In the Echo of this Ghost Town Page 2

  His blue eyes are bright like the sky on a summer day—which I know isn’t right. We have the same eyes, hazel. He smiles, his teeth shining like the star on my chest.

  “Are you here to kill me?” My voice shakes.

  He laughs, a big one with gusto so that it bounces around between the buildings that I know will echo forever. “Looks like you’re doing that well enough on your own.”

  I cover my face with my hands and cry.

  He laughs louder. “You’re a bitch.”

  My eyes open. The ceiling of my bedroom looms like the top of a closed box. My blue bedspread is the packing material holding me hostage. I kick at it to free myself, my heart racing with the residual emotion left over from the dream. I hate dreaming about Phoenix and my dad, but it happens with more frequency than I care to admit.

  Rolling to my side, I face the wall and groan because my stomach feels like it’s about to rupture. I smack my lips, my mouth full of cotton, and my head pounds with a hangover. I squint at the hot-girls-hot-cars poster and think about drinking water. Turquoise bikini blond is draped over a yellow Charger and orange bikini brunette, a blue Mustang. “Nothing like a pretty piece of ass to wake up next to in the morning, baby bro,” Phoenix had said and laughed as he helped me hang it. I sort of understood what he meant. Then found it a good source of inspiration as I learned how my dick worked.

  My brother.

  My hero.

  I’m the same age he was when he left—eighteen.

  I hated mom for kicking him out and hated him for going. It had been Phoenix and me after our dad went to prison. The brother-musketeers. Maybe I’ve romanticized our relationship. He was a dick when he was in high school, especially his senior year. That’s when the fighting with mom started. I haven’t seen him in four years, and he hasn’t even visited. Occasionally, he’ll send a random postcard to let me know he’s alive, but they’re weird like he’s walking down memory lane, and not in a good way. He writes random shit. The messages make me worry about him, but I don’t know what the fuck for. He left. Besides, I can’t write him back since he hasn’t included a stupid, return address.

  I sit up on the edge of my bed and rub my face with my hands. There’s a haze of a shadowy figure in my mind I’m supposed to remember. Something important. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to recall it. It has to do with Tanner.

  Images from the night before solidify like pixels blending on a computer screen as my brain slogs through the hangover:

  Sitting in the living room getting trashed.

  Danny driving us to Bella’s but stopping at the minimart first.

  Tanner and I getting into a scrap.

  I hold up my hands. They’re scratched up from the asphalt where we’d fallen during the fight.

  We aren’t friends anymore.

  He said it.

  Or I did.

  I don’t remember exactly. I’d broken my rules, which I seem to be doing more often lately. I’d been too drunk.

  The truth of it hits me like a hammer, and my gut rolls. I rush from the room into the bathroom where there’s already vomit all over the toilet and floor. I puke in it again, and shame rushes through me like the fetid regret spewing from my mouth. My eyes sting with tears, filling, but I refuse them. Griffin Nichols doesn’t fucking cry.

  When I’m done, I flush the toilet and move away from the mess left the night before. Sitting on the floor, my back against the cabinet door, the hardware pokes my back. It’s uncomfortable, but I sit there anyway, my head in my hands.

  The door squeaks open and thumps against the bathroom counter. “Goddammit, Griffin.”

  Mom.

  “What?” I croak and look up.

  Dressed in her second-job, convenience-store attire, she stands in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. Her light eyes are shaped with anger. “What the hell?” Her irritation is typical. She points at me. “I’m so fucking over this shit, Griffin. This has got to stop.” She covers her mouth and nose.

  “Can we please not do this now?” I ask and continue fighting the tears climbing up my throat. With my elbows on my knees, I fist my hands in my hair to tug and feel the sting there instead.

  I’ll give you something to cry about.

  “Why? Because you’re hung over?”

  It’s the truth, and I wonder what she would say if she knew I couldn’t remember getting in the house, or puking and leaving it, or making it into my bed? I don’t feel like elaborating, not that I’ve ever spent much time telling my mom about anything. How can I? She’s always working.

  She huffs with frustration, and then gags, disappearing from the doorway. “I’m charging you rent!” The volume of her words follows her down the hallway. “You want to party like a fucking rockstar, you can pay me for the fucking trouble!”

  “Are you kidding me?” I get to my feet.

  “No. I’m not.” Her voice is muted by the walls between us.

  I step around the mess and walk down the hallway, holding the wall to keep my feet under me. “Just like you did to Phoenix?”

  “Yes.”

  “You kicked him out!”

  There’s a pause and then she yells, “He wasn’t paying his rent! And I’ll kick your ass out too. I don’t need another good-for-nothing, sack-of-lazy shit lounging around here doing nothing with his life. I’m not busting my ass for that!” Her words leave marks, but it’s Mom, and she’s always worked up about something, so they heal.

  “Why the fuck are you so mad all of the sudden?”

  She grabs her purse from the counter in the kitchen. “Really?” She looks down the hallway and then back at me, her gaze sharp and focused. “You have to ask?”

  I hear the rattle of her keys as she digs through her purse.

  “Because I puked?”

  She stalls and hangs her head. When she looks up, I can see she has tears in her eyes, but instead of feeling bad, it just makes me angry. Her pain is a horrible accusation against me. I feel those tears like knives in my gut. They accuse me and find me lacking. They hurt worse than the words because those are real. I want to flail my arms, come out hitting and screaming. I don’t need more guilt to add to the anger.

  “Your dad is getting out.” Her bluster is gone, and now the truth of her emotion hits.

  Thoughts of my father feel like a gut punch and make me want to puke again, but instead I walk past her to the sink to rinse out my mouth.

  “So.”

  I don’t want to think about the fuck-up that is my father; the man, who despite being locked up, I can’t seem to get out from under. He’s a mountain, and I’m sunken in a dank cave somewhere in the recesses of that mass.

  She sniffs. I know she’s crying. I slam the cup into the sink and retreat into the living room so I can ignore it. After flopping onto the couch, I turn on my video game. From the corner of my eye, I see her turn and face me from her spot in the kitchen at the end of the counter. She reaches up and wipes her eyes with her fingertips.

  “What?”

  “You’re like him. Both you and Phoenix are.”

  I turn my head to square up my line of sight with hers, and the bomb inside me initiates its countdown. Ten. Like him. “You think I want to hear that shit?”

  She walks a few steps into the room. “You need to hear it.”

  I don’t respond.

  Nine.

  “Griffin.” She sighs. “This can’t keep happening.” She waves her hands at me sitting on the couch. “This is what gets you into trouble.” She points at the bathroom.

  I grind my teeth together.

  Eight.

  “Look, I don’t talk about your dad because Lord knows you don’t have many good memories of him, but you need to know he did the same shit. And look where it got him.”

  Seven.

  “I’m not him,” I say through my clenched jaw.

  “Then prove it. Be different.” She waits. “Do something with your life. A legitimate job. I want you to be more than
him.”

  Six.

  “I’m not him.” If I say it enough, then that will make it true.

  She walks into the living room and blocks the TV.

  Five.

  “Mom.” I try looking through her.

  “Griffin. Look at me.”

  Four.

  My eyes bounce up to hers with as much insolence as I can muster.

  Three.

  She crosses her arms over her chest. Her brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her mouth is drawn tight with tension and disappointment. “I can want more for you, but you need to want it for yourself.”

  Two.

  I roll my eyes. “I’ll get a frickin’ job. Happy?”

  One

  She nods. “It’s a start.” She leaves the room.

  I hear the garage door close behind her.

  Zero.

  I throw the video game controller across the room where it crashes against the wall and explodes. Then I yell and collapse against the couch. Sucking breaths and feelings like a fish out of water, I think I might be suffocating. I close my eyes, willing things back into place, rearranging things into deep mind crevices where I don’t have to look at them. Eventually, I drift to sleep, and when I wake up sometime later, the sun is curling into the afternoon.

  Dad is locked up.

  Phoenix left and never came back.

  Mom is pissed.

  Tanner is a traitor.

  Danny left me.

  Josh is MIA.

  I sigh, unable to change any of that.

  The smell wafting from the bathroom reminds me of the mess that’s in there. I curl my lip, disgusted at the idea of it, but I go to the door of the bathroom, where I stand looking at it. Feels like much of the same, only I’ve left a trail of messes from here to everywhere. I consider ignoring it, closing the door, and leaving it, but I know I can’t. The carnage isn’t going to go away, and while I can’t fix anything else, at least I can fix this. Besides, Mom will come home, and I don’t want to hear her ceaseless bitching about my failures.

  I clean the disgusting remains of my failure, cursing everyone and everything while I do. Despite nearly puking again, I get it scrubbed, and the smell mostly gone. I have the fleeting thought that I wish it were that simple to fix everything else in my life.

  When I’m done cleaning, I take a shower and then text Danny:

  What are we doing tonight?

  He doesn’t answer.

  Me: Dan, the man. Yo…

  As I dress—jeans and a t-shirt—my phone alerts me. I pick it up.

  Danny: I’m done, G. Can’t do this anymore w/ u.

  Me: What? The? Actual? Fuck?

  Danny: Exactly.

  Me: Bro…

  Danny: I wish that felt true, G. It’s all uneven.

  Me: Why r u acting like a bitch?

  But he doesn’t answer back.

  I’m confused. I knew he was mad the night before, but Danny’s always been there, even when I’m at my worst. He’s helped me, taken care of me, gotten me home. I reread his message: I’m done.

  I text him back: Danny? Bro?

  But he remains silent and leaves me on read. No reply.

  Like my dream self, I’m standing in a ghost town, stuck. All my friends have abandoned me, and all I was trying to do was hold us together. Now, I’m being punished for it.

  With a profane shout, I throw my phone across the room. It crunches against the wall, falls to the floor, screen cracked, and the light seizes.

  Ruined. Everything I thought I had is ruined.

  I shove my wallet into my pocket—not that there’s much in it—slam out the front door, and disappear into the night looking for something else to ruin.

  3

  Turns out trouble isn’t easy to find on a Monday night, especially without my friends, which adds fuel to the anger already burning me to ash. Each name on my list is kindling thrown into the flames as I walk from my house and out into the night. A lonely and messy business, really, refining all that anger.

  At first, the sidewalk rises up to meet me with each step, punching my bones. I take the steps faster, until I’m running through the night. My neighborhood of squat tract homes gives way to another neighborhood and then another until they thin out. Still, I run. The pain of being hungover reverberates through my insides and threatens to turn me inside out, but I don’t stop. I run until I think my chest will come out through my mouth.

  I gasp for air.

  Out of shape.

  Out of breath.

  Out of time.

  When I can’t run another step, I slow to a stop. Bent forward, hands to my knees, I heave like I’ve only got moments left to live. Turns out I’m being a dramatic bitch because I’m gulping oxygen to keep me upright. Everything slows, including my mind. I straighten.

  Still alive.

  And walk.

  Forward.

  The bright glow of Custer’s Convenience emerges on the horizon. I head toward the light.

  Breathing is easier now that I’ve slammed the energy of the anger against the concrete. Seems kind of perfect, actually: the concrete of me against the concrete of the road. You’d think I would have crumbled into dust, but I just feel more pliable. The punishment of the concrete jarring my bones seems sort of counterproductive to the nature of anger, but then I wonder if perhaps it’s a little like the idea of rocks getting ground down in the water because they’re bumping up against other rocks. Maybe it doesn’t make a lot of sense to be angry, but it’s the easiest emotion to allow myself the space to feel. What other feelings are there but the kinds that only serve to make me feel small.

  Besides, it wasn’t me who broke everything.

  A little voice materializes inside me that wants to argue the point. I silence it and frown.

  I can hear my mother: Griffin, fix your fucking face.

  I walk into the store with my face as impassive as I can get it, and with the few bucks in my wallet spring for some water even though I really want a Slurpee. I take it outside and sit at one of the three picnic benches in front of the store not ready to walk home, yet.

  Sitting alone is strange and uncomfortable, but I’m not a stranger to the feeling. There was a time when I was younger and can recall carrying a pastel plastic lunch tray across my elementary school cafeteria to sit at a table where no one joined me. Before friends. A target to teasing and taunts. I was weak then.

  At home, it was just me and Phoenix (Mom was working). My older brother was all knowing and wise, but he couldn’t protect me from the incessant teasing about dad’s arrest and imprisonment. When I whined about the kids at school, Phoenix told me to man up and find a way to deal with it. He taught me how to throw a punch, but my greatest weapon was the way I could use words to tear someone else down. I’d look for their weakness and exploit it to protect my own. I went on the offensive, took matters into my own hands until I was known as Griff Nichols, son of the convicted murderer (it was a perfect cover since my dad wasn’t arrested for murder). No one challenged the persona.

  After Phoenix left, and my world was just me, being alone didn’t have any appeal. Tanner and I became friends. Then Josh. Eventually Danny. My world revolved around them. If I wasn’t sleeping or playing video games, I was with my bros. We became kings, the party crew who everyone wanted at their parties. The ones who brought the fun. The ones girls wanted to hook up with. Now I’m alone again. The quiet of alone haunts me. I’ve allowed angry Griff the room to keep the rest of me safe from all those haunting thoughts.

  The sound of steps on gravel draws my attention from the water bottle label I’ve been pinching.

  A girl materializes from the dark and crosses the lot. I notice she’s tall. She glances at me and then disappears into the store.

  My friendships rescued me from being locked in, and maybe that’s why I’ve been fighting so hard to keep them. I was our group’s social director, and Tanner the social butterfly who gave us the social capital. Josh was
our entertainer and peacekeeper, while Danny was our keeper and conscience.

  I frown at my water bottle and continue plucking at the label.

  I decide I can’t reminisce about what we were because the idea of Danny being right reveals the possibility that Tanner could be too. Which would mean I might be—

  Nope. Not going there.

  “Hey.”

  I look up at the sound of a voice, grateful to be jerked from the train of my thoughts.

  The girl. She’s standing on the other side of the table in her dark t-shirt and cutoff shorts, her back to the gas pumps and road. The light from the store illuminates her, and I think she’s cute, but obviously not all there if she’s talking to a stranger.

  “Yeah?”

  She sits down with a Slurpee, and I look at it longingly but also wish I had some vodka to spike it with. I conjure Danny’s words from the night before. I’d told him I’m always drunk. What had he said back? “Yeah. Maybe that’s the fucking problem. It’s time to grow up, Griff.” What if I do have a problem? Then I’m annoyed by the stupid thought—of course, I don’t. What the fuck? Can’t this weird girl tell I’m busy sulking?

  My face must screw up because she says, “I’m not carrying any diseases.”

  I take a sip of my water, not sure what to do about this stranger who’s sat with me at a table outside of Custer’s. I glance to check if someone is playing a joke on me, but all my friends have abandoned me. So yeah, there’s that. I look at her. She’s got a round face, but it’s smooth and pleasant looking. Brownish hair, I think, because it’s pulled back in a bun or something off her face. Black eyeliner. Black T-shirt with the words Def Leppard inside a Union Jack.

  She pinches the straw and moves it around the slushy. It squeaks. “Decide I’m not a serial killer?” She smirks, and my eyes are drawn to her blunt black nails at the end of her long fingers holding the red straw.