TITLE: The Quality of Darkness
SPOILERS: Anything from the series is fair game.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.
A/N 1: I think a little clarification is needed. I have had several comments regarding Megan's "cutting episode" in the last chapter. Yes, she cut herself; no, she's not "cutting." She did it to try to understand her brother's actions. That's all. It's not a chronic condition.
A/N 2: In case any of you are from Baudette, MN or know someone from there or have been there - please forgive me for making the town sound less than ideal. I have never been there and all I know about it is what I read about it via my minimal research on the Internet. I'm sure it's a lovely town. I just took a little "artistic license."
WARNING: This is it, folks. The big BAD GUY MOMENT. I've written it, re-written it, and re-re-written it to make it
come across the way I want without being too offensive or explicit. It's the first section, so read at your own discretion.
Chapter 18: Fall from Grace
"What do you want from me?" Drake asked softly, staring across the sea of empty desks to the front of the room where Mr. Bradford sat behind his own desk, watching him. He had shuffled into the empty classroom after the last bell, heavy-hearted and apprehensive, and had bypassed his usual seat in the front for a seat in the back, away from the teacher. Looking at the situation now, he wished he had stayed in the front, closer to the door. But so far, Mr. Bradford hadn't moved. They'd been sitting in silence for the last ten minutes until Drake broke it with his question – a question that now hung heavily in the air between them.
Mr. Bradford stood up then, walking to the door and closing it softly. It made a soft whooshing sound as it closed and Drake got the feeling that he was being sealed in. The teacher stood looking through the narrow window into the empty hallway for a moment and Drake heard him take in a deep breath, saw his shoulders rise with it, then heard the slow exhalation.
Turning from the door, Mr. Bradford walked to his desk and perched his backside along the edge of it, crossing his arms over his chest and looking evenly back at Drake. His words, when he finally spoke, had nothing to do with Drake's question. "I grew up in Minnesota," he said softly, "in a town called Baudette near the Canadian border. It's a very small place. When I lived there, the population was less than a thousand. There wasn't anything to do and the winters seemed to last forever. Everything was frozen and desolate, with nothing around for miles." He sighed. "I hated it there. I hated the smallness of it, the way everyone seemed to know everyone else. You couldn't be anonymous."
Drake just looked at him, listening in silence, wondering what the point was.
"I went to Lake of the Woods Elementary then Lake of the Woods Secondary School. I graduated from high school with the exact same kids I went to kindergarten with. My dad was a truck driver, hauling freight for a company based in North Dakota. He would be gone for weeks at a time only to come home for a couple days and then leave again on another run. I barely saw him my entire childhood. My mom was a nurse at the Lakewood Health Center on South Main Street. Sometimes she worked the night shift, leaving me home alone a lot. I learned to rely on myself for a lot of things." He stopped, looking at Drake to make sure he was still listening.
After a moment, he continued. "I never really fit in there. I always wanted something more. The other boys, they all seemed content to marry local girls, have kids, and work in the same jobs their fathers had. But I wanted something else. I used to sit at home, alone in my room, and dream about the things I'd do when I grew up. First on my list was getting out of that place."
His eyes flitted to the window high on the south wall and Drake saw the faraway expression in them. Mr. Bradford stared so long that Drake opened his mouth to speak. But then the teacher turned his eyes back to Drake.
"I left home when I was eighteen to go to the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis. It was like a completely different world. I couldn't believe that Baudette was even in the same state. It was like I had stepped out of an episode of Andy Griffith and into an episode of Miami Vice. It was exciting and alive and I realized I didn't have to be Nathan, son of George and Bernice, from Baudette. I could be anyone I wanted to be." He looked pointedly at Drake. "Do you know what that's like, Drake? To want to be someone else?" Then, before Drake could respond, he answered his own question. "No, I don't suppose you do. You've always gotten everything you ever wanted." The words carried a hint of bitterness that he couldn't disguise.
"Not everything," Drake muttered.
But either Mr. Bradford didn't hear him or he chose to ignore it. "I learned a lot about myself in college. I learned that I was smart. You see, you never get the opportunity to discover how smart you are in a place like Baudette. Everything there is just a different shade of gray. Everyone is just walking through life at different levels of mediocrity. But in college I learned that there are other ways of thinking. That there are other ways of living. It opened my eyes."
He straightened and took a step forward. Drake thought for a minute that he was going to come and sit next to him. But he didn't; instead, he walked back around his desk and sat down. He gathered a few papers and stacked them neatly and Drake could see his hands shaking a little. Pressing his palms flat against the desk, he went on. "Do you know why I became a teacher, Drake?"
Drake just shook his head.
"Because of a scholarship. A full scholarship to the state university of my choice in exchange for becoming a teacher for two years at a tribal school on the Leech Lake Reservation. Ojibwe Indians. I never thought about being a teacher, you know. When I was little, I wanted to be the usual things – doctor, fireman, astronaut, policeman. But I was so desperate to get out of Baudette that I was willing to do anything. So I applied. And I got it." He smiled. "I guess no one else was willing to give up two years of their life teaching a bunch of Indian kids how to read and write."
"Why are you telling me this?" Drake finally asked, his eyes involuntarily darting to the clock.
"Because," Mr. Bradford said with sudden vehemence, then closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were full of a strange mix of sadness and regret. "Because," he continued, his voice softer, "I just want you to understand."
Drake swallowed down a growing sense of dread. "Understand what?"
Mr. Bradford looked at him, his blue eyes unblinking. "Me," he said. "I want you to understand who I am."
I think I have a pretty good idea, Drake thought and bit his tongue to keep from saying it out loud. Instead, after a moment of Mr. Bradford staring intently back at him, he said, "Is that all you want? Someone to understand you?"
Mr. Bradford let the question sink in. "I want a lot of things, Drake."
"Why me?" And there it was – the one question that had been eating away at Drake's mind since Friday night. Since before that, really, if he were honest with himself.
A small smile played at the corners of Mr. Bradford's mouth. "Because you and I," he said softly, "are a lot alike."
Drake didn't find any similarities between them at all. Well, except for the fact that they both liked Eric Clapton. But so did Walter. And Craig (or was it Eric?). The point was that similar taste in music did not make them soul mates. But he didn't say any of this.
"We're both smarter than anyone ever gave us credit for," Mr. Bradford continued. "We both want bigger things out of life." He smiled. "I've seen you play, you know. In the park. My fiancé and I went to see you." His smile widened when he saw Drake's eyebrows raise. "You're good."
"Th-Thanks." Drake felt off-balance.
"Her name's Claire," Mr. Bradford said after a moment. "Claire Hanover."
Drake didn't respond.
"She's very beautiful," he continued. "Long brown hair. Blue eyes. Great body." He smiled again. "If she were about fifteen years younger, she'd be the kind of girl you'd like." He chuckled.
Shifting in his seat, Drake's sneakers squeaked against the floor.
"She loves me," Mr. Bradford explained. "But she shouldn't."
"Why not?" The question fell from Drake's lips before he even thought about it.
"Because I don't love her."
"Why?" Drake countered, finding a hidden cache of courage deep inside. "Because she doesn't understand you?"
Something dark flashed in the man's eyes then and Drake pressed his lips together nervously, eyes flitting to the door and back. But all the teacher did was smile again. "No," he said, "she doesn't."
"Then don't marry her," Drake said. The talking was helping to keep the growing sense of dread from closing in around him. "There are plenty of women out there."
But Mr. Bradford didn't respond to this, said instead, "You understand me, though, don't you." It wasn't a question and the look he gave Drake made the boy go cold.
Drake grabbed his backpack and slid out of his desk quickly, the metal feet scraping along the hard floor with a harsh sound. "Look, Mr. Bradford," he said quickly, forcing the sound through his vocal cords. "I really need to get going, okay? Really." And he walked quickly up the aisle towards the door.
But the teacher beat him to it, stood in front of it like a sentry. "What is it this time? You have to pick your sister up from oboe practice? No, wait, you used that one already." His demeanor had quickly changed into something less affable, something more menacing. "Maybe you have to go feed the homeless," he said bitterly. "Or read to the blind."
"Look, I –"
"What's your hurry? We were just talking." The teacher leaned against the door, crossed his arms over his chest.
"I don't want to talk anymore," Drake replied softly, his pulse throbbing in his temples. He curled his hands into fists to stop them from shaking.
"What do you want?" Mr. Bradford asked calmly.
Drake looked right at him. "I want you to leave me alone."
Mr. Bradford shook his head once, a gesture that made Drake's breath catch in his throat. "I can't do that," the man said.
"Sure you can," Drake tried, fighting to keep the note of desperation out of his voice. I can still get out of this, he thought to himself. Just keep talking. "All you have to do is let me walk out that door."
"It's too late for that," Mr. Bradford said, shaking his head again. His eyes held a desperate look as he looked at Drake. Like a cornered animal. "Too late."
"No," Drake said, holding out one hand placatingly. "No, it's not. It's easy. Just open the door."
"Too much," the teacher whispered, "too much has happened already."
"Nothing's happened, Mr. – Nathan," Drake said, correcting himself, hoping the name change would calm the man in front of him. He ignored the memories of Friday night flashing across his mind. "Nothing that can't be forgotten."
"Drake…" The name was like a painful confession on Nathan's lips.
"Please," Drake replied, walking towards him, his hand still out in front of him. "Please just open the door."
Nathan watched him approach, opened his mouth to say something but shut it without making a sound. Slowly, he shifted, reaching a trembling hand to the doorknob.
A wave of relief so strong washed over Drake that he felt light-headed and a small smile arced across his mouth. "Thank you," he whispered as he reached the door.
A split second later, he found himself yanked so hard by the left arm that his backpack slipped from his right and landed with a dull thud on the floor. Just like Friday night, he found himself pinned between Nathan and a wall, the breath knocked loose from his lungs. The fleeting thought, I'm so stupid. So, so stupid flashed across his mind before the sound of Nathan's voice drowned out everything else.
"Do you think I'm stupid? Huh?" Nathan hissed, his breath hot against Drake's ear. He punctuated the last word with a thrust of his hips.
"No." The word was strangled, barely audible.
"Do you think I don't learn from my mistakes?" Nathan continued. He was pressed so closely against Drake that Drake could feel the man's heartbeat against his chest, mixed wildly with his own.
"I-I'm sorry."
But Nathan just continued like he hadn't heard it. "I let you go, you go running your mouth." He pulled back, locked gazes with Drake. His eyes were cold, like the eyes of a snake.
"I won't. I swear," Drake assured him, shaking his head. He couldn't get enough air in his lungs.
"That's what Bobby said, too," Nathan stated viciously, grimacing like the words tasted bitter on his tongue. "But he was a liar," he added, spittle flying from his lips. "Just like you." He thrust his hips hard against Drake again and Drake felt the man's arousal. "Another prettyboy liar."
"I p-promise," Drake managed, starting to feel faint.
"Promises," Nathan said, touching his forehead to Drake's. His breath smelled faintly of peppermints and the sharp mixture of sweat and cologne that Drake remembered from the alley was even stronger. "Promises don't mean anything," he whispered. "They're just lies by another name."
"Please," Drake pleaded and squeezed his eyes shut, hot tears stinging his eyes.
But Nathan was unmoved. "At least this time, I'm going to get what I want before I let you go," he whispered, grabbing Drake's shirt in his fists and throwing him down to the floor.
Reaching instinctively in front of him to break his fall, Drake's right wrist twisted painfully underneath him as he hit the hard floor, the side of his head banging against the linoleum. Crying out in pain, his head spinning, he laid on his side, holding his wrist in his left hand, knees drawn up slightly in a pseudo-fetal position. He had bitten his tongue and he tasted blood, warm and metallic, in his mouth. He struggled to pull air into his lungs.
The lights went off and for several seconds the room seemed very dark. But then the light filtering in from the hallway and from the afternoon sunshine outside cast the room in a gray gauze that made everything seem surreal. Like a dream. Like a nightmare.
Nathan was on top of him suddenly, straddling his body, one knee on either side squeezing, the man's weight pressing heavily down on his hip. He could feel the man's hands – one grasping his own hands, fingers digging into his quickly-swelling wrist, the other in his hair, grabbing it in a handful and jerking back his head.
"I didn't want it to be like this," Nathan whispered as he pressed his lips to Drake's ear. "But you…" Drake felt him shake his head, the tip of the man's nose brushing lightly back and forth through the hair above his ear. "You gave me no choice." He rested his forehead against Drake's left temple and Drake could feel the puffs of warm breath against his cheek.
"Please," Drake whispered, the word carried out on a sob that stole the last of his breath. His lungs burned in his chest and he closed his eyes.
Nathan lifted his head and pressed his lips to Drake's temple, letting them linger there for several seconds. Drake's throat burned with a rise of bile, bitter on the back of his tongue. "I'm sorry," Nathan whispered brokenly, then slammed Drake's head against the floor again.
Blackness crept in around the edges of Drake's vision and he felt himself being moved, flipped onto his stomach. He blinked, but the movement was slow, like his brain wasn't working right. He heard a faint metallic clang from somewhere behind him, realized too late that it was the sound of a belt being undone. Realized even later that it was his belt. Not that it mattered anyway; nothing mattered anymore.
He separated from himself then, focused on little things that didn't hurt. The smoothness of the linoleum beneath his cheek. The pen laying on the floor a few feet away. The sensation of a tear creeping across the bridge of his nose and down, falling unimpeded to the floor. The number of desks in the row closest to him (five). He tried to remember how many rows there were total, thought there were five. That would be five desks per row times five rows, twenty-five desks in all. And Josh thinks I don't know how to multiply.
A persistent buzzing noise permeated his consciousness and he focused his attention on it. It was coming from his hip pocket, which was now down somewhere near his knees. Someone was calling him.
And then a strange thought filtered into his muddled brain: At least it isn't Ginger.
"Hi, Drake," the message began, her voice shy. "This is Maddie. Remember me? The girl from detention." There was a pause. "Well, um, I just wanted to call and say hi. So, 'Hi.' Call me back. If you want." Another pause. "Bye."
He was listening to it as he huddled against the back corner of the last bathroom stall in the restroom, the phone pressed hard against his ear, like if it was close enough, the sound could drown out everything else. He was scrunched between the toilet and the side of the stall, knees drawn up. He felt pain in places he didn't want to think about. He had no idea how long he'd been in there.
He had already emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet, had knelt retching into the bowl long after there was nothing left. But the shaking hadn't stopped yet and that's what he was waiting for. It was chronic and debilitating, settling in his bones and radiating outward.
His phone had buzzed again, loud in the small space of the stall, reminding him that he had a message. So to distract himself from the shaking, he had dug it out of his pocket and flipped it open. It had taken him three tries to get his trembling thumb to press the right buttons.
He played the message again; the sound of her voice was like a point of light in an otherwise dark sky and he focused on it – its pitch, its tone, the hesitance behind it. He held the phone in his left hand, had his right arm folded tightly across his chest, his fingers tucked in his armpit. The pain in his right wrist radiated up his arm, but it had long been relegated to a dull ache.
Not remembering her number and not having stored it in his phone yet, he flipped through his recent calls list and found her number at the top. Selecting it, he pressed the CALL button, then pressed the phone once again to his ear, praying that she'd answer. He needed, suddenly, to hear her voice.
After three rings he heard, "Hello?" She sounded out of breath.
Drake closed his eyes, almost crying at the relief that flooded through him at the sound of her voice. She was neutral; she didn't yet know all the bad things about him – like the fact that he could lie as easily as he could change his socks. Or that he was selfish. Or that he was a coward.
"Hey," he said, his voice sounding hollow in his ears.
There was a pause on the other end as she tried to determine who it was.
"It's Drake," he offered.
"Oh, hi!" She sounded like she was smiling.
"I got your message," he said. "I'm sorry I missed your call."
"Detention again?" she asked jokingly and Drake swallowed hard.
"Something like that," he muttered.
"Are you alright?" she asked quietly. "You sound…funny."
Drake clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. "I'm fine," he replied tightly. "I'm inside the restroom."
There was a brief pause before he heard her say, a little unsure, "You're calling me from the restroom?"
"I know that's weird," he explained, trying to sound light but failing, "but I needed to hear your voice."
She laughed a little uneasily. "Uh…thanks. I guess."
There was a long, silent moment, light static crackling in the background.
"Drake?" she finally asked tentatively into the silence. "You still there?"
"I don't want to scare you away," he said finally. The shaking was starting to subside.
"You won't," she replied softly. She sighed. "Drake…"
The restroom door opened and Drake snapped his head up, his eyes boring holes through the stall door. His fingers tightened around the phone and he whispered harshly, "I've gotta go." Then he flipped the phone shut and shoved it in his pocket.
He heard footsteps on the tile coming closer and he held his breath, his heart beating wildly in his chest. But when he saw that the feet peeking out from beneath the stall door belonged to a woman, he let out his breath. The woman knocked on the door.
"Everything alright in there?"
Drake picked up his backpack and struggled to his feet, sliding back the door lock. "Yeah," he said, pulling open the door and looking at her.
The woman was Mrs. Van Doren, the tenth grade assistant principal. Her eyebrows climbed towards her hairline at the sight of him. "Drake Parker," she said a bit suspiciously, remembering him well from tenth grade. "What on Earth are you doing in here?"
Usually he would say something snarky or sarcastic, but he didn't have the energy. "I wasn't feeling well," he said.
She studied him for a moment, then said, "You are aware that this is the girls' restroom, aren't you?"
"N-No, ma'am," he said, shaking his head. "I didn't look. It was kinda urgent."
"Well," she said, tilting her head slightly, "I hope you're feeling better."
Actually, I feel like I could throw up on your shoes. "Yes, ma'am."
"Good." She stepped back from the stall. "I was just checking the restrooms for stragglers. We don't want anyone trapped in the school, setting off the alarm, you know."
Drake didn't respond, just pushed past her towards the sinks. He felt her eyes on him as he turned on the faucet and cupped his hands under the water, bending to draw some into his mouth. He swished it around, then spit it out; it had a faint pink tinge. Turning off the water, he reached for a paper towel, wiping his hands on it then dragging it across his mouth.
He stared at himself in the mirror. No visible scars. Shiny veneer over rotting wood.
"Ready?" he heard her ask from behind him and he flinched at the sound.
"Yeah," he muttered, tearing his eyes away from his reflection and dropping the paper towel in the trash.
She followed him out of the restroom, then said to him, "If you wouldn't mind waiting, I'll just grab my things and you can walk me to my car." She smiled and he wished that he could return the gesture. But he couldn't get his mouth to work.
"Sure."
"Great," she replied as they started walking towards the main entrance. They walked in silence for a moment, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the empty hallway – her heels clicking loudly, his sneakers squeaking softly. Their route took them past Mr. Bradford's classroom and he involuntarily moved to Mrs. Van Doren's left side, away from the door. He cast a look at it out of the corner of his eye; he could see through the window that the light was still off.
Like it was just any other room.
"The cleaning service doesn't work on Tuesday nights," Mrs. Van Doren was saying, making conversation. "They only come on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The school board's way of saving money, I suppose." She shrugged. "So that's why whoever's here has to make sure the buildings are secure. Usually it's one of us" – meaning the administrators – "but sometimes it's a teacher."
"Uh-huh," Drake said, not really listening.
They reached the front office. "I'll just be a moment," she said, disappearing into the front office.
Drake waited anxiously, his dark eyes darting around the empty hallway. He shifted his feet nervously and was ardently chewing on his left thumbnail when Mrs. Van Doren emerged through the glass door, a leather briefcase slung over her shoulder and a coat across her arm. "Let's go."
He followed her out, waiting as she dug out her keys and locked the heavy front doors. It was late afternoon; the long shadows of the trees lining the front drive touched the edge of the sidewalk. "I'm just over here," she said to him, pointing to the parking lot near the front of the school.
They walked in silence to her car, a blue Toyota Prius. Usually he would've said something like, "Nice car. My sister gets more horsepower from her bike." And she was looking at him like she expected it. But he didn't say anything.
"Thank you for walking with me," she said, looking at him over the roof of the car. She was standing on the passenger's side and pulled open the door, placing her things on the seat.
"No problem," he responded. He turned to go.
"Wait," she said.
Drake turned around. She was still looking at him, had her right hand resting on the edge of the door, her left hand on the roof. "How are you doing?" she asked. "In school, I mean. Classes going alright?" She smiled self-deprecatingly. "I don't get to keep up with my former students as much as I'd like to."
He felt his throat tighten. A thousand things to say ran through his mind in a second, but he settled on one that he knew would make her happy. The one that he could actually manage to say. "I'm getting an A in History." He felt something crack deep inside him at the words. The feeling surprised him, actually; he had been certain there was nothing left to break.
Her smile widened. "Really?"
He just nodded.
"That's great, Drake. Really great." She nodded. "Congratulations." And she meant it.
"Thanks," he said through the lump in his throat.
She closed the car door with a soft thud. "Do you need a ride home?"
The question tore at Drake and he stood perfectly still, remembering another time when someone else had asked him the same thing. If only he hadn't gone with him, maybe…
But it was too late for that. Much too late.
"No, thank you," he politely demurred. "I'd rather walk."
She held his eyes for a moment longer, then said, "Well, be careful." She paused. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight." He watched he get into her car and close the door, watched her buckle up, heard the soft purr of the hybrid engine as she turned the car on. She pulled out carefully and waved to him through the window as she drove past.
He didn't wave back. He didn't have the strength.
Nathan ran around the park once – his usual routine. Then he ran around it again. He tried for a third time, but a quarter of the way around, the burning in his lungs and the sharp stitch in his side made him stop and he stood on shaky legs panting, leaning against a tree with one hand, bent over at the waist. A grimace of pain twisted his face.
It wasn't working. No matter how hard he ran, he couldn't get it out of his head. The feel of the boy against his hands. The sight of him lying on the floor beneath him. The sharp zing of his own zipper. The boy's involuntary cry of pain muffled against the floor.
Sickness bubbled up suddenly and he vomited in the grass at the base of the tree, his eyes watering. Slowly, he drew the back of his hand across his mouth and took a deep breath. He got sick again, retching violently, and he knelt down, resting on the balls of his feet, steadying himself against the tree. He focused on breathing, swallowing down the bitter taste in his mouth.
He didn't hear the person approach him and nearly jumped out of his skin at the feel of a hand on his shoulder. Snapping his head up, he looked into the face of an older man, who stared back at him with concern.
"You alright?"
Nathan had to actually think about his answer before he said weakly, "Yeah. Just overdid it." And he tried to smile lopsidedly, but it didn't feel right.
The man was dressed in red nylon running shorts and a sleeveless white t-shirt that was nearly translucent with sweat. "You've got to be careful, you know. If you push too hard, your body starts to push back." He smiled. "Believe me, I know."
Nathan nodded, inhaling deeply. "I just lost track of myself." He pointed to his head. "Thinking too much." He tried standing, but lost his balance.
The man held a hand out to him. "Running is supposed to clear your head, son. Not garble it." He chuckled.
Grabbing the man's hand, Nathan used it as leverage to pull himself up. "Yeah, I know," he agreed, feeling his pulse finally start to slow. "I've just got a lot of…things going on." He gestured abstractly around his head.
The man looked at him, a funny half-smile on his lips. He stuck his hand out again, this time in introduction. "Tom," he said.
Nathan took his hand, noticed that his palm was warm and dry against his own damp one. "Nathan," he replied in turn.
"Well, Nathan," Tom said, "let me give you a word of advice." His voice carried a conspiratorial note. "I've lived a lot of years and during those years, I've had my share of…'things going on'," he continued, using Nathan's euphemism. "But I've never come across anything that can't be outrun." He winked. "Eventually."
Nodding, Nathan simply said, "Yeah. Thanks."
Tom laughed. "I know. Shut up, Tom. Don't worry, I hear that a lot. I'm used to it." He pointed his index finger at Nathan. "Take it easy, okay?"
"I will." And as Nathan watched the man jog away, he thought to himself, If only it were that simple.
When Drake got home, the house was empty. There was a note in the kitchen from his mom – she and Walter had a dinner engagement with Walter's boss and wouldn't be home until ten. Megan was over at Janie's house working on their science project and Janie's mom would drop her back at home by 8:30. Josh, of course, was at work.
He dropped the note on the counter and stood at the sink, looking out the small window through the row of potted herbs Audrey kept on the sill. To his right he could see the Hamiltons' front yard. Eight-year-old Davey Hamilton was trying to play catch with his little sister, Lindsay, who was four. This consisted of him throwing the ball to her and watching as she let it fall to the ground at her feet, then walking over, picking it up, and trying again. It didn't look like much fun, but Davey seemed determined. Drake admired him for it. He watched them until they both looked up towards the house, then ran inside it; presumably, their mother had called them in for dinner.
Turning on the faucet, he washed his hands, bent to splash some water on his face, then let his head hover over the sink as the water ran. He still felt like he was going to be sick. The steam from the hot tap rose around his face and he felt his stomach tighten, but nothing came up. Finally, after another minute, the wave subsided and he stood, turning off the water. He tore off a handful of paper towels from the roll next to the sink and wiped his hands and face, tossing them in the trash.
The house was so quiet, he noticed, as he dragged himself up the stairs one labored step at a time, grasping the handrail tightly in his left hand. It was eerie. He was rarely home by himself; he got bored too easily, always had to be doing something. But now he welcomed the quiet, welcomed the stillness. He needed time to gather the fragments of his life and piece them back together into something recognizable. He couldn't do it with everyone around, staring at him. Because they'd know, know, just by looking at him, that something was wrong. And they couldn't know. Not ever.
He just needed time to build a whole person from the shards that were left.
Something convincing enough to fool them.
"Dude, you will not believe my day!" Josh exclaimed when he burst through their bedroom door nearly three hours later.
Drake was curled up on the couch in his pajamas, watching a show on The Science Channel about how crayons were made. It was the channel that was on when he turned on the television and he had just left it.
"Crazy Steve and Gavin got into an argument about Dora the Explorer," Josh continued. Drake could hear him moving around behind him, probably taking off his work clothes.
Drake didn't respond, just watched in silence as the melted wax was poured into the crayon molds, listened impassively as the narrator explained that over 30,000 crayons were processed an hour.
"Gavin made the comment that his favorite educational cartoon was The Magic School Bus. Said he liked the idea of a magic school bus that could take you any place you wanted. Said he'd like to drive a magic school bus." Josh snorted. "I don't even remember how we got on the topic."
The freshly-made crayons were rolled out onto a conveyor belt that transported them to a machine where the labels were then applied. Drake's eyes followed the methodical movement of the machine as each crayon was picked up and had glue applied, then was dropped onto a waiting label, where another mechanical doohickey rolled the label around the crayon. It was all so very precise.
"Anyway, Crazy Steve started screaming about how The Magic School Bus was stupid since there was no such thing as a magic school bus and that Dora the Explorer was better because at least there were actual explorers." Josh laughed. "And you know what Gavin said?" But he was so into the story, that he didn't wait for Drake to respond. "He said, 'Yeah, but I bet Dora can't drive a magic school bus.'" He laughed again. "Crazy Steve was so mad that it took three rounds of 'She's Coming 'Round the Mountain' and an entire quart of milk to calm him down."
The crayons were then sorted by color and placed by workers into hoppers which were then programmed to drop a specific number of crayons into a tray based on what size package was being processed. The biggest sellers, apparently, were the 16- and 24-piece boxes.
Drake had loved crayons as a kid; he always found their smell comforting. Yellow-Orange and Periwinkle had been his favorite colors.
"Dude, are you listening to me?" Josh asked him as he sunk into the cushions next to Drake on the couch. Drake involuntarily moved over a couple inches, pressing against the couch's arm.
"Something about Gavin driving a school bus," Drake muttered, not looking at his brother. His head was throbbing and he really didn't want to talk.
Josh sighed, exasperated. "As usual, you missed the whole point."
"I'm watching this," Drake replied, gesturing to the TV.
Looking at the television, Josh's eyes widened. "Ooh! I've seen this one," he said excitedly. They watched together in silence.
Sometimes the hoppers got jammed and the line would have to be stopped until the jam was cleared. Then the crayons were boxed and the boxes weighed to make sure they held the correct number of crayons. If they were missing one, the box was ejected automatically from the conveyor, filled by hand, then placed back on the conveyor for packing.
When the program went to commercial, Josh spoke again. "The next segment's about wooden kayaks. There's one on push lawnmowers, too."
"Great," Drake said, still staring at the screen.
Another moment passed. "I can't believe you're watching The Science Channel," Josh said.
"The Fruit and Vegetable Channel was nothing but reruns," Drake replied dryly.
Josh smirked, then snapped his fingers suddenly. "That reminds me," he said, standing up. He was gone a few seconds, then plopped down on the couch again, holding a bag out to Drake.
Drake finally looked over at him, eyeing the bag carefully. "What is it?"
"Open it and find out," Josh said is a sing-song voice, wiggling the bag and grinning.
Reaching for the bag, Drake set it on his lap and unrolled the top, the rough paper crackling beneath his fingers. Peering inside, his stomach somersaulted at what he saw. It was a Yo-Yo: two huge chocolate chip cookies with butter cream in between them, dipped in chocolate.
"I had them put chocolate butter cream in it for you," Josh was saying beside him.
"Thanks," Drake managed to say. He blinked back the sting of sudden tears.
"Go on," Josh urged, "take a bite." He waggled his eyebrows. "You know you want to."
He didn't, really. The last thing he wanted was food. But Josh had gone out of his way and he was looking so expectant, that he didn't want to disappoint him. He reached inside and pulled out the confection, held it to his lips.
Take a bite. Chew. Swallow, he told himself. Take a bite. Chew. Swallow.
Josh smiled, then turned his attention back to the television. They were talking about how wooden kayaks were made, Drake noticed. It was remarkable how Josh's memory worked.
Drake watched his brother watching television, methodically eating the Yo-Yo until it was gone, not even tasting it. Josh was entranced, and Drake could tell that he was absorbing the knowledge through those light brown eyes of his, storing it away in case he needed it someday.
Josh was his best friend. The thought suddenly popped into his head. He'd always known it, but he'd never really thought about it before. Not really. It was always just one of those things that was, like the sun rising or Megan being an evil little girl.
"Josh," Drake said suddenly, feeling his throat tighten.
"Huh?" Josh asked absently, still looking at the television.
"I…" Drake continued, swallowing hard. He could feel his heart thumping against his ribs. I need to tell you something. "I need…" But he couldn't say the rest.
The TV went to commercial again and Josh turned to look at Drake. "Did you say something?"
Drake looked back at him, at his guileless face and expressive eyes, his I-wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve-for-the-world-to-stomp-on expression and shook his head. "Never mind," he said softly, trying to sound nonchalant.
Josh's brows creased slightly, but then he shrugged, pointing to the TV. "I think this is a marathon," he said. "You wanna watch the rest of it?"
"Sure," Drake said, disinterested, turning his eyes back to the TV.
"Great," Josh replied, doing a terrible job of masking the enthusiasm in his voice. "But first," he continued, standing up, "I'm gonna go take a shower." A few seconds later, Drake heard him at the door.
"Be back in a bit," he heard Josh say.
"Yeah," Drake whispered. "See ya."
Two minutes later, Drake was hunched over the toilet in his parents' bathroom, relieving his stomach of the burden of having to digest the Yo-Yo he'd eaten. He dry-heaved, his stomach convulsing, for several more minutes as tears burned his eyes. He cried into the bowl, the sound bouncing against the cold ceramic, his vision swimming before him, and gripped the rim tightly in his hands.
But by the time Josh emerged from the shower, wearing damp hair and gray flannel sleep pants, Drake was sitting back on the couch in the same spot he had been in when Josh left.
Like nothing had happened.
"Hello?" Maddie's voice sounded hoarse and Drake knew he'd awakened her.
"Hi," he replied softly. He had crept out of his room about forty-five minutes ago and was currently sitting in a cushy patio chair on the back deck. It was nearing the end of February – it would be March in four days – and it was a balmy night.
There was a pause on the other end. "Drake?"
"Yeah," he said, adding quickly, "I know it's late."
"That's okay," she said. "I hadn't been asleep long."
"I just wanted to apologize for hanging up on you earlier."
He could almost hear her smile. "Bathroom emergency?"
He smiled slightly despite himself. "Sort of."
She didn't speak for a long moment and Drake could hear her yawn. He knew he should let her get back to sleep, but he couldn't. Not yet.
"Can't sleep?" she finally asked.
"No."
"Me, neither," she quipped. "Apparently." And she laughed.
Drake clung to the sound like a life preserver, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
"I'm just kidding," she replied. Her voice was clear now; the remnants of sleep were gone.
"Talk to me," he blurted into the silence that followed.
She laughed again, the sound a little unsure. "About what?"
"Anything."
"Drake…"
"Talk to me about what you did today. About your favorite foods. Talk to me about Huck Finn.
"Huck Finn?" she asked, surprised.
"Yeah," he said, reaching. He just needed her to keep talking, needed her voice to drown out the rest of it. "Tell me why you hated it so much."
"You can't be serious."
"I mean it. I really want to know."
"But…" she began and he could hear her breathe. He pictured her in bed with big, fluffy pillows all around her, warm and safe and protected. He didn't know why he needed this so much, needed her. All he knew was that she was a lighthouse on a choppy sea and he needed her to guide him back to shore.
"Please," he said. "Just talk. About anything. I don't care."
"Okay." The word was a whisper.
After a moment, she started to talk. She told him why she hated Huck Finn and how she liked to write poems. She told him that her favorite color was red and that she took five years of piano lessons when she was a kid and even now could barely play "Chopsticks." She told him that her dad was a lawyer and that her mom trained seeing-eye dogs and that she had an older brother who was studying marine biology at USC. She told him that she liked reading British murder mysteries and that her dream was to one day hike across the United Kingdom. She told him that she'd always been chronically shy and that she didn't make friends easily.
"I don't believe that," he told her.
"It's true," she replied softly. "I don't have a lot of friends."
"Yeah, but it must be tough having to go to a new school your senior year."
She laughed. "Drake, I've been at Belleview since 9th grade."
"Really?" he asked, incredulous.
"Really." She laughed again. "You just never noticed me." A beat. "But I noticed you," she added softly.
"Everyone notices me," he said without thinking, then felt himself flush. "Wait…"
"It's okay," she said lightly. "You're right; they do."
"That's not always a good thing, you know," he replied, closing his eyes.
There was a pause. "I never thought it was." She sighed. "I think it would be hard having everyone know you."
"It can be," he said wearily.
"Everyone expecting you to be a certain way. I'll bet it gets tiring." Her voice was so soft, so soothing through the phone.
Drake couldn't respond; his throat was too tight.
"Drake?" she asked tentatively when he didn't speak.
"I'm here," he said roughly, clearing his throat.
"Oh," she replied. "For a second there, I thought we got disconnected."
"Thank you," he said suddenly.
"For what?"
"For this," he said. "For talking to me."
"You're welcome," she answered. Then she said, "I just want you to know that I don't expect anything from you."
He blinked back tears at that, pressing the meaty part of his right hand against each eye, grimacing at the pain in his wrist. The swelling had gone down, but it was still tender. They'd been talking so long, the little phone felt hot against Drake's ear. "Can I call you again?" he managed.
"Anytime," she replied.
"Okay," he whispered. He paused, holding her on the line for a few seconds longer. "Goodnight, Maddie."
"Goodnight, Drake," she said. "Sweet dreams."
He'd prefer to not have any.
This one made ME nervous. I've bitten all my fingernails down to nubs!
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