Wayward

CHAPTER FOUR

The mustard yellow data entry tie squeezed his neck. His was a fish in a sea of mustard yellow data entry ties. They were a corporation of students and they were off to the races, each in their own silent, separate worlds. Together in dress and little else. His mother had been unable to change her vote, but it didn't matter. She could see which way the wind was blowing.

Everything was a race to the top. The more lectures you attended, the more chapters you read, the more challenges you completed, the better your life could be. His classmates were his competitors. The bags under their eyes, their worn wristguards, their dishevelled clothes and overstuffed backpacks - these were the signs of their relentless dedication to the system that offered them a chance to be something.

Jim spotted these types with ease. He watched them drive away in chrome cars with tidy geometric shapes. These students would not be found wearing yellow ties. And for most of them, the system would not be kind. But for a few, there was hope. Only a few.

The bus pulled past him and he watched it disappear. Any other Friday, he would have been on that bus. Today was a special day. Uncle Pete's truck thundered into the pickup lane. It was rickety and dented. He had asked not to be picked up at school. He didn't want people to see his uncle's truck. But Pete did what Pete wanted to do.

It was late on a Friday, the day before a sale and the clouds and dust above the city glowed magma hot, fending off the sunshine. Jim stepped into the old Ford and they rolled past stares of people who'd never seen a manual car up close before. He said hi to Pete, who nodded, sat back and looked out the windows.

Pete often seemed far away, his features buried beneath a thick beard. Ever since his hair had started to gray he had donned an old baseball cap stamped with a logo that was scratched out beyond recognition. Jim's mother always griped about how Pete was "off the grid". His father would listen, nodding and agree that it was odd. Pete seemed to be the only exception to Jim's rule. He'd lived on the outside.

"What's with the getup?" Pete said.

"School uniforms."

"Tell your dad to get you a different color tie."

"I have to wear this one."

"You don't have to do anything," Pete said. Jim wanted to argue, but Pete either wouldn't understand or her wouldn't care. They drove on for a half an hour, his uncle humming and tapping the wheel. He looked out at the horizon. It was empty, cold desert.

"They finally found that hangar they said was out there," he said. "When we get close, we'll be able to see it."

Jim watched for it. He often wondered about the hangars. Inside, there were massive, ancient spacecraft dubbed Spheres. Jim even had a model of one on his nightstand.

"I was just a boy when they found the first one," he said.

Jim pressed closer to the window. He could imagine Pete as a boy. He was probably as scrappy then as he was now. His mind was probably just as restless, too. Jim thought of the infinite stacks of musty books that his uncle refused to let go of. How long ago had he started collecting them? He probably even wore that same hat as a kid. Jim's father said he was born with it on.

Pete cleared his throat.

"It's funny. I half-expected Fritz to jump into the truck like he used to. Sometimes I could swear he's right behind me."

He had a way of saying things that made you feel like he didn't necessarily need to respond. Jim liked that. There was a plunk when his Pete spit into his red cup. He set it back down in the cup holder. He always chewed on the way to the auction; it seemed to be his way of occupying himself on the long drive.