Spinning Out

Chapter 26

ELIJAH

The desert sun assaults my eyes as it forces its way into the old blinds at Bryant's grandparents' house. An overweight cat stretches beside me on the small twin bed. My feet dangle off the end even with my head pressed tightly against the headboard. At some point, we outgrew these beds and this room décor. Super heroes immortalized in shiny posters hang on the walls. I can remember the first time we came here as kids. Our parents vacationed together, leaving us with his grandparents for the week. It was amazing. We spent all day I the pool, the evening racing around the golf course on the golf cart, and then sitting by the firepit with our sodas and smores as his grandpa and grandma sipped their wine under the desert sky.

Today the feeling of being young and carefree is lost to me. I roll over to my side and run my palm over the cat. He's only a little younger than I am. Bryant is asleep on the bed next to mine. His snoring is loud and steady, and might have something to do with the huge dinner I forced him to eat on the ride home. I needed to get some of the alcohol soaked up so I could get him inside without alarming his grandparents. Luckily, they were fast asleep at the back of the house when we came in. Both of them are hearing impaired now, so the stumbling didn't rouse them from sleep. I'm sure they have been awake for hours now, waiting to spend time with Bryant.

It doesn't take long for him to startle awake. His eyes more bloodshot than last night, the whites of them more yellow and red. The harsh dryness and heavy drinking are really taking a toll. He rubs the back of his hand against them and tries hard to roll them around for moisture. I don't know how to explain it exactly, but I imagine what I'm seeing is the effect of alcohol dehydrating every last part of him. His skin looks old and the bags beneath his eyes are dark and sunken in. I have an urge to find water for him immediately.

"Let's get something to drink," I say.

I shift my weight and drop my feet to the floor. Bryant does the same. He still moves like a man that's drank too much, but if his grandparents aren't paying close attention, they might just chalk it up to morning incoordination.

We find a note in the kitchen saying they waited for us to wake up for a long time but decided to grab breakfast in town. They will be back and we can all go for ice cream. It's sweet. Bryant dips out to go to the bathroom while I scavenge the kitchen for something to eat. I find generic brand fruit circles and a small jug of milk. By the time he is back, I have two bowls poured.

I'm not suspicious at first, but something already looks off about the way he's moving and talking.

"I met someone," I tell him.

"Oh yea?" he says. He pushes the bowl away from himself and reaches in his pocket for his phone. He hasn't had anything to eat so I'm surprised he doesn't want breakfast. His hand rubs down as his face as he stares at the screen.

"Yes. She was at a car show," I say. I can tell he isn't really listening closely.

I grow suspicious he might have drank something already this morning. I don't want to accuse him, but the thought is alarming. Where could he have gotten it?

"Car show? Is she a car girl?" he asks. With this he lifts his eyes to mine.

"Not really. She is looking for someone in one of the clubs," I tell him.

"What do you mean?" He asks. Bryant pushes off the counter and waits for my response.

"Her friend was hurt. She thinks it was someone in one of the crews," I tell him. I scoop up another bite of cereal. "You should probably eat something," I add.

"That's kind of dangerous. She should probably stay away from the crews if she doesn't know what they are all about," he answers.

"Don't you eat breakfast?" I ask. I don't really care about telling him about Jaina anymore. I'm worried my friend isn't eating and might actually be drinking his breakfast when he isn't in front of me.

"I don't want to eat. I ever eat breakfast," he says.

It's not true, or at least it didn't used to be true. He and I eat all the time. There isn't a meal in the day that we won't crush. I try to remember the lst time he turned down a meal and a slide show of previous time before we went out drinking come to mind. He would do it so it didn't take as much alcohol to get drunk. I stare up at him as I am sitting on a stool at the bar in the kitchen. Is that what he's doing now? All I can see is the way he is aging in front of me. His body is fading away, getting skinnier and skinnier with each passing week.

"I poured you a bowl," I state, hoping the insistence will get him to put something other than alcohol on his stomach.

"What do you mean her friend got hurt? You know she should be poking around in those groups, E. It's not safe," he says. He takes his bowl to the sink and dumps it.

"Bryant, you have to get food on your stomach. Come on man. You don't look good. Let's eat and head back to town. You're going to get in trouble here," I tell him.

"Thanks, Mom," he says sarcastically.

His grandparents pull into the driveway. This conversation will have to be tabled for a later time.