Bury A Friend

Chapter 2: Level up

Two weeks have passed since the day of the investigation. No one has called or knocked on my door. Many times I have sat contemplating this risk since the day I met her. To call –or, not to call. It has left me staring at my ceiling, trying to recollect the image I had of her that day.

The angry eyes. The copper in her curls burning brilliantly in the sun. She was like an angel. Only, the angel was paint-covered with a voice full of scorn. All of my senses had been on full alert that day. I had gone through an emotional theme park, starting with fear and spiraling through fascination, roaring to an end with her number in my palm.

Killing time after school, I sit in my car in the parking lot next to the arcade, depressed after losing a short round of games. My wipers shove away a pile of burnt colored leaves floating down from the tree I'm parked beneath, while I dare myself to act. Smudged numbers transposed from my hand onto a wrinkled piece of paper get typed into my cell before I hit call. It rings and rings, sweaty beads forming on my forehead, my palm becoming clammy holding the phone. Finally, and a second before I hang up, a voice answers the phone.

The number is, in fact, the city morgue.

Like a snuffed out firecracker beneath a hard rubber sole, the spark of something-that-could-have-been extinguishes that quickly. [2] My phone goes off, scaring me, before it falls from my hand, landing on the floor near my feet. One chime after another, after another, already tells me who it is. Also the ringtone, which is not mine, nor had I picked out, gives me the last clue. He was always changing it. Even when I guarded my phone, even when I watched him out of the corner of my eye, he still always succeeded with the assault on my device. I finally fumble beneath my feet and grab it to read the message

IT'S GO TIME BITCH. GET HERE NOW!!

Every year on this day, we play the fabled RetroQuest. An online, countrywide competition, giving people the chance to prove who dominates in the classics. As long as Cheddar and I have been friends, we have fought valiantly, losing every year, hoping next time we'll succeed.

I am here to say that this is our year!
...Of Course, I've said that every year.
Honestly, we probably won't win this year.
The most important part anyway is that my best friend and I have some good quality time.
Which is exactly what I'll tell him when we lose again this year.

The leaves rustle and fly around my car as I race through town, passing all the decorated shops. Friendly owners stand in front of their storefronts, talking to one another in full costume about events. Our town was like those quaint movie ones that do so well on holidays. The kickoff to it all is the Halloween parade with a sixty-foot float decorated by the high school art club. Next, the pie contest, and eating competition that always follows with many of the competitors feeling regret after. The ending of it all comes in the form of the middle school dance team. Darkness shimmers with the sequins on their outfits, while bubbles float through the crowd from the machines the drummers carry. After the stores bring in their signs and the children get tucked in bed, a different type of Halloween thrill happens outside of town.

I've sat in the parking lot licking my game wounds for long enough. As Cheddar so accurately pointed out in the text; it's go time, bitch. The drive to his house is a long, tree-lined journey that changes to calm water that surrounds his property. Over the wooden dock, I pull up to the house, parking close to the porch. Even with a recent fresh coat of white paint, it's still the familiar area I played on when I was little. A smirk crosses my face before I've made it up the stone walkway. Despite how it is, Cheddar's grandpa is here, rocking back and forth happily in his wicker chair. Wood expands and creaks with every forward and backward movement the chair makes across the floor. The air gives little sparks when bugs, numerous and annoying, hit the lanterns stationed around him.