Chapter 3:
"Sarcasm is the protest of the weak," –Gene Forrester, A Separate Peace.
"Naturally," –Phineas, A Separate Peace.
Jorge groaned as the plane slammed to a landing. Already visiting his father. He hated his dad. He'd hated him ever since he was eleven—when his dad had taken off and never come back. He was ashamed of his dad—if he ever had a son, he knew he would never do something like that to him. Jorge had thought he'd never hear from his dad again.
But then he had called back. Asking Jorge to forgive him, asking Jorge to love him again. Jorge had hung up, feeling the bitter anger swallow him. Jorge got mad easily.
His dad hadn't cared when he'd cried his heart out at night, had he? His dad hadn't been there when he asked his mom where Daddy had gone, had he? His dad hadn't been there when he wrote silent letters in his head, trying to see his father again—see the person in the monster he had become. His dad wasn't there at the band practices; his dad wasn't there at all those lonely hockey games—his dad wasn't there for it all. He'd missed it all.
Mom had been there. Mom listened to him. Mom supported him. Mom was there for every single thing that Dad wasn't. But Mom forgave more easily than Jorge did. That's why she'd shipped him off to West Virginia when his dad had asked to see him over the summer.
Jorge hadn't seen his dad for five years, seeing that he was now sixteen. He hadn't spoken to him since he was twelve. And now he was going to meet him.
Here goes nothing, he thought as his heart hammered in his chest. He wished he could be anywhere but here.
xxx
Weston's yawn nearly split his head open as his plane smoothly landed. Putting his iPod away, he stretched out, his long arms hitting Jason who sat next to him. (Jason's and West's camps were both located in Los Angeles; they would be pretty close this summer). Jason moaned and shoved a carton of orange juice from the airplane meal into West's lap. (Jason particularly didn't like planes; they made him more nervous than usual). A girl threw Jason a hopeful glance, but he ignored it, and said, "This is it, then?"
West nodded, with a pang of sadness through his chest. He'd miss Jason.
As the plane finally stopped its movement, West grabbed his backpack full of sugar, coffee beans, his iPod, and the Traveling Jacket, and grimly got off the plane, only stopping to give Jason a quick hug. He didn't look back. West hadn't looked back ever since his dad had died. It hurt too much.
He didn't want to remember what had happened those days after his dad died. He didn't look back at Jason now. He couldn't stand to see the pain that filled Jason's eyes. Jason was someone who needed someone there with him—always. West, being the oldest of the gang sometimes felt as if he should protect his friends—always the leader, always taking charge. He felt Jason, who was the youngest, was his responsibility sometimes.
He ran inside to get his suitcase from the conveyor belt, grunting with effort, and almost dying as a suitcase flattened his foot.
"Oh my God I'm so sorry," came a voice. A girl.
West looked up, dizzy with pain. It was a tall, athletic looking girl with long, shiny brown hair and an expression full of anxiety on her face. Her forehead was furrowed with lines of distress, and with a small whine, she managed to haul her suitcase off West's foot.
"Sorry," she muttered, managing to escape before he could say anything else.
West decided just to ignore it, hauled his suitcase up, and limped towards a man holding a sign that read, "Los Angeles Camp for Performing and Visual Arts."
The girl was in front of him, and when she saw him her cheeks flushed a violent shade of dark pink. The man asked her for her name and what she would be doing.
"Brenna Porter. Visual art."
The man, a tall warty one with a beard, raised one of his eyebrows as West straggled along, limping, noticing the orange juice on his crotch where Jason had spilled it, and asked him what his name was once "Sarah Kaplan, Singer," had gone. (Sarah was a dirty blonde haired girl, and she immediately got together with the girls that were gossiping about something or other).
"And you are?"
"Weston McArthur. Singer," he managed to groan. He noticed that that Brenna was hiding behind the large group of girls talking excitedly. She saw her looking at him, and lowered her eyes, her face still flushed.
So far, the jacket hadn't brought him too much luck. Maybe he had to wear it instead.
xxx
Jason tried to smile at Weston when he left, but he couldn't help it. He was nervous—even scared. He knew it hurt West when he, Jason that is, was hurt. West had an overprotective nature, and always wanted everything to be ok. If it wasn't, he blamed himself.
He reached under the chair in front of him and grabbed his backpack, his hand trembling.
Stop it, he told himself. You're going to be alright.
He walked slowly off the plane, smiling slightly at the flight attendants who wished him a "Good Day," down a couple of elevators, and towards the conveyor belt, ignoring all the yearning looks and smiles and desperate glances of the girls.
Everywhere there were girls. Tall girls, short girls, thin girls, fat girls. And they always wanted to know him. He was sick of it.
How would they know who he actually was? Jason pulled up the hood of his brand-less sweatshirt; maybe they'd ignore him more if they couldn't see his face as well.
No. It didn't work. A blonde girl brushed up next to him and smiled. "Do I know you?"
Jason grimaced. "No, I don't think you do."
Ignoring her, he pushed ahead, and managed to pull his suitcase—a dark black one—off the conveyor belt. Pulling it, he went up to a slim lady who held a sign reading, "Los Angeles Skating Camp."
"I'm Jason Escalante," he said.
She studied him for a second or two, her eyes drifting over his body, and Jason winced in discomfort. Then, she simply put a check on her clipboard, and pointed out a bus waiting outside.
Jason pulled his stuff outside, handed his suitcase to a man who loaded it on his bus, noticing that the man had a lot of pimples. Almost involuntarily, he reached up and brushed his hand over his forehead. Flawless white skin, not marked by anything. Then, his face getting hot, he stumbled up the bus steps.
He was aware of what seemed like hundreds of eyes on him—longing ones of girls, and jealous ones of guys. Trying to shake off the feeling as though he was doing something embarrassing, he sat down hard in an empty seat. The girl in the seat across from him leaned forward.
Her hair was a light shade of orange, and freckles covered her face. "Hi. I'm Cassie, or you can call me Cazz."
Jason grunted in return. "Jason." He didn't like to talk to people he didn't know. He hated meeting new people—especially girls, since they always seemed to decide right there and then that he should be their future boyfriend. Boys were usually jealous of him, thinking that he was stuck-up or something.
She indicated a tough-looking guy sitting next to her. "This is my boyfriend, Patrick." His hair was the same color as hers, only it covered his eyes, making him look like some sort of sheepdog.
"You can call me Pat," he said, amiably, putting out his hand for Jason to shake.
Jason shook it. And then he turned away, ignoring their attempts to strike up a conversation. He wished they would reach camp soon. When he was skating, he knew who he was.
xxx
Alek scratched his eyebrow ring. And then his chin ring. He seemed to be pretty itchy today. Maybe he was just nervous. Well, this was his first interview—for a job at Dolly's Ice Cream Parlor.
"Alek, honey?" That was his mom, probably lugging around his baby sister, Nikki. "Would you help me in here?"
Alek launched himself off his bed, and then slowly dragging his feet into the kitchen. "What?"
He studied the ground. Marshmallows and Rice Krispies littered the ground. His mom had probably been trying to make Rice Krispies Treats.
"Would you, Alek?" His mom looked at him. Her eyes were tired. Her eyes had been tired a lot, recently.
Alek nodded quietly, pulling out the nifty little vacuum cleaner his dad had bought. ("It's easier to carry around," he had explained, "it's lighter.") He finished, kissed his mom good-bye, and was almost out of the door, when his mom called him back in.
"Take out those piercings," she snapped. "How are you going to get a job looking like your work at Piercing Pagoda?"
He ignored her, and pulled out his earring to please her. But after he slammed his car door shut, he put it back in again, driving to Dolly's Ice Cream Parlor. (He loved driving; it made all the stress go out of the day). He parked his car, narrowly missing the window of a car next to him, closed the door, and stood up, his legs feeling like rubber. Taking a deep breath, he walked inside. The man, whom Alek had heard was named Gary Smith, indicated a chair.
"Now, why do you want to work here?" he said, spraying spit all over Alek's face.
Alek pulled out one finger, and wiped off the glob of saliva. This was going to be a long day.
Chapter 4:
"Imagination is more important that knowledge," –Albert Einstein
"So tell me, why do we go to school again?"—Jorge Kramer
Jorge drummed his hand on the window in awkward silence, looking anywhere but at his dad, next to him. His dad, whose short haircut gleamed with sweat, his nervous, ratty looking eyes darting around like mice being chased by a cat. He was sitting in the front of a car, with a man he hardly knew (but knew he hated), going to a house he had never been to before. Jorge's dad, Connor, looked over at him nervously, as if he didn't know what to do either.
He silently plugged the keys into the car, pushed the pedal, and started driving, still in complete silence. Connor tried to break the silence. "So… how's school, Jorge?"
"Fine."
Silence again. "Try out for any sports?"
"No."
"So, what do you do nowadays?" It was a general question, open to everything. Connor seemed to think that he could force his son to talk to him.
"Nothing." Jorge felt the anger bubble up inside of him. You would know if you had spent time with me. You would know if you still lived with me. You wouldn't have to go around asking stupid questions.
"What do you do with your friends? What are their names again… Jake? Alex? Umm… William?"
"Jason. Alek. West." You would know if you'd stayed with me, like Mom did. "We're in a band."
"Really? What's your band name? What do you play?"
"Hearts Rendered Useless. Bass."
"We're going to have fun this summer, you know."
"Whatever."
Connor was giving up. He couldn't make his son talk. They passed the rest of the ride in silence, Connor every once in awhile trying to strike up a conversation again—Jorge not putting up with it. I really hate you.
Connor finally swerved to a stop at a medium-sized house, painted a friendly shade of green, with white windows and a white door. He opened his door, and his dad went to get his suitcase.
To Jorge's surprise, a tall lady with dark brown hair came running out the door. "Connor! You're home!" She turned to Jorge. "Oh, you must be Jorge. Connor has told me all about you!"
Connor stood there, looking awkward and nervous. "Jorge. This is my fiancée, Kathy. We're getting married at the end of the summer."
The words didn't seem to hit Jorge at first. Then realization broke through and everything seemed to explode in his mind. He leaned over and vomited.
xxx
Alek sighed, pulling out a cheery light-blue smock that he was supposed to wear. Embroidered in the corner were the words Dolly's Ice Cream Parlor: Scream for Ice Cream. Gary had told him that he would have to start tomorrow. Alek was glad he didn't have to start today. Gary had sprayed so much spit on him, he had to go home and take a shower.
I wonder how Weston's doing with the jacket, he thought to himself. I hope I get it soon.
The guys had decided that the jacket would start with West, be sent to Alek, who would send it to Jorge, and then mailed to Jason, and all over again. Each person would keep it for a week, so each brother would get the jacket for at least three weeks during the summer.
Alek climbed into his car and started to drive. He stopped at a red light, and patiently tapped his fingers on the dashboard. The light turned green, and he pressed down on his pedal.
All at once, a girl burst out of nowhere, her dark hair ablaze. Alek slammed hard on his brakes, his horn blaring and his car swerving in all directions, screaming, "Oh my God!"
He heard other people screaming, their horns honking as his car swerved out of control, crashing into a streetlight.
His car stopped, but he was jerked forward as another car slammed into him. His airbag exploded, and for a second he couldn't breathe. He was aware of blood dripping down from a gash on top of his forehead, but ignored the pain, opening his smashed door and running out.
"Oh my God, did I hit her?"
The girl was lying on the ground, panting hard. She seemed perfectly ok, besides being a little shocked. Alek's head felt light as he let out sighs of relief. He staggered, fell, and everything went black.
xxx
The bus pulled into a clean, smoothly paved parking lot, and Jason smiled for the first time for that bus trip. He was here.
He looked over at Cazz who was nestled in Patrick's arms. Both of them were sleeping, seeing that Jason had ignored every single one of their conversation starters. Patrick looked like a Greek God come to life, Jason realized, while Cazz looked like a foreign princess from another country. Everybody looked younger in their sleep, he supposed, because, when West had been leaning on his shoulder in the plane, he looked younger too.
Jason smiled sadly. It was a good thing he had been born with friends, he thought, because he was terrible at making them. Afraid to let anyone get close, in case he or she just judged him like everybody else did.
Luckily he was here. He'd find himself soon, and perhaps show everyone else who he was as well.
xxx
West stood comfortably against a wall as the warty man showed him his room. Room #27, Building C. He'd remember that.
He stumbled in and threw his suitcase on one of the beds. Looking over, he realized that he had a roommate—a messy one. The sheets were scattered everywhere, and there were little random sketches of birds, trees, skies, and mountains.
An artist then. Weston leaned over to look at one of the sketches, and realized the detail and the struggles that must have gone into them. They were beautiful. This was definitely art at its best. He picked up one of the sketches to examine it, and there was a voice from the doorway. "Put it down."
West dropped the piece of paper, and it drifted onto the ground. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I just wanted to see—it looked really—I'm sorry."
The teen was sort of short, buff-looking, and his forehead was creased, his eyebrows furrowing over dark brown eyes. His hair was cut in a buzz; it was dark brownish-blackish. "It's ok," he muttered. "I'm Mad."
"Excuse me?" West asked politely. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you angry."
"No, it's my name. My real one's Maximus, but you probably can understand why I don't want to go by that." His voice was low, like a snarl in a dog's throat. "So you can call me Mad. I guess I'll be rooming with you for like," he chuckled hoarsely, "the summer."
West tried to smile. This rough looking boy didn't look capable of producing those pictures. He sighed. It was going to be a long summer.
To: Jason Escalante
From: Weston McArthur
Subject: hey.
Weston McArthur wrote:
I don't know what's wrong. jacket is trouble.
Maybe it has to get warmed up or something:
1. Girl, Brenna, dropped suitcase on my footswelling, bruised and hurts.
2. Crazy roommateMad (or Maximus?)
Otherwise, all good. First play/musicalPhantom of the Opera. Tryouts are tomorrow.
Alek's mom called… did you hear? Hit some girl with his car.
Jorge's Dad getting married?
And you?
Bye Pretty Boy, jk
--West