Chronologically, this story would fit after the very first one, before the family settles in Chino. Since I have no master plan, and am just writing at whim, there's no real order to this series.
This time I own none of the characters, but I still have to claim all of the mistakes.
Ryan's First Cigarette
The first time Ryan smoked a cigarette was on the day his family left Fresno to start what his mom swore would be a better life.
By that, she meant one without gossiping neighbors.
Without eyes tracking them in the grocery store.
Without shouted slurs and kids pointing fingers.
And without Ryan's dad.
Dawn had been prattling about the move for weeks, painting word-pictures that made Chino sound like Disneyland, a place full of color and laughter, sweet smells and bright sunlight, and streets always swept perfectly clean. At least that's what Ryan imagined Disneyland would be like. Despite his dad's promises that they'd all go someday, the trip never became more than a crumpled brochure; yet it still had seemed possible, something that might happen next month or next year, just as soon as Ryan's father could get hold of the money.
That's how he had always phrased it, explaining, "Fucking place costs a fortune, boys. We'll go when I can get hold of the money."
As if, Ryan thought, gold coins were rolling down the sidewalk, glinting just out of reach, so all that his dad had to do was to sprint after them and scoop up enough in his large, calloused hands.
And in a way, he had done exactly that; but now Ryan knew how skewed his innocent image of that act had been, some childish comic book story, and not reality. Now Ryan had seen the truth in front of his eyes, replayed on the news, on the closed door of Tony Riccio's house, in Trey's cynicism and Dawn's misery.
But Ryan still wasn't sure he wanted to move. He'd never admit it out loud, but the prospect scared him—not so much the uncertainty of facing a new neighborhood or a new school or making new friends. What Ryan hated was the idea of the old house left behind, and his father coming home one day to find a whole different family living inside.
Or maybe nobody at all, just empty rooms, and no trace of Dawn, or Ryan or Trey, no way at all for his dad to find them.
Even when Dawn made Trey rummage behind discount stores and lug home discarded boxes they could use for packing, Ryan still secretly wished that she might change her mind.
She didn't.
Each day one more thing happened to erode his hope. Dawn had the mail stopped. She sold their refrigerator and stove. Dragging her reluctant sons, she trudged to Ryan's school and then over to Trey's to retrieve transfer records. They came away with only one set, though; Trey's principal refused to release his transcript because Trey owed $26 for unreturned books, and Dawn, incredulous and irate, refused to pay the fine.
"For books?" she scoffed. "You're talkin' 'bout Trey? He don't even read, and he's gonna steal books? Jeez, this is some scam you got going . . . Target the kid just because of his dad . . ." Grabbing both boys by an arm, Dawn marched them out of the office. "Who the hell needs transcripts anyway?" she demanded, her strident voice echoing through the vacant halls. "A public school's got to take you, records or not."
Trailing behind her, Ryan risked a glance at Trey who was smiling smugly.
"Books?" he whispered.
"Sold 'em," Trey explained. He lifted an eyebrow, picking at his fingernails. "Hey, you can find some sorryass loser who will buy anything."
By mid-June, the only task that remained was the actual move. Six phone calls finally convinced Dawn that they couldn't afford to rent a U-haul.
"Hey, what does it matter, right?" she declared airily. "Those truck places are all rip-offs anywho. We can cram our things into the car, or, you know, strap stuff to the roof . . . Hey, here's an idea. We can fill up the whole backseat if Ry sits on your lap in the front, Trey--"
"Mom!" Ryan protested, aghast. "No!" He didn't even want to think what would happen if he were forced to sit on Trey's lap during the drive—the tattoo of pinches and pokes, the tweaks of his ear and murmured insults, the complete destruction of his dignity.
Trey curled his lip in disbelief. "The fuck? Here's another idea, Mom. Get real. Ryan is not sittin' on my lap," he warned.
"Give me one goddamn reason why not. He's small enough, Trey," Dawn countered. "It's not like you're glass and he's gonna break you." Suddenly she laughed, swaying on her feet. She grabbed Ryan's hand, swinging it and crooning a mangled fragment of song, "He ain't heavy . . . he's my brother . . ."
Ryan flushed and pulled away. "I'm not . . . that small," he insisted, trying to will himself larger and more imposing.
"He is not sitting on my lap, Mom," Trey repeated. "It's a stupid lameass idea. I don't care how little he is . . ."
Ryan gritted his teeth. "Stop saying I'm little," he muttered, pounding his fists against his own thighs.
"Fine," Dawn conceded, her smile vanishing. She jabbed a warning finger from Ryan to Trey. "But I don't wanna hear any bitching when I throw things out cause we can't fit them in the car. You got it? There are, whaddya call them, consequences you gotta live with, you know? Now get to bed. We got a big day tomorrow."
Ryan froze, his rage replaced by a wave of icy panic that left him breathless. His eyes moved frantically around the room. Nothing was gone yet, but it looked empty already. "Tomorrow?" he asked, that one word all he could manage.
"Why the hell not?" Dawn shrugged. "I already got the keys to the new place, and there's nothing keeping us here now. Yeah, we might as well go tomorrow. You snooze, you lose, right? Now what did I tell you? Ryan—Trey, bed. Don't make me say it again."
They knew enough not to argue with that tone of voice.
It was the insistent scream of the radio reaching through the thin walls that woke Ryan and Trey the next morning, followed by Dawn pounding on their door.
"Hey! You gonna sleep all day in there? Get outta bed, get dressed and get out here," she yelled. Then the boys heard her snicker manically. "Outta bed . . ." Dawn choked. "Wait, that's right—we sold the goddamn beds! So get off the floor! Trey? Ryan? I'm waiting!"
"Jeez, it's not even eight o'clock and she is shitass wasted, Ry," Trey observed wearily when he and Ryan shuffled in from their bedroom, limbs heavy, eyes unfocused and still crusty with sleep.
Dawn was whirling around the living room in a frenzy of activity, laughing and flinging things haphazardly into cartons or garbage cans. She grinned, cigarette waving, when she saw Ryan and Trey.
"Moving day, guys!" she caroled happily. "We're gonna get out of this sorry dump! Finally!" Snatching a lace bra from a jumble of clothes Dawn spun it over her head in celebration, collapsing in giggles when it slipped out of her grasp and flew across the room. "Oopsie," she mumbled. "My bad. You boys . . . you didn't see that, okay? You boys shouldn't, you know, see your mom's . . . that."
Ryan hunched his shoulders, mortified, his eyes seeking somewhere neutral to rest, anywhere that had no hint of his mother.
"Shit," Trey breathed. His face contorted in disgust. "Well, Dad's gone, so I guess Mom's drinkin' his share now too. Can't let cheap booze go to waste." He leaned down to Ryan and whispered so Dawn wouldn't hear, but she wasn't listening anyway. Between swings of beer she was singing bits of her favorite songs, her voice a little slurred yet surprisingly pure.
"Who the hell needs all this old stuff?" Dawn demanded, upending a drawer. "I mean, just look at this crap."
Silently, bleakly, Ryan stood by as his mother threw away things he thought she valued—a clay vase he had made at a summer day camp, the trophy Trey won as T-ball MVP, the "Number 1 Mom" pendant both boys had given her last Mother's Day.
If those things didn't matter, what did?
Dawn was tossing bits of their lives into the trash and, watching, Ryan felt raw, as if flakes of his skin were peeling away. He bit his lip, digging his fingers into his own arm; his gaze followed each item as it vanished, saying a silent goodbye.
Across the room, Trey slouched in a sagging, overstuffed chair, yanking threads out of the upholstery. "Keep goin', Mom," he muttered under his breath. "Pretty soon we won't have one shitass thing left."
Dawn stopped to drain her beer, blowing out breaths that ruffled her white-blonde bangs. "You know," she said, wiping sweat off her forehead, "I could use a little help here. What's the point of having kids if they don't do nothing for you? Besides, you guys are lookin' at this all wrong. This move—it can be great for us! It can! Right, Trey? Tell your little brother."
Trey answered her eager smile with a sneer and Dawn flipped a finger at him dismissively. "Fine, forget you then. But come on, Ry, sweetie, you're on my side, right? Here--" She shoved a balled-up sweater—his father's--into Ryan's hands. "Let's see if you can make a basket. Go for it, baby. All right . . . He fakes right, he fakes left—he drives to the lane—he looks for his shot . . ."
Obediently, Ryan palmed the wad of stained cloth. Then he froze. It still smelled like his father—sour and strong and a little like motor oil—and the idea of throwing it out made Ryan's stomach clench. But Dawn's voice pushed his hands forward and, despite himself, Ryan tossed the bundle away.
It unraveled, arms hanging limp and empty, as it fell into the garbage can.
"He shoots! And he scores!" Dawn cheered. She exhaled a hum of imitation crowd noise and reached over to tickle Ryan's throat, trying to coax an answering giggle or grin. When he didn't respond her fingers pressed upward, molding his mouth into the shape of a smile. It stayed, fixed and vacant, when she dropped her hand.
"Oh come on, kiddo." Dawn's voice was unnaturally high, wheedling, her eyes glassy and wild. "Don't look like that. You'll see. We're gonna get everything new, make a fresh start. It'll be fun, a new house, new friends—Trey, what the hell? Stop that! Whaddya think you're doing? If I throw something out, it fucking means we're not takin' it!"
Trey clutched the shabby catcher's mitt he had retrieved from the trash, keeping it away from his mother's grasping hand. "It's mine, Mom," he protested. "Fuck, don't I get any say in what I can keep?" His jaw was set in stony defiance, but Ryan heard something in his voice: a crack that let a rare note of longing seep through.
He glanced from his brother's rigid face back over to Dawn, eyes pleading, waiting to see what his mother would do.
For a moment, Dawn bared her teeth, her cheeks flaming dangerously, but then she took a deep breath. "Trey. Honey." Her voice quavered, and she paused, thrusting a shaky hand through her hair, yanking at the strands that snagged on her rings. "Don't fight me on this, all right? Just . . . this one time, don't—just don't be like your dad, okay? I can't deal with it now. We . . . cannot . . . take everything. Now somebody's gotta make the decisions here. And damn it, I am the adult!"
The last word was a warning, shrill and familiar. Trey and Ryan both flinched even before Dawn flung her empty bottle across the room. It shattered against a wall, spraying shards of glass everywhere.
Immediately, Dawn's eyes filled. "Look," she moaned. "Look what you made me do. Damn it. Goddamn it to hell. Why does everything have to be such a fucking mess all the time?"
Trey and Ryan exchanged empty glances, and Trey moved to get the broom.
"No!" Dawn hissed, swiping a palm over her face. "I'll clean it up. You—both of you, just . . . get out of here before you cut yourselves."
"Come on, Ry," Trey said roughly, when Ryan didn't move. "If she wants to clean up the shitass mess herself this time, let her . . ." He put a cupped hand around his brother's neck, and began to steer him from the room.
"Wait!" Dawn called. She was on her hands and knees, brushing the largest pieces of glass into a glittering pile, and she never looked up. "You want that goddamned catcher's mitt, Trey? Fine. Take it. Do whatever the hell you want. You always do anyway. Just get out of here . . ."
Ryan felt Trey's fingers tighten involuntarily, biting into his neck, and he peered up, alarmed, at his brother.
"Don't . . ." Ryan whispered, not even sure what he was asking Trey not to do.
Trey spat out a strange, choking sound. Then, abruptly, he dropped his hand, kicked over a kitchen chair and stormed from the house. Ryan automatically started to follow, but the screen door slammed hard in his face, leaving him caught inside, clutching the doorknob, immobilized by Dawn's gasping, wet sobs from the living room.
Trey raced up the street without a backward glance.
Ryan caught his breath, instantly terrified that his brother wouldn't return, that when it came time to leave Fresno forever, Trey wouldn't be with them.
But there was no way Ryan could catch up with Trey.
There was no way he could leave his mother alone.
He didn't have a choice.
Ryan went back to the abandoned cartons and removed the jumble of clothes Dawn had crammed inside, folding them and replacing them neatly. When everything was in order and his mother wasn't looking, he picked up Trey's abandoned mitt, smoothing it and running his thumb over the lacings before he hid it carefully underneath a blanket on top of the box.
Somehow, Ryan thought that packing the glove would insure that Trey would come back. And Ryan wanted it to be one of the first things his brother would unload when they got to Chino.
After he finished, Ryan climbed quietly into the sagging armchair. One finger found a hole in the upholstery and poked inside, digging out small tufts of cotton and then stuffing them back while he waited, wondering what he should do next. Dawn had fallen asleep flat on the floor. An outstretched arm pillowed her head, and her shuttered eyes looked sunken and bruised, with veins visible under her smeared make-up. Ryan wanted to cover her—Dawn's robe was twisted almost all the way up to her waist—but he was afraid she'd resent any touch, no matter how gentle, so instead he closed his own eyes against the sight.
Eventually, the oppressive silence lurking just below all the radio noise lulled Ryan into a fitful sleep.
A hand jiggling his elbow roused him. He pushed it away instinctively, huddling back into the corner.
"Hey, Ry. Baby? It's me. It's just Mom." Dawn's voice sounded different, less hectic and dangerous. "Come on, kiddo. Wake up."
Ryan blinked into the shadows that had crossed the room, then allowed his gaze to lift to his mother. Dawn looked smudged, like a bright crayon drawing someone had tried to erase.
"Where's your brother, Ry?"
"Trey?" Ryan asked stupidly, as if he had another brother somewhere. He swallowed. "Um . . . I think . . . he's out saying goodbye. You know, to some people before we leave." Ryan let himself think, just for one moment, of the goodbyes he'd never say.
Dawn nodded and slid into the chair, wedging herself tight next to Ryan. She ran an unsteady hand through his hair as she spoke. "He's pissed with me, huh?"
"No," Ryan lied.
"Yeah, he is." Dawn was pressed so close to Ryan that her sigh shuddered through both of their bodies. "You are too, aren't you, baby?"
"No," Ryan said again, very softly, trying to make the word true.
"Look, Ry, I'm just . . . I'm doing what I can, you know, with your daddy gone. And shit, I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do . . ." Her lips pursed around a rueful laugh. "How do you like that? Everything's a song today." Dawn's breath tickled Ryan's ear as she half-murmured, half-sang into it, "'I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do. My gift is my song and . . . this one's for you . . .' Elton John, kiddo. At least I think . . . yeah, Elton John. Not that it matters, right?"
Ryan nudged his cheek shyly against his mother's shoulder. "You have a nice voice, Mom. When you sing . . . I really like it."
"Yeah?" Dawn asked. She brushed a kiss against Ryan's temple and stood up, straightening her robe and shaking back her hair. "Well, tell you what, baby. We'll have a lot to sing about at our new house, I promise . . . Okay. Why don't you see if you can find that brother of yours? I'm gonna take a shower and get dressed, and then we'll get the car loaded and we'll just . . . We'll be on our way, Ry."
Ryan shivered a little when he pulled himself out of the chair. He felt cold suddenly, even though the air was still heavy with summer heat. For a moment, he stood, looking at the unfamiliar shape of the room, stripped of almost everything that had made it home. Then, listlessly, he forced himself out to the porch, wondering if he should even try to look for Trey, if he even knew where to start.
But Trey was easy to find. He was sitting at the base of a spindly bush in the front yard, one knee pulled up to his chest, bracing the hand that held his cigarette.
"Hey," he said, when he saw Ryan standing on the steps. "She awake?"
Ryan nodded.
"She sober?"
Ryan gave a one-shoulder shrug. "I think. Pretty much."
"Good," Trey snorted. "'Cause no way I was letting her drive us to Chino, not in that punkass condition. Fuck, I'd do it myself first."
"Then you're coming?" Ryan tried to quell the eager rise of his voice. "I mean, to Chino, with us? Because I thought--"
"What?" Trey demanded. "You thought I was gonna take off and never come back?"
Ryan scuffed his feet into the patchy grass, never lifting his eyes. "I don't know. I thought . . . maybe."
"Nah. At least not this time. I'll wait and see what happens in Chino first." Trey reached over and punched Ryan in the ribs, not quite hard enough for it to really hurt. "You'd miss me if I went away, huh, Ry?"
"Yeah. I would." Ryan sat down next to his brother, then cocked his head, considering. "Hey . . . can you really drive, Trey?"
Trey blew out a lopsided smoke ring, flicking cigarette ashes into the dirt. "Of course I-can-really-drive-Trey. Whaddya think I been doing over at Nick's uncle's garage?"
"I don't know." Ryan blushed and looked away from his brother. "I thought you were screwing around with girls in the cars parked out back. I mean, you said . . ."
"Oh well, shit, yeah, that too," Trey laughed. "But Nick taught me to drive. Man, Ry, it's a sweet feeling. All that power and speed right there in your hands . . ."
"Yeah, but . . . how can you drive, Trey? You're only thirteen."
Trey shook his head sadly. "For a kid who's supposed to be so smart, Ry, sometimes you're really dumb. Age has got nothing to do with when you can do things. Size does, maybe . . . Sorry, shrimp, but it's true. But age has only got something to do with when lameass adults say you can do things."
Ryan frowned, turning the argument over his mind. Something was wrong with it, at least he thought so, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was.
Smoke from his brother's cigarette crawled up his nose, and Ryan asked, surprising himself, "Can I try one, Trey?"
Trey's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Try what?
"A smoke."
"Shit, Ry. You're nine. I didn't start smokin' till I was eleven."
Ryan's lips twitched. "What are you, some lameass adult saying I can't do something just because I'm too young?"
"And what are you? Some smartass little bitch making fun of your big brother?" Trey demanded fiercely, but Ryan could see a smile lurking under his scowl.
"Maybe," he admitted. "But I do want to try one."
"I don't know." Trey inspected his brother's upturned face. It was open and innocent, and it gave Trey a weird simultaneous craving to smack Ryan's cheek and to stroke it tenderly. He shoved his free hand in his pocket. "Listen, Ry, it's just . . . if both of us start stealing her stash, Mom's bound to notice her smokes disappearing."
Ryan shook his head, his hair obscuring his eyes. "No," he said seriously. "I'm not gonna keep doing it, Trey. I mean . . . I just want to try once, that's all . . . You do it. And I'm not a baby or anything."
Trey looked at his smoke, rolled it around in his fingers and then smirked. "This should be pretty funny," he murmured. "Okay, little brother. Here you go . . ."
He took one final drag and handed Ryan the cigarette from his own mouth.
Ryan stared at Trey in disbelief.
He was supposed to smoke that? Something coated with Trey's saliva? Ryan had assumed Trey would light a fresh smoke for him.
"Well?" Trey prompted, a malicious grin twisting his mouth. "You keep holding it, it's just gonna burn you, Ry."
Ryan took a deep breath. "Okay." He put the cigarette between his lips for a moment and then took it out, smiling victoriously as a thin stream of smoke wafted out from his mouth.
"See?" he drawled, with pretend nonchalance. "I didn't choke or anything."
"Fuck, yeah, you didn't anything. You didn't inhale. Go ahead, Ry. Try it again. And this time do it right. Suck that shit down."
The thought of sucking shit down made Ryan gag, and he really didn't want to try it again, but, reluctantly, he returned the cigarette to his mouth. He closed his eyes, braced himself, and then took a deep drag. His lungs promptly exploded. Above the sound of his own gasping and coughing, Ryan could hear Trey's laughter, his mocking taunt, "Yeah, smartass, see, now that's how it's done."
Furious, Ryan caught his breath. Trey was reaching for the cigarette, but Ryan wrenched it away and took another pull, squinting defiantly at his brother.
He hated it, the stinging smoke on his tongue, the way his throat constricted, the slimy spit-wet end he had to put in his mouth, the smell that instantly clung to his skin and his clothes.
But Ryan liked the red point of fire controlled in his hand, the way the cylinder fit in the curl of his lips, the warmth that washed through his body, the vapors that puffed from his mouth and hung in the air.
Like a dragon's fierce breath.
Like the exhaust from a speeding sports car.
Like the fumes that came into the room with Trey, Dawn, or his dad.
He began to feel dizzy, but Ryan's hand stubbornly held the cigarette in his mouth.
"Hey, Ry! That's enough, okay?" Trey snatched the smoke back, stabbing it out in the grass. "What the hell are you trying to prove?"
It scared Ryan, the fact that he didn't know. He panted a little, feeling Trey's eyes on him, probing. Before he could figure out a response that made sense, even to him, the screen door slammed and Dawn stepped out on the porch. She was freshly made-up, her hair washed and curled, her earrings catching the light as she threw her head back.
"Hey? Ryan? Where are you baby . . .?" she called. "Oh good, you found Trey. Let's go, boys! I got everything set. We just need to load the car and we're ready to roll." Dawn began to drag boxes out of the door, pausing to wave a pointed command. "Let's go!" she repeated emphatically. "Ry? Trey? I need you now!"
Eyes suddenly bleak, Ryan turned to his brother. Trey shrugged, hoisting himself to his feet, then reached down for Ryan and pulled him up too.
"I guess that's it," Trey observed flatly. "So . . ." He made a sound, half a sigh, half a groan, dropped Ryan's hand and trudged back toward the house.
It seemed to Ryan that his whole body suddenly stung—his bare legs that had pressed against twigs and pebbles, his arm where he scratched open a mosquito bite, an old cut on his heel where his tennis shoe rubbed, his throat, still raw from the cigarette smoke.
"So . . ." Ryan echoed, and stopped.
His voice sounded husky, thick with unspoken words.
It didn't matter. He was alone.
There was no one to listen to him anyway.
