels in white wine and garlic, and the plain tomato pasta on the Amalfi coast the day Stewart proposed. She didn’t feel like a Cinderella, because she was a competent, educated woman who had overcome so much.

In silence, the echoes from the past became louder; laughter and baby cooing were joined by the dissonance of arguments, explosive responses, apology sex, and repressed words at dinners with dignitaries.

She opened the drawer underneath her desk, which she kept under lock. The key was hidden inside her copy of Donna Tartt’s The Secret History. She read Keith’s admission essay once more. Her eyes closed, and her chin tilted as she inhaled deeply.

There was no need to call Dr. Simpson. She was well aware of his reputation for over-diagnosing and over-prescribing. The file on Keith was extensive, inappropriately so. If ever discovered, it could destroy her career and her family. Dr. Joy feared the consequences of her recklessness.

She took the lighter fluid from underneath the grill and placed the papers in their fire pit. She saw the shreds of lit paper, with their glowing corners, take to the wind as they turned black and disappeared from existence.

Chapter 23: The F Word

(monday 12)

Not him, not today, Dr. Joy thought when she opened her day planner Monday morning in her office, her forehead touching the planner in defeat. Her feet ached from the stilettos already at 9 AM; she often walked barefooted in her office while preparing for Personal Studies, feeling the silk of the Persian rug between her toes. She kept notes of each student, like memoirs, which she re-read each day before meeting them.

Dr. Joy experienced a life-defining moment when she was a teenager. Why are you telling me this? she kept wondering as the psychiatrist to whom she had opened her shattered young heart one session prior rambled about the movie Seven with Brad Pitt.

“So, how are you feeling with the medication?” he had asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“The Altruline. You have been taking your medication, right?”

“I was never prescribed a medication…” Dr. Joy had said.

“Oh, sorry, wrong patient,” he said, flipping the page of his book with notes.

It was unclear to Dr. Joy if that was the moment she decided she would seek to become a psychotherapist, but it was at least the moment that defined her approach as to how not to provide therapy.

Dr. Joy took deep breaths as she stood outside the door for a couple of minutes, trying to avoid the inevitable. It was 9:59 AM when she finally made her entrance; late—by her self-imposed standards.

“Trevor, good morning!” greeted Dr. Joy.

“Let’s get it over with,” said Trevor.

“Right, I love your enthusiasm.”

Dr. Joy’s professional behavior often spent too much time in the gray zone when it came to Trevor. Part of the therapy required a bit of casual banter, dry, and sarcastic even. His ODD, paired with his personality, privilege, and life circumstances, presented a challenge different to any other student.

“So, how was your weekend?” casually asked Dr. Joy.

“I think I’m a faggot.”

Oh, dear, thought Dr. Joy. Didn’t see that one coming.

“Well, Trevor, may I ask: why you would consider that you may be homosexual?”

“My friends and I went to the tittie bar and all I could think of was how Freddie was enjoying that girl—like I wanted to see him, and not the girl. Know what I’m saying?”

Dr. Joy stopped herself from shaking her head, to taking her hand to her temple. “Trevor, while I appreciate your candid ability to talk to me, and your frankness, I would like to perhaps suggest that some civility is regained as you share the details of your concern.”

“Well, I am concerned, I don’t want to be a faggot. My dad will kill me.”

“Trevor, there is nothing inherently wrong with being homosexual or experiencing homosexual attraction. And please, I encourage you to refrain from the use of that word.”

“Whatever. How do I fix it?”

Dr. Joy had dealt with people before, particularly men, who had suffered from Trevor’s dilemma. It was, however, new to her to deal with someone who had such a complex orbit. Her hesitation in response was nearly palpable.

“‘Fixing it’ would suggest that there is something broken,” began Dr. Joy. “While there are coping mechanisms that one could learn to suppress one’s desires, it would be perhaps like fixing a leak on a pipe by wrapping tape on it, or plugging it with epoxy. The leak will remain under, just not open, and spilling.”

“Plug me up then,” he smirked. “That didn’t come out right.”

Dr. Joy refrained from commenting.

“How does that even work? Do I want to be plugged?” Trevor asked.

“That would be beyond my reach, Trevor. I can be a passenger as you navigate these uncharted waters, and at times even be a rudder, or an anchor. But this is a very personal discovery.”

“Isn’t this called personal studies?”

“That’s a valid point.”

“You already know everything about my father, you can see how he would lose his shit.”

“I have heard of your father, yes. What of your mother?”

“Don’t know.”

“You know, something curious: often it is the mother that has the most difficult time accepting that their son may be homosexual. You would be surprised as to how accepting men can be.” Dr. Joy’s demeanor shifted. She was displaying a more caring outward posture. “If I may dare say: often the men who have the most difficulty accepting it are the ones who have struggled themselves.”

“They are faggots too then,” said Trevor, dry.

“That is not what I am saying, not at all. I perhaps want to illustrate that questioning does not being make—though it definitely can.”

“Like me.”

“That, we don’t know yet, Trevor. But I will be glad to be on your boat.”

Dr. Joy rarely built tension in her neck. But Trevor had a way to tie knots around every muscle. The restraint that her profession called was not innate as much as an acquired skill. She was grateful that Stewart, who was tremendously controlling and old-fashioned about her interactions with other males, had accepted that his Cuban masseur and chiropractor, Fernando, saw her once a week, at their home—with Clara supervising.

“Where is the big boss today?” asked Fernando.

“Oh, just running around town, shaking hands, trying to round up support for his gallery,” Dr. Joy said, laying down as Fernando worked her lower back. “Oh, right there!”

“It’s a beautiful gallery, really coming along for the next show,” said Fernando.

“Oh, you’ve been there?”

“Yes, some of my photos will be there in the show.”

“I didn’t know you were a photographer,” said Dr. Joy between grunts of pain and pleasure. “Uh, yes, there.”

“No, señora, I’m in the photos.”

“Oh, well, that I can see.” Her tension was releasing. “Anyway, I don’t want to think about Stewart, I’ve had enough troubled men today.”

PART 5         KEITH

Chapter 24: Chinese Takeout

Keith agreed to go out with Kendra, Chloe, and Tucker to the movies. Saw IV was still playing at the discount movie theater in Lake Branch Mall—the only one to which Keith had gone, yet a new experience for his company. Keith had never experienced the novelty of visiting a lower-class setting—his setting—through the laughter and lightheartedness of those with wealth. It was like poverty tourism.

The clerk at Rainbows, the clothing store, was visibly upset when Chloe and Kendra would press the garments against their bodies, still on the hanger, and play with the clothes.

“How about this one?” Chloe had asked.

“Gurl, you done found your Sunday Best for cherch,” said Kendra in a put-on Ebonics accent, not her usual tone.

“Well, I was thinking of bringing my potato casserole, you know, the one that pastor Timmy loves,” she had replied with an exaggerated Southern accent, not her usual old-money Southern lilt.

Keith didn’t feel offended by it; he thought it even endearing. Brown’s insistence on taking ownership of his place in the socio-economic ladder, and never being embarrassed, had really taken hold.

It was nearly impossible for Keith to dislike Tucker, whom Keith saw as warm and kind—even charitable. He questioned why he was often labeled as a douchebag; there was nothing of that which Keith could trace. He asked Keith questions, and he actually listened, and he seemed to be very tender and kind to Chloe. He was serious, yes, but it was mostly being smart and attentive—or so Keith thought.

Keith’s feelings for Chloe and attraction were slowly being replaced by a true protective nature and warmth towards her. The kind of friendship that took like a graft onto a tree, which now began bearing sweeter fruit than anticipated.

Dinner at Applebee’s was a birthday meal for Keith. For them, it was a casual exercise of roughing it up, or settling—since it was in the same parking lot.

“Oh my word, Tucker, I screamed more by your scream scaring me than the frigging movie,” said Kendra.

“He does not do horror movies,” said Chloe.

Keith was still hungry, and all their plates were barely eaten. There were appetizers and copious portions of food on the table. He had gotten the standard cheeseburger with no add-ons and water to drink.

“Keith, help me out, man. It was pretty scary,” said Tucker.

“You did scream pretty loud…” bantered Keith.

“I told you!” said Kendra.

The waitress came while they were arguing and asked about the bill. Keith was able to hear what Chloe had said when asked.

“Split it in four,” Chloe had said.

A calculator was not needed to realize the disparity between his consumption and their careless ordering of food.

Keith felt his ears turn hot, and Tucker must have noticed his eyebrows furrowing. Keith’s hand anxiously reached for his wallet when he felt Tucker pat his leg a couple of times.

“I got you,” Tucker said in low volume, for the girls not to hear, who were still talking about the movie.

“You don’t have to,” said Keith, still pulling his wallet out.

“No, no. I got it.” Tucker smiled and gave a friendly wink. “We are cool. Put it back.”

Keith nodded his head in affirmation, gratitude.

Tucker’s truck was decked out with every bell and whistle that GMC could offer. Keith liked the feel of the truck. Tucker was not showy about it; there was an acceptance of his wealth, a humility about him, and the display of good stewardship.

Keith didn’t request to be dropped off at the entrance. Tucker drove him right to the door of Mr. Brown’s trailer.

“My youth pastor used to live there,” Tucker had said when Keith mentioned where he was going.

Keith noticed how polite he was when waving at Mr. Brown, and how genuine it looked. Kendra and Chloe were a bit loud saying ‘goodbye,’ but Keith didn’t mind it.

“Want to play a game?” Kendra said as the last line, imitating the voice of the character in the movie they had just watched.

Keith was smiling as he walked towards the door. Mr. Brown was sitting down on the porch, enjoying the evening fresh air.

“So that’s the boyfriend, huh?” said Mr. Brown.

“Yes, sir, that’s prince charming,” said Keith. “I might be charmed myself, nice guy.”

“Do you still have feelings for the girl?”

“I don’t think so,” said Keith. “I think we are really good friends.”

“See your mom lately?”

“A little, just here and there.”

“You should invite her over for supper. I’ll buy Chinese. She can make a dessert.”

“I’ll let her know of your invitation, sir. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, kid.”

It is definitely money, Keith thought as Mr. Brown was messing with the clinking jars in the cupboard at 2 AM. It was unclear to Keith what the purpose of hiding in plain sight was. Does he think his cover is good? Or is he really that desperately testing my honesty?

Sharon was quick to accept the offer.

“You really don’t have to cook a dessert,” Keith had said.

“No, I want to try it. My friend at work told me of a recipe for a sour cream cake.”

“Your friend at work?”

“I have a job. The peanut packing plant,” she had smiled. “It’s nuts.”

Keith’s laughter was accompanied by a couple snorts.

“I have missed that laughter,” Sharon had said.

Mr. Brown dressed up. He wore his good polo shirt, which was terribly bright in color. The argyle plaid used bright yellow, purple, and green. Keith was reminded of the mad hatter in Alice in Wonderland.

“Right! I got all the Chinese delicacies,” announced Mr. Brown, carrying a bag full of takeaway containers.

Keith was well aware of how special it was for Mr. Brown to spend a penny extra in food.

“Thank you, sir.”

“For what?” asked Brown, befuddled, as he emptied the food into small bowls.

“Just everything.”

Keith wished he could be specific. But he chose ambiguity at the moment. He was genuinely grateful.

“Sir…” said Keith with hesitation.

“What?” asked Mr. Brown.

Keith felt embarrassed as he pointed down to Mr. Brown’s dark khakis, which were displaying heavy wetting.

“Must have spilled some in the car,” he said, rushing to his room to change his pants.

It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Keith had noticed Mr. Brown’s partial incontinence increasing in volume and frequency—but he had never pointed it out. It seemed like the kind of thing that was harmless when it was just the two of them, but perhaps he would want to know since his mother was about to arrive, and he had made such an effort to look good.

Supper went over without any hiccups. Mr. Brown found Sharon very endearing, and funny—or so Keith thought. He was mostly an observant. Sharon had a gift at curation. Maybe she can get a job with Chloe’s father, Keith thought. Her editing of history and selection of stories was fascinating. By her telling, Keith had enjoyed a wonderful and fun upbringing.

“Keith loved Linda Rondsdat!” said Sharon. “I remember the way his little face would light up when Desperado would come on.”

“Same way his face light up with sweets!” said Mr. Brown. “I keep wondering why the crows keep tearing up my garbage and all I see is Snicker bar wrappings, and Reese Cup shells.”

“He does love his sweets,” said Sharon, looking at Keith, full of light, and regret. She took a sip of her water to undo the know on her throat. “Speaking of sweets… cake time!”

“Help her with that,” ordered Mr. Brown.

“No, no, I got it,” said Sharon, standing up.

Keith noticed her hesitation when she pulled the whipped cream which was next to the white wine in the fridge.

“Just lovely,” said Mr. Brown. “Really delicious. What’s the secret?”

“Real butter,” declared Sharon.

“I knew I could taste the real deal,” said Mr. Brown.

Keith must have been visibly tense, and Sharon must have noticed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Uh, nothing” Keith was caught of guard. “This is really good.”

Keith recognized the look on his mother’s face. She knew he was deflecting, or so Keith thought. This had been the first dessert she had virtually cooked for him, and not for one of her boyfriends.

“I better get going,” said Sharon. “I gotta start work early tomorrow morning—big shipment. This was a lovely evening, Mr. Brown,”

“Oh, please, call me Ernest,” said Mr. Brown, “Anytime, beautiful. You don’t want to stay for a drink?”

Is he flirting? Keith wondered.

“I better not, Ernest. I don’t know when to stop. I don’t  think you want to become his stepfather,” she winked.

“Ha!” Mr. Brown slapped the table. “I already love the boy like my son, so it wouldn’t be hard.”

“It’s me you have to worry about, not him,” said Sharon before opening the door to leave. “Goodnight, gentlemen. And thank you for a lovely evening.”

“Goodnight, mom.” said Keith.

Keith was picking up the dishes while Mr. Brown kept on eating cake.

“That went well,” said Mr. Brown “she is lovely. Pass me that wine, will you?”

“Love me like a son?” said Keith handing the bottle.

“I had to say something, take my chances.”

“You might be softening to me, Ernest.”

“It’s Mr. Brown to you, boy!”

Keith smiled, and made his way to his bedroom. “Goodnight Mr. Brown.”

“Good night, kid. And please close that damn window or close the door and put a towel under. I can feel the draft all the way to my room.”

Keith thought Mr. Brown must have been getting drunk. He could hear him humming about the melody of Desperado, and from time to time he would even sing a few of the words out of tune.

An SMS came through. Keith was surprised that it was from Freddie, and not Richard.

10:39 PM Freddie: How did it go?

10:40 PM Keith: Fine, I guess

10:40 PM Freddie: Good. hope you are able to work things out with her.

10:41 PM: Thanks. See u in school.

Keith sent an SMS to Richard.

10:45 PM Keith: Yo. u alive? It went well. Brown is drunk I think. He hit on mom x_x

There was no reply.

This evening was the moment Keith became consciously introduced to the unfortunate position in which a person is placed when hurt. To forgive, while still hurt, called upon something that he had not yet developed. He was expected to board the hundredth flight of a plane that the pilot had crashed ninety nine times because this time the pilot claimed she had figured it out.

I don’t need a mother anymore, Keith thought—and it hurt. Acceptance of that thought revealed  not having had a mother, or a father. The thought landed. It was time to grow up, and take ownership, to be the pilot, and take flight on his own. But like a bird whose wings had been clipped for long, he still reached for the scissors each time he thought they had grown long enough to take flight; perhaps this time it could be different.

NOV 22

Chapter 25: Plans

Richard was acting off. Keith could not figure out what was going on. “Everything is okay,” he had insisted. It was like paint drying and changing color for Keith, it was the all the same, but different.

“How stupid to have class for two days, and then have to come back for finals.” blurted Richard. They were in the common area of the suite in the dormitory. Resting between classes. Richard was splayed out on the couch throwing a ball into the air and catching it repeatedly.

Maybe it’s finals that have him stressed, or going home for thanksgiving, Keith thought.

“What does your family do for Thanksgiving?” asked Keith to Freddie.

“Big meal and avoid talking about my aunt’s political views,” said Freddie. “What about you?”

“Nothing,” answered Keith, cutting the subject. “Where is Trevor.”

“Don’t summon him,” said Richard, impatiently, bouncing out of the couch. “He has been really, really, off—he must be off his meds.”

“He is not that bad,” said Freddie.

“Really?” Richard was having one of his outbursts. “He looks like he is planning how to kill us all. He has been way too quiet—too very quiet, he is up to something.”

“How is being quiet bad? Maybe he is on his meds for the first time,” said Keith.

“No. I don't think so,” Richard lowered his voice. “We better be quiet, he could be in his room and we don’t know it. Just trust me… he is acting weird.”

“I’ll have to take your word of it.”

Freddie was shaking his head, focused on his Pokemon game.

“I might just leave today,” said Richard. “I don’t feel like going to class. It’s not like we do anything important at this stupid school anyway.” He rolled back into the couch and faced away from them.

Keith felt the disconnect. Neither of his friends was engaging with him. It wasn’t like hanging out with Chloe, Kendra, and Tucker. There was something livelier and more dynamic, and he was thinking about them.

“Where are you going?” asked Richard when Keith stood up and walked towards the door without saying anything to either one of them.

“I’m gonna run to the courts to see if Chloe is there. Tucker’s match is coming up.”

“Right, I forget. Your normal friends.”

Keith nearly spoke, instead he just kept walking, because Richard turned his back into the couch again.

I haven’t done anything wrong, he thought. I don’t need that.

Keith noticed how Jordan and his crew looked at him when he arrived to the courts and sat by Kendra who was in the bleachers.

“He is still scared of you, you know?” said Kendra, eating an apple. “What did you tell him?”

“When?” Keith was confused.

“Halloween, the party at the quarry?”

Keith raised his left eyebrow.

“Oh my word, Keith Rayburn… were you that drunk?”

“I guess so. I don’t remember.”

“Whatever it was, he has not been anywhere near me. Can’t say he hasn’t been around half the cheerleader team though…” Kendra pulled down her shades, the sun was blaring. “What’s up? do you have thanksgiving plans?”

“I guess not, might try to cook something for the old man.”

“You cook?”

“I don’t.”

“My mom always burns the dressing and undercooks the turkey, so we don’t even try. You can’t do worse than her,” said Kendra. “Dad just buys a load of soul food now and we put it in fancy dishes.”

“I might have to just do that,” said Keith.

“Will you invite your mom?”

“I don’t know…”

“Hey gurl!” Kendra greeted Chloe.

It was hard for Keith to not feel attraction to Chloe, even if only platonic. It was unpleasant now because his body was rejecting it as he got to know Tucker better. Still, he noticed her hair, and her tan, and her beautiful smile.

“What are you two going on about?” asked Chloe.

“Nothing, just talking about how you and Tucker are just so stinking cute.”

“Not right now… he gets so focused on his game. I about sent him packing so to speak.”

“Oh, oh…” said Kendra. “You on your period?”

“Kay-Kay!” she burst, her eyes wide-open and her head nudging towards Keith.

“What? It’s Keith!” said Kendra.

‘It’s Keith,’ echoed in Keith’s mind. Inclusion and belonging can be so alienating. I’m one of the girls, he thought.

“Ok, fine,” Chloe said taking her fists to the air. “I am.” Her tone changed into baby voice and then she laid on Kendra’s lap. “I don’t feel good, Kay-kay!”

All Keith knew about periods was that his mom celebrated them, “Another bullet dodged,” she would say.

“You’ll survive,” said Kendra, stroking Chloe’s hair.

“You don’t know how lucky you are to be a boy,” said Chloe. “What I would give to not have a uterus right now!”

Keith was trying his best to look elsewhere and not be part of the menstrual cycle. He squinted gazing into the distance as if trying to see something afar.

“Tell me something, anything,” said Chloe.

“Like what?” asked Keith, still looking away. Chloe was holding her stomach as if she was trying to keep it in place.

“Anything. What are you doing for thanksgiving?”

“Everyone keeps asking, I don’t really have a plan. What about you?”

“Going away to some swanky Thanksgiving party on Friday. We are not doing anything home,” she sat up straight. “Mom goes to her sister’s house, but Daddy cannot stand uncle Fred—my aunt’s husband.”

“Sounds like good drama,” said Keith.

“Oh my word, I miss them going. It used to be the best part of Thanksgiving, hearing about all the drama,” said Kendra.

“Here comes Tucker,” announced Keith, as Tucker made his entrance into the court.

“Please shout, I can’t" said Chloe, in pain.

And so Kendra did—she shrieked.

Tucker won the game. Kendra left early to go somewhere undisclosed, at least to Keith.

That evening, at work, Robert made an unusual appearance at the diner. Keith enjoyed seeing people from all the socio-economic spectrum greet him with cheer, and warmth—like an old friend. It must be nice, Keith thought.

“Hey Keith, come here son, will ya?” called Robert.

“Yes sir?” asked Keith standing next to Robert’s booth by the bar.

“Have a seat.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Oh, boy… real big trouble,” Robert scrunched his nose, and shook his head.

“What have I done?”

“You haven’t done a thing, I am just messing with you,” said Robert, slapping the table. “Now, listen… I have been holding a Thanksgiving Diner here for ten years—some of the employees come that don’t have a family, and a few other strays. It’s a humble thing, but we always have a good time. Why don’t you join us? You can invite the old cuz, and your mom.”

“You’ve met her?”

“I have met her, I am after her to quit those cigarettes.”

“Good luck…” Keith deliberately stopped his leg from shaking.

“Anyway, I would love to have you. My wife really wants to meet you.”

“I guess I’ve never met your wife.”

“Bah, you ain’t missing much—just don’t tell her I said that.” Robert let out another exaggerated fake laugh. “I’m just kidding, I’m just kidding.”

“I’ll let you know abut dinner, thank you for the invite.”

“Hey, thank you,” Robert grabbed both of Keiths hands and gave them a solid squeeze. “You’ve been a Godsend, everyone loves you.”

Keith was immune to people’s prodding for laughter, or a smile; and hearing a lightly cast ‘everyone loves you,’ was definitely foreign. It was true that his expression was increasingly relaxed, but it mostly came across as stoic, or so Chloe had pointed out. He did smile, and laugh, but it was mostly with Richard, or in his bedroom late at night when thinking back on his day. Lately he had found that he could make himself laugh in the mirror by trying to imitate Freddie’s latest gaze, or Richard’s Red Bull face.

There weren’t many photographs of Keith between ages ten and twenty one. Lately, hehad been making silly duck faces with the girls and being caught mid-bite or in awkward poses by Richard who had a camera. Freddie always looked great in photographs, but lately, Keith could tell that he was trying to look good—no longer as unaware as Keith once assumed him to be.

Mr. Brown was reluctant as to wether to attend.

“I don’t know about that,” had said Mr. Brown.

“It will be free,” said Keith.

“Don’t know. Too many people, don’t need them asking about my business. You go.”

Keith assumed his mother was home when he walked over to invite her to the Thanksgiving at the Train Stop, her Camry was parked outside—terribly crooked and nearly on the curve. He peeked through the windows, knocked, and there was no response. She drank, Keith thought.

He sat on the steps that lead to her covered porch in defeat, not wanting to go back to his home. How could I be so stupid? He thought, burying his head between his arms which rested on his knees.

A squeaky belt on an old discolored blue Volvo broke his self-loathing when it parked in-front of his mother’s house. The oversized shades and the leopard stole around her neck gave Sharon away even behind the reflection of the glass. The smell of Tresor when she opened the door confirmed her presence. She was wearing flats, she looked shorter, and jeans—perhaps workplace regulation.

Keith only saw the jawline of the man who was driving. He has a small beard, and a strong chin—a bit bony.

Sharon waved as the car left, and she walked towards Keith, beaming.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” said Sharon.

“I guess,” said Keith as he received a casual hug from his mother. “Who was that?”

“That would be Rod, he is a manager.”

Sharon must have noticed Keith’s quiet anticipation and deliberate silence gap left  to be filled with more explanation.

“He is widowed, has a precious six year old daughter, he doesn’t drink, and he likes your mom.”

Keith didn’t know what to think, or say. He felt his face morphing into doubt, but he chose to overcome it. His mother had put in one sentence everything he had ever wished for her—and here it was. It had arrived, and she looked happy, and healthier.

“Does my mom like him?”

Sharon bit her lip and twirled her hair. “Maybe?” she smiled big. “Come on, have some sweet tea with me.”

“Since when do you make sweet tea?”

“Since I discovered that you just have to stir the Lipton powder in a pitcher,” she pulled her shades down and winked.

She is happy, Keith thought.

Chapter 26: Giving Thanks

Keith tried to convince Mr. Brown to join them Thursday for Thanksgiving, but he didn’t budge. Richard left Tuesday after school, and Freddie left Wednesday. Keith only knew Richard had already gone because he had run into Trevor on his way out of Literature class, and he mentioned it.

The Crepe Myrtles at the entrance of Jenkins University were glowing in a fiery red and amber. Keith admired them through squinting eyes as the glaring sun warmed his skin on his way out of campus. It was quiet and beautiful. He smiled at a stranger—another student—without thinking why he had done it. She smiled back and waved, even though they didn’t know each other. He walked with his hands holding the straps of his backpack, with an openness and a light. His chin was reaching for the sun, as his smile pushed away the tension on his jaw that had formed over years of frowning.

As in autumn, Keith was shedding. Though the diseased leaves of hurt and regret still lingered on a few of his branches, in his new lightness there was a sense of renewal and hope. A chance of rebirth and new growth.

He thought of his friends, and he hoped that whatever was wrong with Richard would right itself. He thought of Chloe and Kendra, and even Tucker. He remembered the accident when he met Freddie and Richard, the absurdity of it all, and he thought of the word serendipity, and how serendipitous made him think of syrup. The syrup of life, he thought.

Sharon looked beautiful, or so Keith thought. Her hair was done pretty, and her makeup was autumnal as were the colors she wore. It was as if she had decorated herself in fall, or harvest.

“You look pretty,” said Keith, realizing he had never said that to his mother.

“Thank you,” she smiled, reaching for his hands. “I wanted you to feel proud of your momma.”

Keith didn’t know what to say. You don’t have to fix up for me to feel proud of you, he thought—but he didn’t say. Instead, he hoped that the double squeeze he gave her hands and the suffocated smile would give away his heart.

“Do you feel like walking there?” Sharon asked.

“Do we have time?”

“I think so,” said Sharon. “I want to see the leaves. It’s such a beautiful day.”

They walked through the old historic district, where Chloe and Kendra lived, in a sea of fallen leaves. The remnant of Victorian architecture encased in old-growth trees and winding streets served as the backdrop for one of the happiest moments of Keith’s life to this day.

“I feel like we are in a Hallmark movie,” said Sharon, whose arm was wrapped around Keith’s right arm. Her left hand was holding his.

Keith’s body was tense as they walked. Her levity was off-putting and rewarding. His heart yearned for a safe harbor in which he was no longer adrift in the feelings for his mother. But the hurricane had reshaped the shore—or so it was felt by Keith. To moor on the sand was risky as the tide was known to fluctuate.

“Look at that one!” said Sharon, pointing at the house with the slate roof and the witches hat spires. “If I ever win the lottery, I will buy us that house.”

“I don’t think it is for sale,” said Keith.

“My darling boy, everything—and everyone—are for sale.”

They walked amongst people with gray hair walking fancy dogs like Bichon Frisé and Lhasa Apso. They waved at them in an overtly warm manner, in oblivion and without fear.

“You know what’s crazy to me?” started Sharon. “We can walk right to the door of any of these houses. I bet you they have paintings and things inside that are worth more than my car.”

“For sure,” said Keith. “A couple of my friends live here, and they are loaded.”

They walked one block in the wrong direction, and then they were in the transitional portion of the historic district. Pit Bull mixes behind diamond metal fencing flicked the channel from Hallmark to True Crime Network.

“We better turn around,” said Keith.

“It’s okay. Isn’t this the street that connects to second avenue?”

“It is.” Keith had forgotten that his mom had lived there at some point in her life.

“We’ll be alright.”

Keith brought his mother closer to him, who still clung to his arm. If he had looked, he would have seen her smile. Instead, he only felt the closeness of her cheek on his arm as she leant on him for a brief moment.

Keith only knew Robert and Sylvia at the gathering. He sought refuge in the kitchen dragging out tasks to be helpful and minimize the time he spent socializing before the meal. There must have been fifteen or eighteen people, mostly older adults and a few younger ones.

Keith noticed how magnetic his mother was—she reminded him of Freddie. Her true charm and rehearsed charisma were shining in her sobriety. Keith was seeing her under a new light.

The staff entrance opened.

“Anyone here?” asked Stewart—Dr. Jenkins—poking through the door. “Oh, hi,” he said when he noticed Keith was there.

“Hi sir. Sorry, we are closed for Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” said Stewart as he let himself into the kitchen. He was wearing thin gray sweats—terribly revealing—and a tight tank top which was visibly sweaty. “I’m picking up a pecan pie, special order. Jenkins is the name. Bobby knew I was picking up today.”

“Let me check, sir,” passively said Keith.

“It’s right there, in that cooler. I can see it,” pointed Stewart, who began walking to fetch the order himself.

His assertiveness erased any authority Keith might have had in the situation. Stewart opened the cooler and got the pie out. “Good, it is frozen, just as I asked,” said Stewart. “It’s Keith, right?”

“Yes sir.”

“How is the writing coming along? It’s like all the women in my world want to tell me about you. My daughter speaks of you, and my wife said you are her best student.” He pressed his palm against the corner of his lips as if to share a secret. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Keith.

“About what?”

“I don’t know. I felt like saying sorry since they are bothering you with me.”

“Nah, no worries—I never listen anyway.”

Then why ask? thought Keith.

“I had better get going. Pleasure seeing you, Keith. Oh, and happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” said Keith, a second late. The door had already closed.

“Asshole,” he muttered shortly after.

The clinking sound of the spoon against the milkshake glass announced Robert’s desire to speak.

“Can you turn that down?” Robert asked kindly, speaking of the jukebox.

“I’ve been telling you it’s broken; we have to wait for the song to be over,” Sylvia shouted from the back of the room.

Everyone waited for seventy-eight seconds for “9 to 5” by Dolly Parton to finish playing—all eyes on Robert.

I would hate to be in his place, Keith thought.

“Well, that’s done now,” said Robert, who looked slightly nervous. “Maybe we need another song?” he joked.

“No more Dolly!” his wife shouted from the back.

Everyone laughed.

“It does not get any easier with the years,” said Robert, clearing his voice. He leaned his weight on his right hand, fidgeting over a cloth napkin on the table. “As many of you know,” he started, “Thanksgiving is a difficult season and a beautiful one for my dear Susan and me.”

Keith turned to see Susan, who was being held by Sylvia in a side embrace. Her lip was already quivering, struggling to support a smile.

“Thirteen years ago, during Thanksgiving, our dear son was in an accident that took his life,” said Robert, holding back tears—clearing his throat loudly between words. “The man who had the misfortune of taking our son’s life had recently divorced, and he had no plans for Thanksgiving—so he took to drinking.”

Keith’s heart was beating fast. He saw his mother across the room, who was carefully drying her eyes to avoid smearing her mascara.

“We lost the most beautiful thing our love had ever produced, our Christopher,” Robert said, stopping for a couple of seconds. He gulped. “Anyway, I know everyone is hungry. So… the next year, we hosted a dinner for those we knew didn’t have anyone to go to on Thanksgiving. And the next year we did the same, and so… today, we remember our boy,” said Robert, as a single tear rolled down his face, fading quickly into his beard. He could no longer speak. Robert raised his cup to signal cheers.

“To Christopher,” said Sylvia, her husky voice taking on a velvety texture.

“To Christopher,” everyone echoed, raising their glasses.

There was a collective silence in the room for a moment, almost deafening. Only the noise from the coolers and the fidgeting of the body rejecting grief and empathy over loss could be heard.

“Please eat, there is plenty,” Robert signaled with his hand to the table which held copious amounts of food. “And as some of you know, and some of you will learn, we have a tradition to have an open mic—so to speak—to share about something for which you are grateful.” His right hand began rubbing his stomach. “For now I start by saying, I am grateful for you and for the food we are to receive and onto our Lord and savior Jesus Christ I give thanks for the meal we are about to receive.”

“Amen!” someone shouted.

“Amen indeed, brother! Now… dig in. Age before beauty!”

A line formed, letting the older folks make their plates. Keith was eager with anticipation. There was ham and turkey and mac ’n cheese and some kind of squash casserole, a pan of sweet potato casserole—that looks good, Keith thought—and chicken and dumplings. Keith was unsure about the lima beans; they looked a little less cooked than he liked them. The broccoli casserole was nearly gone, but the best part—the one with the crusty edges—was still there. Maybe there would be some left,

Keith was impressed with the sweet resolve that there was in the diner after what—to him—had felt like a heavy subject. There was indeed an air of gratitude in the room. There were small groups throughout the diner laughing and making jokes. Sylvia had taken control over the Jukebox—burning all her dollar bills—and she was playing Irreplaceable by Beyonce time after time. Keith found it endearing how she would just chew through some of the lyrics without properly knowing the song.

“Having fun?” Sharon asked.

“I am,” said Keith. “Everything is delicious. Are you having fun?”

“Oh, the best time. Thank you for including me.”

‘We never have as much time as we think we do. Make sure you don’t waste yours,’ Keith heard Mr. Brown in his head.

His heart spoke, “you are my mom, and I love you.” His eyes focused on the fork on his plate playing with the squash casserole.

There was a pause. Sharon inhaled, as if by doing so she could regain control.

“I am sorry, Keith. For everything.”

Keith was silent. Perhaps a drink of his orange soda could undo the knot he was feeling in his throat.

“I am trying to do better—I really am,” said Sharon. “I know that it’s too late for me to try to be your mom, but… maybe we can be friends?”

Sharon really looked different. Her skin looked healthier, and she looked happier—or so Keith thought.

“That sounds good to me.”

“Friends?” Sharon reached out her hand.

Keith looked up to meet her friendly gaze. “Friends,” said Keith, shaking his mother’s hand.

She looked so pretty to Keith. He could not remember another time in life that he had seen her under that light—her own light. She was dancing with an older man—out of rhythm—like a swing dance to a country song. It was playful and awkward, but there was laughter and those expressions that one hopes get captured in a candid photograph, or so Keith thought.

Keith sent an SMS to Richard.

Keith 6:34 PM: happy thanksgiving, bff. How is it going? I miss you already.

He sent another one to Freddie and even one to Trevor, but they were more generic. He would write Chloe and Kendra later.

“Thank you for coming,” said Robert.

Keith was quick to reply, “No sir, thank you. I had never really had a thanksgiving—and I can’t imagine it ever being better.”

“Oh, Keith Rayburn: you are a sweet young man, you know that?” said Robert, who had already untucked his shirt from having eaten so much. “I’ve always known you were special, but now I can really, really, see it. Happy thanksgiving.”

“Thank you,” said Keith.

Keith would never forget the odd feeling of the prickly mustache of Robert on his cheek as he hugged him and gave him an Italianate partial kiss. He thought of how old Robert’s son would have been and if he reminded him of him.

Four months prior to this date, Keith would have told himself that he was crazy if he were telling himself that he would be would be reaching for the spoon to clink on the glass, to speak.

The music coincidentally stopped a few seconds after, and everyone looked at him.

There were still some laughs still fading into silence as all eyes turned to Keith.

Keith wished the room had turned dark and a spotlight was on him—blinding him. Instead, he could see everyone, and everyone could see him. They were all mid dance or joke, turning to look at him under the fluorescent light of the diner and the blue glow from the neon sign outside.

“Hello,” started Keith, with slight hesitation. He saw his mother tilt her head as he began speaking. Her eyes fixed on him, and she was smiling. “I am thankful today because Mr. Robert gave me a job, and the food was delicious.” His weight began shifting from one leg to the other, nervously. “And I, I like working here. He treats us all really well. But… more than that,” Keith began to feel his rhythm, and his confidence building as everyone was smiling. “I’m grateful for the opportunity to be here, to be with my mom, and to have made friends for the first time in my life. And I would like to make a toast to the hope of spring.”

It was unclear to Keith if what he had said made any sense, writing in a poetic manner was easier than stringing the words with breath. But like the out-of-pitch notes of a live singer leaving their heart on the stage, the sound fades, but the emotion remains. Everyone was moved—whether it was moving or not. The glasses lifted in the air with the sound of cheer like fireworks in Keith’s heart.

Chapter 27: Hold On Tight

Keith walked home by himself. Rod picked Sharon up after dinner in the broke-down Volvo.

“Are you sure, sweetie?” had asked Sharon.

“Positive, go have fun,” insisted Keith.

“This has been the best—like ever—I am so thankful.”

“Happy Thanksgiving.” Keith hugged his mother with a proper hug. There was no guard. His heart didn’t recoil; instead, it found harmony with the beating of hers. He could smell the hairspray and feel the wispy teased hairs on his forehead as he leant on her, his big hands feeling her bony frame. It was safe.

Night felt as day. There was confidence in Keith’s step. He thought of Dr. Joy and how grateful he felt that she had pulled him out of the dark, into visibility. Becoming a magician now felt like the wrong career path. Keith no longer wanted to disappear; instead he wanted to live, to see, to feel, to love. I think she would be proud of me, he thought.

As if having lived in winter inside a den, only ever seeing light through a small hole as a sign of hope and a warning that it was not better to be outside, Keith wondered how much he had missed. But the night was too good to reminisce, or lament, or long. He had saved Mr. Brown a big plate of food, and he couldn’t wait to share it with him.

“Sir? Mr. Brown? I’m home,” announced Keith. “I brought food.” He placed the bag on the table. He noticed the forbidden cabinet was partially opened, and there was an old flimsy step stool underneath it.

“Come in, I’m in my room,” said Mr. Brown.

Keith knocked on the door and said, “Knock, knock—coming in.”

Mr. Brown was wearing a loose knitted sweater and his old underwear, with the elastic nearly gone from the excessive bleaching. He had on thick polyester socks; one was pulled all the way up, and the other one wasn’t. The room smelled a bit. Mr. Brown had not been showering as often.

Keith hesitated if he should walk in. Mr. Brown had several jars with rolls of bills bound by rubber bands. There were poorly written notes taped on them with dates and what looked like balances. Keith was pretty sure he could read 10K in one of them.

“What are you waiting for? Come in.”

Keith walked in.

“I need your help. My eyes are not working too good tonight, and I keep losing count. Is this eight hundred, or eight thousand?” Mr. Brown handed Keith a stack of money.

Keith took the money and sat down next to Mr. Brown, who patted on the bed signaling for him to sit next to him. His body odor was stronger at that distance. A mild smell from his breath lingered as his lips were partially opened. Keith could hear the rumbles of his guts as he counted. He noticed the wet spot in his white briefs.

“Seven thousand eight hundred twenty,” said Keith as he finished counting for the second time.

“Seven hundred… how many?” Mr. Brown was scribbling in a scrap paper piece.

“May I?” gently asked Keith, reaching out his hand, asking for the pen.

“Please,” said Mr. Brown.

Keith wrote down the amount and the date on it and wrote his name under and the words “counted twice.”

“There, that’s done,” celebrated Mr. Brown. “Now, did you say something about food?”

Mr. Brown stood up with his droopy briefs and began collecting the jars. Keith was unsure if he should offer to help or what was appropriate. Mr. Brown was clumsily gathering the jars and holding them impractically against his chest. His elbow hit the door frame on the way out, which Keith had noticed—a few days prior—was bruised.

Keith was shocked when Brown attempted to get on the step stool holding all the jars.

“I can reach, sir,” hurried Keith.

“I can too,” growled Mr. Brown defiantly.

He could indeed, with great difficulty and looking terribly unstable—but Keith didn’t comment.

Brown hardly ate. He took the spoon to his lips several times, and then he would ramble about something, bringing the spoon back down without taking a bite.

Keith had noticed he had lost some weight, but he had not been deliberately observing him.

“You don’t want more?” asked Keith encouraging.

“Don’t forget yourself, son. I’m not your baby.”

“Son” landed differently. The usual affirmation Keith felt from that word landed as a warning, like a true father onto a true son.

Keith’s mind was erratic and loud as he sat in his room. He had a makeshift desk that he used to write his musings. He couldn’t think, so he tried to write it down, but he couldn’t. He scribbled a few words to try to make sense of what he was feeling.

Oh cold hands,

bound by flesh.

Thin, like paper,

hold on tight.

Keith was tapping the pencil to the notebook, his eyes pointed at the paper, but no words were in focus. He heard the buzz of his cellphone on his bed.

8:39 PM — Sir Richie!!: Same to you. I’m sorry, I’ve been an asshole.

Keith felt relieved.

8:40 PM — Keith: You are hereby forgiven as per your request.

8:41 PM — Sir Richie!!: I hate being here. We had our family dinner; ended in drama. Big party tomorrow.

8:41 PM — Keith: Hate to miss out on the champagne and caviar.

8:42 PM — Sir Richie!!: You don’t have to. I can send Dallas to get you.

8:43 PM — Keith: Are you serious?

Keith waited twelve minutes with the phone in his hand.

8:55 PM — Sir Richie!!: Dead serious.

Keith typed his response, but he waited three minutes to hit send.

8:58 PM — Keith: I’m in.

Chapter 28: Pink Peony

Keith sat on the front seat, though shortly into the trip it became clear to him and Dallas that it would have been better if he had ridden in the back. Neither was good at initiating or carrying on with small talk. They were just getting better at it by the time they turned onto the dirt road.

“Lots of folks at the party tonight, some big dogs, I hear,” said Dallas. “You one of them dogs, Rayburn?”

“I’m more a crossbreed of mutt and street dog, that’s not my world.”

“I have to say, for as long as I have been of service to that world, I never wished I was part of that world. My old lady and I, we want to have a restaurant—best creole food north of New Orleans.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“Yes sir, born and raised. Should have stayed there too. Miss it like hell.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Oh, it is. Best food in the world. Now… Keith, can I call you Keith?”

“Please.”

“Before we get to the gate, could you jump to the back seat?” requested Dallas. “Old Newsome, he cool. But his old lady… she is old fashioned, if you get my drift.”

“Oh, sure. No problem. I get your… drift.”

Dallas chuckled at Keith’s awkward attempt to sound cool. “You’re alright, my man. You’re alright.”

Gee Gee welcomed Keith through the service entrance with tremendous warmth. She hugged him as if she had known him since he was a child. Hugs were sort of new to Keith, but he was learning to enjoy their comfort. There was something so beautifully maternal about Gee Gee. The kindness in her face spoke loudly of a life well lived; there was no regret that Keith could trace. All the wrinkles in her face were from smiling; even her eyes smiled.

“I’m so glad you came, Richie will be so happy to see you,” Gee Gee said.

Keith wondered if she had convinced him to reach out. I bet he told her, Keith thought. I am glad he did.

Keith heard the chatter at the main entrance as he walked up to Richard’s room the back way. The fake laughter of rich people somehow sounded different to Keith than the fake laughter of the poor; one was petulant, and the other one was scandalous—or so Keith thought.

There were five guest rooms in the main structure of the home. The slightly more modern extension of the home, built around 1995 as per the request of Mrs. Newsome added 4 more guest rooms, a Pilates room, and—in the basement area—Tommy’s man-cave, which had seen more bourbon spilled than all cinemas had seen popcorn on the floor.

Keith felt slightly confused as he walked the hall. He peeked over the balcony and he noticed Hunter speaking to a small group of pretty blonde girls, Mr. Newsome faking a belly laugh with some other men whose guts hung as protrusively as his, and Mrs. Newsome talking to a set of hungry-looking middle-aged women. Is that Dr. Joy? Keith wondered.

Keith was giddy with excitement; after all, it was that place where he had met his best friend. He wished for the day to turn to night and be staring at the ceiling, buzzed with champagne, after eating a sandwich Gee Gee had made in the back kitchen, and talking of all the things of life.

Chloe was the first thing Keith noticed when he opened the door to Richard’s bedroom. She waved, and smiled innocently.

Had Keith checked his cellphone earlier instead of trying to make awkward talk with Dallas, he would have noticed Richard’s multiple texts.

8:57 AM — Sir Richie!!:  ABORTTT!!!!!!!!!!

8:58 AM — Sir Richie!!:  Chloe is here. WTF?

8:58 AM — Sir Richie!!:  WHY IS SHE HERE?

9:51 AM — Sir Richie!!:  She is kinda cool

Richard didn’t understand discretion; Keith knew that Chloe would be able to see the way he was waving his hands trying to speak Richard Sign Language—terribly ineffective. Chloe’s smile gave away the fact that Richard’s attempts at communicating non-verbally felt only secretive to him.

“Hello there, colleague,” greeted Chloe.

“Hi there, colleague,” responded Keith. “Hi, somewhat-classmate.”

Richard didn’t speak. He was frozen, pacing back and forth.

“Why are you here?” bluntly asked Keith.

Chloe took her hand to her chest in a dramatic way, putting on an exaggerated poor imitation of a British accent. “Excuse me, sir. But my very own father is here procuring Young Richard’s father’s money—for his gallery.”

“It’s true,” Richard finally spoke. “And dad knows it, he said it last night at dinner. He called himself the cash cow—and he liked it.”

“The better question is: what are you doing here? Are you finally giving in to the shimmering lifestyle?” bantered Chloe.

“No ma’am, I’m just a tourist. Moral support for my best friend,” said Keith.

“Well, I’m jealous, but you guys are too cute—perfect for each other,” said Chloe, standing up from Richard’s corner arm chair. “It’s gonna be fun. Hunter said he knows where they are keeping the good booze.”

Hunter? Why would she be talking to Hunter? Keith wondered.

“Anyway, I’ll let you two boys catch up. I shall return to my bed chamber and decide whether pastel pink or aquamarine is appropriate for the night. Mom wants me to almost stand out.”

Keith and Richard waited in silence, with their senses on full alert, like wild animals afraid to move and be given away to their prey.

“Oh God, I’ve needed to do that for thirty minutes,” said Richard as he let out a long, audible flatulence. “I’ve been stress-holding.”

“I can smell that—awful. Is that catfish I smell?”

“Oh Lord, yes—horrible. Dad insisted we ate only things he and Hunter had brought home for Thanksgiving.”

“Mercy, that fish done spent too much time at the bottom of the Chattahoochee near Atlanta—that’s some rotten.”

The lingering touch of Chanel No.5 that Chloe was wearing mixed with Richard’s cologne, and the stuff from his colon, was like a tragedy comedy told in three parts. Keith began laughing and felt oddly at home. He placed his bag on the floor which he was still holding and he threw himself on Richard’s bed—comfortably. Richard was trying to unjam the window that had been paint-shut by the latest coat the maintenance folks had applied.

“So, you forgive me,” said Richard.

“Was that a question or a declaration?” asked Keith.

“Both.”

“Of course I do.” Keith sat at the edge of the bed. He was not looking around the shelves with all the collectibles. “The question is: why were you being a prick?”

Richard began pacing the floor, making a list with his finger. “Let’s see: we have insecurity, irrational and irrepressible fear of loss, then we have another set of insecurities, the issue of jealousy, which probably derives from fear…”

Keith really missed his erratic ways; it was terribly endearing now that he could see past his outburst and petulant remarks.

“Okay, okay—stop.”

“I haven’t finished,” said Richard.

“I hear that, but what is your insecurity?”

“I know how people look at me…” Richard’s head faced away as far as it could from Keith.

“Have I ever looked at you that way?”

“No…” admitted Richard.

“Then?” prompted Keith.

“I don’t want to embarrass you.”

“With whom?” asked Keith, perplexed.

“You know, your friends—you know what I am talking about.”

“I think I do, but not because I think that—but because I am trying to figure out what the heck you are talking about.”

“I’m sorry,” said Richard, now looking at his white socks.

“Fuck them.” Keith rarely cursed out loud.

“Who?” Richard turned back to face Keith.

“Anyone. I don’t care who it is. I don’t care what anyone thinks. Fuck them all.”

“I feel important,” said Richard.

“Good. You are,” declared Keith. “Now tell the kitchen to send a sandwich, I’m hungry.” He ordered mockingly as if he was entitled to that treatment. Neither could linger any longer in that emotional truth—there was too much light and they were too sober.

“Heck yeah—what’s taking them so long? And a Red Bull, and tater chips—now!”

Keith and Richard spoke of everything.

“Do you like him?” Richard had asked, regarding Rod—Sharon’s love interest.

“Dunno, she looks happy though,” had said Keith through a mouthful of chips. “What about Kendra, do you still like her?”

“I do,” admitted Richard. “But she is just like her,” he said pointing to Nicole Kidman’s poster, “unattainable. I’ll be single for life—only you can love me.”

“Not like that,” said Keith. “Trevor might,” joked Keith.

“Oh God, don’t mention him. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s been watching porn twenty-four seven in his room—he must be raw. I never thought I would get tired of hearing two women going at each other—but I have!”

They were both too anxious to leave the room. Fake laughter and dress shoes echoed through the house, keeping them shut in Richard’s bedroom till it was party time. They had agreed to only go out when everyone would already have shaken hands and once the champagne would have connected the little groups of talk so that they would be noticed less.

Hunter had interrupted them a couple of times to talk about the “hot girls that are coming.” It was true that most of the attendees had children in their age ranges. Hunter had just turned seventeen. Richard was about to turn nineteen around Christmas time.

“That Jenkins girl, she is a fucking doll,” crassly had said Hunter.

“She has a boyfriend,” warned Keith. “Great guy.”

“That has never stopped me,” said Hunter. His smug face exuded defiance—like he had been given a challenge.

Chloe chose pastel pink. Keith thought of a peony when he saw her. He felt protective of her; she looked so beautiful. But he no longer felt attraction for her. It was not something to repress—it was more like the attraction had simply been animalistic, irrational. Keith was all too aware of how important she had become.

“Care to escort a lady, my dear?” Chloe reached out her arm.

“I saw that in a Nickelodeon once and I always wanted to do it,” said Keith as he grabbed her arm.

“Titanic!” said Chloe.

“Guilty,” said Keith, smiling. “Thank you,” he said taking a champagne flute from the server who he had met the previous party.

“Keith Rayburn, I didn’t take you for a romantic,” said Chloe; she had a clever smile. “She will be so lucky.”

I’ll be the lucky one, thought Keith.

“Well, well, we meet again,” said Stewart—Chloe’s father. “Are you of age to drink?”

“Twenty-two in January.”

“Oh, goodness! You don’t look a day over eighteen. Alright then, cheers,” he said clinking his flute to Keith’s. “You know, I always thought it wise to wait to pursue education after high school. Good for you, young man,” he said starting to turn away to leave, and then stopped. “Look after her,” he pointed at Keith with his index finger drawn out, like a pistol.

“Charming,” said Keith, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“He actually is, you would be surprised,” said Chloe. “Where is Richard?”

“Probably the toilet,” said Keith. “He gets so nervous.”

It was a strange party. Everyone was letting their hair down, so to speak. It was the oligarch’s version of a potluck. Keith recognized the pie that Stewart had picked up the evening before. There was rabbit, and pheasant, venison, crawfish, king crab, moose—it was a hunter’s extravaganza. The mac and cheese was loaded with lobster claws; Keith had never tasted lobster before.

Chloe looked inebriated to Keith. He felt responsible. She kept sneaking sips of his champagne—but not big ones. They were sitting by the pool away from the noise. The bullfrogs and cicadas were louder than the voices and the music where they were.

“Oh God, I was so hungry,” Chloe said after eating two bites of a small pastry. “I hadn’t eaten in days.”

Keith hoped she meant, ‘I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.’ He nearly asked what she meant, but Hunter arrived, and Chloe put down the pastry swiftly. She still had crumbs on her lips.

“Hey beautiful,” said Hunter. “Where is the fun happening tonight?”

Keith couldn’t help his face. His eyebrow raised, and his head turned to Richard who was fighting to put a wild boar gourmet pseudo hotdog in his mouth.

“I know a place, you can come hang out if you want,” Hunter approached Chloe, putting one foot up on the chair next to hers, full of bravado. “Bunch of rich assholes spinning mud and shooting tequila—nothing fancy.”

“Aren’t you a rich asshole?” Chloe slurred her words a little.

“Of course I am! Who doesn’t love one?” Hunter smiled, charmingly.

Keith detested that attitude. It reminded him of who he thought Freddie was imitating lately.

“Shit, shit, here comes mom,” said Chloe, handing Richard her champagne flute that she had stolen from Keith.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” urged Richard. He must have thought that it was best to get rid of the evidence because he drank it all in one gulp.

“How are the bubbles, Newsome?” asked Dr. Joy jovially.

“Fizzy,” said Richard, scrunching his face, followed by an uncontrollable elongated burp. His eyes opened wide, and he took both his hands dramatically to his mouth. He couldn’t say a word.

“Keith, fancy meeting you here,” said Dr. Joy.

“Hi, Dr. Joy,” said Keith, waving into the air.

“Hi mom,” waved Chloe, wiping the crumbs off with the back of her left hand.

She must have noticed the awkward silence. “I know, it’s odd to see your teachers—headmaster for that matter—outside of campus. God, I’ve become that boring adult.”

“You can come have fun with us ma’am,” said Hunter who had just rolled his pants up and put his feet in the water.

“I’ll leave the fun up to you,” said Dr. Joy. “Rayburn, look after her,” she said pointing at her eyes and then pointing at Chloe. “Don’t disappoint yourself, Elise.”

“Yes ma’am,” softly said Chloe.

“Good night, ma’am!” vividly said Richard, unaware of the tension.

“Goodnight, Newsome. Great party!” said Dr. Joy, throwing a dance move into the air,going towards the music like a fly onto a light bulb.

Keith had a moment of quiet reflection as the strange mixture of Chloe, Richard, and Hunter animatedly were connecting over erratic drunken topics that should be a mismatch—yet they were perfectly cohesive to their at-ease minds. He was mostly being an observer, concerned of how closely Chloe kept getting to Hunter. Richard was on full on clown mode, and they were both laughing with him, and at him. Keith didn’t care; none of it was new to him other than the odd feeling that Chloe was teetering on the edge of disloyalty to Tucker.

“Elise, one more, one more,” drunkenly said Hunter.

“Stop it, only mom calls me by my middle name when I am in trouble.”

“She knew you are drunk!” Richard was dancing to Staying Alive and joining in the falsetto “Staying alive, ah!”

“I think we better call it a night,” said Keith.

“No! We are going to that barn with the Senator’s son. This is going to be so much fun!” vividly said Chloe. “Hunter, bring back a sandwich, will ya? This girl needs something to soak up some liquor.” She then let out a diminutive burp.

Keith wondered what the driver thought to have to be chauffeuring around a bunch of drunk young people. He wished it was Dallas; instead it was an older black gentleman that Keith thought looked in his late fifties—he didn’t say a single word to them the whole way. He barely nodded in affirmation when Keith said “thank you.”

Everyone was very drunk at the barn party. Girls were screaming the lyrics of Goodnight and Go by Imogen Heap swaying to the music. Some boys had already lost their shirts, or unbuttoned them, showing off their abs and poking at each other’s biceps. Keith had never seen anything like this, up close, till now.

They all knew Richard, and they all showed a semblance of respect—kind of like what Dr. Joy had done. Keith realized then that the name Newsome carried a lot of power in that county.

“So you go to university, huh? You are a smart boy, aren’t you?” asked a ditsy drunk girl who was clinging to Keith’s arm, terribly close.

He noticed Chloe mouthing something; he thought she was saying ‘you can do better.’

“Not really, I go to Woodruff,” said Keith.

“Sounds hot,” said the girl. “You know what else is hot?” And she got on her tiptoes to bite Keith’s ear.

“Venus, Venus is terribly hot,” nervously said Keith, feeling a bit repulsed.

“I knew you were smart,” she said.

“I better go.”

He went on looking for Richard who was talking to the Senator’s son—old friend of his from whom he used to get his cannabis—or so Keith recalled. He needed to get some air, so he stepped out into the quiet of the evening.

The air was crisp, and he could see his breath. He felt a little cool, yet he had perspired some in his undershirt. He wondered if he smelled and thought of that girl crawling up his arm. Bass-heavy music was now playing and he could hear the rattle of the boards in the old barn. The sky was clear, shimmering with stars, away from light pollution. Keith thought of Mr. Brown, and wondered how he was doing.

The sudden urge to urinate—from the last beer the girl who bit his ear had pushed him to chug—became pressing. It was pretty dark, and he was slightly drunk, but his inhibitions still ruled his actions.

Keith walked to the back of the barn, looking for a spot to urinate. His eyes adapted to the dark as he began voiding; his senses were heightened, ready to listen for anyone approaching. Mid-urine he could hear what sounded like aggressive kissing, the undeniable sound of lips smacking. He looked around and, cloaked by dark, he noticed Hunter pushing against a girl; she had her hand in his pants and he had his hand underneath her skirt. The fondling looked awkward and inexperienced—or so Keith thought. His pupils must have further dilated because Keith could recognize the girl against the tree.

He remembered how beautiful he had thought she looked, with her pale pink dress, like an elegant peony; now the petals were being plucked about by an undiscerning hunter.

Keith didn’t know if the urgency to barf came from the memories of his childhood, the alcohol and wild game, or the realization that Chloe was cheating on Tucker. His retching gave him away, and he heard the playful laughter of sexual exploration fade into the distance as they moved to another location to presumably continue what they had started.

Chapter 29: Winter Break

Facing Tucker was the most difficult. Keith had successfully retreated into reclusive behavior for four days with the excuse of finals. He was hiding in the library—where no one would think to look for him—when Tucker appeared.

“There you are,” said Tucker, opening the door to Keith’s private study booth.

Keith pulled out his earbuds and closed his notebook, which only had loose words and doodles. It was, however, very clear that the word ‘unfaithful’ had been written in bold.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said Tucker.

“You have?” asked Keith, not wanting to meet his eyes.

“Yes, I need your help.”

He knows, Keith thought.

“I want to surprise Chloe. Saturday, it will be a year since we started going out, and I want to do something special for her.”

This does not make it easier, Keith thought.

“I already spoke with Robert. We can have dinner there after closing, just no candles—fire hazard. You just have to make sure she doesn’t leave—keep her there at all costs.”

Keith looked nervous, and Chloe pried several times to try to figure out what was wrong.

“You are acting weird,” she had said.

“It’s school,” Keith had lied.

“You are done with school for the year. What are you talking about?”

Keith made up some story about literature class and next year. She wasn’t buying the story.

“Is this about that party at the Newsomes’? Because I don’t remember anything,” Chloe said as she walked away to grab her bags to leave.

By that time, Keith noticed his signal: the high beams on Tucker’s Tacoma flashing twice, casting light into the kitchen from the pass-through.

“Can you help me with the trash bin? It hit me on the head the other day. You just have to hold it up with this broomstick,” said Keith.

Tucker swooped in through the front door, which Keith had left unlocked, with pizza, flowers, and a pink cupcake—Chloe’s favorite color, per Keith’s observation—and put the first album of The Killers in the jukebox. He had to spend two extra credits for Mr. Brightside.

“What’s going on in there? Do we have a ghost?” Chloe said when the music came on.

“I’m scared of ghosts,” Keith said, opening the service door back into the diner. “You go check.”

Keith saw them hugging under the dim light of the coolers and the streetlight as he walked away. That sinking feeling in his gut, that he had experienced behind the barn a week ago, returned. Except this time, there was no wild game or alcohol, just the bitter taste of unspoken truth fermenting in his soul.

Keith was in a contemplative mood the first two days after school let out. It was as if Fairweather was the skeleton of a clock without its mechanism.

Richard went overseas to Italy. Freddie went home for winter break. Chloe and her parents would soon be going on a cruise somewhere in the Baltic Sea. Kendra stayed but never suggested to Keith that they should hang out during break. Keith had no relationship with Tucker without Chloe, and Trevor, he stayed.

The dormitory and campus remained partially open for the international students, staff, and alumni. Jenkins University offered a lot of perks to its students and graduates. The gym was a state-of-the-art facility shared with the adjacent physical rehabilitation clinic. The Olympic-size pool and indoor courts served as a training ground for people from all over the world who participated in the Special Olympics.

Keith missed school life by the third day. He was walking by the central garden when he came across Trevor, who was sitting on a bench reading a Men’s Health magazine.

“Hey,” greeted Keith.

“Hey.”

“They say summer bodies are built in winter,” said Keith.

“Who said that?”

“I dunno, read it on a billboard, I think.”

“I need abs and arms. I’m skinny and fat.”

Keith didn’t comment.

“See this guy?” Trevor pointed at a terribly muscular fella in the magazine. “I need to look like that.”

“Yup, you and I.”

“Perfect, I need a gym partner. Eight AM Monday through Friday?”

And without much thought, Keith agreed—he must have really been missing campus life. Trevor grunted a lot during the workouts. Keith felt a bit self-conscious and was glad that there really weren’t many people. The first day, there were only a couple of middle-aged men—likely professors or alumni—and a couple of seniors; Keith recognized them from the tennis courts.

Trevor insisted that they try the sauna. Keith had never been in one; neither of them removed any clothing. By the end of their sauna session, an older man, maybe in his sixties—or so Keith figured—entered, only wearing a small towel and flip-flops. He had military dog tags and faded tattoos, so Keith deduced he was a veteran—he looked tough.

Keith wondered how he would age, and he remembered Mr. Brown, who seemed to be doing better than the couple of times that had concerned Keith.

“See you tomorrow at eight,” warmly said Trevor, reaching out a hand.

“See you at eight.” Keith gave him a strong handshake, with the little strength he had left after the workout.

I’m gonna be sore, he thought.

He received an e-mail from Richard. He reported with great detail what he had done, and Keith felt so very glad to see a photo of him eating pasta, wearing a striped Italian shirt, with a silly hat, and drinking legal white wine. Keith’s reply was brief; there was nothing much to report, and he didn’t really want to tell him that he was going to be hanging out with Trevor.

After the first week, Keith actually started enjoying Trevor’s company. There was something different about him. His outbursts seemed to have quieted down. Keith remembered how he felt about Richard the first time that they went together to The Train Stop. He wrote down in his notebook:

Like chemical elements, people react to one another—never forming the same substance when an atom is missing, or added.

Keith enjoyed his analogy and thought that his reaction with Trevor, alone, like with Richard, was better than when mixed with another element. He questioned Freddie’s function in any compound. He realized he had not heard anything from him since he had left, and not much before then. He wondered if Richard, Trevor, and himself would be a better mixture, like H2O.

Keith had not seen his mother much. Their porch encounters had decreased since she had been working more steadily.

“We are seeing each other,” she declared an evening that they coincided.

“Yes, we are seeing each other, and also standing close to each other,” Keith sarcastically said.

“Okay, smart boy: Rod and I are seeing each other.”

“I knew that,” said Keith, playing with a small rock that was in the steps of her deck.

“I mean, like, officially,” said Sharon.

Keith noticed that she didn’t smell of cigarettes, still playing with the rock.

“Do you mind?” asked Sharon. “I think I love him.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Keith threw the rock across the street, landing on the neighbors’ lawn. “Does that mean you are staying?”

“Do you mind if I stay?” asked Sharon, cautiously, looking in the opposite direction of Keith.

“I want you to stay.”

Keith slept soundly that night.

The working-out sessions with Trevor extended into an additional hour. Keith enjoyed listening to Trevor’s opinions on general and current matters even if they didn’t align with his views. Mr. Brown often had the radio on tuned to the news, so Keith stayed pretty up-to-date for a person his age. And he discovered that Trevor’s passionate knowledge was more than simply the result of his O.D.D.; he was genuinely interested in the future of sustainability, technologies, race and gender, among other things.

“We will be fucked up if these computers keep getting better,” declared Trevor.

“I know. It is pretty scary.”

“Have you been seeing all the shit that Freddie has been posting? Nothing is private anymore.”

“Posting where?”

“On Facebook, it’s ridiculous. He must have a new camera because he keeps putting photos of himself.”

“I’m not on Facebook,” said Keith. “I don’t really know much what it looks like.”

“It’s sick. Everyone is now sharing too much about themselves.”

Maybe I need to get on it, Keith thought.

“I try to stay away from all that shit, and it still gets me,” said Trevor. “I have people on there that just like to give me hell, and people on there that would never talk to me in public, but talk to me there.”

“What do you mean, people from school?”

“Yeah, from our school, and this one,” Trevor said pointing at the ground, referring to Jenkins University.

While most of the body of students was absent from campus, it was easy for Keith to forget that—in a way—that wasn’t his school. He would not actually be there if it wasn’t for Dr. Joy’s visionary Institute, and the remarkable kindness of the anonymous donors behind the Azalea Bursary, which for all purposes was simply a scholarship. The few recipients of it—including Keith—used the bulk of that money to pay for tuition.

Mr. Brown seemed to have stabilized, or so Keith thought. He became deliberate about making time to listen to the old man’s long-winded rambles, almost as a way to check on him—though it probably wasn’t like he would know exactly what to look for if he was deteriorating. Neither of them mentioned the money in the jars; however, Keith couldn’t help but think of the time that he was short three dollars with rent and Brown refused to wait. Like that, there were several instances in which Brown’s rigidity with money mildly offended Keith, even if he felt it wasn’t right to feel that way.

Trevor met Keith after work on Friday.

“Wanna get a little light-headed, Rayburn?” asked Trevor.

“Don’t know, Smith, would that be responsible?” They had developed their own way of speaking with each other.

“Well, Rayburn, what is life if you don’t have a bit of fun?”

“Well then, Smith, I suppose we better get started.”

They drank into midnight at the overlook, where the accident first happened. Though relatively rare, taxi cabs were a thing in Fairweather. Keith didn’t mind spending the extra money to not have to walk to get hot dogs at the gas station—they were both terribly hungry. The taxi driver must have gotten tired of waiting for them because he left before he could take them back to campus.

“Think about it, Rayburn, what’s the point of all of this?” Trevor was speaking with intensity and restraint. “We are going to graduate with some shitty paper that certifies us as different.”

“You have a point, Smith. I’ve thought of it.”

“How does it help us to integrate if we have a label? How is that in any way better than giving us a chance, as an equal? It makes no fucking sense.”

“I don’t know. Maybe to give us a break with some things?”

“But that’s just it! Wouldn’t you rather know that the failure is altogether yours, rather than knowing that the triumph was handed to you?”

“All day long,” said Keith.

Trevor’s reflection bound them in reflective silence for a long portion of the walk.

He is right, Keith thought. He wondered if the reason his essay had been chosen was simply because he was different, to meet a quota, and to give a chance to the broken student from Woodruff. Inclusion for the sake of inclusion is alienation, Keith thought, and repeated in his mind as to not forget to write it down in his notebook.

“Wanna spend the night at the suite, Rayburn?” offered Trevor when they arrived at the fork in the road in Magnolia Avenue.

“Nah, I better head home, Smith. I’ve got a lot to think about,” said Keith. “But thank you, you are a nice chap.”

“As are you, Rayburn.”

Keith was walking away already as Trevor faded into the mixture of light and dark of the lampposts along the entrance of Jenkins University. He heard Trevor shout, “Fuck you, Woodruff! Fuck you, Jenkins! Fuck it all!” His words echoed in the silent atmosphere. Keith chuckled. He would have never thought, three weeks prior, that he would unearth a friend from within the hot sands of Trevor.

As Christmas approached, work became terribly hectic. Keith actually took to the floor as a server a few times. It was a lot more pleasant than he had anticipated. With Chloe gone, Sylvia was at the end of her wits. Keith enjoyed serving older people the most. He felt charming and interesting as they reacted to his kindness. It became addictive, like a reward system. The warmer he was, the warmer they were. He understood how the legacy of calling a customer sweetie, or sugar, or honey, was passed on—it simply happened. Dear was his word of choice. It felt a bit English to him, and he liked that. Of course, he would call men sir, and women ma’am, as per southern tradition, but a few words in he could switch to his newfound favorite.

With work running late, Keith began slacking a little with their self-imposed rigorous workout schedule.

9:50 PM — Keith: Hey Smith. Can’t make it tomorrow. Fried from work.

9:59 PM — Trevor Smith: No problem Rayburn.

He excused himself the next couple of days, and Trevor seemed awfully understanding.

Thursday night, Keith felt guilty for having skipped so many days. He decided to go late after work. At 9 PM there was hardly anyone there. The facilities stayed open until 10:30 PM though most times it was only the janitor singing soulfully to Aretha Franklin over his headphones to his iPod—Keith enjoyed hearing his voice echoing in the tiles of the common shower room. Keith had only ever used those showers a handful of times—mostly as a way to challenge himself to be nude in public, to feel less of a prude; it was a conscious choice. He had noticed that it was mostly men over sixty who walked in the showers and dressing rooms without a care in the world, or the guys from the football team.

Keith could never bring himself to be anywhere near that gym when the teams were training. The solitude of winter break, and the late hours during regular school times, were his ideal.

Keith had splurged on an iPod himself; it was an iPod Nano, a generation behind, but it worked for him, and it felt like a luxury. He enjoyed being there by himself. He had small talk with the janitor.

“You are the last one here, my boy,” said the janitor.

“Shit, I’m sorry. If I leave can you close?”

“It makes no difference. Still have to stay here till ten thirty.”

Keith chose to take advantage of the facilities and enjoy the space in the open showers. He hated the terrible feeling of being cramped inside the small shower at Brown’s trailer.

The hot water ran over his body steadily, providing comfort to his sore muscles from work and his routine. He noticed the slight changes in his body, and he felt proud to have chosen to go exercise after work. He had been in this same space before, but there had been a few other men, and he had always felt self-conscious, using the last shower in order to be able to face the wall.

I wonder if this is how it feels? Keith thought as he imagined what life must be like for those who are not always consumed by the fear of their surroundings. He stood in the middle shower as he dried off. He looked at the clock and realized that he had spent a long time there; now he needed to rush.

It was unknown to Keith what caused him to look through the window of the sauna, since the light was off, and there should have been nothing to see.

Trevor’s silhouette was undeniably his. Keith never thought that he would ever see him on his knees, for any reason, not even if it meant that clemency wouldn’t be granted. Much less did he think that he would ever see him on his knees, performing fellatio on another man.

Is that… Jordan?

Chapter 30: No Name Yet

Keith felt strange around Trevor. He feared that his behavior would reveal what he knew—or he thought he knew. Not that he felt anything was wrong with it, but it was different, or so Keith thought. He didn’t feel any differently about his emerging friendship with Trevor, yet he was acting altogether out of sorts.

“Hey, Rayburn, fancy a sweat in the old sauna?” casually asked Trevor after their workout a few days later.

“No, thank you,” Keith cut in, dry.

Keith noticed the way Trevor was looking at him, studying his expression. Keith thought he should have spoken differently; he had just given himself away. You are being paranoid, he didn’t see you, Keith told himself.

“What? Do I have boogers, Smith?” asked Keith.

“It was you,” declared Trevor. The vein in his forehead was popping. “I told him it must have been the janitor, but it was you.” His hands began to fidget with his locker key.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Keith avoided.

“Do I disgust you?” Trevor looked down at the ground, in submission—something Keith had never seen him do to this point. “I’m repugnant.”

Keith towered over Trevor, who was quite short and slim. He placed his hands on Trevor’s shoulders. “You are not.”

Keith was more familiar with being awkwardly hugged than with being the initiator. But like a kid trying to prove they are not scared of the cockroach by grabbing it, Keith felt he needed to prove to Trevor that he was in fact not disgusted by him. He pulled him close in a tight hug; they were both sweaty and clearly uncomfortable from the hug. Keith felt Trevor’s face on his chest and was shocked when Trevor lifted his arms to pat him on the back—participating, even if reluctantly. There were a few other people in the gym, which Keith noticed were looking, but he made them disappear in his mind. What they thought was not more important than what Trevor thought of himself or how he thought Keith thought of him.

Neither Keith nor Trevor knew how to approach the subject. Keith felt compelled to take the lead. He didn’t want to pay homage to the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell era, though he considered it an essential part of progress into acceptance.

“So, Jordan, huh?”

“Not really.”

“I thought that was him,” said Keith, confused.

“Well, it was. Can we go outside?”

“Sure.” Keith realized that perhaps that was not the best place to speak about it.

They walked in contemplative silence for a short while. They made it to the bench by the lake. The weeping willow had naked branches; only a few leaves lingered. It was a clear sky, blue, adorning the brown of the dead grass and tree trunks.

“So, you don’t mind?” asked Trevor.

“No, I don’t. Why would I, Smith?”

Keith was relieved to see Trevor smile again, into the distance.

“Don’t know, Rayburn, because I’m a faggot?” Trevor’s voice was colored by self-loathing.

“I hate that word,” said Keith.

“You and Joy.”

“Does she know?” asked Keith.

“A little. She knew I was wondering about it.”

They kept avoiding each other’s eyes, even though they were sitting quite close together.

“How long have you known?” asked Keith.

“The night at Vines confirmed it, but I think I’ve known since I was a kid,” Trevor said sharply. “All I could think was how excited Freddie might have been with that girl.”

Trevor must have noticed how Keith recoiled a bit.

“Sorry, too much for you, Rayburn?” asked Trevor.

“No, it’s okay,” Keith lied—he was trying his best for the sake of Trevor. “So what do you mean by ‘not really’ when it comes to Jordan? It was him—right?”

“Yes, it was.” Trevor stood up to pace back and forth. “He hit me up on Facebook after school was out,” he started telling. “He saw me look at him in the showers one night, and I thought we both got a little excited, but I left immediately. I thought he would beat the shit out of me for looking—you sure this is okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I asked.”

“Anyway, he called me a queer and all that via chat, and we argued for a bit. Then he told me that his girlfriend was out of town for winter break, and he had always heard that men were better at understanding another man.”

Keith cleared his throat loudly as a nervous response. He had never spoken of anything like this or been anywhere near homosexuality—at least not to his knowledge. It was all uncharted. Trevor’s signature bluntness was as expected once he had overcome the self-loathing.

“So,” continued Trevor, “he came up to my room, and I did that for the first time, and he said I was better than his girlfriend—and he has let me do it a few times since then.”

“And,” Keith hesitated, “are you okay with that? It sounds a bit one-sided.”

“Oh, it is. But I am cool with it—he is not a fa…” he stopped himself, “he is not gay, and I can practice.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt. He can be an asshole.”

“He is. But I can’t be hurt.”

Trevor seemed more himself as he spoke. He was erratic and blunt again. Keith wondered how much of his current friendship derived from his own acceptance.

“Please, don’t say anything, Keith.”

Hearing his name felt odd coming from Trevor, with whom he had established a rapport of casual exchange using their last names. It was strange that the request felt more formal—a total reversal. But Keith understood the seriousness of the request because of it.

“I give you my word. This stays between us,” said Keith, and then added, “though I am not doing it because I think there is something to hide. I am only doing it because I was asked.”

It was an awkward goodbye. Their handshake didn’t meet the intimacy of their previous open hug. A cooling down had taken place, but it felt natural to Keith. He had acted out on impulse, overcompensating, like emptying a fire extinguisher onto a match to prevent a forest fire.

Keith went to the library to sign up for Facebook. It was a mildly straightforward process. He put an image of Yogi Bear with a sandwich as his profile photograph. He sent Friend Requests to nearly fifty people, some of whom he knew and some he had seen—mostly girls. He wrote on his wall:

I study at the Woodroof Institute.

He spent an hour looking at it, trying to understand how it worked. He received a poke from a few people, and he didn’t know what it meant.

One of the girls from his literature class accepted his friend request as soon as he sent it, which meant to Keith that she was on it too.

She commented on his post:

Sarah Tipper: I take literature class with you. Hope to see you next semester.

Keith didn’t understand the point of that, but he didn’t want to feel rude by not replying.

Keith R.: Hope so too.

She replied almost immediately.

Sarah Tipper: n_n

Keith didn’t feel the time passing. His hunger gave away the proximity to noon. It was strange for him how he now had over twenty friends on Facebook when he could hardly count six in real life.

Jordan accepted his friend request, which was the most shocking. Keith scrolled through his wall, seeing photos of him with his latest girlfriend and reading his status updates.

Jordan Villalobos: miss my girl.

Jordan Villalobos: Watching the game. Come on, Panthers!

Kendra Williams: Lost that one.

Why would Kendra write on that? Keith wondered.

Jordan Villalobos: Just ordered pizza. Extra pepperoni. Yessir.

There was a photo of him in swimming trunks with a bunch of guys posing with their arms around each other. They were all buff and had visible abdominal lines. Keith wondered how they would feel if they ever knew about his extracurricular activities. Not gay—my ass, he thought.

Keith found Freddie’s wall, and he saw what Trevor was talking about. There were all sorts of photographs of himself—it looked like someone who was aspiring to be a model. Keith felt a total disconnect from who he knew Freddie to be.

He didn’t know how to log out or that he needed to log out. So he just closed the browser window and left.

Mr. Brown pried around Keith’s despondent look.

“What the hell is wrong with you now?” Mr. Brown asked.

“It’s nothing.”

“Oh, bullshit. Show me some dignity; what’s going on?”

Keith was surprised how understanding Mr. Brown was of Trevor’s homosexuality. He would have never guessed that.

“It can’t be easy,” Mr. Brown said, slurping on his tepid coffee. “Put this in the microwave, will ya?”

Keith noticed the shake in his hand as he extended his arm to give Keith the mug.

“I think he is happier now, though.”

“Nah, don’t be fooled. Nobody knows about it, right?” Mr. Brown pointed out.

“True.”

“When shit hits the fan, tell me if he is happy then. He’ll really need you then.”

“Why me?” Keith’s brow furrowed.

“Because you are good. We all need somebody to lean on.”

Keith had a hard time getting the melody of Lean on Me out of his head. Insomnia was more familiar to him than restful nights, though he had certainly grown accustomed to them.

“It should be easy,” Keith said out loud as he lay in bed, needing to hear his thought, giving breath and life to the words he wanted to believe.

He wondered how others would react if he, who was working on acceptance, recoiled so much and felt such voids in his stomach as Trevor’s guarded bluntness lowered, opening the door into a new world for Keith—one he knew existed but was truly foreign. It was not that he was repulsed by Trevor, but to think of men sexually made him recoil. Very much like the thought of Asians chewing on the head of a fish, eating the brain bits, eyes, and tongue, it disgusted him, but Asians didn’t.

Chapter 31: Surprise

Christmas was sweet, with a slight touch of bitter, but not enough to merit being remembered as bittersweet. Rod insisted that they spent it at his house. They had brunch. Sharon had spent the night at his house, and they she had helped make the food.

Keith thought it very sweet when Rod complimented Sharon over her poor attempt at making quiche.

“Delicious, love the cheese,” he had said, and he smiled complicitaley to Keith.

“Yes, really good, mom.”

“Oh, you both are sweet, thank you!”

She genuinely looked happy—she had been affirmed. Keith though that perhaps the greatest affirmation was that he was there, seeing her with what could be her new family. Emily, Rod’s daughter, had really formed a bond with her—and so had Sharon. The way she played with her, and they smiled at each other shone like bits of lights through a prism. I never had that, Keith thought. I’m glad she does.

“This one is from me,” Sharon had said, handing an elongated gift to Emily.

Emily smiled as she tore the paper with anticipation. She pulled out an old doll with a polka dot dress.

“Her name is Myrna, she was mine when I was about your age,” said Sharon, hugging Emily who thanked her warmly.

Keith remembered Myrna. He tried to play with her once.

“Sharon, look at this!” had said her boyfriend at the time. “You are raising a little girl!”

Sharon snatched the doll from Keith, and said, “Boys don’t play with dolls. Go outside, now!”

Keith was only a little boy, but he later apologized to his mother, who didn’t acknowledge his words.

Hurt from the past had taken a different form. It felt like stories in Keith’s mind. The scarring had formed, and now there were only marks. Certain scars were tender, but only if pressed forcefully. He thought of how he would look if his emotional scars were visible in his skin, like the few that he had from the times that he had cut his arms in high school. He was a cutter only for a short period of time. His boss at the bookstore noticed it and had a very intense talk with him about it.

“This one is for you, Keith. Merry Christmas,” had said Sharon.

All hurt took the shape of love, and letters. Inside the box was a small scrapbook with shreds of paper glued together, and wrinkly pages stretched and glued. Keith browsed through the contents captivated. His handwriting had changed so much over the years—though it had not improved much. He read the first song he attempted to pen at age fourteen:

Money, we are just money.

Made of paper,

We are just money.

Spent like a vapor.

He never completed the lyrics, and he had forgotten he had ever written than.

“It’s not all, and I know it was meant to be private, but I just couldn’t let your words go,” apologized Sharon. “You have a gift.”

“Thank you,” said Keith, staring at the scrap book.

Fragments of his hurts, and hopes collected into a chronological roadmap of his descent. Keith read through each page, recalling what now seemed like the life of a different person. He thought of Dr. Joy, with gratitude. He realized that since he joined Woodruff he had grown more than he had in a set of years.

School would be back in session Tuesday January 8, one day after Keith’s birthday. It was disappointing to him that most of his friends would be back late that day. His friendship with Trevor had cooled down significantly the more Trevor became interested in the discovery of what seemed his new manic exploration.

“I’m chatting with an old man, I think I like daddies,” had said Trevor.

“Ok, Smith, I want to finish eating my food, that’s too much,” frankly said Keith.

“He makes me hungry,” bantered Trevor.

“Alright, alright. Go ahead, say whatever you want to say. Never mind the psychological trauma I may go through from it.”

“Wanna see a photo of him naked?”

“Hell no!”

Keith appreciated Trevor’s candid remarks—as a way of trust—but he also knew that he had no one else to talk about it than him; and he didn’t enjoy the content, it was increasingly explicit and Keith thought of some of his behaviors as dangerous.

He has glad that winter break was coming to a thaw, and that he could regain normalcy within his friendships.

Brown forgot it was Keith’s birthday. Though lately he had been forgetting a lot. Keith’s role had evolved significantly unbeknownst to him. He had began asking if he had taken his pills for the day, and keeping track of doctors appointments. Keith got worried when he forgot to ask for rent on December 10, but he tried to ignore it.

Richard was set to arrive the following day, and Freddie was arriving late that day. Chloe was busy with initiation week and grounded for having crashed her Mercedes in the driveway at her home after sneaking a few drinks with her new roommates—she was going to live in campus. Kendra had something going on last minute. Everyone was busy. It’s just another day, Keith thought.

Sharon had invited Keith over to her home at 5 PM for cake and sweet tea. Keith was having a somber reflective day, as he often did around his birthday. He nearly asked his mom to postpone it.

He thought he heard the noise of the Impala around 4 PM but he didn’t see the car, and Freddie was supposed to get in very late. He was disappointed to not see the car, he was hoping for a surprise. Which is exactly what he got.

“Holy shit!” Keith screamed as the confetti bomb hit him in the face. Richard was standing right at the edge of the door, ready to shoot.

“Surprise!” everyone shouted.

Richard jumped onto Keith, wrapping his legs around his waist like a monkey. Keith was grateful that he was light enough to be able to hold him.

“My brotha from another motha!” shouted Richard, in his usual attempts to be loud and in the middle of the spotlight.

“I missed you,” said Keith on his ear low enough for Richard to hear, but not the room.

“Happy birthday, old man,” said Richard, shaking Keith by the shoulders.

Everyone was there—even Tucker—except Chloe. Keith felt bad not missing Trevor, he really would not have rather him be there.

Mr. Brown was smiling from ear to ear, enjoying all the movement, it was weird. He looked terribly stimulated. He was vividly talking with Sharon and Rod. Keith felt peace when he saw them together. Family, he thought—as a single word.

Freddie and Kendra were dancing with each other to Abba. They seemed to be getting along quite well. Richard glanced at them from time to time, and then he would jerkily turn the opposite way.

“So, how was Italy?” asked Keith.

“We gotta go together—it’s paradise.”

“Maybe when I sell my kidney, that would be a fun trip to heal from surgery,” joked Keith.

“So, what’s new?” asked Richard. They were seating together in the loveseat, their shoulders pressing together, not facing each other.

“Too much, can’t really tell you here,” said Keith. “We can catch up after the party.”

“Wanna spend the night in the suite?” asked Richard. “Ralph is not coming back this semester and we have the key to his room.”

“Maybe.”

“Chloe is here!” announced Kendra.

Keith walked to the door with his mom to greet Chloe. She stepped out of the black GMC Sierra Denali with a mini skirt, high heels, and a blue crop top. She looks so thin, Keith thought.

“No, drinking Chloe Elise—I mean it,” said Stewart.

“Bye daddy,” sarcastically said Chloe, closing the car door.

Stewart lowered the mirrored window, “I mean it!”

Chloe walked to greet Keith, she waved as she walked smiling from eat to ear.

“Happy birthday,” coldly said Stewart to Keith. He raised the window and put the car in gear.

Sharon pulled Keith aside for a moment in the kitchen after they had sang happy birthday to him, and done the whole blowing of the candles.

“Are you liking your party?” said Sharon, as she jumped to sit on the counter.

“Best one ever—you didn’t have to do this,” said Keith.

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“You have,” said Keith. You have surprised me a lot, he thought.

“Are both her parents that cold?” asked Sharon.

Keith was putting another slice of cake on his plate.

“Chloe’s? Not really. You’ve met her mom, Dr. Joy—she is nice.”

“Right, I have. I didn’t know she was her daughter.”

Keith kept on eating cake and chugging whole milk. He noticed the look on his mother’s face. “What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing, why?” she answered.

Keith had not seen that look since November.

“Did I do something wrong? I didn’t mean to finish the milk—I didn’t know the other one was buttermilk.”

“No, no, it’s nothing—drink all you want,” she said.

They played twister, and charades—it was like all were being a kid again. Keith was having the childhood party he never had, with friends. He felt like a hub, seeing all who were connected through him: Mr Brown, Freddie, Richard, Chloe, Kendra, Tucker, his Mom, Rod. For a brief moment he wished Trevor was there—but mostly out of a feeling of guilt. But no one really understood of his intense friendship with him over winter break, which had felt to him like effervescence.

“Time for the real party,” declared Freddie.

Kendra took the front seat. Keith and Richard sat on the back. Tucker and Chloe went on his Tacoma.

They all met at the overlook, Keith’s Fort. He remembered the effort that it was to peel the layers of kudzu from the granite bench, which was many times more physical than he had ever been. He just wanted a quiet place, to be alone. Now, at twenty two, he was no longer alone. He had people.

These are my people, Keith thought.

“Come one, show us!” Kendra said, she was slightly inebriated. “How did it happen?”

They re-enacted the accident, which for some absurd reason had everyone laughing. Keith came out of his shell and put on a great show. He rolled in the gravel theatrically, making explosion sounds.

“It wasn’t that much!” declared Richard.

“Oh, yes it was. I died, remember?” said Keith.

“Then you came back to life and scared us shitless,” said Freddie.

“I’m glad you didn’t die,” said Tucker.

Freddie and Richard didn’t say anything. They were not overly familiar with Tucker.

“Thanks,” said Keith.

“And then, Richie pissed his pants!” said Freddie, taking back the spotlight.

“No, Newsome! you didn’t!” said Kendra.

Keith swore that Richards skin went from brown to maroon. He could see the embarrassment igniting. What an asshole, that’s private, Keith thought of Freddie.

“No I didn’t,” said Richard.

“Oh, you are a liar,” attacked Freddie. “You always lie.” He turned to Keith. “Did he piss, or not?”

“I don’t remember that…” lied Keith.

“Oh, right! Whatever, piss on both of you.”

Keith didn’t understand how that had escalated so drastically. An entertaining story had taken a swift turn.

Freddie walked away in a fit.

“Wait!” said Kendra, following behind.

“Anyway, we better get going, stupid curfew—my parents will know at what time I check in the dormitory.” said Chloe. She walked to Keith and hugged him. “Happy birthday!”

“Thanks,” said Keith, then hugged by Tucker.

“Happy birthday, man,” said Tucker.

“Kay-kay, are you coming?” said Chloe to Kendra who had gone after Freddie.

Kendra didn’t reply.

Keith and Richard waited for a long time. They took the time to catch up.

“Swear you won’t say anything, or be weird about it,” had requested Keith.

“I swear,” affirmed Richard.

Richard was seemed awfully indifferent about the revelation of Trevor. Keith just needed to say something, as it was a matter of time before it was known. Trevor’s behavior was a dramatic chameleonic flip. Keith recalled having told Trevor that he would not share it with anyone, but he trusted Richard—it was like not telling anyone.

Keith wished Freddie and Kendra had been more discreet about what had taken them so long. Freddie’s lips were awfully red, and Kendra’s skirt had dirt.

Keith felt sad for Richard, who would notice what he was noticing. It would have been better if they had just come out holding hands, instead of nonchalantly joining them again.

“Y’all ready?” that’s all Freddie said.

          PART 6       

SHARON. STEWART. TREVOR.

Chapter 32: I’m Fine

Sharon drank that night.

She cried before opening the bottle. Once drunk, she looked at the photos in the old Vans shoebox.

“You didn’t know,” she told her younger self out loud while touching the photo, as if she could comfort her.

It had been many years since she had opened that box. She carried it like baggage, or an anchor, sinking her down every time she needed an excuse to suffer in private—and drink. It was an anchor as much as it was a monument, something at which she could point to justify her dysfunction.

She almost called Rod, but she didn’t. Part of her knew that it probably would be better if he had—but the shame was too strong. He knew parts of her struggle, which she was supposed to have overcome.

“I’ve come down with a terrible cold,” she lied to call out of work the following morning.

She swallowed four aspirins with tepid white wine.

She was terrified that Keith would see her car parked there, so she moved it in front of Yolanda’s trailer, who had kicked her man out, so there was no car. She didn’t know that Keith had spent the night at the dormitories after the party.

She tipped out what was left of the white wine. She took a shower and sat to smoke cigarettes in the kitchen. She had not smoked for nearly a month, much less inside the house. She ate a few crackers with processed cheese, a tomato, and a few bites of Keith’s birthday cake. She nearly cried when she saw the letters K and e written in the frosting.

She must have fallen asleep on the couch, because she hardly heard the knocking on the door. She opened it to find Rod with Emily.

“Hey, sweetie,” Sharon greeted, taking a couple of back steps. “Hi,” she said to Rod with a cold wave and a forced smile.

“Are you okay? Why didn’t you call? Tracy said you called out sick.”

“I didn’t want to worry you. I’m fine,” lied Sharon. “I don’t know if I’m contagious, though. I don’t want to get you sick, especially her,” said Sharon, pointing at Emily.

“Can we come in?” asked Rod, a bit disconcerted. “We can sit away from you.”

Sharon grew nervous; she had left a mess in the kitchen. Rod had stayed after the party to help her clean, so she knew he would notice. And the bottles of wine were right on top of the trash bin, which was overflowing from the trash of the party.

“It’s probably not a good idea. I don’t feel great. I think I have a fever, and I just need to lie down.”

Sharon wondered if he could smell the alcohol coming out of her pores or the cigarette smoke, which hadn’t cleared out from the house yet.

“Right, it’s probably best we leave then,” said Rod coldly. “Say bye to Sharon, Emily.”

“Bye, sweetie,” said Emily.

“Bye, sweetie,” said Sharon. Her voice cracked a little, which she thought was good, since she was supposed to have come down with a cold.

She closed the door and leaned against it with her eyes closed. She was breathing heavily. She saw the headlights make a beam of light through the windows, which created shadows in her house, magnifying the figurine she had on the windowsill of a man and a woman holding hands with a kid on each side of them—Rod had given it to her. The light faded away as Rod’s Volvo squeaked its way out of her driveway.

Sharon drank again, but not enough to be drunk. She was able to stop, and she told herself that maybe now she could drink like other adults do.

The following day, she went to work and tried to make things better with Rod, who didn’t deserve her baggage—or so Sharon thought. Rod was kind, but Sharon got the impression that he was ever so slightly suspicious that she might not be telling the truth.

“You healed fast,” he said as they ate dinner at McDonald’s.

“Worst twenty-four-hour bug I’ve ever had,” said Sharon. “Can you pass me a ketchup?”

“I’m just glad those twenty-four hours have gone by, and we can pick up where we were before that.”

Sharon realized that Rod was giving her space to fall, as long as she dusted herself off and carried on. She really felt loved by him.

Chapter 33: His Father’s Eyes

Sharon knew what she had to do. She made the call.

“Woodruff-Jenkins’ office, how can I help you?”

“Is this Tamika?” asked Sharon, dripping southern charm.

“Yes, it is,” animatedly said Tamika over the phone. “Who this?”

“You may not remember me, Tamika, but I sure have wanted to thank you,” said Sharon. She then switched her accent to sound slightly black—or so she thought. “I hear the Train Stop has excellent breakfast all day long—you remember? I’m Keith’s momma.”

“Gurl, I do remember you, of course I do,” said Tamika. “So, did they have good breakfast?” She then let out a laugh.

“The best. I can’t thank you enough.”

“You got it,” jovially said Tamika. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“You can call me Sharon.”

“Ok, ok, I feel you. How can I help you?”

“I’ve been going through a difficult time.” She paused dramatically and let her voice crack purposely. “I’m sorry. You don’t need my baggage.”

“No, no, Sharon, listen, that’s why we are here.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Tamika,” Sharon pretended to regain her composure. “I’ve been worried about Keith, with how he is dealing with his life on campus, and I think Dr. Joy, is it?”

“Yes, Dr. Joy, m-hum.”

“I think Dr. Joy could really help me help him. Does she ever see people that are not in the school?”

“M-hum, she does. She gets referrals, but she is booked solid—very busy woman, don’t wanna be her.”

“I hate hearing that,” said Sharon, exhaling lots of air.

“Now, on the scale of one to ten, how urgent would you say you need to see her?” Her nasal voice coming through.

“I don’t know, it feels like a nine to me.”

“Ok, well, that’s okay,” said Tamika. “Let me see what I can do.”

Sharon could hear the fast typing on the keyboard.

“We do keep some spaces for cancellations and urgent matters,” started Tamika, typing more. “How does Monday at nine AM sound?”

“It sounds like I have a lot to thank you for.”

“Nah, gurl, you’re fine. Now listen, this is very important: Dr. Griffin referred you to the clinic, not me.”

“Of course, Dr. Griffin is the best,” said Sharon. “I owe you, big time.”

“Now, you take care, you alright. And take care of your big boy, he is an angel. Our best student.”

“I will. Thank you, Tamika.”

Everything changed.

Sharon regained her composure, and she didn’t drink. She was good at pretending, so she did. She thought, however, that Rod was not buying her act. That he actually loved her enough to be able to see past the animal print and bright colors—now fading.

What hurt the most was knowing that nothing would be the same after Monday.

Monday morning Sharon wore black. She had on a leather jacket from her twenties, and she had on a leopard polyester scarf imitating silk, providing the only color in her otherwise monochromatic outfit.

She studied Dr. Joy’s office with disdain. What a nightmare, she thought. Though part of her wondered how her life would have been.

Sharon noticed the shadow underneath the door, suggesting someone was standing there, and then it faded. She could hear a muffled exchange between Dr. Joy and Tamika—but it didn’t sound like an argument.

The shadow appeared again in the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. It lingered there for thirty seconds or so, and then the door finally opened.

“Mrs. Rayburn, good to see you again,” greeted Dr. Joy. “Please,” she said as she signaled with her hand for Sharon to sit again.

“You can call me Sharon.”

Sharon sat and observed Dr. Joy as she laid down her leather book, with the engraved monogram of the school and her name on it, Dr. Joy Woodruff-Jenkins.

“Well then, what can I do for you, Sharon?”

“You kept your maiden name,” said Sharon, pointing at her name.

“Oh, yes, I did.”

“May I ask why?”

Dr. Joy piled up another book on top to cover her name.

“Well, it’s part of my origin story, reminds me of where I came from,” said Dr. Joy. She looked tense—or so Sharon thought. She was playing with her wedding band. “Is Rayburn your maiden name?”

“Oh yes, we had no chance to get Keith’s father’s last name—always a tramp, never a lady.”

“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?” suggested Dr. Joy.

“Life is harsh, Joy. I just let it step all over me.”

There was a silent battle for power. Sharon came in on the offensive, asking the questions to she who should be asking the questions. Dr. Joy must have noticed how Sharon was gaining ground, since she stood up and walked away towards the stained glass window that overlooked the vineyard.

“So, tell me, Sharon, why are you here?” said Dr. Joy, waxing on patronizing.

“I was raped,” said Sharon coldly. She noticed the look on Dr. Joy’s face; it wasn’t empathy or shock, it was fear.

“That is a grave accusation, Sharon,” said Dr. Joy.

“Excuse me?” Sharon stood up. “Who am I accusing?”

“I deeply apologize, I jumped ahead and was out of place. Please, continue.”

“There isn’t much to say. I was a wild girl, you know, poor. Fell for the wrong guy—rich family, fun, the different kid,” Sharon started. She took her scarf and jacket off. “He was actually very sweet, and he liked poetry and photography, just art in general.”

“Doesn’t sound like the type of man who would fall for those sexual urges,” said Dr. Joy as she sat back down.

“Exactly. I didn’t think,” said Sharon. She took a sip of her water that Tamika had served. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“You can’t smoke here, sorry,” firmly said Dr. Joy.

“Sorry, I have only seen one of these sessions in the movies—they always smoke.”

“Who did you say referred you to my practice?”

“Dr. Griff,” said Sharon.

“Griffin?”

“Yes, Dr. Griffin,” said Sharon.

Dr. Joy opened her book and wrote a few words. “You may proceed, don’t let me distract you,” she said.

“Alright. So, I fell in love with this guy, and I pretty much did anything he asked me to do. He had this new camera, and he wanted photos of a naked woman in poses like the Greek period or something like that, but he wanted them with sports gear.” Sharon kicked her high heels off, and she lay back on the leather couch, facing the ceiling. She noticed the dark paneling above and the dust in the crystals of the chandelier.

“So, I did. I got naked and such,” said Sharon. “He was always very polite, and the photos were very tasteful. I became like his muse. But only in secret. I was too much of a low-class to mingle with him and his friends.”

“Why would you feel that way? Did he explicitly say that to you?” inquired Dr. Joy.

“Oh yeah, many times,” said Sharon. “But I liked the attention, and I felt safe with him. I didn’t know about the drugs or anything like that.”

“Did he consume drugs?” asked Dr. Joy.

“Big time.”

“Did you?”

“Never, not until I tried them with him. I was actually a good girl, just didn’t know how to fit in and wanted a chance to have this life.”

“And what life would that be?” asked Dr. Joy.

“This life, yours.”

Only the movement of the grandfather clock could be heard. Dr. Joy nearly jumped when a little bird hit the clear part of the window, making a loud thump.

“Anyway, we drank one night and did drugs, and he was taking photos, but this time he wanted to be in the photos. Things took a turn when he took his clothes off and asked me to take him in my mouth—he became aggressive, calling me bitch, whore, and tramp.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“Like a bitch, a whore, and a tramp,” said Sharon, almost in staccato.

“Did you think to leave?”

“I don’t remember much,” said Sharon, drying a black tear—stained with mascara. “When I woke up, he was inside me, and I didn’t say anything. All I could see was his eyes, the way he was looking at me.” She stopped. Dr. Joy didn’t say a word; just an audible gulp left her throat from drinking water. She carefully placed the glass back down on its coaster. Sharon spoke through a crackly voice. “I turned my head, and I saw a stack of instant photos that he had taken. I’ll never forget the way he was looking at me, with those eyes, which, of course, you are used to seeing.” Sharon turned to face Dr. Joy, still lying on the couch.

“Pardon?”

“You see them on Keith—his father’s eyes.” Sharon sat up and straightened her posture. “What did you think I was saying, Joyce?”

“It’s Joy.”

Chapter 34: Self Sabotage

Sharon wondered how long she would keep it together, or had the hurt set like concrete this time, binding the shards of her memory—making her a stronger woman.

It was particularly painful to see Keith. There was no trace of his initial resistance. He reminded Sharon of when he was a kid: always loyal, forgiving, kind, and ready to invite her into his world—even when she knew well that she was undeserving.

“And I was invited to be the teacher’s assistant, and if I do well, they will consider offering me a spot at Jenkins as a Literature Major,” Keith had told her with excitement.

“That’s great. I knew you were smart,” Sharon had answered. Her forced smile was given away by her anxious eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Keith had asked again. “You sure everything is okay?”

The realization of how unique he was hurt the most. It helped Sharon feel better about having pigeonholed him into feeling like an outcast and a broken child with a different mind, now that he had been presented with these opportunities. It was unclear to Sharon if Keith really was neurodivergent, or if he simply was the result of excessive soda, Little Debbie snacks, and neglect.

If I hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t be where he is, she told herself. It hurt to think of the many times that she had called him “stupid,” or “retard,” or suggested that he would never make it in the world. Sharon knew that she had been cruel, and she couldn’t understand how he could ever love her.

This was the most painful part of sobriety: clarity.

Accepting that Keith was a remarkable young man meant that she had missed twenty-one years of joy. I was so young, she thought, as she looked at the photographs in the Vans shoebox again.

She had thought she would never see Stewart again until Keith’s birthday party. He looked so different; she would have never recognized him had it not been for his eyes. It was only a glance, but it was undeniably him.

Sharon brought one of the two faded Polaroids to the window light as the sun set. There were no lights on in her trailer. She had to look away for a second; she thought she would not be able to do it. Her breasts looked perky and young, her face was turned to the right, and her eyes were closed. Stewart had his shorts down to his knees, and he had his striped shirt opened. The camera was held around his waist level, pointing at the full-length mirror he had placed by the bed. She knew no one would ever believe her; the soft focus on the photo didn’t make it clear that it was Stewart who was forcing himself into her. And the girl in the photo could have just had her eyes closed; she didn’t have to be blacked out.

“You piece of shit, motherfucker!” Sharon screamed, and she wailed. She had to cough from the violent expulsion of air through her vocal cords. At this moment, there was no way to see light or happiness anymore.

Life with Rod was the only glimpse of hope that there was in her world, but it meant staying in Fairweather, and she no longer felt capable of doing so.

The next day at work, during lunch break, Sharon pulled Rod aside. She started kissing him aggressively and passionately. She could tell it was disconcerting, as she had never acted that way. When she slipped her hand into his jeans, she felt motivated to push forward; it was undeniable that he was enjoying it.

“What are you doing?” he recoiled.

“Take me,” Sharon said.

“Wait, wait,” he pushed her gently away. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I just love you so much,” Sharon tried to kiss him again.

“Stop, this isn’t you.”

“Don’t you like it? This is me,” said Sharon.

Rod walked a step back. “I do, and I love you, but this is not like you.”

It was awkward for Sharon to feel rejected. But she understood how jarring her unprecedented action must have been. She asked Rod to drop Emily off with her grandmother and to continue what she had started. Rod agreed reluctantly, but he must have been intrigued by her proposition.

“I want you to make love to me like the girls you see on the internet,” she had said, biting his ear.

Sharon opened a bottle of white wine during their Kraft Dinner candlelit evening. It was cheap wine, but it drank easily. Rod had never seen her drink, and he knew little of the seriousness of her struggle.

“Do you love me?” Sharon asked.

“I do. I love you forever,” said Rod. “What’s going on?” He pulled his chair closer to hers and held her hand.

“I am not who you think I am,” Sharon said, the wine speaking.

“It doesn’t matter who you were; it’s who we are together now.”

Sharon stood up and brought the stack of her nude photographs to the table.

“This is me,” said Sharon, handing over the photographs, opening a second bottle of wine. Rod had only had one glass.

Rod carefully studied the photos, one by one.

“You are as beautiful now as you were then.”

“I have had so many men in my life, Rodney. I need you to take me like they did.”

Rod pulled his chair back and took a long look at Sharon, who must have been visibly inebriated.

Sharon lit a cigarette as Rod put his pants back on. The sound of the belt buckle was like the little bell at the door of a shop, announcing someone’s departure. I broke him, she thought. Rod kissed her forehead, closing his eyes to avoid the smoke. He looked back once before closing the door. Sharon didn’t meet his gaze.

Sharon went to sleep hoping she would not wake up. She wished she had cried. There was only one thing left to do: face Stewart.

It wasn’t difficult to persuade Tamika to give away Dr. Joy’s address.

“I just want to do something for her, you know? She helped me so much. I want to send her some flowers,” Sharon had lied.

“Oh, you so sweet. But you didn’t get it from me.”

Sharon remembered Thanksgiving, walking holding Keith’s arm in the historic neighborhood. The daffodils were early this year with the promise of spring. Meanwhile winter was setting in Sharon’s heart.

“You are kidding me,” Sharon said out loud as she parked outside 1348 Carolina St.

The house she promised Keith she would buy for them if she ever won the lottery was two doors down from Stewart and Dr. Joy’s house.

Sharon knew from Tamika that Dr. Joy was in her office. She recognized Stewart’s GMC truck. She felt like an intruder as she walked on the brick pathway to the Victorian house.

The doorbell looked old. The white plastic was nearly gray, and she couldn’t hear anything as she pressed it. There was a little light that must have been to indicate if it was engaging, but it was dark. She stood outside worrying if anyone would notice her there and asked what she was doing. She picked through the glass on the panel next to the dark mahogany door. She noticed movement, so she knocked on the glass with her ring.

She could see a figure approach the door through the wavy glass, and she felt her heartbeat accelerate.

The door opened. Stewart was wearing a blue house coat, and loose pajama bottoms. His strong chest was bare and his hair was messy.

“Can I help you?” said Stewart.

“Hi, Stewie. Long time no see. Can I come in?” boldly said Sharon, hoping he would not notice her nerves.

“You have me mistaken, I’m gonna ask you to leave my property,”

He started to close the door, but Sharon put her high heel on the threshold. She opened the shoe box and tilted it for him to see the photos. “I think it’s you who has me mistaken.”

Stewart looked perplexed at the photographs.

“Susan?” asked Stewart.

“It’s Sharon.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to ask you one more time to leave,” said Stewart, looking around on the street to see if anyone was noticing them. He waved at a couple walking an English Bulldog. Sharon turned and waved at them too.

“How long have you know?” asked Sharon.

“What are you talking about? what is going on here? You need to leave or I’m going to call the police.”

“Good, call them, I have a lot to say!” defied Sharon, her volume was escalating. “How long have you known about Keith?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Keith, Rayburn, your fucking wive’s student, my son,” she paused, and her tone changed into a deeper sound with more growl. “your son.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” defended Stewart. “What are you doing? you can’t just come into my house.”

Sharon sat in the living room. The leather couch barely sunk under her small weight. She saw the art on the walls, and the family photos on silver frames. There were fresh-cut flowers in a base in the foyer, and it smelled a bit musky, like an old house.

“I really don’t know what you are talking about, and I’m going to ask you one more time to leave.”

Sharon dug desperately through the photos, and she pulled out one of the two polaroids, she threw it on the table.

“I was a virgin,” said Sharon. “I got pregnant.”

Stewart picked up the photograph. He either didn’t remember or he was excellent at pretending.

“That could be anyone.”

“Yes, Stewart, it could be anyone, but it was me, and it was you, and you fucked me while I was blacked out!”

Stewart put his hands on his waist, and a smirk formed on his strong angular chin. “I remember you,” he said, pointing at her, shaking his index finger, like a drawn pistol. “You were that floozy climber waitress.”

Sharon didn’t know if Stewart was tremendously confident, or an idiot by accepting, having known her. How did he know she wasn’t wearing a wire? she wondered.

“Yes, we had sex, so what?” asked Stewart. “I had sex with many women, and took photos of many women—I’m an artist. That doesn’t prove anything.”

“Were other girls asleep too when you fucked them?”

“There is no need to be crass. Please, get out of my house.”

“He is your son, Stewart. Keith Rayburn is your son.”

“And why is this the first time I’m hearing about it?”

“It beats me! Your wife knows.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please, don’t insult me like that, I’m not asking for anything other than the truth.”

“I don’t know what the hell you are talking about woman, you are deranged.”

“The other photo, the other polaroid I have… It shows your face, Stewart. You should not have been taking photos of your victims.”

“I’m calling the police,” said Stewart.

“No need. I’m leaving.”

Stewart kept a stack of photos under the false bottom in his gun safe. No one had the combination to it but him. He finally understood where the two missing photos of the set had gone. He had written the word ‘virgin’ behind one of them and ‘tramp’ in front of another one. Sharon’s eyes were only open in one photo. She was looking away from the mirror, despondent.

Sharon had not been his favorite. It had been Susan. He almost wished it had been Susan who had come to confront him earlier.

It was 8 PM, and he was still wearing his housecoat. He waited in the living room with the lights out. The whiskey lingered in his mouth.

He heard Joy come in. She walked right past him, and she didn’t see him in the shadows. His right hand was underneath his underwear, and his left was holding the whiskey glass, which was dripping from condensation on his hairy chest. The ice had melted, and the drink had watered down.

When Joy came back through the living room, she turned the light on. She screamed when she noticed Stewart.

“Is it true?” Stewart said through the grit in his voice, from having not spoken all day.

“Jesus Christ! You scared me!” shouted Joy. “What are you doing here?” She came closer and picked up the bottle. “Are you drunk?”

“Is it true that your student, that boy Keith, is my son?”

“Go to bed, Stewart, it’s late.”

The sound of the old-fashioned glass crashing against the wall, awfully close to Joy, echoed through the room. “Answer me!” screamed Stewart. “What the fuck did you do, Joy?”

She began shaking, and Stewart felt empowered by seeing her like that. So weak, so vulnerable. Paralyzed like a fucking weak woman, or so Stewart thought.

“Stop, you are scaring me,” begged Joy as Stewart approached.

He pushed his weight against her and, through clenched teeth, spoke into her ear. “Answer me. Is he my son?”

Stewart could almost smell the fear. He knew how it looked, though he had not feasted on it for a long time.

Joy finally spoke, “Yes.”

“How do you know?” Stewart grabbed her by the wrists.

“Your father,” Joy was shaking. He could feel her moisturized skin trying to slip from his tight grip. “You are hurting me.”

“Did he tell you this?”

“No, your mother—he told your mother.”

“Fuck, you damn bitch! What have you done?”

Joy pulled away and leaned against the wall. She knocked down a silver picture frame with a photo of Stewart and Chloe as a baby in it. The glass rang on the granite top.

“You need to stop,” begged Joy.

“How long have you known?”

Joy remained standing as Stewart grabbed the bottle and emptied it into a new glass from the service tray.

“Your father threatened her when she came to him. He said something about ruining her and having to lose the baby.”

“Fuck!” screamed Stewart.

“Your mom tried to help her, and your father found out and—you know how violent your father could be.”

“Did you know all along?”

“I wasn’t sure at first—I didn’t know what to believe. I’m going to bed; you should do the same. We meet with the board tomorrow.”

“I’m not going. Make up whatever excuse you want—you are good at keeping lies straight,” said Stewart as he stood up, going to the kitchen. He enjoyed seeing her flinch as he walked near.

Stewart heard the hurried steps on the wide heart pine floor as Joy went into their sleeping chamber. The house was eerily quiet, and he heard the door lock turning when Joy was in.

Stewart put blue cheese dressing on leftover cold pasta and ate it with despair. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, and he went into his study.

He locked the door behind him. He took his coat off and pulled his pants down. He took out his compact digital camera and snapped photographs of himself naked on his leather office chair. Only showing from his chin down.

Chapter 35: Venti

Trevor had been staying awake until very late, having conversations with strangers in chats, forums, and a web-based dating site for men seeking men.

His hypersexuality remained exploratory and safely private, other than his encounters with Jordan, who had agreed to continue letting Trevor satisfy him once school was in session.

“No one can know. I am no fag,” had warned Jordan.

“I know you are not,” had said Trevor.

Trevor had set up dates on more than one occasion but didn’t show up. His father agreed to let him take one of his vehicles to school for his second semester under probation. “If I get one whiff of something stupid, I’m taking the car,” had warned his father.

He was ready to shut down his computer when he received a message on Yahoo chat. He had only given his email address to one man who tempted him the most.

11:55 PM S_Daddy: I need to see you.

Attached was a nude photo.

11:55 PM T_Smith: I need it too. I’m ready.

11:56 PM S_Daddy: Meet me tomorrow in Atlanta.

11:56 PM T_Smith: Is that where you live?

11:56 PM S_Daddy: No, nearby. I have to be discreet. Can’t have anyone know.

11:56 PM T_Smith: Where would we go?

11:57 PM S_Daddy: We can meet at Barnes & Noble in Buckhead. There is a Starbucks in it. I know a place after if we want to have dessert.

Trevor achieved sexual climax and hesitated to respond.

12:08 AM T_Smith: What time?

12:09 AM T_Smith: Are you still there?

12:15 AM S_Daddy: Yes. 11 AM.

12:15 AM T_Smith: How will I know who you are?

12:17 AM S_Daddy: I’ll have a black leather jacket—you’ll know.

12:17 AM T_Smith: Ok.

12:17 AM S_Daddy: Don’t let me down. I need to see you.

12:20 AM T_Smith: I won’t.

Trevor sent Keith a message on Facebook before going to bed.

Hey Rayburn, I’m meeting silver daddy in Atlanta tomorrow at 11. If I don’t come back, it was nice to meet you, hahaha.

Trevor nearly didn’t show up. He didn’t care to skip class, as he often did. But he had never driven through Atlanta. He stayed outside in the parking lot in his car, wondering if he would have the courage to go in. His hands felt cold, and he was shivering a bit in a mixture of anxiety and fear. The cold front had dipped the temperature to 27º F.

He put his hands on the key that was still in the ignition, choosing to leave, when he saw a stunning—to Trevor’s mind—man with silver hair, partly receding, and clean stubble walk into Barnes & Noble. He was wearing a black leather jacket and cowboy boots.

That’s him, thought Trevor.

He looked at himself in the mirror, and he fluffed up his hair a little bit. He confirmed that the coat was covering his visible excitement, and he locked his vehicle.

The man was sitting already on a small bucket seat. His legs were opened, and he was leaning confidently back with his hands on the armrests.

“Trevor?” he said.

Trevor looked around to see if anyone was looking. He felt self-conscious. The barista of the Starbucks, an effeminate male, looked up as he was writing a name on a cup and smiled.

The man stood up and approached Trevor, who simply had waved swiftly in affirmation.

“Rick,” said the man, reaching out a hand. He pulled Trevor close with his strong handshake and said in low volume, “You are more beautiful in person.”

Trevor didn’t know how to act. He could feel his shoulders and hands twitch as if he was freezing cold. But the heat was suffocatingly warm inside the store.

“Nice to meet you,” said Trevor.

“Can I get you anything?” asked Rick.

“You don’t have to,” nervously said Trevor. “I have money.”

“Then you are buying!” jovially said Rick, with a full smile.

Trevor noticed how Rick was studying him. He wished he could regain his composure and show strength. Rick was very warm, but he was afraid people were going to figure them out.

“Are you nervous?” bluntly asked Rick. “If you are not ready, we don’t have to do this. I just needed to see you.”

“There are just more people than I thought there would be.”

“Oh, I wanted you to feel safe,” comforted Rick, squeezing Trevor’s shoulder. “Look around. Nobody cares here.”

Trevor took a few seconds to look around and study the crowd. There was a gay couple, an old woman with oversized green plastic glasses and blue hair, an older man with a bright silk scarf looking at them over his glasses, not paying attention to his book, and a few alternative-looking customers in line at the Starbucks.

Rick put his arm around Trevor as they stood in line. Trevor was still shaking a little, and he wondered if Rick could tell. He could feel his hip against his, and he smelled the cologne strongly as his body heat released it into the air. It was woodsy and had a touch of floral.

“What can I get for y’all?” asked the barista.

“I’ll have a latte, no foam, with an extra shot, and whatever this young man wants.”

“Sure, would a grande be okay for your latte?” asked the barista.

“Right, you guys call your medium grande. I’ll just have the small one.”

“A tall latte then. Name?”

“Rick.”

“What about you, sweetie?”

“Just a coffee, please,” said Trevor. He didn’t like being called sweetie. He reached into his front pocket to get his wallet out. Rick pushed his hand, signaling to keep his wallet inside. His fingertips brushed over Trevor’s erection accidentally as he pressed on his hand to stop him from getting his wallet out.

“So you do like me,” joked Rick.

“What size for your coffee?” the barista smiled complicitly.

“Tall,” said Trevor.

Rick leaned over and whispered in Trevor’s ear. “Feels like a venti to me.”

They spoke trivial things, mostly Rick carrying the conversation. Trevor, who usually had too many words, was at a loss. He voiced a couple of his opinions around politics and economics, but Rick swiftly dismissed them as immature in a patronizing way.

“I’ve never had anyone do, you know, to me,” blurted Trevor, in the middle of one of Rick’s monologues.

“Ok, straight to the point,” said Rick. “Have you ever, you know, anyone?”

“Only girls, and I have done mouth stuff to a guy.”

“Then we should be alright.”

“What do you mean? I thought you would want to do it to me,” Trevor was confused.

“Think again, Venti boy.”

PART 7         KEITH

Chapter 36: Bitter Cold

(Tuesday 15)

Keith waited anxiously at the dormitory for Trevor to return.

“Don’t you have to go home?” asked Richard.

“I need a break from Brown, he is acting out,” lied Keith.

“What do you think is wrong with him?”

“Don’t know, being ancient?”

The door to the suite opened, but it wasn’t Trevor.

“Hey,” greeted Freddie, going straight to his room.

Richard wasn’t discreet rolling his eyes.

“I have asked to move to Ralphie’s old room—I can’t live with him anymore.”

“Is it that bad?” asked Keith.

Richard loudly whispered, “bad? it is absolutely horrible. You were right, he did change, and it ain’t good.” He stood up to reenact Freddie’s attitude. “You should have seen him today in the cafeteria. He waltzed right in with Kendra, they didn’t even wave and they went to another table, with some of his friends from that stupid drama class.”

Richard paused, and his tone shifted, “I felt like an idiot—I had to leave, I was sitting by myself.”

It bothered Keith. But he also understood that what felt like betrayal to Richard objectively wasn’t. It was the act of ignoring him that stung the most. Freddie could blend in well, and imitate common behavior—and he had really learned how to use that to his advantage.

“I wonder how long that will last,” said Keith.

“It has to be exhausting. Like, you know, having to be on all the time.”

“We have each other.”

“That we do.”

The door opened one more time. It was Trevor.

“Hey,” greeted Keith, Trevor seemed despondent.

“Fucking cold out there,” said Trevor. Making his way into his room and slamming the door behind.

After making some excuse for suddenly having to leave, Keith rushed to the library, in the cold and dark, to get on his Facebook.

7:20 PM — Keith R: Smith, you alright?

7:20 PM — Trevor J. Smith: all good Rayburn. it was great. u don’t want details

7:21 PM — Keith R: You are right Smith, I don’t. Just glad you are good.

7:21 PM — Trevor J. Smith: He said he had never felt so connected, whatever that means.

7:22 PM — Keith R: it’s a human thing, u wouldn't understand.

7:28 PM — Trevor J Smith: i guess not.

7:28 PM — Keith R: heading home, Smith. Over and out.

Keith didn’t log out his facebook. He just shut the computer down.

The wind had really picked up, and the bitter cold was stinging on Keith’s cheeks. His nose was leaking fluid and his lips felt dry. The walk felt endless. I need gloves, Keith thought, as he huddled his hands inside his inadequate puffy jacket.

Keith  noticed Sharon’s car was gone, and the same light that had been left on the night before was on. He was too cold to spend another minute outside. Keith struggled opening the door, Mr. Brown had put a towel in front of it to keep the draft shut.

“Damn it, Boy, wait!” Brown scolded as Keith pushed the door back and forth.

Mr. Brown was wrapped in a thick house coat, two blankets, and a towel. He had the oven on with nothing in it. He was sitting dangerously close to the small space heater with the exposed element just protected by a wire cage which Keith had tried to put by the road for the garbage.

“There ain’t nothing wrong with that heather. I’ve had it for years,” Mr. Brown had said.

The trailer wasn’t really cold, it was actually quite warm to Keith. Perhaps it was just relative to the cold outside.

Keith turned the oven on while Mr. Brown told him to leave it alone, and disconnected the old radiator heater that he saw as a fire hazard.

“Here, this one is a lot better sir. This will keep you warm,” said Keith as he placed in front of Mr. Brown the new infrared space heater they had just bought in Walmart two weeks prior. “It’s cheaper on the power too.”

“Well, say no more, put it on!” urged Mr. Brown.

Keith boiled water for hot chamomile tea, making attempts to care for Mr. Brown. He had seen it in the movies, and it felt right to try to comfort him.

Mr. Brown rambled about some NFL game which had happened a month ago during winter break.

“It’s getting hot now,” he said as he removed one of the polyester blankets. “Did you pay your rent?”

“Yes sir, I did. On the tenth, in full.”

“Oh, that reminds me. Your mother is gone.”

Keith thought for a moment that Mr. Brown was out of his mind again. “Gone were?”

“How the hell do I know?” he gruffly said. “She left you a note. I put it on your desk.”

Keith,

Please forgive me. I will be okay. Don’t come looking for me. Contrary to what you may believe, I do love you.

Sharon

Keith unconsciously scrunched the note with his left hand and stuck it in his sweat pants. He had taken his coat off already and he forgot to put it back on. He ran out of the trailer with the cold wind cutting through his skin.

“Mom, mom!” he screamed, as he banged on the door. “Mom, please!”

He turned the knob, the door was unlocked.

The trash bin was full of stuff from the fridge, and there was a 1.5 L bottle of Barefoot white wine on the counter. All the furniture of the trailer looked naked without any personal items on top, like someone left a hotel room. Keith could feel the draft from the kitchen window that wasn’t fully shut.

The only light on was the one in the bathroom. There was still some of her hair in the sink, and a used condom in the trash receptacle with toilet paper and a few Qtips.

Keith thought he could still smell her perfume on the fabric of the couch where laid down to give in fetal position.

He didn’t cry. It hurt too much.

Keith felt so alone, so broken. He couldn’t put Richard through this, after the loss of his biological mother. Freddie was no longer warm and he had sort of taken Kendra away. He didn’t trust Trevor