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Chapter 5

Tyler Emery

Colin's beat-up truck was in my spot of the car port and I felt myself growl involuntarily. It was mostly a fire truck red, but it had been the frequent victim of reckless driving and collisions with poles, trees, bicycles, little brothers, and other vehicles. This had worn off the paint in various places and left dings and dents over the entire body. You couldn't open the passenger side door, so his numerous girlfriends, clad in five pounds of make-up and jeans tighter than skin, had to crawl over from the driver's side. It was a wonder the thing found the courage to continue working.

I pulled up beside him, my hands tightening on the steering wheel in annoyance. The car port was big enough for two cars, side-by-side, but no one took Mom's spot. Her life was hard enough with housing a drop-out, a slacker and sass-master, and working as many hours as possible in the local Pancake House. She didn't need the added inconvenience of having to get wet by the Georgia thunderstorms while walking out to her car. In truth, she deserved a legitimate garage instead of a flimsy, tin overhang, but the funds just weren't there. I promised myself in that moment that I would buy her one, even if every cent in my bank account had to go towards it. I didn't have the patience for college anyway.

I rolled up my driver's side window, sprang out of my truck's cab, and slammed the rickety door behind me. Drew's drawing was left on the dashboard, and I mentally reminded myself to grab it next time. I didn't bother doing it now; I was too riled up about everything. Had Alexis and I broken up? Did she expect me to call her? Did I really care about her that much?

I screamed in frustration and walked around my truck to kick the driver's side door of Colin's disaster. Today had turned into an absolute hot mess. I remembered waking up with a sigh and thinking that today, this Wednesday in the middle of October, would be a good one, great even. I should have known. The only good days I had at school were in seventh grade with my algebra teacher, Mr. Davis. He had a walrus mustache, a posh Yankee accent, and he always wore suits and ties with his trademark pocket watch. It was like he had stepped out of an old film and straight into our concrete classroom to teach us about integers and the number line. Almost every day he asked me to stay after class because he knew I was a terror in my other classes, I would mouth off, throw paper airplanes, draw crude drawings on the whiteboards, and he wanted me to succeed. He went through all of my homework with me to make sure I understood it and everyday he would tell me that maybe tomorrow will be better. He said that to me the day before he died of a stroke.

I bounded up the stairs to the front porch, the old wood squeaking under the slight weight. Inside the house, the sound of strangled screams and heavy breathing could be heard. I groaned and was tempted to get right back in my truck and leave. What could my brother possibly be doing? Having sex? Having a dog fight? One part of me did not want to deal with it all, but the other couldn't help thinking that if it were illegal, the police and prison were just three buttons away... I shouldered the door open, mentally preparing myself for anything, but only finding my brother sitting on the worn carpet of the living room, screaming into his gaming headset as his Call of Responsibility character shot someone from the opposing team. A controller was gripped in his hands, his fourth one this month because he was prone to tearing them apart in frustration, and he was putting the other online players through the ringer with swear words and racial slurs. His older XGlobe 370 blinked tiredly from the TV stand, begging me to put it out of its misery.

I grabbed a pillow off the armchair by the door and hurled it at him, screaming, "When will you get your own place?"

He ripped his headset off and spun around. He was in dirty jeans, a "wife beater" tank top that was covered in sweat and ketchup stains, and dirty socks. His blonde hair, hair so blonde it was almost white, was cut in a crew cut and was still filled with wood shavings from his job at the local lumber yard. "Who peed in your Cheerios, psycho?" His voice was gruff, like sandpaper, and he threw the pillow back at me. I dodged it and stormed into the kitchen, my hands balling and relaxing in frustration.