CHAPTER TWO
William and I didn't hang out with each other again till junior high. I saw him, hiding behind his family's back in church until he sang in choir with his brother and sister or being chased down the hallways by teachers, and he saw me, hanging with Izzy, so he stayed away until he didn't, and then we were fast friends. Izzy, obviously, took a liking to him as William did him. We drove our bikes around and smoked pot- the perfect image of what the seventies represented.
"What if we get caught?" I cried nervously, shuffling behind my two friends as we climbed underneath the bridge. Swinging ourselves down, me and William were the only ones who landed, letting Izzy curse us out for laughing.
"Nobody cares if we do." William told me, wrinkling his nose as he rolled the cannabis, passing one to Izzy, then me. Right, I thought, as I took his offering. This was the 70s; nobody cares.
By the time we returned to my house, slightly red-eyed and giggly, James was the first one we ran into. He was leaving, naturally. The only times I saw him was when he was leaving.. always away, always gone. He saw us and stopped, wrinkling his nose, sniffing the air. William and Izzy exchanged a look, debating on running; our chests heaved as nerves before James broke out into laughter, "Oh man, you guys stink of weed!"
The three of us shushed him, hurriedly, eyes glancing towards my house. James waved us off, "Oh, you're not in trouble, you're just dumb. Why would you come home with it all over you?!" He laughed again, and the scary big brother facade William and Izzy had in their heads began to fade.
"Come here, be quiet!" He led us into the house, past my dad's office, and quickly into the bathroom. As he locked it, the three of us stood in a line against the bathroom sink, confused to say the least. Izzy mouthed to me, 'What's happening?'. I shrugged back.
"Okay, now take off your clothes!" James said absentmindedly, while he dug around in the cabinets. Naturally, my eyes bugged out of my head, and both Izzy and I exclaimed 'what?'. William, however, took the stronger approach, "You're a perv!"
"What- Oh, oh my god!" James came closer to William, so the height difference was more pronounced and slightly threatening, "You think I wanna see your little Willy? Fat chance, genius. I'm trying to wash your clothes with vinegar to get the smell out." Any other kid would've shyed and looked away, but William, fists held defiantly, stared up into James' eyes like it was his life mission. I noticed the faint line of a smile tracing James' features as if slightly proud of William's efforts.
Pathetically, standing just in our underwear awkwardly holding ourselves, ("This is a better punishment than a parent could ever give you!" James kept saying) we watched as James performed his little remedy. Whether to himself or not, he spoke the instructions outloud, which all three of us committed to memory. It was as if we already knew how much drugs would come into play in our later lives. This memory stands out because it was one of the first times the boys looked at me differently, one of my last good memories of James, and one of the last times my life ever felt normal.
The week after that, I came home from school to an unusual scene. James sat at the table, bleary-eyed, while my father paced the room. To see them in the same room, compliant and more or less still, was a feat and naively I smiled; seeing them together couldn't have been a good thing. James looked up at me, and instead of greeting me with his customary 'Hey Baby', he slid the note towards me and looked again back at the wall.
The note, in my mother's loopy handwriting, read:
Dear family,
I've grown unhappy. I'm of no use to you, I will only upset you further. I have left you because I am too depressed to carry on living this way. I need to go do something for myself.
Don't bother missing me, but I will miss you. You all were lovely, lovely people. James, darling, take care. Remember you're worth it. Brandy... I love you.
All my loving,
Mom
James took the paper and crumpled it, dropping it to the floor before rushing out the door. For good measure, my father stomped on it before turning to hide in his office like he always did. Standing alone, in the kitchen, I smelt the hidden scent of Lysol my mom used against the blue and green tile backdrop and slipped the ripped note into my back pocket. Easily, she was gone from photos, then what belongings she had left were carelessly chucked into the basement. She was not to be spoken of anymore.
But hey, it sure made it a hell of a lot easier not to get caught.
