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: Another long chapter; about as long as the last one. BUT, it was about 8 pages/4500 words longer before my painstaking editing process. I really need to learn to 'cut the cord', you know? It's difficult for me to part with pieces of a chapter, but I had to ultimately ask myself, "Is it vital to the plot?" Anyway, I hope you like it!
A/N 2: Many thanks to GMTH for being a beta. She's been very supportive and helpful. :o)
Chapter 20: Breaking Point
It had been three days. Three days since life as he'd known it suddenly stopped. Three days of skipping second period and ignoring text messages, of avoiding eye contact and of wondering if people could tell what had happened just by looking at him. Three days of forced smiles and of strategically rearranging the food on his plate to make it look like he'd eaten. Three days of ragged sleep and cold sweats and secret showers. Three days of sinking slowly through each hour like quicksand and of wishing he could just evaporate each morning with the dew.
He felt eyes on him and looked up to see his mom gazing expectantly back at him. It was just he and Megan and Audrey. Both Walter and Josh were working.
"Huh?" he asked her absently.
"I asked if everything was alright," she said, nodding at his plate. "You've hardly touched your dinner."
He looked down at his plate, pushing a piece of chicken a few inches with the tines of his fork. "I'm not hungry, I guess."
She didn't respond right away and he felt her assessing him. "Are you sure everything's alright?" she finally asked. "You've been acting kind of strange lately."
"How can you tell?" Megan interjected brightly from beside him and out of the corner of his eye he could see her impish grin.
"Shut up," he said automatically, but his heart wasn't in it. He forced himself to look at Audrey. "I think I might be coming down with something," he told her, hoping she couldn't hear his pounding heart.
His mom gave him a concerned look and he tried not to squirm. She tilted her head. "You do look a little pale," she said, leaning over and reaching her hand towards him like she was going to check his temperature.
Jerking back, he said quickly, "Mom. Stop. I'm not twelve, okay? I know how to use a thermometer."
"Yeah, but can you spell it?" Megan sniped, sniggering.
Drake clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt and dropped his fork on his plate with a loud clang. "May I be excused?" he asked, irritated.
Audrey gave him another look. "Of course," she said, following him with her eyes as he stood up. "I'm glad it's Friday," she added as he picked up his plate and started for the kitchen. "You can use the weekend to rest."
He stopped and turned around. "I've got a gig tomorrow night," he told her. He had bowed out of practice Wednesday night, telling them he was sick, but he had assured them that he'd be there on Saturday. It was the only other thing he had to focus on and he suddenly felt it slipping through his fingers.
"Honey," she said. "Are you sure you'll feel up to it? Maybe you should reschedule."
"I can't," he said, feeling his fingers convulse around the edge of the plate. He felt stupid standing there holding it, but he couldn't seem to move. "We've been waiting three months to play at Clancy's. This may be our only chance. If we cancel now, we might not get another one."
"Alright," Audrey said softly.
"I'll be fine," he assured her, then turned and walked quickly into the kitchen before she detected the lie in his eyes.
Standing at the sink, he scraped his food into the garbage disposal and flipped the switch, listening as the blades pulverized it, turning them off when they ran smoothly again.
The kitchen door swung open behind him. "Mom said to wash mine, too," Megan said, plopping her dirty dishes into the sink in front of him.
Drake just stared into the sink, watching the water go down the drain. "Sure."
He felt Megan staring at him, as if she was waiting for him to say something else. When he didn't, she said, "Man, you must not be feeling well." Then she turned on her heels and left through the side door.
He started washing the dishes, concentrating on the feel of the hot water against his skin and the way the soap felt slippery between his fingers. It was a clean feeling. He liked it.
"Oh, by the way, your teacher called," his mom said as she walked into the kitchen. "Mr. Bradford."
The plate Drake was transferring to the strainer slipped from his fingers, hitting the edge of the sink and shattering into several pieces. Some of them bounced to the floor, some of them landed in the basin. He stared down at the pieces, his hands gripping the thin strip of countertop in front of him.
"Sorry," he muttered thickly, tears stinging his eyes.
"Don't worry about it," his mother said. Suddenly she was next to him, laughing. "I swear, between you and Walter, it's a wonder we have any dishes left." She nudged him with her elbow.
She turned off the water and started reaching for the pieces. "No," Drake said quickly, pushing her hands out of the way. "I'll get it."
"Just be careful you don't cut yourself," she cautioned him. "Those fingertips are valuable, you know." She laughed again, the sound trailing after her as she headed towards the door to gather more plates.
"What did he want?" The question tore from his throat painfully. He busied himself with the fragments because he didn't trust himself to look at her.
"Who?" she asked. Then, "Oh, your teacher. Well…" She seemed to be pausing for effect and he could hear the barely contained excitement in her voice. Even his mom's smiles seemed to have sound. "It seems you're getting an A in History!"
Drake closed his eyes, several pieces of broken plate cradled in his hands.
His mom chattered on. "He said he thought I'd like to know before progress reports came out next week."
The sharp edges cut into his palms as he squeezed his fingers around them. He opened his eyes and stared out the window. Mr. Johnson pulled into his driveway, his silver Audi glinting in the waning sunlight.
"An A," she continued, her voice wistful. "I knew you could do it."
He forced himself away from the sink and counted the steps to the trashcan. There were five. He pressed the pedal with the toe of his sneaker to lift the lid and dropped the pieces into the trash. They crashed together dully, the sound muted by the remnants of a head of lettuce and yesterday's newspaper.
Drake looked at his palms. Tiny pinpricks of blood showed starkly against his skin. He couldn't tear his eyes away.
Suddenly her hands were on his and he chafed at the contact, fighting every urge he had to jerk away. "Oh, honey. I told you to be careful."
"I'm fine," he heard himself say, his voice flat.
"You're bleeding," she clucked, studying his hands.
It was too much. "I said I'm fine." And he tore his hands roughly from her grasp, walking back to the sink and turning on the water. As he ran his hands under the hot water, his gaze fell upon the house across the street. The Audi's trunk was open and Davey was helping his dad carry something into the house.
He turned off the water and tore off several paper towels from the roll next to the sink, wiping his hands roughly, feeling the tiny stings from what amounted to nothing more than paper cuts.
"Drake," he heard his mother say. The gentleness in her voice made his throat tighten. But he didn't turn around, just continued to stare out the window, watching as Mr. Johnson closed his trunk, trying to imagine the sound of it.
"Honey," she said and pressed the backs of her fingers against his cheek.
The touch made him flinch and he came crashing back into his own reality. "Mom!" He backed up a step. "I'm fine! How many times do I have to tell you?" His dark eyes burned into hers.
"I'm your mother, Drake," she replied, trying to smile. "It's my job to worry about you."
The sudden flash of his anger died away and he sighed. "I'm sorry."
Audrey looked at him, her eyes bright. It was a look Drake knew well and he knew what was coming next. "I just can't get over it. An A. My son." She smiled.
"I'm glad you're happy," Drake replied.
"Aren't you?"
Drake just shrugged.
Audrey laughed, rolling her eyes. "I forgot. You're much too cool to get excited over an A."
"I've never cared about it as much as you do."
But Audrey's exuberance wasn't about to be dampened by his nonchalance. "Well, that's okay. Because I'm excited enough for the both of us." She laughed again. "In fact, when you bring your report card home next week, I think I'll frame it."
"Mom."
Audrey grew suddenly serious. "I'm proud of you, Drake. I know how much you sacrificed, giving up your free time."
Drake felt his fingers tighten around the damp clump of paper towels he still held in his right hand. "Mom," he said again.
"I know, I know," Audrey replied, smiling faintly. "I'm getting mushy. I just want you to know that I appreciate how hard you've worked. You didn't want to continue with the tutoring, but you did. Because I wanted you to."
He wished she hadn't said that. Because something deep inside of him unraveled at those words.
And they made him hate her just a little bit.
"Goodnight, Maddie," he said reluctantly, looking towards the darkened house. He didn't want to let her go. He knew he was being selfish by keeping her up so late every night, but he needed her. For the past four nights, they had been following a pattern. After Josh had fallen asleep, his soft snores drifting across the room, Drake would creep down the ladder and out of the bedroom, padding down the stairs and grabbing the house phone on his way out to the back patio. He would sit in the chair at the far edge of the patio, the one just outside the pool of light cast by the motion-sensitive security light affixed over the sliding glass door, and dial her number.
Her voice was like a balm, soothing his raw spots. For the nearly three hours a night they spent talking, he could push away the demons that had taken up residence inside his head. He could almost forget that even in sunny San Diego, he felt as though he had been plunged into perpetual darkness. It was the other 21 hours of the day that were the problem, when the pain was so sharp he could hardly breathe and he had the overwhelming need to crawl out of his own skin.
"'Night, Drake. I'll see you tonight."
"I hope so."
"I promise."
Drake pressed the END button with his thumb and leaned his head against the back of the chair, staring up wearily at the sky. It was dark for a city sky, but not nearly as dark as he'd seen it the time they went camping in the Santa Monica Mountains. Back then he had seen nothing but endless stars and he had spent nearly an hour searching for the Big Dipper. When he couldn't find it, he'd given up trying and instead had created his own star pictures. Now, all he could see were the dueling beams of spotlights from downtown nightclubs playing against the lightened sky like real-life Bat Signals and a thin layer of fast-moving clouds skimming off the Pacific towards some faraway destination. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the stars.
After a moment, his heavy eyelids drooped shut.
"Promises are just lies by another name."
His eyes flew open at the sound of those words, expecting to see Mr. Bradford standing right in front of him, that feral look in his eyes. Of course, he had only imagined them, and he knew instantly it was Maddie's parting words that had prompted that particular memory. It never took much to bring the memories on. They were always just right there, crowding behind his eyes, waiting for the opportunity to present themselves. That was the worst part, he decided. The memories. They latched onto his brain like leeches and swam through his blood like a legion of viruses, spreading pestilence to every cell.
They slowly devoured him from the inside out.
Standing, he stood on wobbly knees and walked to the glass doors. But instead of going inside, he just stared through the glass into the house.
His father had lived here before fate had taken him away. Drake had a vague memory of sitting atop his father's shoulders as they walked through the empty house, his parents chatting eagerly below him, his mom darting excitedly to every corner of the empty living room, smiling widely and laughing. But that memory was always tempered by the one of him sitting under the dining room table watching the legs of people dressed in black pass by, listening as they spoke softly to his mother who was sitting in a chair at the end of the table, her ankles crossed neatly next to him. He remembered the boxes still waiting to be unpacked piled along the walls and the way his mother's smile no longer reached her eyes.
His sister had been born here, having arrived unexpectedly nearly a month ahead of schedule. Drake had been five years old for a little over a month and had climbed on a chair in the kitchen to dial 9-1-1 as his mom watched wild-eyed from a puddle on the floor, clutching her belly protectively as she assured him everything was going to be alright. He had been so scared he could barely talk, had only been able to tell the lady on the phone, "The baby's coming!" before he climbed down and knelt beside his mom, pushing her sweaty hair off her forehead. When the man with the bushy mustache told him he had a baby sister, he smiled.
His mother had carved a life out of her loneliness here, hiding from her kids the places inside of her that could only be filled by the kind of love they just couldn't provide, until complete happiness had arrived one evening in the form of a man named Walter Nichols. He had stood nervously on their front porch with his perfectly combed TV hair and a bunch of wilted daisies clutched tightly in his left fist. Beside him had stood an oversized geek with a goofy grin and a fondness for bear hugs Drake would later learn to crave.
Two families had blended into one here, into a sort of hodge-podge greater than the sum of its parts. And he had grown to love his place in it.
This place had been his home for nearly as long as he could remember, but now he felt like he didn't belong here. It was like the whole thing had shattered and he was the piece that didn't fit neatly back into place.
He refocused his eyes so he could see his reflection on the glass, superimposed on the empty living room behind it like a double exposure, and it suddenly seemed so fitting.
He was standing on the outside, looking in on what used to be his life.
"Stop!" Drake yelled, the music coming to a sudden, discordant halt. He turned on Devon angrily. "How many times do I have to tell you, man? It's A minor then E minor 7th. Not E minor," he told him, demonstrating fluidly on his own guitar. "Playing E minor ruins the feel of the melody."
"Dude," Devon said, holding up his hands. "Chill."
"No," Drake spat. "I will not chill. We're going on in –" he looked at the clock hanging on the wall over Devon's father's worktable in the garage " – two hours and fifteen minutes and it has to be right."
Devon's face twisted in annoyance. "You're the one who called off practice on Wednesday, man," he retorted. He looked Drake up and down. "You look healthy enough to me."
Drake became very still and his fingers convulsed around the fingerboard of his guitar, his fingertips turning white at the pressure. "Just play the song like I fuckin' wrote it, alright?" he said slowly between his teeth.
Holding Drake's gaze for a few more seconds, Devon finally relented, shaking his head as he muttered under his breath, "What the hell's the matter with him?"
Forcing himself to take two deep breaths, Drake turned back to the microphone and closed his eyes. Keep it together, he admonished himself. "From the second verse," he said after a moment. "Okay?" Then he counted it off. This time, no one missed a single chord.
"Good," Drake said when the song was over. "That's good." He didn't look at them.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I need a break," he said wearily, slipping the guitar strap over his head and leaning the instrument against the amplifier. "I'll be back in a couple minutes." Then he disappeared into the house, the guys staring after him curiously.
"Sounds good," Josh said as Drake walked into the kitchen. He was sitting at the bar reading the newspaper.
"Thanks," Drake said in passing, continuing on. There was a half bathroom just around the corner next to the stairs and he made a beeline to it, stepping inside and locking the door behind him.
He leaned against the door and pressed his hands to his eyes. He was exhausted to his bones and he felt as though every one of his nerve endings was raw and exposed. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. He shouldn't have to remind himself how to do it.
Sliding to the floor, he leaned against it, concentrating on breathing. Propping his elbows on his knees, he cradled his head in his hands and closed his eyes.
He was falling apart.
A soft knock on the door snapped him back to reality. "Drake?" Josh's voice. "You okay in there?"
"Uh, yeah," Drake responded, startled, his own voice sounding foreign to him. "I'll be right out." He had no idea how long he'd been in there.
Pushing himself up, he walked to the sink and stared at his reflection in the wrought iron mirror. Shit, he thought as he looked at his red eyes. He bent to splash some water on his face, reaching blindly for the blue hand towel hanging from a ring next to the sink. Pressing the soft terrycloth to his face, he straightened, studying his reflection again as he lowered the towel. His eyes were still red.
Crap.
He slipped the towel back through the ring and reached for the door, at the last second remembering to flush the toilet. He reached over and pressed on the lever, then opened the door, the little push lock popping up as he turned the knob.
Josh was standing outside the door, leaning along the edge of the credenza next to the stairs. A giant arrangement of silk flowers framed his head. "You know, you're supposed to wash your hands after going to the bathroom," he quipped, standing.
Drake ducked his head, avoiding eye contact. "At least I wash mine," he said, looking at Josh out of the corner of his eye as he turned back towards the kitchen, "Mr. I-only-turn-on-the-water-to-make-it-sound-like-I'm-washing-my-hands."
"Hey," Josh said, laughing, following him back through the kitchen. "Only sometimes," he admitted. "When I don't have any lotion."
Drake snorted as he pushed open the door that led to the garage.
"What?" Josh said defensively. "I happen to have dry skin."
"Uh-huh."
"What took you so long?" Scotty asked from behind the drum set when Drake walked back into the garage. His drumsticks were taped in alternating stripes of black and red electrician's tape and he was tapping them against the rim of the snare drum – a nervous habit he'd had since Drake had known him.
"Diarrhea," Drake deadpanned.
Devon, Scotty, and Tucker, the bass player, exchanged glances. Then Scotty said, "Too much information, man," a sour expression on his face.
"You asked," Drake said, picking up his guitar and ducking his head through the strap.
"Well I hope whatever was up your ass is gone now," Devon replied, only half-joking.
Drake wasn't amused. "The only thing up my ass is your sloppy playing, Devon."
"Blow me," Devon spat.
"Guys," Tucker interjected. He was the quiet one, usually content to go with the flow. But he also didn't like conflict; Drake knew he saw enough of it at home. "Let's not argue, okay? We're all a little nervous."
Drake and Devon exchanged another hostile glance but didn't say a word. "Let's go over the song order," Drake said.
"Why?" Devon asked, a hard edge in his voice. "It's the same as always."
Gritting his teeth until his jaw ached, Drake fought to keep his temper from flaring. "I'm changing it," he said evenly. "We're leading off with 'Makes Me Happy' instead of 'Found A Way'."
" 'Makes Me Happy' is too new," Devon protested. "We should start off with something older. Something the audience is more familiar with."
Drake continued as if he hadn't heard him. "Then 'Hollywood Girl', then 'Girl Next Door', then 'Don't Preach', then 'Down We Fall', then 'Circles'. We'll end with 'Found A Way'."
"Hold up," Devon replied, waving his hands in the air in front of him. " 'Found A Way' should be first. We always play it first."
Drake met his eyes evenly, feeling his anger tingle just below his skin. He was just waiting for Devon to say something else to contradict him. "Tonight we're playing it last."
"Why?"
Drake curled his hands into loose fists. "Because I said so."
"Who died and crowned you king?"
"Guys," Tucker said again.
Scotty tapped on the rim of his snare drum, the sound grating on Drake's already frayed nerves. "They're my songs," Drake said slowly. "I wrote the music. I wrote the lyrics. I can put them anywhere I want."
"I know where you can put them," Devon said, pulling his guitar over his head.
Drake did the same thing, suddenly itching for a fight, somewhere to release all the anger that was suffocating him.
Finally, Josh, who had been watching the entire display from the doorway, intervened. "Time out," he said, making a 'T' with his hands, holding his cell phone in one of them. "Drake. Mom's on the phone for you." He tried to look sheepish as he wiggled his phone in the air. "She says it's an emergency. Got a sec?"
A muscle twitched in Drake's jaw and he had to make an effort to uncurl his fists. "Yeah," he finally said, dragging his eyes to Josh. "Coming." He set his guitar down and followed Josh into the kitchen, holding his hand out for the phone.
"What's wrong with you?" Josh hissed under his breath as he closed the door behind them.
Drake looked at him evenly. "Mom's not on the phone, is she?"
"Drake," Josh continued. "What was that out there?"
Drake shrugged. "Just a bit of a disagreement." His hands were trembling with unspent anger and he shoved them in his pockets.
" 'A bit of a disagreement'?" Josh asked incredulously. "Seems to me you wanted to rip each other's heads off."
Drake just shrugged again, not saying a word.
Josh opened his mouth, closed it again. "If there was something bothering you," he finally said, his voice nearly a whisper, "you'd tell me." He gave Drake a pointed look. "Right?"
It took a second, but Drake finally replied, "Don't I always?"
Josh pressed his lips together in a thin line. "I don't know," he responded. "Do you?"
Drake held his brother's eyes for several seconds. "Look, Josh. I'm sorry about in there," he said, nodding in the direction of the garage. "I'm just a little stressed." And that, folks, was the understatement of the millennium, he thought.
"Drake," Josh said and Drake could tell there was something else he wanted to say. But he didn't. Instead, he nodded in acquiescence. "It's alright."
"I'll go apologize to Devon," Drake replied, turning towards the door. "Then we should get going." He looked at the digital clock on the microwave behind Josh's head. "We're going on in an hour and a half."
Josh nodded. "Sure."
Drake had his hand on the doorknob when he heard Josh say behind him, "Devon's right, you know. You should lead off with 'Found A Way'."
Turning, Drake gave him a weak smile. "Yeah? Well, what do you know?"
Josh smiled back. It was a familiar routine for them and his response came easily. "I know what I know."
Drake nodded. "Thanks."
"For what?"
But Drake was already gone.
If the number of cars in the lot and parked along the side streets was any indication, there was quite a crowd inside. Josh pulled up behind Scotty's van in the loading zone behind the club. The ride to Clancy's had been a quiet one, with only the radio to keep Josh company. Drake had stared out the passenger window the entire time, with Josh sneaking glances at him at every stop light.
"I'm gonna go help the guys unload," Drake replied, pushing open the door.
"I'll get your guitars," he heard Josh say behind him as he stepped out of the car and stood up, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. He closed the door with a thud and took a deep breath. The combined odors of rotting garbage, motor oil, and fried food met his nose.
"I can't let you go." Drake's fingers pressed against the glass and he stared unseeing at the back of the open van in front of him. He wished that voice would stop playing in his head like a broken record.
"You gonna help or are you just supervising?"
The voice was coming from his right and Drake turned his eyes in that direction. Devon was standing there, holding Scotty's snare drum, his gray eyes boring into Drake's.
"Sorry," Drake muttered, walking to the van.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and swallowed hard. "Are you sure you're alright, man?" Devon asked him softly, leaning in so he wouldn't be overheard. Out of all his bandmates, Drake was closest to Devon. "You've been acting weird."
Drake felt himself nodding, his head bouncing on his neck like a bobble-head doll. He reached for the hi-hat cymbal. "Just a little nervous, I guess." He shrugged, his shoulders tense beneath Devon's hand. "I'll be okay." If only he actually believed it.
"Alright," Devon said, giving Drake's shoulder a squeeze before letting his hand drop. "Don't sweat it, man. It's gonna be great." Then he walked off, whistling the chorus of 'We Will Rock You'.
"Hey, Tuck," Drake said.
Tucker looked up from tuning his A string and met Drake's eyes. His face was impassive beneath the sandy blond fringe of his bangs. "What's up?"
"Nothing," Drake replied. "I'm just checking in on everyone. You know, making sure we're all ready to go."
Tucker nodded. "I'm ready, boss." He always called Drake 'boss'. Drake had tried to break him of the habit, but it had stuck.
"Good." Drake smiled faintly at him. "Good."
"Everything alright with you and Devon?" Tucker asked him.
Drake smirked. "Yeah," he replied. He waved his hand abstractly between them. "Creative differences."
Tucker smiled knowingly. "Sure, boss." Drake saw Tucker's hazel eyes focus somewhere over Drake's right shoulder.
"Your groupie is here," Tucker said, pointing with his chin in the direction he was looking.
Drake had a sudden vision of the mysterious no-name girl who seemed to pop up everywhere, kiss him, then run off. He didn't turn around. "What does she look like?" he asked, his lips barely moving.
Tucker took a second before answering. "Shy," he finally said.
Drake felt himself smile. It definitely wasn't No-Name Girl, then. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Maddie standing at the edge of the stage. She smiled when they made eye contact.
Removing his guitar from his shoulder, he leaned it against an amp and walked over to her, kneeling in front of her. "I was worried you wouldn't show," he said.
She gave him a look, fumbling with the cap of a bottle of water. "I promised, didn't I?"
"I seem to remember something to that effect," he said, smiling.
"Well, it wasn't that long ago," she said, laughing. "You should remember." She cast a look over her shoulder. "Good crowd." She turned back to him. "There were so many cars, my dad had to drop me off down the block."
"You didn't drive?"
"I wanted to. My dad wouldn't let me." She grinned. "He doesn't trust rock star types."
Drake cracked a smile. "Don't tell me. He listens to polka music."
She shook her head. "Baroque," she replied. Then she rolled her eyes. "Not Classical, mind you. Baroque. He likes the harpsichord."
Drake laughed. "Harpsichord, huh? I'll admit, there's not a whole lot of that in rock music."
A tall man with wide shoulders and biceps as big around as Drake's neck approached them. "Five minutes," he said to Drake.
"Thanks."
When he passed, Maddie said, "I'll let you get ready."
"Thanks for coming."
She just smiled. "See you later. Good luck." She turned to go, then suddenly turned back to him. "I almost forgot," she said, holding the bottle of water out to him. "I got you some water. You can't sing if your mouth is dry."
He smirked, taking the bottle. "I don't know," he quipped. "I might sound better that way."
He stood up, watching her as she walked away.
"Who was that?" Josh asked suddenly from below him.
Drake watched as she found a seat at the bar off to the right, smiling when he saw her wave at him. "A girl," he said absently, finally tearing his eyes away to look at Josh.
"No, really?" Josh said. "I couldn't tell. What's her name?"
"Drake! Stop yapping and get over here!" Devon yelled.
Drake smirked at Josh. "Duty calls," he said, raising his eyebrows wearily. "Wish me luck." Another cue, another routine between he and Josh.
Josh smiled. "You don't need it."
"See ya." Drake walked over and picked up his guitar, looping the strap over his head. "Ready, guys?" he asked his bandmates. When they nodded their assent, he turned around and walked up to the microphone.
The man with the bulging biceps was introducing them. Drake closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, letting the hum of the crowd wash over him.
He could do this.
The sting of sweat in his eyes. The feel of the strings beneath his callused fingertips. The touch of the microphone against his lips. These were the things he focused on as they went through their set. And when the last note of the last song ended, he let the roar of the crowd settle into his bones as he stood there, chest heaving, fingers tingling. His body thrummed with a familiar vibration – the thump of adrenaline in his blood.
It didn't last. It never did, but this time it disappeared quicker than usual, and a nearly debilitating wave of fatigue hit him so hard his knees almost buckled. He reached out for the amp, slumping against it for support. The sweat covering his body felt cold against his skin and the floor beneath his feet swam before his eyes.
There was a hand on his arm. "Hey, man. You okay?"
Drake nodded weakly, looking up to see Devon standing in front of him. Two Devons, actually, and it took a second for his eyes to focus them into one person. "I just need a minute," he managed between breaths, his lungs burning. "Just give me a minute." He held up his right hand weakly, but it felt too heavy and he let it drop back down. His guitar suddenly felt like it weighed a ton and he struggled with the strap.
Josh was suddenly next to him. "Let me help you with that," he heard his brother say as he grabbed the guitar and lifted it off Drake's body.
"Thanks," Drake muttered thickly, looking up at him. He tried to crack a smile, but his mouth wouldn't work.
"You look pale," Josh said, his brow wrinkled in concern.
"I'm fine." At Josh's expression, Drake added, "Really."
"How many fingers am I holding up?" Josh asked, wiggling four fingers in front of Drake's face.
Drake's breathing was finally returning to normal and he managed a smirk. "How many am I holding up?" he retorted, flipping Josh off.
Josh grinned. "Yup, he's fine, everyone," he said loudly, chuckling. "No need to worry."
"Where's the restroom?" Drake asked, standing shakily.
"Down the hall to the left of the bar," Josh explained, pointing. "Need some help?"
Drake gave him a look. "I think I can handle it by myself."
Josh laughed. "Just checking," he said. "You know I'm here to lend a hand wherever it's needed."
"Please stop talking now," Drake told him and heard Josh laughing again as he turned away.
Usually he'd just hop off the stage, but this time he sat down on the edge and scooted off, his boots softly hitting the hard floor. As he made his way to the restroom, he heard words of encouragement and congratulations from people he passed.
Maddie approached him as he neared the bar. "Are you alright?"
He was getting really sick of people asking him that. "Yeah," he said, looking at her. "I just felt a little dizzy for a second. But I'm fine now."
"It was a great show, by the way," she told him, smiling.
"Thanks."
"You want something to drink?" She motioned with her head to the bar.
His throat felt dry. "Water?"
"Sure," she said. "Be right back."
"I have to use the restroom," he told her. "I'll meet you at the bar."
"Okay," she said cheerfully, disappearing into the sea of people.
Pushing his way through the crowd, Drake entered the restroom, which was surprisingly empty and surprisingly clean. Bypassing the urinals, he entered one of the two stalls and shut the door behind him, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. He closed his eyes, enjoying the relative quiet, the crowd noise reduced to a muted roar. His pulse throbbed in his temples.
He stood there for a few moments, listening to the intermittent noise bleed through the open doorway as people entered and exited the restroom. But then the pressing need of his nearly bursting bladder shook him out of his reverie. Flushing the toilet with his foot, he exited the stall and walked to the sink. He was alone in the restroom.
His face stared back at him from the mirror. Josh was right; he did look pale. He pressed his fingers to the dark circles under his eyes and dragged his hands down, his face contorting from the pressure. "Loser," he muttered disgustedly as he bent to wash his hands, finishing off by throwing some water on his face.
The restroom door opened and closed behind him, the crowd noise rising and falling in volume. Shoes scuffed against the tile.
Standing, Drake looked at his reflection again, his breath catching in his throat as his fingers closed around the edge of the basin. Meeting his gaze in the mirror was a pair of blue eyes that haunted his dreams every night.
"Hello, Drake," Mr. Bradford said.
Drake felt his heart thudding against his ribs, felt the air burning in his lungs. This isn't happening. I'm imagining this.
"I watched you play. You did a great job."
Move, his brain told him. But he couldn't; he was fused to his spot on the floor. He tore his eyes away from the mirror and looked down, staring at the drain. He felt the water drip down his face. Or was it sweat? He couldn't tell.
"I've been wanting to talk to you. To apologize."
Drake wanted to cry out at that, but he couldn't speak. He wished someone else would come in the restroom.
"I know you've been avoiding me, but if I could just explain…"
Drake couldn't believe what he was hearing. What is there to explain? he wanted to scream. You raped me.
And there it was – the one thing his brain had refused to process. A strangled cry burst from his throat and he bit it back painfully.
"Drake –"
The door opened behind them and the interruption allowed Drake to break away. Without looking up, he pushed roughly past the man coming in and escaped into the hallway, leaving Mr. Bradford staring after him.
He felt a hand grab his arm and he jerked it away, spinning around angrily. Mr. Bradford stood staring down at him, his eyes wide, his pupils large in the dim light. The hallway was crowded and people parted around them like a stream around a stone. No one was paying any attention to them at all.
A heady mixture of anger and fear coursed through Drake and he shook with the force of it. "What are you doing here?" he hissed, finally finding his voice. But it sounded strained and raw. He felt the anger coloring his cheeks.
"I had to see you," Mr. Bradford answered. "I'm sorry." He sounded desperate and hurt, like a lovesick puppy. It made Drake want to throw up. "But you won't return my calls."
Eighteen text messages. That was how many the man had sent him since Wednesday. Drake hadn't read any of them.
As Mr. Bradford looked at him, Drake felt a coldness seep into his skin. It gripped him in an icy clutch that stole his breath, slowly squeezing the life out of him.
I'm dying. The thought sprang unbidden to the front of his mind, like it had just been waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. This is what it feels like.
Tears stung his eyes and he looked away. "You're killing me," he whispered.
He was going to do it, he decided. He just didn't know how yet.
He sat behind the wheel of the Honda, staring through the windshield at his house. It was dark and quiet. He wondered if Josh was still awake, waiting up for him.
She was sitting at the bar, waiting for him as promised, two sweating bottles of water on the bar in front of her. He called her name and she turned to him, a smile on her lips. But then she looked at him, saw something in his eyes, perhaps, and her smile vanished. He asked the question before he could stop himself.
"You wanna go somewhere?"
His eyes came to rest on the garage door. It would be so easy, he thought. All he would have to do was pull inside the garage and shut the door. Leave the engine running. Breathe deeply. Should the windows be up or down? Probably down. That would make more sense. But he wasn't sure.
The guys smiled knowingly at him when he approached the stage and asked Josh if it was alright if he took the car. Josh protested, but not vehemently, and said he would take care of Drake's guitars and catch a ride with Scotty. Drake patted his pockets and looked at Josh and Josh dug out his own keys and passed them to Drake with a good-natured eye roll.
"Be careful," Josh advised him.
The Jacobsons' sprinklers ticked on next door. It was two o'clock in the morning, he realized. It was Sunday. And there were 22 hours of it left.
He could hardly bear the thought of it.
The ride was quiet. He felt her watching him from the passenger's side. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but he was afraid to speak. Afraid if he opened his mouth, everything would come tumbling out. All the ugliness. All the pain. All the darkness that lived inside him. And he didn't want her to see any of it. Not her.
So he concentrated on the road and gripped the steering wheel so tightly in his fingers that they started to feel cold.
He stood at his front door and looked through the ornate glass. He couldn't make out any shapes, but a faint blue glow told him the nightlight in the kitchen was on. The keys in his hand felt heavy and he looked down at them. If he didn't know any better, he would swear they belonged to a girl; he counted four key chains.
Finding the house key in the tangle, he inserted it smoothly into the lock and turned it, pushing open the door.
Maybe he'd shoot himself.
They were sitting along the low wall of the Mission Beach boardwalk, looking out at the surf. The cement felt cold through his jeans. The water crashed roughly against the shore because of the wind, which was blowing right into their faces. It wasn't a strong wind, but it was enough to make her shiver. He felt her trembling next to him, saw her hug herself out of the corner of his eye.
He wished he had a jacket or something to offer her, but he didn't. He had nothing to offer her at all.
"Aren't you cold?" she asked him, and he heard her teeth chattering.
More than you'll ever know. "A little," he told her, his voice carried away by the wind. He turned his head to look at her. "You wanna go?"
She scooted closer so she was pressing against him. He felt her shoulder against his. He felt their knees touching. She looked up at him and smiled. "No," she said. "You can keep me warm."
He turned away at that, closed his eyes. He felt the tears wet against his lashes, but the wind dried them before they fell.
All he'd have to do was press the barrel to his temple and pull the trigger. Then it would all be over. He wouldn't have to think about it anymore. He wouldn't have to think about anything.
But then he had a sudden flash of his brains all over the walls and shuddered. No, he couldn't do that. It would be too messy. Besides, he didn't have a gun anyway.
He grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it with tap water, and took a long drink. It tasted metallic on his tongue. Like blood. He took another drink and looked out the window. A light came on upstairs in the house across the street. The Johnsons. A silhouette passed in front of the window. Maybe Davey had had a nightmare and his mom had come in to comfort him.
I hope you never have nightmares you can't wake up from, Drake thought, tipping the glass to his lips, taking another long drink.
As the water slid coolly down his throat, a single word popped into his head.
Pills.
"Have you ever wished you could be someone else?" he asked her after a long silence.
He felt her turn to look at him, but he didn't look back. He kept his eyes on the ocean.
"When I was little I used to wish I was Snow White," she said and laughed.
"No," he said. "I mean, have you ever looked in the mirror and hated who you saw staring back at you?"
She was silent for a long moment and he knew he'd scared her a little. "Drake," she finally said. "Is something wrong?"
He didn't answer her. Sliding off the wall, he landed softly in the sand and felt his feet sink into it. He looked up at her. "Come on."
She met his gaze, her question still in her eyes. Then she gave him a crooked smile and slid off the wall, using his shoulder to steady herself.
They started to walk.
He pulled open the cupboard by the oven and peered inside. Vitamins. Could you overdose on vitamins? Probably not. He pushed them aside. Tylenol. He grabbed the bottle, the pills rattling around inside, and stared down at it. How many would it take? Ten? Twenty? Fifty? He pressed on the cap and twisted it off, dumping the contents into his palm. The red and yellow tablets clicked against each other as he counted them. Thirty-seven. That was probably enough.
He pictured himself swallowing them a few at a time. Five then ten then fifteen, until they were all gone. What would happen? Probably nothing, in the end. He'd just throw them up before they killed him.
Carefully, he poured them back into the bottle, the sound like tiny hailstones against the plastic, and replaced the cap, placing the bottle back in the cupboard.
Sleeping pills. That was what he needed. Take a handful of them and go to sleep and not even realize you've stopped breathing. Were there any in the house? He didn't know. But he could buy some. He'd buy a couple boxes of them. The blue ones he'd seen on TV. The ones that looked kinda like drops of water. He'd pop each one out of the blister packs until they laid in a pile on his bed. Then he'd swallow them one at a time, washing them down with a big glass of water. Or milk. No, chocolate milk. Then he'd crawl under his blankets and wait for sleep to come, let it take him over as the world went fuzzy.
Then he remembered hearing somewhere that people's bladders emptied when they died. He'd probably wet the bed.
He didn't want Josh to find him like that.
The sea spray felt cool against his face and he could taste the salt on his lips. They were walking along the shore, on the harder, wet sand that molded to their shoes, creating distinct footprints along their path. The vague outlines of other footprints were visible as well, but the people who left them were gone. They were alone on the beach, but voices drifted on the wind from the boardwalk, where the restaurants were still open. The glow from the neon lights illuminated the beach, making the silicate sand sparkle. A sliver of moon hung above them, periodically obscured by clouds skimming across the sky.
He felt Maddie slip her hand into his. Instead of jerking his hand away, he surprised himself by curling his fingers around her palm. It felt soft and warm against his own. He looked over at her. The wind had tugged a few strands loose from the barrette she was using to hold her hair in place; she kept tucking them behind her ear.
"We should probably go back," he said, stopping. He let go of her hand.
She stopped and turned to look at him. "Why?"
"It's late."
"Not very." She walked up the beach a little, onto the dry sand. She plopped down, patting the sand next to her. "Come on," she said, smiling. "Sit with me."
Josh would find him. He knew it in his bones. Somehow, it seemed fitting. Josh had always been there for him in life. Why not after?
That was why it had to be neat. Had to be clean. He didn't want Josh to have to see what was left of him spattered across the walls or pooled underneath him. He could already picture the look on his brother's face – the huge eyes, the open mouth, the trembling lips. Would he scream? Would he cry? Or would he be angry that he'd been left to clean up after Drake's mess one more time?
Maybe Josh would hate him. But that was okay, he decided. He deserved it.
He walked into the living room. It was dark except for the light coming in from the back window. He walked over to it and looked out. Off to his left was the patio, where there wouldn't be any more late-night phone conversations to coax him back from the ledge. Those were over now. He'd seen to that.
His breath hitched in his throat, but he gritted his teeth against it, pressing his hands against his eyes. He wasn't going to cry. He didn't have time. He needed to think.
He had a decision to make.
Pulling his hands away, he took a deep breath, then another. He blinked his eyes until the window seat came into focus below him. He wrinkled his forehead in confusion. Coiled on the seat was what looked, in the dim light, like a snake. Except it was knobby along its length instead of smooth.
He reached for it. It was a thin piece of rope and when he let it uncoil, it was about three feet in length. He pulled the rope slowly across his left palm, feeling the roughness of it against his skin, and realized what the knobs were. At several inch intervals all along its length were different types of knots.
Then he remembered. Josh had been practicing tying various knots so he could teach them to Megan's Campfire Kids troop. Drake grabbed the rope tightly in each hand and tugged in opposite directions. It felt strong.
He wondered if it could hold his weight.
She pointed to the horizon. "See those lights?" she asked. "That's a cruise ship."
His eyes trailed to where she was pointing. "How can you tell?"
"Cargo ships don't have that many lights on their sides." She sighed, watching it for a second. "Where do you think it's going?"
He stared at it. "Somewhere far away from here," he replied.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her turn so she was facing him, saw her brush the hair out of her face. But he didn't look at her.
"You can tell me," she finally said.
He felt his throat tighten and he swallowed hard against it. "Tell you what?"
She touched his arm. "What's wrong."
He forced himself to look at her, to keep his face impassive. "Nothing's wrong," he said.
She pressed her lips together. "It's just…" she said, letting her hand drop. "You seem so sad."
He looked away at that, his eyes flitting to the horizon. The ship looked like it hadn't moved at all. "I'm fine," he whispered, but even he knew it didn't sound convincing.
"Drake."
There was something about the way she said his name that broke him. A cry tore from his throat before he could stop it and he ducked his head, covering it with his arms. He suddenly couldn't stop shaking.
He flinched when he felt her touch him and he jerked away, his hands sinking into the soft sand as he pushed himself up. "Don't," he said, walking a few steps away, to the boundary where the wet and dry sand met. The few tears that had fallen felt cold against his skin and he wiped roughly at them as he looked out at the water.
He heard her stand up behind him, heard her brush the sand off her hands. Then suddenly she was next to him. "Talk to me," she said, and he could hear the note of pleading in her voice.
The voices from the boardwalk had died away, leaving only the sounds of the wind and the waves. He didn't say anything for a long time, finally deciding to share the only truth he could put a voice to.
"I'm not the person you think I am," he told her.
He walked into the laundry room and opened the door that led to the garage, feeling along the inside wall for the light switch. Flipping it on, he squinted at the onslaught of bright light.
When his eyes adjusted, he looked up. There weren't any exposed beams he could loop a rope over, but there was something just as useful: the tracks for the garage door. He walked further into the garage, his boots tapping softly against the cement floor, and stood under one of the tracks, looking up at it.
It looked sturdy enough. And if he stood on a chair…
He looked down at the knotted rope in his hand. It wasn't long enough, he decided. Not even if he untied all the knots. He needed a longer piece. He looked around the garage. Josh must've gotten it from somewhere, he reasoned. He just had to find it.
In the corner stood Walter's toolbox. It was one of those big red ones with lots of drawers. He'd never understood why Walter needed so many tools; he wasn't very handy. But there it stood.
He walked over to it. He knelt down, starting at the bottom where the deeper drawers were and pulling open the bottom one. He was stopped short. Yarn. Tons of it. In every color imaginable. Blue and red and orange and green and one that was all those colors combined. He pushed it shut and opened the next one. Knitting needles. Big ones, small ones, medium ones. They rattled together hollowly, all in a jumble. He picked one up, hefted it in his hand. Too light, he thought. It would probably snap in half before it pierced anything vital.
He dropped it back into the drawer with a ting and continued on, drawer after drawer, until he reached the third one from the top.
That was when he saw it.
He reached a trembling hand for it and tightened his fingers around it. It felt cool against his palm. He hefted it. It felt solid, too. The rope slipped from his other hand, falling forgotten to the floor.
He stared unblinking as he pushed the slider up with his thumb, the edge of the razor blade peeking out of the top, and his heart thudded wildly against his chest.
Yes, he thought. Yes.
"I don't understand," she said and he heard her voice quiver.
But he'd already said too much. "Let me take you home." He turned, started walking back in the direction they came from.
"No."
He stopped at that and turned around. She was still standing in the same spot. "Maddie."
"I want you to talk to me." Even from several feet away and in the semi-darkness, he could see the determination in her eyes.
He sighed. "I don't want to talk anymore," he said wearily.
"Drake," she said, taking a step towards him. "Please."
He shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He felt like he was unraveling, like the frayed ends of what was left of his life were twisting in the wind.
"Yes it does," she said fiercely and she closed the distance between them until she was right in front of him. He could smell her perfume. "It does matter, Drake. It matters to me." She reached out her hand, but pulled it back before touching him. "I want to help you."
He almost laughed.
He sat on the floor of the garage, bent over his lap in concentration. He was unscrewing the side of the utility knife with the Phillips head screwdriver he found in the top drawer of the toolbox. When the screw was loose, he pulled it out with his fingertips and placed it carefully on the floor beside him. Then he pried off the side of the knife. He removed the old blade – it was dull and rusty along the edges – and laid it on his knee. Then he pulled out the replacement blade nestled inside, removing it from the thin brown wrapping. He ran the tip of his index finger along the edge of the new blade and nodded in satisfaction.
It was very sharp.
He put the old blade where the new one had been and snapped the new blade into place. Then he carefully replaced the side of the knife and screwed it back on tightly.
Suddenly, he was acutely aware of his pulse throbbing in his wrists and he looked down at them, the knife resting on his knee. He could see his veins running lengthwise beneath the thin skin and he brushed one wrist with the fingertips of his other hand.
Would it hurt? Probably not for long. How long would it take before he bled to death?
It wouldn't have to be messy, he thought. He could do it in the bathtub, like in the movies. He could slip into a tub of hot water and open his veins and finally silence his demons once and for all.
But then he thought about Josh walking in and finding him in a bathtub full of red water, imagined him plunging his arms in up to his shoulders to pull him out.
He couldn't stand to think of Josh soaked to the skin with water stained with his blood. He needed something neater.
The shower. He could do it in the shower. That way, all the blood would be washed down the drain.
It would all be very clean.
"You can't help me," he said.
"What happened to you?" she asked him, her eyes wide. "You're not the same boy from detention."
God, he thought. That was when? Monday? Seemed like a lifetime ago. He looked away again, out at the water. The surf slid in, licking at his boots, but he didn't move.
She touched his arm and he felt her fingers press into his skin and suddenly he was back at the club and it was another person's hand on his arm. He jerked his arm from her grasp and turned away, striding down the beach. It was noisy inside his head again and he pressed his hands against his ears to make it stop. But that just made it worse.
"Stop, Drake. Please." He barely heard the words through the static buzzing inside his skull. But he kept walking.
"Please." Her voice sounded broken and he felt her hand on his arm again.
He turned on her then, feeling the anger tingle beneath his skin, feeling it coil between his shoulders like a rattlesnake. "Stop touching me!" he screamed at her, grabbing her arms in a vise grip. "Leave me alone!" Then he shoved her away roughly, watching as she stumbled backwards.
She tripped, falling into the sand. She was sprawled there, her fingers buried in the sand behind her, looking up at him with eyes wide enough to fall into. And her lips were trembling.
"Oh God," he whispered. "Oh God."
She was crying now. He could see the tears on her cheeks, the tracks reflected in the light from the boardwalk. "Why are you doing this?" she asked him and he heard the fear in her voice. Fear that he put there.
She was afraid of him.
"Oh God," he said again and then his knees gave out and he crumpled to the sand, the dampness soaking through his jeans.
He wished he were dead.
He slid the knife into his right hip pocket as he stood up. He put the screwdriver back in the top drawer of the toolbox and picked up the piece of knotted rope. As he walked back towards the laundry room, he felt strangely lighter, like a weight had been lifted from him.
And for once, it was quiet inside his head.
He turned off the light as he stepped into the laundry room and shut the door behind him, standing there with his hand on the doorknob as his eyes adjusted once again to the darkness.
He wouldn't do it tonight, he decided. No, he'd wait. But not too long.
He dropped the rope back on the window seat and walked through the living room to the foyer, double-checking to make sure the front door was locked. Then he went upstairs.
When he opened the door to his room, he saw Josh was in bed. His brother's face was turned towards him and he felt a sudden pang of emotion so strong it nearly knocked him over.
"I'm sorry, Josh," he whispered.
"Drake?" Josh asked, stirring, his voice thick with sleep. He propped himself up on his right elbow and rubbed at his eyes with his left fist.
Drake cleared his throat roughly. "Yeah. It's me."
"What time is it?" Josh asked through a yawn.
"Late," Drake answered. "Go back to sleep." He walked down the steps into the room.
He felt Josh's eyes on him. "How'd it go with what's-her-name?" Josh asked.
"We'll talk about it later," Drake said, walking over to the desk. "I'm tired."
There was a pause and Drake could hear Josh move beneath his blankets, knew he had rolled over so he could see him better. Drake kept his back to him.
"Everything okay?"
Drake closed his eyes, fingering the outline of the knife inside his pocket. "Yeah," he said. "Everything's okay now."
Two chapters left!
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