Post by Cloverstar on Sept 3, 2015 4:46:46 GMT -6
And here it is! The next chapter to Quietus, which I have spent way too long writing and revising until I thought it was okay. It's only a draft and I'm not entirely happy with it, but hopefully it works. Criticism is welcome, as always.
Also, all the cursing is replaced with family-friendly words, so some parts might read awkwardly.
--
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The alarm clock sounded shriller and more annoying than usual, or maybe that was just him. The noise was loud enough to sound like it’d fallen off of the dresser and landed in his ear.
Just. Just two more minutes. Five more. Ten—
He shifted, rolling over onto his stomach, and the side of his head hit cold chrome.
And now it really was in his ear, and it’d be a miracle if his eardrums didn’t burst from the noise still going off.
Normally, he would’ve said something like “ow”. Still being half-asleep, however, it took one long second for him to start blinking. It took another for him to roll back and actually look at the clock.
The hands pointed to eight. Eight-fifteen.
Eight-fifteen!
That was all it took. He jerked forward, off of the bedsheets and grabbing a crumpled denim jacket up from the floor. He yanked it on over his shoulders with one hand, slipping his other arm in through the second sleeve before slinging on the backpack propped up against the wall, before taking up the skateboard next to it and bolting out the door. He’d fallen asleep in his T-shirt and jeans, so no need to change—
Then he nearly fell and slammed his head against a wall from sliding so fast across the wood floor on feet still in socks, but he wasn’t letting that stop him.
No time for breakfast, even if the last meal he’d had was lunch yesterday. He grabbed a pair of well-worn white sneakers and shoved them on, only pausing to tuck the untied laces in around his feet, before he was out.
The chilly morning air bit into his face the moment he stepped—or more accurately, jumped—out. Autumn leaves crunched soundly beneath his shoes as he began to run down the asphalt of the empty driveway. Kyra was leaning against an oak tree near the mailbox, hands still clutching the straps of her purple backpack.
“Brent!” She gave a start and lurched forward when she saw him. She must’ve gotten up early again, Brent thought. Kyra had been the one to get that from their father, anyway—but he immediately crushed the thought. “You woke up late again? I thought you already left!”
“The bus still not here?” Brent asked, ignoring the question as he set his skateboard down. It wasn’t even really a question—to say that Kyra was used to it was tantamount to saying water was wet.
At least, only on weekends. This morning had just been an exception.
“Late again,” his sister sighed in annoyance, blowing her dark brown bangs out of her face with a huff. She paused before adding, in a tone more akin to a scolding old lady’s than a nine-year-old’s, “Just like you’ll be, too, y’know, if you don’t get moving right now!”
“Yeah, yeah.” He moved the skateboard with one foot, then the other, until the skateboard was rolling off across the pavement and making the customary little bumps over it. “Tell Mom I might be back late, okay?”
“Be back before midnight or I’m locking the door!” she called after him. Brent gave a roll of his eyes, but he still smiled to himself.
The morning air whipped past his face, through his hair, as he moved. The streets were busy as he rolled through, the sight of cars and trucks greeting him at just about every turn. Brent took a jump over a bench on the way and, surprisingly, nailed the landing. Shame, he thought as he started to swerve back and forth across the sidewalk, that it was on the way to school, and he was too late to be able to go back and repeat it until he memorized exactly how to do it...
Within minutes after all the usual turns, the familiar large red brick building with the white lettering of “WEST PARK HIGH SCHOOL” above the glass doors loomed into view. No one was in sight. He jumped off onto the sidewalk, pausing immediately afterwards only to scoop up the skateboard under his arm, and sprinted off across the grass towards the side of the school, away from the front doors. Given his record of four tardies in a row, he couldn’t risk being caught.
He pushed through a door, looking around. Above him hung another of the maroon and white banners hung up all over the place for the school football team, the Bulldogs. Rows of gray lockers lined the hall, interspersed with doors to classrooms. The coast was clear. He took off and turned another corner, about to run through, when he heard footsteps.
Immediately, Brent darted back around the corner and glanced around frantically. He could see restroom doors only a few meters away down the hall, and if he could make a run for it...
He snuck a glance around the corner to see who it was, and promptly let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
It was Christine, beautiful as always. She had her books clutched to her chest as she walked, her eyes flicking around anxiously under dark blonde hair. When she saw him, she looked completely unsurprised. Given what Brent could get up to after an entire night of work, she had grown used to it.
"What happened?" she asked as he came out from behind the corner. He gave a shrug.
"Just overslept," Brent replied as nonchalantly as he could, slinging an arm around her shoulder. "No big deal."
"That's the third time this week." Christine frowned as she spoke, her voice full of worry. "It's not healthy to keep working so late like that, Brent. Your mom said so, remember? I covered for you this time—I told Mr. Meliner you were still in the restroom."
They were starting to walk back through the hall Christine had come down. Just up the flight of stairs and a turn, and they’d get to class. He only gave a shrug. “It’ll only be for this week,” he answered. “I swear, okay? We’re just a few guys short at work now, so someone’s got to pick up some slack. Thanks, you know how Meliner is.”
At work, which meant the Pizza Palace, Brent found himself with said slack a lot more often nowadays. Not that he really cared—he'd been working there for two years, which was long enough to get used to it. Any day now, he was sure Boggs was going to snap from the overload of more work than employees.
“And you’re sure it’s only temporary?” Christine glanced at him, her brow furrowed.
He picked up the pace a little. She followed before they crossed the last step. “Trust me, Christine. It won’t be more than a week before we get new people. You sound like my mom.”
“Well,” Christine replied dryly, “I probably wouldn’t, if you didn’t make me worry as much as her. At this rate, she won’t let you borrow the car tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night, when I’ve got the weekend off?” Brent mock-gasped in disbelief. “No-o-o."
He drew out the last word for exaggerated emphasis as they walked. Christine rolled her eyes, but the effect of it was ruined by her smile.
"But it is true," she pointed out. "She knows where we're going, right?"
"You kidding? 'Course she does." They made the turn down another hall lined with more classrooms. "Can't hide anything from her."
Christine raised her eyebrows. "Anything?"
They reached the door behind which Meliner was loudly talking, with some gesturing thrown in. Brent placed his hand on the handle before adding, lowly, "Well, maybe not this."
He gave her a quick kiss on the mouth, refraining only from a full-on kiss because of Meliner being able to look up and see them through the door's window. Christine beamed at him, and that was enough before they had to go in.
By the time lunch period rolled around, Brent was starting to wonder if it were possible for his stomach to eat itself. The lunch special for the day didn’t sound particularly appetizing—waffles with chunks of chicken on top and a side of peas—but he would take anything at this rate. He moved almost mechanically through the line, not really registering his own movements to grab a fruit cup for the tray. It was only when he reached his usual table that everything finally gave out enough for him to flop into a chair, with the tray hitting the table dully.
Brent picked at the stacked waffles with his fork, not really seeing them as he fought to keep his eyes open. He stabbed at a chunk of chicken and put it in his mouth. It was too dry, too tough to chew, and barely warm, but he swallowed it. He couldn’t be choosy; this was probably the last full meal he’d be able to have today.
“Hey.” He didn’t bother to look up. “Boggs got you down again?”
He put down the fork and set to peeling the lid off of the fruit cup. “Hey, Alex.”
Alex Fernandez sat down across from him as usual with his tray. He ran one hand through his forever messy black hair, and Brent didn’t need to see him to know he was grinning—Alex was almost always grinning, and it was the kind that put overly strict school authorities’ nerves on edge. Something was tucked under his arm, but Brent was too focused on the fruit cup to notice what it actually was.
“I’m surprised you’re even here, actually.” Alex’s voice sounded as if he was waiting to tell the punchline to a great joke he hadn’t told before. Something about it also sounded weak and strained, but Brent couldn’t tell why.
Brent picked up his spoon, poking it into the cup. “How come?”
Alex didn’t answer—at least, not before he’d tossed what he’d brought with him onto the table. Brent looked up at what it was, and nearly choked on his spoonful of peach.
It was a newspaper edition, flipped to the pages of a report about the deaths of six men, some in completely separate areas, all named Brent Blake. They had been found, he read, with deep slash and bite marks across their throats or chests. The authorities were all stumped about who or what had killed them.
A chill ran through him. All of them had the same name and had died the same way, on the same night. It read like something out of a horror movie, too ridiculous to be real.
“Alex, what is this?” Brent groaned, putting his spoon down.
“Exactly what you think it is,” Alex replied overly cheerfully, and Brent saw his hand trembling as he pushed it back through his curly hair.
“You think this is funny?” Brent snapped, throwing the newspaper back at him. Alex caught it with one hand. “What’s the point of showing me this? This is creepy as the Darkspawn are invading, that’s what it is!”
“Well, yeah.” Now Alex looked a little mock-affronted. “That’s the point! It’s like, some kind of weird horror thing going on. Looks like someone might be…”
He leaned in closely, waving his hands around dramatically. “...After you,” he whispered in a tone better suiting campfire ghost stories.
“Oh, the Darkspawn are invading off.” Brent picked up his spoon again and jammed it back into the cup with more force than necessary, splashing juice onto the tabletop. At least he felt awake now.
Even with his eyes fixed on the now messy fruit cup, he could feel Alex’s stare practically burning through his head. “What?” he snapped, more forcefully than he meant to.
“Nothing,” Alex said quickly. His eyebrows were now furrowed. “It’s just...you look kind of sick.”
“...What?” Brent repeated.
Now Alex looked sheepish. “Look, if it’s because of the article—”
“No,” Brent managed, shoving some more peach into his mouth. It tasted overly saccharine, slimy with sickly sweet juice on his tongue, but he gulped it down. “It’s just a stupid joke, Alex. A really freaking tasteless and stupid joke, though.”
Alex smiled more weakly than usual as he started to drum his fingers against the table. “Yeah. It was. It was...it was—it was weird, but—you know what I mean! You look like you need a break.”
Brent almost choked again on the next spoonful. “No, I don’t,” he snapped, more sharply than he meant to. “What makes you think that?”
“Uh, everything?” Alex raised his eyebrows and held up three fingers, proceeding to count them off. “First, you fell asleep in algebra, three times, even after Mrs. Howard yelled at you the first time—”
“The last one was just me closing my eyes!” Brent protested.
“—Second,” Alex continued doggedly, “you’re really scary pale, especially with all those bruises under your eyes, unless you’re actually getting beat up at night by a guy who really likes attacking under your eyes—”
“I’m not that pale,” Brent muttered lamely.
“—And third,” Alex finished, his voice rising, “I know you’ve been working nonstop, Brent. Yeah, okay, I get that Boggs needs the help now, but for God's sake, this isn’t healthy. What time did you even get home last night?”
“...Midnight.” Brent said it as casually as he could, but he knew Alex believed it as much as he believed in fire being able to put out water. Alex only stared at him.
“You mean three in the morning again, right?” Alex said dryly.
At that, Brent let out a long breath and sat back, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Okay, you win,” he groaned. “Yeah. But in case you forgot, I don’t exactly have a choice. I need the money, and Drecker’s breathing down my mom’s neck again about rent.”
“Aren’t there laws about this kind of thing?” Alex asked. “Something about underage employees’ regulations?”
“That doesn’t matter right now!” Brent exploded. Alex blinked.
He dragged his hands down his face. Everything inside him felt burned out, wasted and drained beyond belief. “The point is,” Brent said a little shakily, “I just...I can’t just stop working right now, okay? I’m lucky to even have a job right now. I need it, and I need the money. That’s all.”
He didn’t look at Alex. For one painfully long moment, neither of them spoke, and all Brent heard was the usual cafeteria chatter. Finally, Alex coughed. There was a loud rrrip noise as he started to shred parts of the newspaper article, pulling them apart between his fingers.
“So,” Alex said, in a very obviously would-be casual voice, “you free Saturday, at least? Antonio’s not home...again, and there’s still...y’know, the bag.”
Again? Brent frowned. If he knew anything about Antonio, it was that he never went away more than once in a week. He’d knew, considering how often he ran into him whenever he stopped by Alex’s house. He doubted Alex’s brother had forgiven him after the incident with his pickup truck.
It’d be even worse with the bag. It was a miracle Antonio hadn’t found out about that. Yet, anyway.
“No, I’m going out with Christine.” Brent finally lifted his face from his hands. “Taking her to the lake up north. Mom’s letting me borrow the car.”
“Really? About time.” Alex paused in his shredding of the article. “Sunday okay, then?”
“Are you really that desperate to get high?” Brent groaned.
“Uh, yes?” Alex looked at him as if it was the most obvious response in the world. “Why wouldn’t I? Antonio’s being a jerk, it’s almost Halloween, and you’re running yourself thin over pizza. This is the perfect time.”
“Yeah, like the time with his pickup truck?” Brent deadpanned.
“That was one time, and definitely not my fault,” Alex declared. “Or yours.”
As if for emphasis, he tore the partially ripped up article in two. “And,” he continued, “no more stupid news articles. I promise. Agreed?”
Brent laughed, even if he still felt ready to fall unconscious, and dug back into the fruit cup. “Sunday’s fine, then.”
Also, all the cursing is replaced with family-friendly words, so some parts might read awkwardly.
--
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The alarm clock sounded shriller and more annoying than usual, or maybe that was just him. The noise was loud enough to sound like it’d fallen off of the dresser and landed in his ear.
Just. Just two more minutes. Five more. Ten—
He shifted, rolling over onto his stomach, and the side of his head hit cold chrome.
And now it really was in his ear, and it’d be a miracle if his eardrums didn’t burst from the noise still going off.
Normally, he would’ve said something like “ow”. Still being half-asleep, however, it took one long second for him to start blinking. It took another for him to roll back and actually look at the clock.
The hands pointed to eight. Eight-fifteen.
Eight-fifteen!
That was all it took. He jerked forward, off of the bedsheets and grabbing a crumpled denim jacket up from the floor. He yanked it on over his shoulders with one hand, slipping his other arm in through the second sleeve before slinging on the backpack propped up against the wall, before taking up the skateboard next to it and bolting out the door. He’d fallen asleep in his T-shirt and jeans, so no need to change—
Then he nearly fell and slammed his head against a wall from sliding so fast across the wood floor on feet still in socks, but he wasn’t letting that stop him.
No time for breakfast, even if the last meal he’d had was lunch yesterday. He grabbed a pair of well-worn white sneakers and shoved them on, only pausing to tuck the untied laces in around his feet, before he was out.
The chilly morning air bit into his face the moment he stepped—or more accurately, jumped—out. Autumn leaves crunched soundly beneath his shoes as he began to run down the asphalt of the empty driveway. Kyra was leaning against an oak tree near the mailbox, hands still clutching the straps of her purple backpack.
“Brent!” She gave a start and lurched forward when she saw him. She must’ve gotten up early again, Brent thought. Kyra had been the one to get that from their father, anyway—but he immediately crushed the thought. “You woke up late again? I thought you already left!”
“The bus still not here?” Brent asked, ignoring the question as he set his skateboard down. It wasn’t even really a question—to say that Kyra was used to it was tantamount to saying water was wet.
At least, only on weekends. This morning had just been an exception.
“Late again,” his sister sighed in annoyance, blowing her dark brown bangs out of her face with a huff. She paused before adding, in a tone more akin to a scolding old lady’s than a nine-year-old’s, “Just like you’ll be, too, y’know, if you don’t get moving right now!”
“Yeah, yeah.” He moved the skateboard with one foot, then the other, until the skateboard was rolling off across the pavement and making the customary little bumps over it. “Tell Mom I might be back late, okay?”
“Be back before midnight or I’m locking the door!” she called after him. Brent gave a roll of his eyes, but he still smiled to himself.
The morning air whipped past his face, through his hair, as he moved. The streets were busy as he rolled through, the sight of cars and trucks greeting him at just about every turn. Brent took a jump over a bench on the way and, surprisingly, nailed the landing. Shame, he thought as he started to swerve back and forth across the sidewalk, that it was on the way to school, and he was too late to be able to go back and repeat it until he memorized exactly how to do it...
Within minutes after all the usual turns, the familiar large red brick building with the white lettering of “WEST PARK HIGH SCHOOL” above the glass doors loomed into view. No one was in sight. He jumped off onto the sidewalk, pausing immediately afterwards only to scoop up the skateboard under his arm, and sprinted off across the grass towards the side of the school, away from the front doors. Given his record of four tardies in a row, he couldn’t risk being caught.
He pushed through a door, looking around. Above him hung another of the maroon and white banners hung up all over the place for the school football team, the Bulldogs. Rows of gray lockers lined the hall, interspersed with doors to classrooms. The coast was clear. He took off and turned another corner, about to run through, when he heard footsteps.
Immediately, Brent darted back around the corner and glanced around frantically. He could see restroom doors only a few meters away down the hall, and if he could make a run for it...
He snuck a glance around the corner to see who it was, and promptly let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
It was Christine, beautiful as always. She had her books clutched to her chest as she walked, her eyes flicking around anxiously under dark blonde hair. When she saw him, she looked completely unsurprised. Given what Brent could get up to after an entire night of work, she had grown used to it.
"What happened?" she asked as he came out from behind the corner. He gave a shrug.
"Just overslept," Brent replied as nonchalantly as he could, slinging an arm around her shoulder. "No big deal."
"That's the third time this week." Christine frowned as she spoke, her voice full of worry. "It's not healthy to keep working so late like that, Brent. Your mom said so, remember? I covered for you this time—I told Mr. Meliner you were still in the restroom."
They were starting to walk back through the hall Christine had come down. Just up the flight of stairs and a turn, and they’d get to class. He only gave a shrug. “It’ll only be for this week,” he answered. “I swear, okay? We’re just a few guys short at work now, so someone’s got to pick up some slack. Thanks, you know how Meliner is.”
At work, which meant the Pizza Palace, Brent found himself with said slack a lot more often nowadays. Not that he really cared—he'd been working there for two years, which was long enough to get used to it. Any day now, he was sure Boggs was going to snap from the overload of more work than employees.
“And you’re sure it’s only temporary?” Christine glanced at him, her brow furrowed.
He picked up the pace a little. She followed before they crossed the last step. “Trust me, Christine. It won’t be more than a week before we get new people. You sound like my mom.”
“Well,” Christine replied dryly, “I probably wouldn’t, if you didn’t make me worry as much as her. At this rate, she won’t let you borrow the car tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night, when I’ve got the weekend off?” Brent mock-gasped in disbelief. “No-o-o."
He drew out the last word for exaggerated emphasis as they walked. Christine rolled her eyes, but the effect of it was ruined by her smile.
"But it is true," she pointed out. "She knows where we're going, right?"
"You kidding? 'Course she does." They made the turn down another hall lined with more classrooms. "Can't hide anything from her."
Christine raised her eyebrows. "Anything?"
They reached the door behind which Meliner was loudly talking, with some gesturing thrown in. Brent placed his hand on the handle before adding, lowly, "Well, maybe not this."
He gave her a quick kiss on the mouth, refraining only from a full-on kiss because of Meliner being able to look up and see them through the door's window. Christine beamed at him, and that was enough before they had to go in.
* * *
Classes passed by in a blur of papers and chatter, the usual homework assigned and a quiz undertaken in biology that Brent was sure he'd failed. He'd nearly fallen asleep while taking it, although that hadn't been the first time that week or in general. Brent had, as the irate Mrs. Howard in algebra had put it, "a nasty predisposition for taking naps at the worst of times".
His only real defense for it was that he worked late, especially more so now, and he had a habit of crashing at home at times as late as three in the morning. He knew people who slept in class because of much less, anyway.By the time lunch period rolled around, Brent was starting to wonder if it were possible for his stomach to eat itself. The lunch special for the day didn’t sound particularly appetizing—waffles with chunks of chicken on top and a side of peas—but he would take anything at this rate. He moved almost mechanically through the line, not really registering his own movements to grab a fruit cup for the tray. It was only when he reached his usual table that everything finally gave out enough for him to flop into a chair, with the tray hitting the table dully.
Brent picked at the stacked waffles with his fork, not really seeing them as he fought to keep his eyes open. He stabbed at a chunk of chicken and put it in his mouth. It was too dry, too tough to chew, and barely warm, but he swallowed it. He couldn’t be choosy; this was probably the last full meal he’d be able to have today.
“Hey.” He didn’t bother to look up. “Boggs got you down again?”
He put down the fork and set to peeling the lid off of the fruit cup. “Hey, Alex.”
Alex Fernandez sat down across from him as usual with his tray. He ran one hand through his forever messy black hair, and Brent didn’t need to see him to know he was grinning—Alex was almost always grinning, and it was the kind that put overly strict school authorities’ nerves on edge. Something was tucked under his arm, but Brent was too focused on the fruit cup to notice what it actually was.
“I’m surprised you’re even here, actually.” Alex’s voice sounded as if he was waiting to tell the punchline to a great joke he hadn’t told before. Something about it also sounded weak and strained, but Brent couldn’t tell why.
Brent picked up his spoon, poking it into the cup. “How come?”
Alex didn’t answer—at least, not before he’d tossed what he’d brought with him onto the table. Brent looked up at what it was, and nearly choked on his spoonful of peach.
It was a newspaper edition, flipped to the pages of a report about the deaths of six men, some in completely separate areas, all named Brent Blake. They had been found, he read, with deep slash and bite marks across their throats or chests. The authorities were all stumped about who or what had killed them.
A chill ran through him. All of them had the same name and had died the same way, on the same night. It read like something out of a horror movie, too ridiculous to be real.
“Alex, what is this?” Brent groaned, putting his spoon down.
“Exactly what you think it is,” Alex replied overly cheerfully, and Brent saw his hand trembling as he pushed it back through his curly hair.
“You think this is funny?” Brent snapped, throwing the newspaper back at him. Alex caught it with one hand. “What’s the point of showing me this? This is creepy as the Darkspawn are invading, that’s what it is!”
“Well, yeah.” Now Alex looked a little mock-affronted. “That’s the point! It’s like, some kind of weird horror thing going on. Looks like someone might be…”
He leaned in closely, waving his hands around dramatically. “...After you,” he whispered in a tone better suiting campfire ghost stories.
“Oh, the Darkspawn are invading off.” Brent picked up his spoon again and jammed it back into the cup with more force than necessary, splashing juice onto the tabletop. At least he felt awake now.
Even with his eyes fixed on the now messy fruit cup, he could feel Alex’s stare practically burning through his head. “What?” he snapped, more forcefully than he meant to.
“Nothing,” Alex said quickly. His eyebrows were now furrowed. “It’s just...you look kind of sick.”
“...What?” Brent repeated.
Now Alex looked sheepish. “Look, if it’s because of the article—”
“No,” Brent managed, shoving some more peach into his mouth. It tasted overly saccharine, slimy with sickly sweet juice on his tongue, but he gulped it down. “It’s just a stupid joke, Alex. A really freaking tasteless and stupid joke, though.”
Alex smiled more weakly than usual as he started to drum his fingers against the table. “Yeah. It was. It was...it was—it was weird, but—you know what I mean! You look like you need a break.”
Brent almost choked again on the next spoonful. “No, I don’t,” he snapped, more sharply than he meant to. “What makes you think that?”
“Uh, everything?” Alex raised his eyebrows and held up three fingers, proceeding to count them off. “First, you fell asleep in algebra, three times, even after Mrs. Howard yelled at you the first time—”
“The last one was just me closing my eyes!” Brent protested.
“—Second,” Alex continued doggedly, “you’re really scary pale, especially with all those bruises under your eyes, unless you’re actually getting beat up at night by a guy who really likes attacking under your eyes—”
“I’m not that pale,” Brent muttered lamely.
“—And third,” Alex finished, his voice rising, “I know you’ve been working nonstop, Brent. Yeah, okay, I get that Boggs needs the help now, but for God's sake, this isn’t healthy. What time did you even get home last night?”
“...Midnight.” Brent said it as casually as he could, but he knew Alex believed it as much as he believed in fire being able to put out water. Alex only stared at him.
“You mean three in the morning again, right?” Alex said dryly.
At that, Brent let out a long breath and sat back, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Okay, you win,” he groaned. “Yeah. But in case you forgot, I don’t exactly have a choice. I need the money, and Drecker’s breathing down my mom’s neck again about rent.”
“Aren’t there laws about this kind of thing?” Alex asked. “Something about underage employees’ regulations?”
“That doesn’t matter right now!” Brent exploded. Alex blinked.
He dragged his hands down his face. Everything inside him felt burned out, wasted and drained beyond belief. “The point is,” Brent said a little shakily, “I just...I can’t just stop working right now, okay? I’m lucky to even have a job right now. I need it, and I need the money. That’s all.”
He didn’t look at Alex. For one painfully long moment, neither of them spoke, and all Brent heard was the usual cafeteria chatter. Finally, Alex coughed. There was a loud rrrip noise as he started to shred parts of the newspaper article, pulling them apart between his fingers.
“So,” Alex said, in a very obviously would-be casual voice, “you free Saturday, at least? Antonio’s not home...again, and there’s still...y’know, the bag.”
Again? Brent frowned. If he knew anything about Antonio, it was that he never went away more than once in a week. He’d knew, considering how often he ran into him whenever he stopped by Alex’s house. He doubted Alex’s brother had forgiven him after the incident with his pickup truck.
It’d be even worse with the bag. It was a miracle Antonio hadn’t found out about that. Yet, anyway.
“No, I’m going out with Christine.” Brent finally lifted his face from his hands. “Taking her to the lake up north. Mom’s letting me borrow the car.”
“Really? About time.” Alex paused in his shredding of the article. “Sunday okay, then?”
“Are you really that desperate to get high?” Brent groaned.
“Uh, yes?” Alex looked at him as if it was the most obvious response in the world. “Why wouldn’t I? Antonio’s being a jerk, it’s almost Halloween, and you’re running yourself thin over pizza. This is the perfect time.”
“Yeah, like the time with his pickup truck?” Brent deadpanned.
“That was one time, and definitely not my fault,” Alex declared. “Or yours.”
As if for emphasis, he tore the partially ripped up article in two. “And,” he continued, “no more stupid news articles. I promise. Agreed?”
Brent laughed, even if he still felt ready to fall unconscious, and dug back into the fruit cup. “Sunday’s fine, then.”
