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: I think I got a little carried away with this chapter; it's even longer than the last one! Each chapter seems to get longer and longer. But sometimes, I get to writing and I can't seem to stop! Anyway, enjoy!
Chapter 19: Unspeakable
There is none of the usual banter. There's no fighting over the radio or discussion about evening plans or checking reflections in the vanity mirrors behind the visors. There's only silence, thick and heavy.
Josh slides the Honda into their designated space – the one he and Drake decorated with cans of spray paint at the beginning of their senior year after the space had been assigned to them. Actually, it had been assigned to Josh since the spaces were awarded based on grade point average. Luckily for Drake, he and Josh ride together, or, as Josh likes to joke, Drake would have to park at the gas station on the corner and walk the rest of the way.
Of course, Mindy Crenshaw parks one space closer to the school than they do. Or had, at least, until her parents decided to become missionaries and the whole family moved to Zimbabwe two months after the school year started. Now the space belongs to Robbie Winchell even though technically, his GPA is six one-thousandths of a point lower then Josh's. Eric Blonnowitz parks in the space on the other side of Josh; he and Craig ride together to school.
Josh turns off the car and sits staring out the windshield at the building. The first bell is in ten minutes and students in varying stages of wakefulness are milling around campus. The cliques are clearly delineated – the cheerleaders, the jocks (grouped according to what sport they play), the nerds, the Goths, the Christians, the outcasts, the student politicians, and the pseudo-intellectuals, who differ from the nerds in that the nerds are really smart and try not to look it and the pseudos try to look really smart but aren't.
A random memory from a happier time pops into his head.
"It should say 'Josh & Drake'. It's my space after all. I'm just letting you use it." Josh is holding a can of red spray paint in his right hand and gesturing at his brother with his left. They're standing in their new parking space, getting ready to personalize it within the parameters allowed by the school administration.
"But D comes before J in the alphabet," Drake counters, wrinkling his forehead for a brief moment before deciding that he's right.
"So do A, B, and C. And E and F and G and H and –"
"Okay, okay. Spare me the 'Hooked on Phonics' lesson," Drake says, shaking the can of blue spray paint in his hand, the mixing ball knocking loudly against the sides. He looks around the parking lot, sees the many students who are spending their Saturday morning doing the same thing as he and Josh – declaring their seniority by staking their claim on a coveted piece of asphalt. A slow grin spreads across his lips. "Besides, 'Drake & Josh' has a certain flow. A certain…je ne sais quoi." And he shakes the can again.
Josh quirks his eyebrow and fights to keep the grin off his face. "You don't even know what that means, do you?"
Drake laughs. "Sure I do. It means, 'Everyone knows that it's my brother's brains that got us this primo spot and that the least he can do as a consolation is to let me put my name first'." He looks back at Josh, an expectant grin on his face.
"It means all that, does it?" Josh quips, smirking. "And here I thought it meant 'a certain something'," he adds, framing finger quotes around the last few words.
"Well, sure. If you want to be literal about it." Drake waggles his eyebrows. "But there are other hidden meanings."
Josh laughs. "Fine. You win. You always do." He sweeps his arm dramatically over the unadorned space as he steps back. "Be my guest."
The names are faded now, having been bleached by the sun and worn off by the tires. He and Drake had planned to repaint them, but hadn't gotten around to it. Now, it seems so unimportant.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Drake staring through the windshield, too, absently scratching the bandage on his left wrist with his right thumb. "You don't have to do this," Josh says softly, breaking the silence that had settled inside the small car.
Drake doesn't reply, just closes his eyes for a moment and swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. The courage that he was infused with at the house seems to have dissipated.
"Let me take you home."
At this, Drake turns his head to meet his brother's eyes across the console. "You'll be late," he says simply.
"So what?" Josh studies his brother in the early morning sunlight filtering through the windows. The circles under his eyes seem even more pronounced and Josh remembers waking to the sounds of Drake's nightmares the night before. He hadn't awakened Drake, knew that wasn't what his brother would have wanted, knew he wouldn't have talked about it anyway. So he had just listened to his brother's muffled cries, his own eyes burning, and pretended to be asleep when he saw Drake awaken suddenly and sit up, his labored breaths loud in the quiet room.
But Drake is shaking his head. "Stop trying to protect me, Josh."
Josh feels his throat tighten as tears prick his eyes. He blinks them away as he says angrily, "Yeah, 'cause I've done such a great job of it, haven't I?" He turns away, staring out the driver's window.
He hears Drake sigh – a long, slow sound that sinks like a stone in the air between them. "It wasn't your fault," Drake softly replies.
Josh feels his shoulders tense at that, his face contorting with emotion for a moment before he regains his control. He takes a deep breath to calm himself before turning back to face Drake. Those are the first words he's heard Drake say without a trace of anger in a long time. They lock eyes for a long moment. Finally, Josh breaks the tension by putting his hands back on the wheel and saying, "Last chance."
A tiny smile draws up one corner of Drake's mouth and he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "The bell's about to ring." And he reaches for the door handle and pushes open the door, the fingers of his left hand curling around the straps of his backpack.
Josh watches him exit the car, sees the way he stops and stares at the building. Josh can't see Drake's face from his vantage point, but he can see the way his brother's fingers curl tightly around the top of the door, the way his fingertips turn white at the pressure. He pushes open his own door and steps out, standing up and looking at his brother across the roof of the car.
"Drake."
When Drake turns to look at him, Josh says, "If you need to take the car…" He shrugs, leaving the rest unspoken.
Drake nods, turning his eyes back to the building and Josh sees his grip tighten around the straps of his backpack. "I'll be fine," he says softly, closing his door with a resolute thud.
But Josh isn't sure if his brother is trying to convince him or himself.
Except he isn't fine. Not really. And it doesn't take him long to realize that he has only been fooling himself.
They walk into the building side-by-side, just like a thousand times before, except that for the first time, Drake wishes no one knew him at all, wishes that he could just blend into the walls and be invisible. His dark eyes dart quickly around the hallway, searching for that flicker of recognition, which would then be followed closely by that unmistakable flicker of realization of what he'd done to himself.
He folds his arms across his chest and finds himself pushing involuntarily against his brother, trying to disappear. Why did he think that he could do this? He's not brave. He's not courageous. He's proven that in dramatic fashion, hasn't he?
He finds himself being suddenly dragged into the corner next to a janitor's closet, then being stopped and held in place by two warm hands on his shoulders. Josh is standing in front of him, using his tall body to shield Drake from view. He watches in silence as Josh drops his backpack at his feet, then peels off his outer shirt and holds it out to him.
"Take it," Josh says softly.
"Josh…" Drake stammers, looking from his brother's face to the shirt and back again.
"It took a lot of guts just to come here today," Josh replies, meeting his brother's tired eyes; the flash of yeah, right in them does not go unnoticed. "You've got nothing to prove to anyone," he continues fiercely. He holds the shirt out closer. "You can always take it off later."
Drake considers this, then reaches for the shirt, his fingers brushing against Josh's. Wordlessly, he lets his backpack slide to the floor. He slips his arms into the sleeves – still warm from Josh's body heat – and lets his arms fall to his sides. The shirt's too big and the sleeves go past his fingertips. He looks down, turning his hands over and back beneath the cuffs and looks back up at his brother, who's wearing a small smile of amusement.
"Perfect fit," Josh quips.
Drake smirks. "You have arms like a chimpanzee."
Josh laughs. "Yeah well, they match my ginormous head," he says, pointing to his skull.
Drake snorts softly, the closest thing to a laugh he's had in what feels like forever. And for a few seconds, it's almost like it used to be. But it doesn't last. Drake looks somberly up at Josh, whose smile slowly fades. "Thank you," he whispers.
Josh nods. "Sure." Then he busies himself rolling up the shirtsleeves until Drake's hands are visible.
The bell rings and Josh reaches down to pick up both their bookbags, handing Drake's to him. "If you need anything…" he says pointedly.
Drake grabs his bag and hooks it over his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah," he says, trying to sound casual. He pushes past Josh. "See you at lunch."
He's in one of the stalls in the boys' restroom down the hall from history class, trying to will himself to go. First period had been rather uneventful, punctuated only by Brady Huttinger, super-jock and jerk-off extraordinaire, saying, "Hey, Parker. Heard you had leprosy and that your dick fell off," laughing at his own joke.
"At least I have one to lose," Drake had retorted, sliding into his desk just as the bell rang and stubbornly not looking at Brady for the rest of the period. He couldn't help but notice, however, the undisguised look of pity that Mrs. Kowalski had given him when she met his eyes as she took attendance. It lingered longer than usual and Drake had to force a small smile around his clenched jaw before she finally moved on to the next student.
The warning bell rings, muted by the walls of the restroom, and still Drake stands leaning against the locked door of the stall. The last person leaves after a few seconds and then the room is quiet. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to try to calm the racing pulse in his neck. His fingers are trembling and he curls his hands into fists to still them. He can't seem to get his feet to move.
The late bell rings but it takes him several more seconds before he finally manages to push himself away from the door, manages to pull the lock out of the slot with a loud grating noise, manages to walk all the way to the restroom door and open it. He looks up and down the hallway, grateful to find it empty, and steps out, walking towards Mr. Bradford's classroom, each step making his heart beat more wildly against his ribcage.
He looks through the narrow window, sees his desk sitting empty over Amber Locke's shoulder, and swallows down the bitter wave of bile that burns the back of his throat. No one sees him standing there, staring through the window like he's about to walk into his execution. He could just walk away and no one would know the difference.
But he would know.
He curls his fingers around the door handle and pulls it open quickly before he changes his mind.
"…we're going to talk about –" Mr. Bradford is saying in his "teacher" voice, the one that's similar to but not quite the same as the voice that plagues Drake's dreams every night.
The teacher's words stop suddenly when he sees Drake walk in and Drake hears the dry erase marker bounce off the aluminum tray as it falls from Mr. Bradford's grasp. He can feel the man's eyes on him, but can't bring himself to look back. The students stare at him like he's the new kid.
Maybe they know. Maybe Mr. Bradford told them.
But then he hears the man say, "Welcome back, Mr. Parker. I'm glad you're feeling better," and he knows that isn't the case at all. The teacher's voice is so even, so calm and Drake is amazed at his ability to switch between shock and impassiveness so seamlessly.
Drake wishes he could do that because right now he's frozen to his spot on the floor. He wants to move, but he can't. He'd only thought as far ahead as actually walking into the room; he hadn't thought how he'd get through the rest of it.
"You're tardy," Mr. Bradford continues lightly. "But seeing as how this is your first day back, I'll go easy on you." He laughs. "This time." He bends to pick up the marker he dropped, then sees Drake still standing there, staring at the class. "Is everything alright, Mr. Parker?" he asks.
Drake can hear the concern in the man's voice and has a sudden urge to throw up, swallowing it down with effort. "Yeah," he whispers, nodding. He feels light-headed.
I can't do this, he thinks, and takes a step backwards towards the door, but then he hears Mr. Bradford say, "Please have a seat, Mr. Parker. We have a lot of catching up to do," and stops in his tracks. We, he says. Not you.
Drake doesn't say anything, but finally meets the man's eyes for the first time since walking into the room. The blue eyes staring back at him are clear and impassive and Drake feels a prickle of anger beneath his skin. He stares unblinking, his dark eyes burning, and watches with satisfaction as the hint of smile that adorns Mr. Bradford's lips slowly dissolves away.
Finally, Mr. Bradford says coldly, "Either have a seat, Mr. Parker, or take a trip to the principal's office. The choice is yours." And suddenly, his eyes – and voice – are exactly like Drake remembers them from his nightmares.
Drake turns silently and shuffles to his desk, sinking into it heavily. He drops his backpack on the floor and folds his arms across his lap beneath the desk. Mr. Bradford starts talking again; Drake relegates the sound to the background.
As Drake looks around the room, what strikes him the most is the ordinariness of it. It's just a classroom, identical in size and shape to dozens of others in the building. But he knows better. He knows the exact way the shadows darken the corners when the lights are off, knows how cool the linoleum feels beneath his cheek and how hard it is against his skull. He knows how hollow his voice sounds in the air when the room is empty.
But the others don't know; they have no clue that this room holds secrets, that it hides terrible truths. They don't know anything at all.
Mr. Bradford mercifully ignores him for the rest of class. When the bell finally rings, he squeezes out the door through a crowd of migrating students, some of whom are talking to him, asking him how he's doing, asking him what was wrong with him.
He just pushes past them, not trusting himself to speak.
Leaning against the wall, Drake holds his cell phone in his right hand, staring down at it like he can simply will its existence away. He knows he should've just dropped the thing in the nearest dumpster or put it down the garbage disposal a long time ago. He should've gotten a new number. He should've taken it to the cops after leaving the alley, should've shown them the messages. He should've told Josh. He should've told his parents.
He should've done something. And he had done something. Maybe it wasn't the right thing, but it was all he could manage. But it hadn't worked.
So now, here he is, staring at the words, "New text messages," his eyes reading them again and again like they're in Sanskrit. He doesn't want to read them. He knows who they're from. But it's like he can't help it, like his brain is programmed to push the button no matter how much it may hurt.
He feels like he's in that experiment he saw on a documentary he and Josh watched once – the one where rats pressed a lever to get a piece of food. They kept pressing and pressing and pressing, lulled into a false sense of security, lured by the promise of a treat. And then, even after the lever was attached to electricity and pressing it meant receiving a painful shock, they continued to press it. The desire for the reward outweighed the pain of acquiring it.
He opens his inbox with a trembling thumb. He knew it; they're from Ginger.
"ive missed u"
"i need 2 c u"
"plz?"
Drake closes his fingers around the phone, hoping to crush it, visualizing it turning into dust in his palm, watching it sift through his fingers. But it vibrates instead, startling him. Incoming call.
It's Josh. A rush of breath Drake didn't realize he'd been holding flows out of him and he sags against the wall outside his Biology class as people mill past him on their way to their next destination, not noticing him at all.
He presses the green button and places the phone against his ear. "Hey."
"How's it going?" Josh's voice is soft with concern and Drake doesn't know whether to be angry about it or grateful.
"Okay, I guess," Drake replies, brushing off the tendrils of fear that had begun to grip him and concentrating on the conversation, willing his heart to stop pounding. "I hear there's a pool going about why I was out."
"Dude, my money's on 'coma'," Devon says to him, smiling. He's sitting sideways in his desk, which is in front of Drake's in Mr. Johnson's Algebra class, eagerly telling Drake about the pool. He doesn't seem to notice that Drake isn't smiling back. "Tucker has 'brain tumor'. Scotty has 'sex change'. So, what was it?"
It's supposed to be funny, but Drake doesn't feel like laughing. He tugs at the rolled-up cuffs of Josh's shirt and looks directly at Devon, saying dryly, "Amputation."
Devon gives him a doubtful look, but nonetheless his hazel eyes flit rapidly to each of Drake's limbs just in case. "Right," he says, meeting Drake's eyes above the desk. "Good one." The look in Drake's eyes makes him uneasy. The bell rings then, signaling the beginning of class and he turns around, leaving the conversation unfinished.
"Oh, yeah," Josh says a bit sheepishly, an apologetic tone in his voice. "I meant to tell you about that. They kept asking me what was wrong with you. Said it was worth a hundred dollars." He sighed. "Sorry about that."
"It's no big deal," Drake says, shrugging. Then he adds sarcastically, "Whoever picked 'suicide attempt' just made a hundred bucks."
There is long silence on the other end and Drake can picture his brother's face: eyes closed and lips pressed together in contained anguish. "I don't think anyone picked that one." His voice is so soft, Drake barely hears him over the static and the din of the hallway.
"Just a joke, Josh," Drake says, sighing. "Sorry."
There's another brief silence before Josh asks, "You comin' to lunch?" Drake can hear the forced cheer in his voice and grits his teeth against it.
"Yeah," Drake replies as he pushes away from the wall. "I'm on my way there now. You in the lunchroom or outside?"
"Neither. I'm still in Chem. I was just putting the glassware away. I'll meet you at our table. Okay?" Josh says hopefully.
"Yeah," Drake replies, heading towards the outside patio to the east of the lunchroom. 'Our table' is the one he and Josh always sit at in the back corner of the patio. This time of day, it falls under the shade of a couple palm trees planted just outside the fence.
But when Josh arrives at the patio five minutes later, Drake isn't there. And he doesn't show for the rest of lunch, either.
Drake is rounding the corner towards the patio, doing his best to avoid eye contact with everyone, when he hears someone calling him. His head turns automatically and he locks eyes with Maddie, who's approaching him from the hallway to his left, a hesitant smile on her face.
Panicking, he stops suddenly, his shoes scuffing against the floor. His heartbeat pounds inside his head and his fingers convulse around the straps of his backpack, his breath caught in his throat. She's coming closer and he feels like a cornered animal, desperate to escape.
He can't face her.
Pure adrenaline fuels his legs and he turns quickly on his heels and walks briskly for the exit, trying to ignore the sound of her voice calling his name behind him. In his haste, he runs nearly head-long into a boy, causing the kid to drop his books. "Sorry," Drake says weakly at the kid's vehement protest, his mouth dry. But he doesn't stop to help.
Bursting through the exit, he keeps walking blindly, his feet carrying him into the bright midday sunshine. He blinks against it and struggles to calm the swirling thoughts colliding inside his head.
But she's behind him, calling his name, the note of urgency in her voice more pronounced.
He just keeps walking, not turning to look at her, not stopping to let her catch up easily. But then suddenly she's beside him, taking two steps for every one of his, and she's saying, "Drake, stop. Please stop. I want to talk to you."
"Leave me alone," he mutters, increasing his pace. He's nearly jogging now.
But she doesn't. Instead, she reaches for his arm, her fingers locking around his left forearm, tugging. And suddenly a flash of padded cuffs holding him in place explodes across his mind and he snaps his arm from her grasp and turns on her, his dark eyes flashing angrily. "Don't fuckin' touch me!" he screams at her and he sees her face blanch at his words, sees her lips begin to tremble.
But he doesn't care and he turns and walks quickly away, leaving her in stunned shock to stare after him.
By the time he reaches the car, he's buzzing with anger; he can feel it like a current of electricity beneath his skin. He tries the driver's door, but it's locked. Irritated, he fumbles in his pockets for his keys, then searches his bag for them. When he realizes he doesn't have them, that he left them at home, his anger boils over into an unsuppressed rage that he can no longer control.
He kicks the door savagely, then kicks it again. He kicks until he's breathless, his backpack flying off his shoulder, then starts pounding on the window with his fists. He wants to break it, wants to feel it shatter beneath his hands, to see the shards scatter across the seat. So he hits it again. And again. And again. He focuses on the pain in his hands, welcomes it. It's sharp and acute, different from the dull ache he's been living with for weeks. It's almost exquisite.
"Drake! Stop it!" The scream is close by and the voice is shrill, but it barely registers with him and he pounds his hands against the window again, ignoring the plea.
"Stop it!" This time, he feels two hands on his arm, pulling him away, and he rears towards the intruder. But his arms feel like lead and they fall limply at his sides, his hands throbbing with each pounding heartbeat. When he focuses his eyes, he sees Maddie standing there staring at him, her blue eyes wet with unshed tears, her mouth slightly open.
"Drake," she whispers, his name like a benediction on her lips. She holds out a trembling hand to him, but pulls it back before touching him. "Why are you doing this?"
The words make him flinch. She's asked him that before in nearly the same tone of voice. And she was afraid then, too. Afraid of him. "I'm sorry," he whispers between breaths. He can't look at her, but couldn't anyway even if he wanted to because he feels like he's going to faint. He feels dizzy, his knees giving out beneath him, and he reaches blindly for the car, for something to break his fall.
A second later, he's on the ground, his left palm flat against the warm pavement, his legs bent at the knees, his back against the car. He's still struggling to breathe; the air seems too thick, like syrup, and he can't seem to get enough oxygen. He feels light-headed.
"Just breathe," he hears through the fog in his head. Her voice is soft and comforting and memories of hours-long late-night phone conversations fill his mind. She's his anchor, his touchstone. Even now. Even after everything.
"Maddie," he says after his breathing has finally started to slow and the wave of nausea that had threatened to drown him has receded. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." And he hates those words, really, has heard them too many times for them to have any meaning anymore, but they're all he's got.
"Shhh," she whispers. She's sitting on her knees next to him, cradling his hand in her lap. But when she gives it a gentle squeeze, he hisses involuntarily. Looking down at it, she makes a face and brushes her fingertips feather-lightly across his battered knuckles. They're red and raw and the skin is broken on a couple of them, tiny pearls of blood peeking out from the abrasions. "You're bleeding."
He doesn't look, doesn't need to – he's very familiar with the sight of his own blood. Instead, he focuses on her, watching her as she studies his hand – the curve of her lips, the way her dark hair falls into her face, the way her lashes fan over her cheeks when she blinks. He's looking so hard that he doesn't notice when she pushes up his sleeve, only sees the way her eyes widen and her mouth opens, the way one hand covers her trembling lips.
And all of a sudden he knows that he can't hide anymore.
She reaches across him for his other arm, her eyes meeting his for a second in the small space between them, and pulls it to her. In all the commotion, the sleeve has ridden up his arm, and the white bandage peeks partially out of the cuff.
He sees the flood of tears that fill, then tumble from her eyes. He tugs his left arm free from her grasp and drops it onto his lap, tries to pull his right arm away, too, but she won't relinquish it. The look in her eyes tears at him and he feels the sting of tears in his own eyes. "I'm sorry," he says again, hating the way those words sound in his own voice, "that I keep hurting you."
But she shakes her head, raking her fingers across her cheeks, leaving wet smears across her skin. She stares at him, her blue eyes glistening, fresh tears replacing the ones she just wiped away. Then she hugs him, catching him off-guard. She finally lets go of his hand so she can wrap both arms around him tightly, her arms snaked under his, her hands gripping fistfuls of Josh's shirt.
He can feel her hair against his cheek, her warm breath against his neck, and he closes his eyes, his arms finding their way around her, holding her tightly. When he hears her whisper into his shoulder, "You're not alone," he cracks, and a sob escapes his throat before he can stop it.
The dam breaks violently, emotions long suppressed tearing from him in a flood that threatens to drown them both. And he clings to her, his fingers digging into her shirt, grasping handfuls of the soft fabric as he buries his face in the curve of her neck. He has the fleeting thought that he should push her away, that he should get up and run, that he should go back to hiding behind the walls he's so carefully constructed around himself.
But it's too late for that. Too late. He couldn't get up even if he wanted to. Because he's suddenly adrift on an open sea and she's his life raft. He needs her to keep him from slipping under.
She holds him through all of it, only moving to shift her weight to a more comfortable position beside him, perched against her left hip, her legs curled on the pavement next to his. She doesn't say anything else, just tightens her arms around him, her hands flat against his back as she absorbs his pain.
Finally, the only sound that remains is that of their breathing, shallow and uneven. After a few moments, she loosens her grip on him but doesn't let him go completely. She's willing to sit there as long as he needs; she's waiting for him to give her direction.
He does so a moment later, letting her go, and she sits up, meeting his eyes briefly before he turns away. He looks down at his hands as he tugs the sleeves back down, covering the evidence. Then he presses the backs of his sleeves to his eyes to dry his tears and drops his hands once again into his lap.
Maddie shifts again so that she's leaning against the car, knees drawn up like Drake's. Their shoulders are touching. Reaching over, she covers his right hand with her left one, letting it rest there gently. In the distance, the sound of the bell cuts through the silence.
He looks over at her then, his dark eyes still red and full of a sadness that cuts her. "You should go back," he says.
But she doesn't move. "What about you?" she asks.
His eyes flit to the building looming in the distance, to the students scattering in every direction, heading to their next class, and shakes his head. "I can't." He turns his eyes back towards her. "Not yet."
"Me, neither," she tells him, pulling his hand into her lap and cradling it between both of hers.
"Maddie. I don't want you to get in trouble because of me," he replies, but there's no conviction in it and he doesn't try to pull his hand away. The warmth of her skin is reassuring.
"Yeah, I know," she says. "First detention. Now ditching class. You're a bad influence on me, Drake Parker." A smile tugs at her lips.
The expression is so sincere that he smiles back. It feels good. "So now what?" he asks her, sniffling sharply and wiping the residual moisture from his eyes. He scans the parking lot quickly before looking back at her. "We can't just sit here, you know. Robocop will catch us." Robocop is the school resource officer who prowls the grounds looking for truants. His real name is Deputy Rick Mackie, but he earned his nickname because of his immaculate High & Tight haircut and his omnipresent mirrored sunglasses. He hunts for students who try to leave campus without prior authorization by searching for them from the padded seat of a golf cart with the school logo emblazoned on the front.
As if on cue, the sound of Robocop's golf cart rumbles in the distance. He's just rounding the north side of the building and turning east, making his way to the parking lot.
"There he is!" Drake whispers, pointing with his left hand towards the slowly-approaching vehicle. Since they're sitting on the ground, they haven't been spotted yet.
Maddie follows where he's pointing and giggles. "Come on," she says suddenly, standing, tugging on his arm.
He stands up, feeling stronger than he did before. "Where're we goin'?" he asks, looking from her to Robocop then back again.
She's all-out grinning now. "To the getaway car!"
"But…" Drake begins, but she's already grabbed her backpack and is looking back at him expectantly.
"Get your stuff and let's go!" she urges enthusiastically, tugging on his hand.
He gives one last look to Robocop and is startled to see the man looking back at him. The deputy presses the accelerator on the little cart, making the small motor rev as it tries to respond to his command for more speed.
Drake grins, ducking to grab his bag, then allowing himself to be led towards the next row of cars. They can hear the officer shout, "Hey! You there! Stop!" behind them, but they don't heed the command. They just keep running.
She lets go of his hand and starts fumbling in the front pocket of her backpack. A second later, her hand emerges, holding a set of keys that jangle brightly against her palm. The taillights of a car flash in front of them and she runs to the driver's side of a red Mini Cooper with a black and white checkerboard top. "Get in!" she yells to him as she reaches for the door.
"Stop!" they hear again from behind, but the deputy's voice has grown more distant.
Drake's fingers curl around the door handle and he pulls it open, jumping inside the car and tossing his bag on the floor between his feet. She's already got the key in the ignition and is turning it when he slams the door shut.
"Buckle up," she says, turning in her seat to look out the back window as she backs the tiny car quickly out of the space.
Reaching for the seatbelt, Drake snaps it into place just as she's righting the car and switching it into DRIVE. He looks over at her; she's flushed slightly and chewing her bottom lip in concentration. A slow smile creeps across his mouth.
Then suddenly, he remembers something. "Wait!" he says, looking through the windshield. They're rapidly approaching the main gate, which is usually kept locked during the day to prevent this very thing – escape. "How are we gonna get out?"
She laughs, tossing a brief glance at him before turning her eyes back to the front. "Don't worry," she says lightly. "The gate's broken. Someone drove through it last week." Her smile widens as she looks at him again. "Lucky for us." And sure enough, as she turns the corner towards the exit, Drake can see the gaping hole where the gate used to be, the part of the fence it was attached to lying in a mangled heap.
Just then, Robocop appears off to the side, zipping down the sidewalk towards the exit, hoping to get there before they do. "Hold on!" Maddie exclaims, pressing her foot to the accelerator, and the little car responds easily, smoothly picking up speed. As they burst through the exit, they can see the deputy shaking his fist at them and yelling. Drake looks in the rearview mirror and sees the golf cart finally reach the exit. He can also see the sunlight glint off the man's mirrored sunglasses as he stares after them in defeat.
"Woo hoo!" Drake yells, the sound bouncing around inside the tiny car, banging his fists lightly against the dash.
Maddie laughs, the sound as bright as tinkling glass. She's breathing heavily as she pushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
She turns the corner into a residential neighborhood and pulls over to the side of the road, placing the car in PARK and letting the engine idle. Her eyes shine with exuberance when she turns to face him. "Where to?"
Her joy is contagious and Drake finds himself smiling again. He's smiled more in the last fifteen minutes than he has in a month. But then a twinge of guilt pierces his gut and his smile slowly fades. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks her seriously. "I'm sure if we go back right now, you won't be in too much trouble." He smirks self-deprecatingly. "Especially if I tell them it was my idea."
Her smile softens, but doesn't disappear. "Drake," she softly explains, "there is nowhere else I'd rather be right now than here with you." A faint blush colors her cheeks but she doesn't look away. She holds his gaze for a long moment before he sees her smile widen into a grin. "Besides," she says, "this is the most fun I've had in a very long time."
He holds her gaze for a long moment, feeling his throat constrict and the prick of tears behind his eyes. "Thank you," he finally says, his voice soft.
"For what?" She's not smiling anymore, but her eyes are twinkling. "Harboring a fugitive? Aiding and abetting a known delinquent?" She shrugs. "My pleasure."
But Drake doesn't respond to that, says gently, "For still being my friend. Even though I don't deserve it." He wants to touch her, but he doesn't.
Her eyes shine with sudden tears, but she doesn't say anything. Instead, she brushes her fingertips through his bangs, pushing the tousled tresses out of his eyes. His hair is shaggier than the last time she saw him and she suddenly smiles.
"You need a haircut."
Drake's hand automatically goes to his hair. It had always been a point of pride for him, but lately he hasn't cared. "You think so?"
She grins, reaching with both hands to lift his bangs off his forehead and peering beneath them dramatically. "If you could balance a ball on your nose while pedaling a tricycle, I could take you on Letterman."
He pushes her hands away. "Cute," he quips. His hair has fallen to nearly beyond the tip of his nose and he smirks through the fringe when he hears her laugh. "Maybe you're right," he says sheepishly, pushing his bangs out of his eyes.
"So," she says after a moment, turning back towards the front and placing her hands on the wheel. "We've got the whole rest of the day. Where do you want to go?"
Drake pulls the visor down and flips open the vanity mirror, studying his reflection. He tries not to notice the dark circles or the pale skin, focusing instead on his hair. "How 'bout a barber?" he replies, turning his head in the mirror.
"Drake," she says. "I was just joking."
"I know," he says, looking at her, his dark eyes unwavering. "But it's time for a change." He spreads his hands open wide. "A new Drake," he adds resolutely.
She gives him a crooked smile. "I kinda like the old Drake."
But he shakes his head. "I don't," he replies softly, his voice nearly a whisper.
She takes his hand, the mood suddenly somber. "Okay."
Maddie's busy flipping through a tattered copy of an old magazine when he approaches her, freshly coiffed and itchy from the stray hairs on the back of his neck. He runs his hand over his new haircut, smiling lopsidedly at the strange feeling of soft spikes beneath his palm.
She looks up at him, her eyes studying his new haircut and then his face, as if she can't quite seem to put the two together. A vague smile draws up the corners of her mouth.
When she doesn't say anything after a few moments, his face falls. "You hate it."
"Not at all," she says, dropping the magazine in the rack and standing. She steps closer and lifts her hand to his hairline, brushing her fingers along the spikes. She smiles. "I like it."
He lets out the breath he's been holding. "Really?" The lopsided smile returns.
"Really." She touches the tips of his ears. "I never realized you had such cute ears." But instead of her blushing this time, he does, and her smile grows into a grin.
"Um," Drake says hastily. "I still have to pay." And he turns quickly and walks to the counter, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. He still has cash from his last gig tucked away inside and he hands a couple bills to the barber. "Thanks," he says to the man.
The barber looks back at him, black eyes sparkling. He looks like he stepped right out of the 1950s: silver-white hair, dark bushy eyebrows, a white smock, black slacks, and wingtips. "She's a pretty girl," he says, motioning to Maddie with his chin as he takes the money from Drake. The gold-plated nametag that says "Saul" flashes in the light.
Drake casts a glance at her over his shoulder, smiling. He's never really thought about it before, but she is pretty, he realizes. She had always just been Maddie. More of a voice than a face. He turns back to Saul. "Yeah, she is," he replies, taking his change. He gives Saul a ten dollar tip.
"What are you looking for?" she asks him, her brow furrowed in curiosity.
He's twisted in his seat, peeking into the back of the tiny car. He gazes at her out of the corner of his eye, a smile curving his lips. "The clowns," he says, chuckling at the smirk she gives him.
"Ha ha," she deadpans. "Be nice to Lola. She saved us from Robocop."
"Lola?"
"That's her name." She pats the dash lovingly. "She's a good girl."
Drake rolls his eyes. "Oh, lord."
"So what do you call your car?" she asks him challengingly.
"A piece of junk."
"Come on," she says, giggling. "It's not that bad."
Drake lifts his hands, starts ticking things off on his fingers. "The air conditioner barely works, the windows leak when it rains, the upholstery's got holes in it, and it vibrates when you go over 55 miles an hour."
"Does the radio work?"
"Yeah."
"Well, then. What are you complaining about? That's all you need." And he can see from her profile that she's smiling.
He grins back. "Can't argue with that." He settles back in his seat and rests his head along the headrest. They travel in silence for a long while before the sound of a growling stomach breaks it.
"Hungry?" Maddie asks him facetiously.
He's ravenous, actually. The appetite that abandoned him weeks ago is suddenly back with a vengeance. But he plays it off. "A little," he says.
She nods knowingly. "What do you want? My treat."
"Maddie –"
"No arguments," she interrupts. "Besides," she adds, "I'm hungry, too. I missed lunch, remember?"
Drake snorts. "Vividly." They haven't talked about what happened back at school and he's grateful. He doesn't know what he would say if she asked. "Chinese," he blurts suddenly, in belated response to her question.
"Chinese it is, then," she replies.
They're sitting under a large shade tree in a small children's park, eating their food in silence. Drake is picking through an open container of General Tso's chicken, stabbing a piece with one chopstick and bringing it to his mouth. He repeats the process, chewing slowly, the spiciness burning his tongue. He feels her eyes on him.
"What?" he asks, the word garbled because his mouth is full.
She just stares at him, an odd expression on her face, cradling a container of Moo Goo Gai Pan in one hand while holding her chopsticks with the other. "Are you eating it or sacrificing it to the gods?"
Drake's brow wrinkles. "Huh?"
She smiles at him, gesturing to his one chopstick and the piece of chicken speared on the end of it. "The restaurant had forks, you know."
"I know," he says, shrugging. He pops the chicken into his mouth, stabs another piece. "It tastes better this way," he adds, grinning closed-lipped around his mouthful.
"Uh-huh," she says doubtfully, giving him a look.
"I swear," he replies after swallowing. "Try it."
She looks at him skeptically, then sticks one of her chopsticks deep down into her container, emerging a moment later with a piece of chicken. Her blue eyes twinkling, she pops it into her mouth. After chewing deliberately and swallowing, she announces, "I don't know. Tastes the same to me."
He smirks at her. "That's because you're not doing it right." He pops his piece of chicken into his mouth and then points to himself with his chopstick. "It's taken me years to get the technique down."
"Is that right?" she quips.
"That's right," he replies, stabbing another piece and quirking an eyebrow. "Now, I'd be willing to teach you, but it'll take some time. It's not something that can be learned overnight."
She suppresses a grin. "Please, O Great One. Teach me the secrets of eating with one chopstick. I want to bask in the glow of your wisdom," she purrs, batting her eyelashes at him.
He tilts his head to the side, studying her as if he's measuring her worth. "I find you true of heart and strong of will. We shall start the lessons immediately." He pats the ground next to him. "Come closer."
She moves to sit next to him, her back against the large tree trunk, their shoulders almost touching. She turns her head to look at him. "I'm ready," she says, meeting his eyes. Much of the sadness in them has dissipated and they almost twinkle.
"Good," he replies. "But before we get to technique, there is much you need to learn first." He looks at her seriously. "Number one, it must only be used on food that has flavor." And he takes the container of Moo Goo Gai Pan out of her hands and sets it on his far side away from her.
"But," Maddie says in protest, reaching vainly after it, "I like the water chestnuts." Drake shakes his head. "Pea pods?" He shakes his head again.
Then he hands her his half-empty container of General Tso's chicken and one of her chopsticks. "You may practice on this."
She picks up the chopstick and moves to stab a piece of chicken, but he stops her with his hand. "Not so fast, young one," he says. "There is one more thing you need to know before you begin. It is very important."
"What is it?" she asks gravely, looking into his eyes.
"This technique," he replies, leaning in a couple inches, lowering his voice to a whisper. "It does not work so well with rice."
She looks at him quizzically, then erupts into laughter, almost dropping the container of chicken on the ground. She laughs until tears form, then looks back at him as she drags the back of her hand across her eyes, still holding the chopstick.
He watches her closely as she catches her breath. "I like they way you laugh," he finally says.
Maddie doesn't say anything, just looks at him, and he can see her pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat. He stares at it, watching the thin skin pulsate with every heartbeat, and he wants to run his fingers over it, but he holds back, still afraid to touch her.
Then she kisses him. It's soft and gentle, just a slight pressure of her lips against his. And after a second, he closes his eyes, opening his mouth slightly and feeling hers do the same, their lips interlocking like puzzle pieces. Her lips are soft and warm against his and he brings his hand to her face, his fingers brushing along her cheek before finding their way to her hair.
She pulls away after a second, but not far; his fingers are still in her hair. When he opens his eyes, she's looking back at him, biting her bottom lip. "What was that for?" he finally asks her, letting his hand drop.
"Because I wanted to know what it was like," she whispers.
He smiles crookedly, lifting his eyebrows. "And?"
"It was nice."
"Nice. That's it?" He's fishing and she knows it. And he knows she knows it.
"Really nice?" she ventures, smiling slightly, teasing him.
He pouts a little. "I guess that's better."
She laughs. "To tell you the truth, I have nothing to compare it to. Would you rather I had said, 'it was better than nothing'?"
He looks at her in silence for a few moments. "Was that really your first kiss?" he finally asks her.
"Well, we all can't have people falling at our feet, you know. Think how hard it would be to walk," she quips, her eyes sparkling mischievously.
A few seconds later, Drake unexpectedly flops to the ground and lies there looking up at her. She looks down at him like he's lost his mind. "What are you doing?"
A slow smile curves his lips. "Falling at your feet," he says, watching with amusement as she blushes.
It's nearing dusk when he opens his eyes and blinks against the sunlight filtering through the leaves. Maddie shifts sleepily against him, sighing against his chest. He doesn't remember falling asleep.
They had been chatting about nothing in particular, following the usual pattern of their previous conversations - him concentrating on the sound of her voice as she talks his demons away. He remembers taking off Josh's shirt and rolling it into a ball to use as a makeshift pillow, remembers lying down and staring up into the branches and watching as the leaves swished against each other in the breeze. He remembers her lying down beside him as she told him about the time that she fell from a tree when she was six years old and cracked her head open above her right eye, that it took eight stitches and that if you looked close enough you could still see the scar, right above her eyebrow. So he had looked, and sure enough, there it was, faint but distinct, just like she said. That's when she had rolled onto her side and rested her head on his shoulder and he had curled his arm around her protectively. He felt her chest rise and fall with each breath, felt her fingers caress the bandage on his other wrist. She didn't say anything, didn't ask any of the million questions he knew were crowded on the tip of her tongue; she just grazed her fingers gently over the soft cotton gauze like it was a precious artifact. That's the last thing he remembers.
"Maddie," he says softly, shaking her. He doesn't really want to wake her, but his arm has gone numb and he needs to move.
She stirs against him. "Hmmm?" she mutters groggily.
"Wake up, sleepyhead. We gotta get up." He shakes her again.
"Jus' a few more minutes," she slurs, rubbing her cheek against his t-shirt and settling back against him.
He smiles into her hair. "I can't feel my arm."
His words jolt her and she sits up, blinking sleepily down at him. "You should've woken me up earlier," she tells him seriously, sounding slightly alarmed.
He sits up, rubbing his left arm to get the blood flowing again. "I just woke up myself." After a few seconds, his arm starts to tingle, then the pins and needles begin with a vengeance. The sensation makes him grimace.
"You okay?" she asks, concerned.
"I'll live," he replies, flexing his fist as warmth infuses his hand.
"I'm glad." Her voice is barely above a whisper.
He meets her eyes. "Me, too." And he means it.
It's almost dark when she pulls up in front of his house and cuts the engine. The streetlamps are on and the street is bathed in a yellow-orange glow that bleeds through the windshield and onto the dash. She looks through the window at his house.
"Nice house," she says.
Drake's eyes follow hers. The downstairs lights are on, shining cozily through the windows. His eyes flit to the window over the garage; that light is on, too. "Yeah," he says. "From the outside."
She turns in her seat to face him, her blue eyes looking dark in the waning light. "What do you mean?"
He tries to think of the right words to explain it. "Things are…" he begins, fumbling, "…weird right now. With my family." He looks towards the house, feeling the shadows start to creep in again. "They don't understand."
She's silent for a moment, then asks softly, "Have you tried explaining it to them?"
He drags his gaze back to her. "I can't."
"Maybe you should try," she says and he turns away to look out the window, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "They love you, Drake," she continues, resting her hand gently on his knee. "They'll understand."
He looks at her, his dark eyes burning with something she can't read. "No they won't," he whispers.
Maddie's eyes fill with tears at the desolation in his voice. The smiling boy from the park is gone and the realization of it breaks her heart. "You need to tell someone," she tells him. "Before it destroys you."
Her words hang heavily in the air between them.
The relief in his mother's eyes when he walks through the front door turns quickly to anger.
"Where have you been?" she demands, standing up from her seat on the couch. Walter remains sitting, but shoots Drake a look that's tinged with white-hot anger. I won't let you keep hurting her, it says. Drake ignores it.
He looks at his mother. "Out," he says evenly.
"Josh says you ditched school," she says incredulously and Drake can almost feel the anger radiating from her.
"That's right."
He sees her eyes flit over him quickly, taking in the backpack slung over his shoulder and the bunched-up shirt he's holding in his right hand. She stares at his hair, but doesn't mention it. "Why did you even go?" she asks him.
He tells her what he told Josh that morning: "It's Wednesday."
Her mouth goes slack and she stares at him like she doesn't know him at all, like he's a stranger. "I don't understand you," she says softly. But she's not really talking to him, he realizes. It's more like she's talking to herself.
"I know." And he meets Walter's gaze briefly before turning to go up the stairs. By the time he reaches the door to his room, he feels weighted down by the shadows that have once again taken up residence inside his skull.
Josh looks up from the book in his lap when Drake opens the door, his light brown eyes appraising his brother closely. "Nice haircut," Josh says, his voice flat. "Is that why you cut school? To get a makeover?"
Drake says nothing, just steps off the platform and walks over to his side of the room, dropping his bag on the floor. He tosses Josh's shirt towards him; it flutters to the floor a few feet from the bed.
"I tried calling you," Josh continues, closing his book roughly and tossing it on the bed next to him.
Drake doesn't respond, just empties his pockets onto the top of his dresser.
"When you didn't show for lunch, I got worried," Josh says. "The least you could've done was call me. Told me where you were." He maneuvers himself to the edge of the bed, puts his feet flat on the floor. "I don't care that you ditched. I mean, I understand…"
Drake's pulling his shirt over his head when Josh says those words, but he hears them clear as day, and he yanks the shirt the rest of the way off and clutches it in his fingers angrily. He turns on Josh. "You understand?" he asks viciously. "You understand? That's great. 'Cause Mom just told me she doesn't understand. Maybe you can explain it to her." He throws the shirt fiercely to the floor and fumbles with the button on his jeans. Anger vibrates just beneath his skin, making his hands tremble, and it takes longer than it should to slide the metal button through the eyelet.
"Drake, I'm sorry," Josh says, the words barely audible through the noise in Drake's head.
"Don't," Drake says, unzipping his jeans as he toes off his shoes. He stops, looks across the room at Josh, who's standing now, staring back at Drake with wild eyes. "Don't say that." A beat. "Everyone's sorry, Josh. But it doesn't mean anything."
Josh stares at his brother in silence, feeling the waves of anger coming from him, disturbing the air between them like waves of heat radiating from blacktop in August. And he feels helpless. When the tears that were threatening begin to fall, he doesn't even move to wipe them away. "Just tell me, Drake," he whispers. "Tell me what you want me to say."
Drake's anger shatters at the look in his brother's eyes, at the broken note in his voice. The fragments of it scatter like dandelion fluff, leaving him feeling raw and exposed.
"They love you, Drake."
Drake closes his eyes against the memory. Then he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. When he opens his eyes, he sees that Josh is still watching him, waiting for him to say something. "Tell me that you love me," he whispers, his eyes holding Josh's.
Josh's face crumples at that and his shoulders start to shake from the force of his emotion. He looks down at his feet and Drake can see tears fall to the floor before Josh presses his hands to his eyes. Drake watches him cry, unable to move, waiting. He suddenly has a desperate need to hear the words.
After several moments, Josh lifts his head to look at Drake. His eyes are red, but they're clear, and they hold Drake's gaze unwaveringly.
"I love you."
It's nearly two in the morning when Drake gets the nerve up to wake him. Climbing down the ladder, he pads over to Josh's bed and kneels beside it. His brother looks so peaceful: his mouth hanging open slightly, soft snores emanating from the back of his throat.
Drake almost changes his mind and starts to get up. No, he admonishes himself and rests once again on his knees. This is Josh. This is the person you trust more than anyone.
"You need to tell someone."
She's right. He does.
He reaches out slowly and grasps Josh's shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. "Josh."
Josh's eyes fly open and he props himself up on his elbow, his bleary eyes meeting Drake's in the moonlight. "What's the matter?"
"I need to tell you something," Drake whispers, finally able to say the words he wanted to say a long time ago. It feels like another lifetime. In some ways, it is.
Josh sits up. "What is it?"
Drake stands and crawls onto the bed, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them, burrowing his toes beneath the sheet. He can feel his brother's body heat and takes comfort in it, letting it curl warmly around him like a blanket.
The words, when they come, start slowly. But once they start, they tumble from his lips like rocks in an avalanche, each one carrying with it a part of the weight that's been pressing down on him relentlessly, slowly grinding him into dust.
He tells him about the tutoring and about Mr. Bradford.
He tells him about the alley and how he discovered who Ginger really was.
He cries when he tells him about the rape and about how shame and guilt prevented him from telling them after it happened, about how he was afraid that they would hate him for letting it happen.
He tells him about Maddie.
He tells him about the exact moment he decided to kill himself and about the night he tried to do it.
He tells him about his nightmares.
Josh listens to it all in agonized silence, gripping the sheet tightly in his fists. But his eyes are dry and burn with an anger that Drake can see even in the dark. Not anger at him, he realizes, but anger for him.
There's one more thing that Drake wants to tell him, something that he thinks Josh needs to hear, that he's needed to hear for a while now. "I want you to know something," Drake says softly. "I didn't really want to die," he continues, his voice a mere whisper. "I just didn't want to hurt anymore."
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