“Why do women treat you like a puppy, dude?” Skiz laughs.
“What?” I keep my hands up slightly in case I veer off into a tree, which definitely happens.
“The moment they look into your eyes, they look like they want to cuddle you and take you home.” River yanks my coat, and I narrowly miss a branch with my face.
“I’m very deep,” I slur, putting a hand to my chest. All three of them laugh, and Lou punches my arm.
“Yeah,” he says. “Very deeply full of shit.”
Flickers and flashes of memories I’ve long since tried to forget battle to gain control, but I’ve had enough to drink that they don’t come through. Not in the ways they usually do. The shame is diluted by the six overflowing cups I tossed back in less than an hour, and my thoughts cease to torment me as I take the baseball bat River places in my hands before asking if I’m ready.
It’s been forever since I held one of these things, and I hate what it represents. I hate how it feels in my palm. The muscle memory of holding it, swinging it. The crack of the ball hitting the wood.
Jason’s voice breaks through the haze, and I watch my friends scale a fence as I relive the worst day of my life. My father’s face glitches through my mind.
“Don’t let them see your fear, son,” he said in that eerie, calm tone. He leaned down, his fingers digging into my shoulder. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. I saw that look in his eye. I spun the baseball bat in my hands, my heart racing for many reasons. The pressure was crushing—my dad’s expectations, my coach, everyone watching. The sun beat down on the day, and sweat stung my eyes.
The memory, even to my hazy, altered state, shocks me still. I forgot about this part. I stare at the bat in my hands. That was the last time I played. The final game of the season, and it was on me. All on me.
I fucked up. I lost the game.
I choked.
My knuckles go white as I grip the bat tighter in my hands. The sound of smashing glass rings through the air, and River howls with delight. We’re standing in the middle of Rip Dugan’s junkyard. Every old piece of machinery, battered and beaten. I knew people came out here to do this, but I’ve never been. I fix cars. I don’t destroy them.
“You forget how to use one of those, Superstar?” Lou whoops and runs at a bus with a golf club, but I’m still stuck between worlds, shifting back and forth through time as I remember it all.
“He’s just a kid,” Mom said timidly as I pressed my back into the wall, listening. Jason’s voice was a mumble, and I had no idea what they were fighting over. But I knew it was my fault.
The sound of smashing glass—I can’t tell if it’s in my head or in real-time. The entire vision happens in seconds. The way he pinned her to the wall and hissed in her face, spit spraying across her cheek.
“Don’t you tell me how to raise my son. The boy needs to toughen up.”
“Jason,” Mom pleaded.
He swiped the dishes off the table, the sound of the shattering ceramic sending lighting through my muscles.
“You cryin’?” Jason said, refocusing on Mom. I was still stuck in the doorway. “Come here, Ezekiel.”
I couldn’t move. Even if I wanted to, my feet were stuck. Dad spun around to grab a sauce-covered wooden spoon, and Mom looked at me, a flash of emotion in her eye.
“Go,” she hissed before it all disappeared from her face. When she detached from her body.
There was a thundering on the stairs, and Jet lifted me around the middle, yanking me backward. Xan stepped in front of me, ready to protect her.
I could hear Jason shouting as he lost whatever control he had. He kicked the shit out of Xan that day. Mom had Del put makeup on her black eye for church. Pris patched up Xan. Jet took Tabby out for ice cream to keep her away from the house.
I did nothing. If I hadn’t fucked up the game, if I hadn’t talked back to my father, none of that would have happened.
It was my fault. And I did nothing.
Shame pours through me, carried on alcohol and unlocking the anger I’ve hidden for so long. I swing the bat hard, the vibration ricocheting up my arms as the wood connects with the metal. A manic laugh bubbles up my throat, and I swing again, this time at the glass. The sound of the window smashing pierces the thick, hazy fog in my mind, and the night comes sharply into focus.
I stumble backward into Lou, who is prancing around, and suddenly, floodlights bathe the entire junkyard in light. We all freeze, and then it’s like a glitch start as we run in unison toward the fence. By the time I’ve scrambled my drunk ass over and hit the frozen ground with a thud, the other three are already in the trees.
Blue and red lights flip on, and headlights trap me. Fuck.
I glance at the tree line and see my friends—just barely—waving my hand in hopes they’ll just take off.