chapter sixtake me away by lo la

It's uncomfortable.

Moon's sitting next to me and our legs are pressed together and she's slamming her thumbs against her phone, texting faster than I can think and when she drops her phone to her lap, my phone vibrates.

we need to get out of here right the fuck now. honestly i'm not even attracted to your brother anymore after this. it's that bad.

It is that bad.

Bella bailed because of fucking course she did. And I really wasn't expecting it but I wasn't surprised to figure it out either, because why would Bella follow through on her plans with me when she could just not? After all, what have I ever done for her, besides being the only friend she had that didn't abandon her when she went all Emily Dickinson on everyone? But it's fine. It's whatever.

And of course this asinine Paul character is here, sitting directly across from me and absolutely refusing to look anywhere in my direction and Embry and his new bestie Jared are engaged in what looks like a somewhat dangerous hot dog eating contest and Sam Uley off in his own little corner texting so he can properly ignore how downright miserable me and Moon look over here.

So we've just been sitting here in Sam's backyard, surrounded by a fire that somehow isn't getting any smaller, saying goddamn nothing. No noises but laughter and loud, boyish background chatter from my brother and goon number one.

parker's coming to get us. i texted him and he's on his way.

thank fucking god.

Mooney nudges me slightly with her elbow, and when I raise a brow in her direction, her eyes flicker towards Paul and she's one her phone one again to hit me with a quick: what the fuck is up with that guy?

I shrug, tossing my hands up and shaking my head. Because I have no fucking clue what's up with that guy. He's just fucking weird. And I don't know how it makes me feel because when he's staring at me like has been all goddamn night it reminds of how I felt when he knocked me on my ass and I looked into his eyes and felt so otherworldly. And I dunno, it's not quite the same, because now it's all clouded with how much his inconsistent personality and all around questionable behavior has left me not really liking him. But I can't ignore it. The memory burns me and I can't forget it or push it out of my head and it's just always there. And I think that makes me dislike him more.

And I don't really like to partake in Mooney's cynicism but I think that just for tonight I'll indulge myself. Because I don't know what's up with him or my brother and I really have no clue what I'm doing out here tonight and I'm getting more and more annoyed with the way tonight's going. And while everyone's too busy deliberately not speaking to either of us, I'm thinking about all the time I've wasted sitting here in the cold when I could've been doing literally anything else and then I remember that Bella bailed and I get annoyed all over again. Petty thoughts wash over me like waves: I bet she's with Jacob fucking Black. Why am I even friends with her? She doesn't even try to pretend to be my friend. I just want to leave.

And I'm just sitting there thinking that yes, actually, I am mad at Bella and that my discomfort is somehow all her fault, when, amazingly, this night gets even worse.

Because instead of parking his car and texting me when he was here like I goddamn told him to, Parker decides it'd be better to just come get me himself. I see him walking towards us with his hands in his jean pockets with a smile on his face and all I can think of is the next five minutes of awkward conversation while my well-meaning but completely oblivious boyfriend tried to bond with my dumbass brother and his dumbass friends. Suddenly, it's not Bella I'm mad at anymore.

"Oh thank fuck," Moon grunts as she stands, stretching out her legs.

I follow suit, eyes flicking back and forth between Parker and Embry. "Yeah so, we're gonna go. Like, now."

Embry pouts, crossing his arms. "Ah, you weren't having fun?"

And I don't have to answer because Moon's walking past them all and joining Parker's side when she says, "No."

And my thoughts might be vindictive but all I can manage to communicate is a passive shrug. "See ya," I offer, and move to leave when all the sudden Paul's standing up and he's staring down Parker like he's some sort of imminent threat.

"Who's this?" he asks, and I think he's asking me but he's not looking away from Parker.

So my dumbass, obliviously boyfriend steps forward and offers Paul his hand. "Oh, I'm Parker. Tatum's boyfriend."

This guy, this essential stranger that I had met three times, does nothing but stare down my boyfriend for one long, unbearable second, before sitting back down with his hunched shoulders blocking his head from sight.

I blow out a puff of air. "Alright, let's leave."

And when we're in the car together, after we've dropped off Moon, Parker turns to me and says, "What the hell was that all about?"

I shake my head, "Not a clue."

Parker doesn't drive. He keeps his hands on the wheel and his posture upright and he's looking straight ahead at the road, like he's building up to saying something, holding something back or just, I dunno, letting something rattle around in his brain. Parker can be predictable. Whatever he thinks, whatever he feels, I can see it coming. And he thinks he has this grip on me that no one else has, a complete understanding of the concept of me, but he doesn't know me better than I know him and before he even speaks I have my response locked and loaded. "I don't want you hanging around guys like that, Tate. It makes me uncomfortable."

I take a moment, pretend like I'm thinking about it and I turn my head a few times, looking out the window, looking at him, back and forth and back and forth, slowly, letting him agonize in anticipation of my response. "Well, you can't really tell me what to do, so."

We don't talk for the rest of the ride home.

"No, no, I'm not mad at you. Parker, stop, c'mon. No because like, if you're feeling uncomfortable with something why don't you just tell me-no because, you're not my dad and you can't just tell me what to do-well why can't you just trust me?"

"Jesus fucking christ, Tate, can you wrap up with the Laguna Beach filming? We have a practice going on, here."

Griffin's standing, stance wide, guitar hung low against his hips and he's glaring at me like I am the single most annoying thing he could possibly imagine and I guess, for once, he's kinda right. Because Forest is leaning against the wall of his mom's garage, lightly banging the head of his guitar against his forehead and Wes is throwing his sticks around like their toys and I have become a cliche: the irritating, drama soaked band member whose relationship distracts from the band. Parker is going to Yoko Ono us before we even play a song together. I roll my eyes. "Parker, look, I gotta go but we'll talk later."

And I'm about to hang up but I hear him grumble on the other line, "Your other boyfriends calling?"

"Don't think I'm gonna let that comment go," I bark into the phone before shoving it in my back pocket, swinging my bass around and trying to push down all the annoying and completely unnecessary emotions he's stirred up in me. "Alright, what are we playing?"

Wes says, "Hole," at the same time Griffin says, "Pixies," and I groan at the upcoming argument. I can't go one goddamn day without at least five, it seems.

Forest twisted up in confusion. "I thought we were playing alt-j?"

"Why in the fuck would we play alt-j?"

I want to take my bass and throw it at them, knocking them down like bowling pins. "Let's just play Pixies. They're timeless. You guys know the monkey heaven song or whatever the fuck it's called?" I ask, tuning my instrument and plucking at the strings, trying not to think of anything other than what I was trying to play.

No one argues, and I think that maybe it's because if I agreed with Griffin for once it must've been because it was an actual good idea. Out of the corner of my eye I see Wes, fiddling with his drumsticks, watching me like he suspects something and whatever he's thinking, he's probably right. Wes knows me like Parker thinks he does.

It takes us a humiliating amount of time to play on time, all together. Griffin's too fast, Forest is too slow. We have to go back and listen to the track a couple dozen times to get a better idea of what the hell we're supposed to be doing. I think that maybe this bad thing was a bad idea, and that maybe we could all play well apart, but together it was too much of a mess. But then, when we got it right, when it was almost eleven and I was itching for a third energy drink, it sounded better than I thought it could. And then it didn't seem so stupid.

I can't lie. I wish I could, but I can't. Maybe I just talk too much or maybe I just can't think of good enough lies fast enough but whenever they start to come out of my mouth I trip and stumble and halfway there I start to spit out the truth anyways. Really I shouldn't even bother, but when my dad sits across from me at the kitchen table and asks what I'm gonna do about college next year, I still try it.

"I dunno." Short, quick. Not too much detail to get caught up in and it's no different from the last answer I gave him when he asked.

My cheeks heat up under his stare. I'm trying to work on this goddamn essay about Holden Caulfield and male melancholy or whatever but my dad just looks at me like he can see right through me, like he's dissecting me. I don't even know why he asks questions anymore. "Okay. Well, we need to start looking at financial aid. Once you decide where you want to go, we have to talk about how to pay for it."

Paying for it. I feel rotten inside. Application fees already put my dad's credit card through the ringer. "Y'know," I start, thinking carefully about my words and where they'll go. And I tell myself, Tatum, you're a writer. A screenplay writer. You know dialogue. You know people. "I was thinking, nothing definitive, I only got into my backup schools. And I mean, I think with another year of, y'know, volunteering, extracurriculars, a chance to build my portfolio, stuff like that, I might have a better chance. I mean, by then I'll have my movie out and I think that'll really help my chances, y'know?"

I can't meet my dad's eye and he's holding his stare hard and steady and he's never really yelled at me before but his disappointed tone is a common card he pulls. "And what if you don't get in the second time around?"

For a second I squirm around in my seat. "Then I'll go to one of my safety's, I guess."

"And what will you do instead?"

Here's the part I'm all stressed about. I don't think there's ever been a parent who was cool with the idea of their child not going to college to play in some haphazardly formed rock band and I know when I say the words, I'll sound ridiculous. A sordid teen a la Freaky Friday, misguided, stupidly hopefully, and ignorant of the world. "Um, well I just joined this band and I mean, we're gonna be working on an EP, and if it goes well we'd tour around the state, maybe Oregon too."

My dad leans back in his chair, pushing the palms of his hands against his knees. He lets out one, long steady breath. Lane Copeland always likes to avoid fights. I think he had so many knock-down, drag out fights with my strong-willed and hot-blooded mother that another one might kill him. That's why he never yells, why I never really yell back. Quick bickering and snide remarks sure, but we always let it go. He doesn't want me to be like her, I think. He doesn't want to turn me into her. "Why don't you let me think about it?"

And that's gonna be the end of discussion. I nod, and return back to detailing the aimless and desperate depression of Holden Caulfield, trying to bite back that bitter thought that if it was Embry, my dad would let him do it.

There are three different projects going on on my laptop right now. First is this real piece of work essay that has been nipping me in the ass for about a week now. Because in my stupid world history class I have to write about the economic and social consequences of globalization and I don't know dick about the economic and social consequences of globalization. Then I have about a few verses of an absolute dog shit song. Because Wes had this real brilliant idea of all of us writing a few songs and bringing them into the next practice to workshop, but I don't do lyrics. I don't write poetry or anything close to it because anything deep or profound I say just makes me feel like some poser and that is exactly the last thing I want Griffin to call me. And then, I got the production schedule up and in deep, deep editing. Because I had to reschedule our car scene, I have to reschedule everything. And it's just this giant, tangled up mess of conflicting schedules of the crew and background actors and Moon, my main girl, my actual star, works. She works a lot and I have to factor that into every plan I make and it doesn't really fit well around classes, band practices, and whatever else everyone has going on. And that's all fucked up because of Embry the flake over here, who's sitting on my couch, eating Doritos (cool ranch, the freak) and watching episodes of Scrubs he's seen five-hundred times.

"Do you think you could go be lazy and annoying somewhere else?" I ask, a little less passive than aggressive and Embry throws a Dorito at me that gets caught in my hair. I leave it there. I don't want him to know he's annoying me as much as he is.

"Are you still mad at me?" he asks, like it's an inconvenience, not a concern, the way brothers do.

"Yes. I actually think I'm more mad at you now."

He rolls his eyes at me. "Relax. Other night could've been fun if you weren't so uptight."

"Okay, I'm absolutely not talking about this right now, but maybe it would've been fun if you're little weirdo friend stopped being a creep all night." I stop, return to my keyboard, and then throw them up in the air. "Like, what is his deal with me?"

Embry blinks. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did you want me to answer that question? I thought you were absolutely not talking about this."

"Shut up."

"Alright," he snarks back, sinking into the couch and returning his attention back to the television. "Did you know that one time they changed the Scrubs theme song and everyone got so mad they had to change it back."

"Yeah, that's really cool."

And I think he's about to throw another Dorito at me but there's a knock on the door, and he freezes. "Who's there?"

I scoff. "How am I supposed to know? Go check it yourself."

Embry shakes his head. "No, go see who it is."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're my big sibling and you need to protect your helpless baby brother."

My helpless baby brother looks like he has my weight in muscle on him but he's giving me pathetic, pleading wide eyes, so I begrudgingly obliged. I push my laptop off to the side and lean against the living room window, spreading the blinds just a bit to see Quil Ateara standing at our front door, looking shor and sad and anxious. "Quil," I tell him, abandoning my post and returning to my seat.

"Ah, fuck" Embry grumbles, abandoning Scrubs and his Doritos and brushing off the front of his pants. "Tell him I'm not here."

I flinch. "Why? He was looking for you the other day. Seemed worried."

Embry's swinging his head around frantically, scrambling for his shoes. "Look, you wouldn't get it, alright? Just tell him I'm not here. I'mma jump out the back window."

I like Quil. He's my favorite of Embry's friends and I don't like what my brother's doing to him right now. "No, that's stupid. Just talk to him."

"Tatum, you don't understand."

"No, I don't understand, you're right. You're kinda being a dick friend right now."

His right shoe's on his left foot and vice versa and I don't even think he notices. "Look, Tate, I'm your brother so you have to cover for me. I'll explain it later, just tell him you haven't seen me, and you don't know where I am."

The door knocks again, and before I can say anything else to my brother, he's gone, dipped out the back door and disappeared. I groan, loudly and aggressively, and drag my feet in a light stomp over to the front door.

Quil looks sadder than he did the last time I saw him and it makes me feel kinda nauseous and I can't lie so I'm practicing the words in my head before I see him. "Hey, Quil! What's up?" It's a friendlier greeting than he's ever gotten from me and even still, the kid looks like he's about to cry. "What's wrong?"

He purses his lips, and kicks a loose rock on the front step. "Yeah, I totally just heard like, all of that. You guys, you're not quiet."

Part of me feels like absolute shit and the other half is really grateful I didn't have to lie and feel more like shit. And me and Parker are already fighting so I don't think anything I do will really matter right now. So I open the food and give him a smile and say. "I'm sorry. Wanna come in and watch Scrubs with me?"

Quil smiles, and nods. "You uh, have a Dorito in your hair."

ummm...so...anyways...

so i feel like i don't have to explain to any of y'all that i'm kind of a flake writer bc, i mean, it's kinda obvious. so i don't want to promise anything with thisstory. like there was a point a few months ago wherei didn't think i'd ever upload another chapter again so i'm glad i got this one out. for now, i offer you this. tomorrow, who knows? let's all blame my adhd.

sorry it wasn't the longest update but my standards for myself are pretty much on the ground rn. (chapter six? more like chapter sux) i give myself a gold starfor writing at all.