The Inevitable Collision of Birdie & Bash Page 2

  Even in his drunken philosophical babble, it sounds easy enough, except I have to sweat it. Like flunking out kind of sweat it. If Ma only knew how much I’m really sweating, it would kill her faster than the cancer. Besides, Kyle’s got his life figured out. He’ll sleep in on graduation day, wake up to a big breakfast the maid will deliver to him in bed, Mr. Taylor will give him the keys to one of their fancy cars, he’ll stroll in for the rolled-up diploma (that’s just a piece of paper to him), then walk off the stage with a job handed to him on a silver fucking platter. Doesn’t matter if he’s earned it (because he hasn’t), if he’s qualified (because he’s not), or if he’ll even say thank you (because he won’t).

  A sarcastic chuckle escapes me. I can’t help it. “I’m trying to get through it, dude. I’ve got no other options but, what—work at a skating rink my whole life? No effing way.”

  “Dad could hook you up with a job.”

  “Buying real estate in shitty places and then selling to a bunch of schmucks? Rather die.”

  “Then come to New York with me next summer. Use our connections. Work for a bit, save your money, buy your own gallery.”

  “Thanks, man,” I say with a sigh, “but I can’t make that much that fast. Besides, I’d rather earn my show, not buy it. Wasn’t it one of your half-baked inspirational posters or philosophy man-crushes who said ‘Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings’? I’ve got wings, and I’ll find a way to use ’em.”

  He looks annoyed, his ramblings backfiring. He presses the butt of the joint into a floor tile with a sizzle. His words are beginning to slur and melt together.

  “Psshhtt. Artists don’t make squat. They’re pretentious hipster assholes who think they’re creating something that means something even when it means nothing. Like two circles. There’s not a deep, contextual meaning in the roundness of them. They’re fucking circles.”

  He stares at me, unaware he’s dissing the only thing I’m actually good at (other than dodging class and ignoring him). “You don’t think there’s meaning in something like, say, this?” I hold up the finished portrait of a black grizzly bear with Kyle’s scruffy beard. He’s sitting on a tricycle in the same yoga-like position as Kyle, joint and all. A swirled cloud of smoke is lifted from the bear’s head forming words that read We. Will. Start. THE REVOLUTION.

  He holds the flimsy napkin between his fingers, eyes expanding, jaw agape. “Bash,” he says quietly, “this is,” his voice strengthens, “AWESOME! Love that the beard is in full swing.”

  “Thought your valiant effort should be recognized.”

  “Given the hairiness of my genetic predecessors, I thought it’d be cake.” He strokes the few sparse hairs sprouting from his chin. “But look at it—I’m like a hairless cat with a rash.”

  I laugh, set my charcoal block to the floor beside me. “It’s only been three days since you started. Give it a whole month. By then, you might hit sheepdog mode. Never know.”

  The light from the lantern is flickering, causing our shadows to dance across the wood, and although I’d never tell him in a million years, through all of this, I’m still hung up on Couch Girl. It doesn’t even matter. I mean, it’s not like I’ll ever see her again, so why can’t I let it go? I blame Layla. And Global Warming. And Kyle, just because.

  I crank up the volume on my phone and select a track—something Johnny Cash, for my ma—and wait for Kyle’s inevitable eye roll.

  “Ugh,” he says. “It’s so … what’s the word?”

  “Rustic,” I say. “Vintage. Classic.”

  “More like depressing. Melancholy. Buzzkill.”

  “Fine,” I say, skipping to the next song, “Comfortably Numb.”

  A smile twists up and out from his squirrely mustache. “Now that’s the stuff.”

  “Just another version of depressing. Melancholy. Buzzkill.”

  “No way, man. HUGE difference. Floyd completely changed the way people get high. It’s un-American to have one without the other.”

  Through the vibrations of the song, the rain beats harder on the roof like it’s competing for our attention. Kyle’s eyes sink farther, nearly closing completely, his body swaying to keep balance. I shake the last couple drops free from my beer can and crunch it between my fingers, tossing it aside to the pile we’ve created over the last couple months. Since Mr. Taylor all but gave up on this house and the five others surrounding us.

  “You about ready to drop me home?” I ask. His head is now in his hands. The alcohol has officially set in—hard. He shakes his head. Didn’t get the title “Wild Kyle” for nothin’. Dude doesn’t have an off button, just

  1. Go,

  2. Go Harder, or

  3. Go Until You Pass Out.

  “Want me to drive? You can crash at my place.” As soon as I say the words, I’m calculating where he would sleep. There are only two options, both equally shitty: the lumpy mattress on the floor or the broken recliner in the front room. I really don’t want him on either.

  He looks up at me, his eyes glazed over, mouth bone dry. “No to both.”

  I’m relieved. “Thought your dad was on a business trip,” I say. “How’s he gonna know if we don’t tell him?”

  “No one drives the Benz but me. If Dad finds out I took his prized gift from Bono or Bon Jovi or whothehellever it was he sold a house to, if there’s a scratch or a spot of charcoal, or the scent of whatever cheap-ass Axe cologne you’re wearing in the driver’s seat, he’ll know and I’m dead. Can’t let you get dead, too. You’ve got plans to be the next Van Gogh or Michelangelo or Raphael or Donatello, so dying might, you know, interfere.” He laughs at himself, words trailing. “He doesn’t even drive the thing. You know that. It just sits, locked up like some secret trophy. Someone’s gotta appreciate the finer things Dad works for.”

  My eyes are locked into the ruby metallic sheen. “Imagine all the hungry kids he could feed with the price of this car.”

  “Rhode Island.”

  My brows dip. “A lot of starving kids there, huh?”

  “A shitload.” He stands unsteadily, straightening his posture and widening his eyes to show me he’s okay. “I’m good to drive. Trust me.”

  Trust him? Can’t remember a time I did that. We’re barely friends when he’s sober, and that’s only because we lived with the Taylors after Ma brought her pregnant ass to America so I’d have “a better life and all that shit” (her words, not mine). Apparently she responded to an ad for a chamber maid for some rich, white family, and LOOK AT US NOW! Things were fine until Kyle’s witch of a mom kicked us out on the street without warning. I still don’t know why all that went down. Needless to say, we look back on those days fondly. Not.

  But through all the chaos, Kyle, an only child lost in the shuffle of his parent’s fucked-up marriage, clung to me, forced the whole brotherhood thing to happen. After all these years, and as much as I protest, it stuck, unfortunately. I guess he’s the closest thing I have to family, other than Ma. The thing is, when Kyle’s drinking, a moodier, darker version emerges from his tall, slender frame. I learned a long time ago not to challenge Drunk Kyle, or it’s my head on that silver platter I previously mentioned. And right now, I need my head. So when he says to trust him, the only choice I have is to buckle up tight.

  He jingles the keys from his pocket, and we make a dash for the car through the pouring rain. As the wind howls, lightning brightens the sky in bold flashes, illuminating an otherwise blackened cul-de-sac. I slip in, wait for the seat warmer to do its thing, and clasp the buckle together. I smell the alcohol on his breath, and when I look at him white knuckling the wheel, I wonder if I should have insisted I drive. Like in a “don’t take NO for an answer” kind of way.

  He turns the engine, twists the radio’s volume all the way up to the heavy metal playlist he has synced. Here we go. The fast drums and furious screams only add to Kyle’s state. His eyes lock onto mine for just a second, wide and crazy, as he sticks out his tongue and thrashes his hea
d around to the four-on-the-floor beat like he’s caught a second wind. My stomach twists in knots of regret, and it’s not from flat beer.

  “Slipknot, dude!” he screams. “They wipe their asses with the music you listen to!” He peels out of the driveway, screeching the tires against the pavement, then slams on the brakes.

  “Dude,” I say, my hands clinging to the seat. “Chill.”

  “Oh, I’m chill,” he says. There’s a lull, but the crazy is still fermenting in his eyes as he revs the engine. It roars, chases the thunder through the clouds. Ma would kill me if she knew I didn’t steal his keys.

  “Don’t,” I say. My face is flat, I’m not kidding, and he knows it. I don’t need another ding on my arrest record. I’m nearly eighteen—they’ll try me as an adult if we’re pulled over for a DUI.

  “Okay, okay,” he says. “You should probably drive.” As I unbuckle my belt, he lays his hand on the shift, pretends to put it in park. The moment I have my fingers on the door handle, he presses hard on the gas, jerking me back to the warmed seat. He laughs like the Joker, his eyes piercing mine.

  “What the hell, dude?” I quickly rebuckle and grab ahold of the dash as he swerves around every rounded street. “Idiota!” I shout (Ma would be proud I still use my Portuguese). “Slow down!”

  His eyes are on everything but the road, one hand off the wheel, then he lets go completely to roll his window down. The rain falls like bullets, coating the windshield with a thick, blurred paste we can barely see through. I throw my hands on the wheel, try to steer from the passenger seat.

  “This is FREEDOM!” he yells through the crack in his window. “Total control! Free yourself from the shackles of our screwed-up democracy!”

  I’m leaning over him, my ribs collapsing on the middle console as I narrow my eyes and try to see the yellow lines. “Kyle!” I snap. “I’m not kidding—slow down before you kill us!”

  He rips my hands off just as we doughnut around the final bend, to the mouth of the neighborhood’s entrance. Headlights gleaming in a muddled, choppy ray, something darts out in front of us so fast, I could argue neither of us saw it coming. The object hits the front bumper and the impact flings me into the door, slowing Kyle’s lead foot.

  “What the hell was that?” he asks. “Did you see it?”

  While the car crawls along the road, far past the point of impact, I whip my head back to see a light flicker atop the hill behind us. “Should we check? Might be a dog or baby deer or something. I think we have to call the cops so they can shoot it.”

  “Shit. Shit. Shit.” Kyle’s disoriented, sweat forming on his brow. “We can’t call the cops! I smell like vodka, and look at me—I’m high as fuck.”

  Think, Bash. Think. I swallow, look him over, the fear spilling out of him. “Trade places. I’ll say I was driving.”

  “They’ll make you take a Breathalyzer, too. No, no way. They’ll call my dad, and we’ll both get busted.”

  “I only had one beer. I’m totally sober.”

  “You’re underage—they’ll still arrest us, and I can’t get another DUI. Dad warned me—he said, ‘Kyle, if this happens again, kiss your car, your friends, your life good-bye.’ I can’t, Bash, I can’t.”

  I bite my fingernail and try to see behind us through the rain, but it’s pitch-black. “Then let me drive you home, and I’ll come back and check. I’ll take the blame or make something up if anyone catches me.” Despite his unparalleled ability to fuck my shit up, Kyle’s my stupid pseudo brother, and he’s gonna leave Clifton and actually be something—run a company or buy a country or something so beyond my comprehension—I can’t just stand here and let him throw it all away. Not when he’s always been there. Because me? I’ve got nothing to lose.

  Not a dime.

  His head wobbles, his eyes nervously darting. He’s seriously considering this, because when it comes to Wild Kyle, if it’s in his best interest, he usually takes it. “Didn’t you promise your mom you’d stay out of trouble?”

  “Didn’t you promise your dad you’d stop drinking and getting high?”

  He points his finger at me. “Good point.”

  “So move. I’ll drive.”

  He pauses, swallows a big burp. “No, wait. They’ll wonder how you got the car. Forget it. We’re just gonna go. This never happened. It’s fine, I’m fine, everything’s fine.”

  “But we hit something. Don’t you want to make sure it’s dead? Like, you know, you have a heart or something?”

  He revs the engine again. “Dad gets a ding on one of his other cars, he wears black for a week. If he finds out about this, bye-bye, NYC. Besides, you’re an accomplice now. If someone busts me, we’re both done.”

  His tone and eye contact more ominous, I turn my head back once more, ignore the sinking feeling in my gut. My fingers clench the belt buckle tight. “Okay. But drive slow.”

  With shaking hands, Kyle gently pushes the gas, splashing the damning water up behind us. Now, he’s not driving fast, he’s driving guilty. In the exact moment I’m begging for my life, I have sudden clarity over the chem test I bonked. The collision theory suggests reactions happen, no matter what, with a few important factors that decide the collision outcome:

  1. Temperature. Kyle’s energy changes when he drinks, making him more likely to collide with something.

  2. Concentration. If there is more substance in his system, like copious amounts of liquor and weed, there is a greater chance the rate of the reaction will happen faster.

  3. And pressure. As it increases, Kyle is more likely to have more collisions.

  4. (I’m screwed.)

  birdie

  What is love anyway?

  It’s not logical, something you can prove. There is no solid data to back up phrases like “soul mate” or “heartbreak.” They’re not real, just ideas people cling to so they can put names on feelings that are actually chemical reactions in the brain. The dictionary says love is defined as “a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.” If I rely on that, I’ve never been in love, and if I’m held to the use of passionate affection, I never will be. All I know about love is from movies, books, and songs, where everything is wrapped up with some sappy, unbelievable ending. The unhappy truth is, reality is, people cheat and lie, keep secrets, and leave. Because it’s human nature.

  What I have are facts. And the primary fact I’m stressing over is, a couple of days ago, I did something incredibly, unexplainably, undeniably, stupid—I snuck out of the house and went to what my best friend, Violet, calls “a rager” in East Clifton. I could say it was only for a few minutes and I didn’t have fun and I shouldn’t have gone (lies). I could say there wasn’t a boy there with beautiful brown skin and dark, silky locks, who absolutely didn’t intrigue me (more lies). I could blame it on stress from college essays or this random job I’m about to start so I can save for the fall (so true, it hurts), but really, it’s much more than that. Plus, my nosy brat of a sister, Brynn, totally caught me sneaking back in, so, there’s no way I can pretend it never happened. I know she won’t.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Brynn asks, with her tongue curling in disgust.

  “Nothing,” I say. “I’m fine.” I shift in my seat to stare out the window but I still feel her staring a hole through the side of my face—something she’s done as long as she’s been alive.

  “You look like you’re going to puke. Are you going to puke?”

  “No,” I snap. “I said I’m fine.”

  Benny hangs over his car seat to stare at me, too. “I’m fine!” He repeats, his voice rising in excitement at the end.

  Brynn shushes him, then whips her head back around to me. Her dingy brown hair is covered in braided beads and feathers from the Americana Festival that happened three effing days ago. It smells like sewer. “You’re not fine,” she whispers, loudly. “It’s all over your stupid, perfect face. Ugh. So annoying.”

  I back away, casually pinching my nose shut so I don’t ha
ve to breathe the debris embedded in her scalp, or smell her rancid breath. The radio is a low murmur, but even through the rain, I hear the music streaming through the speakers. I draw my attention to the rhythmic droplets that splash the window. There’s something about the pat pat pat, the smell that lingers long after it has passed. Makes me feel alive.

  I roll down my window to feel the cool mist on my cheeks. The pellets, which are about half a centimeter, fall hard and fast (probably exceeding the typical seven to eighteen miles per hour in this kind of weather). But it’s hard to calculate. I’m squeezing my brain like a sponge, but it’s parched. If I could crawl into the eye of the storm, I would. It’d suck a lot less than telling Mom about the party, and worse than that—about the fact that I went to the party to forget that the major scholarship I had applied for and counted on fell through. So now, with only minor monetary gifts, I’m in financial free fall—no safety net and terrified that everything I’ve worked toward for twelve years will be for nothing. We can’t afford college, so if there are no scholarships or grants, I might as well put feathers in my hair like Brynn.

  This time last year, we weren’t on our way to our new home. My whole life we’d only lived in tiny apartments. But now, since Dad was promoted to supervisor at the electric company, we’re blocks away from the new place we call home. And yet, I have a stomach twisted in so many knots, home is the last place I want to be.

  We have to be the only family crammed together on a Sunday night, out buying a Christmas tree before Thanksgiving. Dad says it’s because of the deal; Mom argues it’s so he has an excuse to play Christmas music earlier than socially acceptable.

  “It’s a young cypress,” Dad rambles, “so we’ve got to make sure it gets two gallons of water in the next forty-eight hours. If someone sees the water is out, refill it as soon as possible,” he continues. “If we don’t catch it within two hours, it’ll start turning brown, dropping needles. And keep an eye on Chomperz. Don’t want a repeat of last year’s needle-eating obsession. I lost four pair of shoes in that battle.”