Author's Note: I am so sorry for such a long hiatus. I was caught up in college life, a Rwanda missions trip, and family issues. But, this story is not forgotten and I am determined to finish it! Again, I am so very sorry! Here is chapter ten . . . finally! Please review to keep me on top of this and motivated.
Bleeding Autumn Chapter Ten: Project Days
The air was thick and heavy with the remnants of early morning frost. I shuddered. In a far away distance, in that quiet and isolated dimension between wakefulness and dreamy sleep, a phone shrilled loudly, demanding to be heard. Again and again, it wailed and wailed. A low moan escaped . . . again it wailed . . . and again! Finally, a light female voice relieved the tormented creature and spoke in a soft and barely audible tone. The house was silent. I listened. Below the room, the clopping of boots resounded on wooden floors . . . a man's coughing . . . the roaring of the heater . . . a bird chirping gaily outside the walls. Down the street, a dog howled.
"Michele?"
Turning my head, I peered through minute slits at the blurry environment. My cheek slumped against the pillow; body sprawled upon the bed face-first. The poster covered walls came in and out of focus. At one moment the flaming mustang appeared clearly, and the next, it was a mass of red yarn.
"Michele?"
"Hmmm . . .," came the response.
"It's for you, dear."
The groan escaped my lips as I clenched the bed sheets in a childish tantrum and refusal. Go away, my head pleaded.
"Mich – "
"Coming," I nipped, shoving my head away from the soft pillow. The heat of warm air kissed my face as I shuffled out of bed. A glance in the mirror made me grimace at the random angles my hair was plastered. My hands ran through it as I opened the door and padded down the hall. Nana nonchalantly dusted a picture frame as I passed her with little more than a bitter grin to which she returned with even less emotion. Still flattening the top of my head, I grasped the phone set calmly upon its side.
" 'ello?"
"Michael? This is Randy." My eyes cleared of their sleepy mist and I sat up straight. "Hey Randy," I exclaimed enthusiastically. "What's up?" There was a brief pause before his voice could be heard once more. "I just wanted to make sure everything went well yesterday . . ."
"You mean you wanted to make sure Bob did not beat me to a bloody pulp, right," I tested.
He laughed deeply. "That too. You think you can handle yourself a little bit better now?"
"Sure can," I proudly declared.
"That's good, Mike. Listen, I got to get running. Marcia decided to make me her taxi this weekend, but I will see you on Monday. Glad it went well."
The phone droned a monotonous buzz as he hung up. I heaved a heavy sigh before skulking away from the table and towards the refrigerator. Nana appeared and mindlessly asked if there was anything in particular I desired. Barely mumbling a answer, she set to preparing a basic meal of eggs and toast. I sat at the table in silence, occasionally rubbing my temples in intense thought. It was mind boggling to consider how much had changed in such a short period of time. Oddly enough, Antonio's absence caused the house to be unusually silent. There were no obnoxious Italian songs streaming from the halls as he went about running office chores, and even less so, there were no slick insults in which to reply. Nana set the plate of food before me, ruffling my hair. "Everything will be okay," she reassured. "Enjoy the weekend while it lasts. And, don't forget to complete your homework assignments"
-o-
Humidity soaked the air long after the thunder clouds' legion retired to the east and all traces of their army melted away. Mourning dew clung to the fresh blades of emerald grass stretching across the turbulent sea of picture perfect yards. Too perfect to have autumn interrupt their lives. Mist loomed just above the Oak trees that lined the muddy and soaked concrete pathways. The air was crisp and clean, smelling anew, as it was when creation first began. The faint scent of blossoms from Mother's rose garden tingled my nose as doves cooed softly to the morning's dawn from their perch on the telephone wires. Song birds flitted too-and-fro about the cerulean hued sky, darting between the high branches of golden tree tops while finely decorated wings fluttered over the lush buds. The atmosphere was heavy with content and tranquility. The melodious crunch of the grains of dried mud under my heel created a smooth rhythm that was only disturbed by the calls of adolescent voices and the pitter-patter of two pairs of feet sprinting up the path.
I turned to see a set of blonde hair sprinting up the pathway. The skinny one outpaced the shorter one, but both grinned wildly as they neared. Will waved enthusiastically, falling further behind in his distraction while Trevor only slowed when he was right in front of me. Breathing heavily, he smirked before emitting a horribly accented "Alo," between breaths. Will bounded beside us, his green eyes shining as he tugged on his shirt. "Hey Michael! Long time no see!" I could not help but be affected by his contagious joy, and was forced to smile back.
The three of us walked a ways down the neighborhoods, staring at the dainty houses and smelling the scent of fireplaces and drying gardens. "You did real well yesterday," remarked Will. Trevor nodded his agreement and without warning whistled and smirked. At my perplexed look, he nodded ahead, where a girl sat on her porch. Her dark hair was pulled away from her face and she wore a baby blue sweater; she was in every way the picture of a ballerina, but at the cat call blushed and hurried indoors, right as her father exited the house. Trevor hissed a round of curses before picking up his pace, yanking me along, laughing as Will chimed, "Way to go, Romeo."
-o-
Feet roughly stomped and scratched across the tiles of Mrs. Mical's history class as everyone rushed to their seats. In a daze of restless sleep, I attempted to stifle a yawn. Beside me, Trevor quirked his brow and smirked. "Late night," he questioned.
I nodded, but quickly ceased as his lips twisted into a devilish grin and he parted his lips to utter a crude comment, but I was swift to interrupt him. "Not that kind of late night – just a long one, ya know?" Thoroughly dismayed and let down, he twisted in his seat and focused on a blonde cheerleader seated across the room. "Boy, are you dull," he muttered.
Barely hiding a smirk, I glanced around at the filling room, noticing once more the clear lines of class division. The painted and well groomed socials sat in the front right portion of the room, the middle class in the left front, although some mingled with the upper class, and the greasers in the back. Mrs. Mical entered boisterously, face lit in anticipating excitement.
"Class, settle down . . . ah, Mr. Reid, get off of the desk, and Rebecca, put away the magazines. I have a special announcement to make!" The classes' ears perked up at her unusual demeanor. The graying redhead pushed her glasses further up her nose before grappling with a handful of papers. When she was finally organized, she breathed deeply and beamed. "As you all know, there was going to be a lengthy exam for this class scheduled at the end of the year . . ." The class flooded with protesting moans and utterances of injustice. She raised her hands to calm the class. "However," she continued, "I have thought of something that would be much more intriguing, and probably a bit more appealing to you – a social studies project. Now, this will be due at the end of the year, and there will be no, I repeat, no leniency for lateness. All of you will be placed into pairs. You will select your topic and decide how to present it. You will be graded on the final presentation that will take the place of the exam, and you must incorporate one significant historical movement that we have learned into it. The rest is up to you. Now, this is a sheet of the pairs I have placed all of you into. There will be no switching partners."
As soon as she passed out sheets of project requirements and placed the roster of pairings on the desk, she exited the room while a mass of students wildly shoved their way to learn of their fated partners. Trevor winked at me, assuming that we would be together. Several students left the desk hooting and grinning, while others appeared as depressed as if they had learned of a pet's sudden and tragic death. Sighing, I headed towards the desk and skimmed the sheet for my name, passing Trevor's and noting that he was paired with the pretty blonde he had fancied for the past weeks. Curious as to whom I had been sorted with, I continued down the page, stopping at my name and following it over . . . I stopped, breath hitched in the pit of my stomach. I gripped the desk tightly and nearly jumped when Trevor plopped a hand on my shoulder. "We together?"
I shook my head as he searched for his name and yipped in glee at the female discovery. Turning back to me, he questioned, "Who'd you get?"
Without hesitating, I husked, "Johnny Cade."
The timid boy was nearly unnoticeable in the class. When he first started coming following the jumping, I had avoided all contact with him. He never spoke, hardly made any sounds, and never looked anyone in the face. He was like a ghost within the classroom, coming and going without any real recognition. I turned to face the classroom, my eyes roaming over the various figures before they planted on top of the thin boy slouched far in the back corner, tucked away from the world of the living, doodling on a piece of paper, and lost within his own world. I frowned – who could blame him for wanting to be anywhere but here?
"What are you going to do," asked Trevor, impatiently desiring to bound over to the cheerleader's desk like a lovesick puppy wanting a pet. He smirked at her and winked, which only caused her to giggle. "I'll handle it, okay? Meet up with you after class," I hurriedly responded, returning to my desk and jamming books into the backpack. Trevor needed no other convincing, for he was already by the blonde's side; they had as much likelihood of discussing project ideas as I had in dating Cherry Valance. The bell shrieked loudly and the mass of plaid shirts and leather jackets moved toward the doors. I caught the figure of Johnny as he too exited the room and I rushed after him, nearly knocking a middle-class girl to the ground.
It was in the middle of the hall that my hand landed on Johnny's shoulder as I simultaneously called his named. Nevertheless, he may as well have jumped out of his clothes and darted down the hall naked with his petrified and startled reaction. His raven eyes made brief contact with mine and I saw that same convicting recognition, resentment, and fear I had when he was attacked and when he roamed the hall with Ponyboy weeks ago. He nervously fidgeted and eyed those who passed by, as if expecting at any moment an army of Socials to burst from the lockers in an angry riot. "What do ya want," he whispered, but in a surprisingly stern and demanding tone.
"I'm not going to do anything. We're, ah, well, we're partners."
He only stared at me, completely lacking in any sort of reaction. Awkwardly, I shuffled my feet and continued. "So, I think it would be a good idea to figure out what we want to do." There was still now reaction – no change in expression, no twitch of his lips, no alteration in body posture. He just stood there, and I felt like an idiot, which ignited a flame of indignation in my breast. "Look, I know neither of us are excited about this, so let's get this done and over with as quickly and as soon as possible. It will make it easier for us both."
"Fine," he bit. My eyes widened at the authoritative voice that did not match the turmoil-eyed body. "Fine," I impatiently nipped back. We stood there like junior high kids, waiting for the other to break. Realizing that he had much more experience in staying silent, I sighed in surrender. "Look, Johnny, we are going to have to do it outside of school. Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think my parents would be pleased if we worked on it at my place, so that leaves either staying here or going to your place. Up to you." Johnny flicked wisps of jet black hair away from his face, only to better reveal the healing scar on his cheekbone. Guilt panged my chest. He bit his lip uncertainly. "Not here," he decided. "Not my place. Curtis house after school tomorrow. Let's get it over with." He jotted down an address on a scrap of paper, shoved it towards me, and disappeared down the hall of faces before I could say any more. Like a phantom . . .
It was not until lunch that I ran into Trevor, Bob, Randy, and the gang. They lounged lazily on the designated tables with their gals in tow. Marcia clung to Randy's arm, dumb-struck by whatever he was saying to her; in stark contrast, Cherry and Bob appeared to be in a heated argument. Her eyes blazed as she pursed her lips in a deadly thin line, narrowed her eyes, and hissed within earshot, "You're unbelievable, Bob!" Grasping her small shoulder purse, she stormed off, but not before granting me a sweet and flustered smile with an apologetic nod. I never understood what a girl like Cherry was doing with a guy like Bob. Every time they were together a verbal brawl ensued – she uttered careless insults at him about emotional deficiencies while he countered with accusations of uptightness and prudish behavior, yet it always ended with him purring secret words into her ear and she melting right back into his arms. It was cyclical in nature, expected and utterly aggravating each and every time.
Setting down my platter of food, I nodded to the group and glanced at Trevor who rolled his eyes and mimicked the fight. Barely stifling a laugh, I made eye contact with Randy as he lightly kissed Marcia on the cheek before she left in search of Cherry. Bob stared silently at his hands before slamming them down upon the table, causing everyone to jump and those at nearby tables to glance our way. "Damnit," he shouted. "Just can't do anything right with her! I offer to take her to the movies and I am not romantic enough. I offer to take her to dinner and I am too dull. What the hell do women want?"
While most would have found his desperate outburst to be comedic, I found myself sympathizing with the curly-haired Social. He sighed dejectedly and rested his head against his fist. No one ever doubted he loved Cherry, but as to whether their love was stable, we all questioned. Breaking the odd silence, Trevor bluntly remarked, "If we understood what women wanted, do you think we would be going broke trying to figure out what they wanted, or just trying to buy them something sparkly enough that they don't realize we don't have a damn clue?" Bob smirked, his normal arrogant demeanor returning.
"So, Mikey," he drawled, "Trevor said something about a project you got to do with the grease monkey with jumped a while back." I nodded. "What of it?"
His eyes glowed in a hungry anticipation. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?" I stared at him suspiciously, wondering was devious and cruel plan he was conjuring. "Nothing," I stated blandly. "Just going to deal with it, get it over with, and get a good score. That a problem?" I rose from my seat, grabbing the tray of barely eaten food. The others followed my lead before we headed into the halls. Bob stretched his arms above his head in a dramatic yawn. "Nope, not a problem." His grin returned. "Assuming you don't run into Winston."
"Who?" I had heard the name only in passing over the weeks. It came with as much authority as the Shepherd's name, and with just as much threat. "Whose this Winston everyone keeps talking about?"
Randy whistled low and rested against a locker. "He's someone you don't want to run into alone. Dallas is one of the toughest cats around. Man's a maniac in a fight and isn't afraid of anything, doesn't care about anything, and takes a sick pleasure in crushing the skulls of as many Socials as possible." Randy smirked. "He'll kill you without a second thought." Refusing to be drawn into their intimidation act, I shoved my way past Trevor and Robby. "And why does that concern me," I called back.
"Cause," laughed Bob airily, "Cade's his pet, and he knows what happened . . ."
-o-
The scent of gingerbread lingered in the entrance way as I made my way into the kitchen, twisting newly earned keys about my fingers as I entered. The birthday celebration was nothing special following Antonio's hospitalization. It came and went with as much grandeur as the bouts of rainfall in September – the only significant reminder it has occurred at all being the new red mustang in the driveway and fresh license in my wallet. In the pristinely kempt kitchen, Nana stood mixing a bowl of cookie batter. She smiled tiredly as I made my appearance. Her age was finally showing with the additional stress of caring for Antonio. He had been discharged from the hospital a week after he entered, despite protest. They simply stated that they could find nothing wrong with him and hurriedly ushered him out of the building when he was well enough to walk. Yet, the pains in his stomach, while not as frequent and horrific as they originally were, granted Nana enough reason to keep him in bed. The fear and uncertainty of it all was etched deeply in the wrinkles beneath her lips and dark circles around her eyes. Her cheeks were not as rosy as they normally were, and the joyous laugh in her voice had dimmed.
"Here, Nana," I exclaimed, rushing to her side and grasping the bowl and spoon from her hands. "I will mix it for you." She chuckled and ruffled the top of my head before turning to the oven and removing a freshly baked sheet of gingerbread cookies. She blew on them softly and I watched her move about the room carefully. "You okay, Nana?" The words came softly. She rested a hand against the counter and heaved a sigh. "I am doing well, my dear. It has just been a rough couple of weeks, and that boy's health has my nerves on end."
Looking around the grand room, I finally took in the vast size of the house. Nana, for once, did not appear as large as she use to, and I wondered how she managed to keep things so organized each day. "I can help out a bit more, Nana. I can do the laundry even," I spurted, determined to make myself useful in some way, yet knowing full well I had as much knowledge about laundry as Nana did in current trends. Nevertheless, her face beamed in gratitude and she pointed a finger towards me. "I'm the one that is suppose to worry about you, you hear? Now," she motioned to a plate of cookies, "take those up to Antonio if you really would like to help this old lady. He has been doing a bit better, and those are his favorite. I think he will enjoy it."
Handing over the bowl of batter to her, I grasped the plate of treats and headed toward the stairs, but not before Mother entered the room, fixing her hair into a jeweled hair clip. "Ah, Michele," she called, "you should know better than to eat upstairs." She kissed the side of my cheek and I grimaced at the pink lipstick mark I was certain she left. "They are for Antonio, Mother." She frowned – a sickly worker staying in her home did not settle well with her and she tried time and again to have him sent to family in Texas, but to no avail. Father had declared Antonio too precious to send away, for only he knew the proper way of filing the paperwork and organizing his appointments. "Such a sweet boy," she declared. "Now, dear, what do you say we go shopping tomorrow for winter clothing?"
I started. Licking my lips in anxious realization as to why her plan would not work, I attempted to explain to her that I would be meeting with a partner after school, hoping that would be enough to satisfy her curiosity. "Who and where, dear," she beckoned in a honey coated tone. I grimaced, edging my way further and further toward the stairs. "Johnny," I muttered. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I asked you where, Michele."
I surrendered. "East side somewhere. Look, I did not get to choose – "
It was too late. Her eyes had widened in shock and she sneered in disgust. "Well, then it will be a shame that you cannot go. Don't worry, we will sort this out. What is the name of the teacher, now?" She headed towards the list of numbers set beside the phone. "Mother, there is no changing partners. It's a rule. It's just one time! I will be back by dinner!"
"Michele," she snapped, "that is quite enough. The matter is settled. Now, go upstairs." She folder her arms in stubborn arrogance and raised her chin with pride. My eyes glowered at her slender frame – her perfect complexion, plastered hair, and fine accessories. Rage boiled within my heart and with each step I made up the stairs, I imagined crushing specific qualities I despised about her; one by one the shrieked in pain beneath my shoes before withering into nothingness. It was a pleasure.
It was not until I was before Antonio's room that my thoughts returned to the task at hand. I rapped on the door and entered. Antonio rested on the bed, his face contorted in an unspoken pain. He had lost a bit of weight and his hair had lost its trademark shine. I had made spending time with him scarce, and never was I alone, for Nana always accompanied my on most occasions. Antonio glanced at me and lowered his eyelids. "What do you want," he bristled. I smirked – sick as a dog, he was still a smug ass. I shrugged and gestured toward the cookies. "Nana sent me up. Thought you would like some." I set the plate beside his bed and turned to leave. "Wait," he moaned. I turned to see him struggle to sit up. I waited for him to continue. He stared at me for a long while, every emotion readable in his eyes. A battle of pride. The two sides tumbled together within his dark pupils until at long last humility won and he motioned toward a glass of water set across the room. "I don't think I can get up to get it without passing out."
I needed no other hinting, and quickly handed it to him without a word of objection. As he drank, I got a good look at him. Circles decorated his eyes, and he was considerably pallid in color. A spring of trepidation flooded my body. "You feeling alright?"
He scoffed. "As if you care. I bet you are hoping I die."
My eyes bulged and I indignantly retorted, "Don't say that! You're not going to die, and I never wanted you to." He looked surprised, but rebounded with an unbelieving laugh. "Maybe get hit by a car every now and then, but not killed," I continued, matching his smirk. This time, he laughed genuinely, but only until coughs racked his body. I frowned. "Why do you hate me?"
His eyes fluttered close and he breathed deeply. "I don't hate you. It's just how thing are. You're the spoiled prince and I'm the hired jackass. It's just how things work." Saying no more, he turned away from me and curled up on his side. I grabbed a cookie from the plate and turned from the room, whispering more to myself than to Antonio, "Maybe things need to change." Unsure as to whether he heard, I closed the door behind me and listened as Mother started one of her classical records below. It was then I noticed how Antonio's room was tucked away from the world, down a small hall most would overlook. No pictures decorated these walls, and one could just as easily assume it was a laundry room as a bedroom. It was as if he was invisible . . .The scent of gingerbread traveled toward me, but when I bit into the cookie, it tasted bitter.