The Roaming

The Roaming: Part 1

        Award certificates, diplomas, and greeting card photos cover the walls in a heavy, intimidating coat. Somewhere in the room is a tall man dressed in a sleek black suit, his hair cropped short and his chin spotted with sharp brown stubble. Somewhere there is an uptight woman with silver rimmed glasses and pursed purple lips. Maybe, if I'm fortunate, they're in a different room entirely. That's what it sounds like, anyway- their speech blocked, slurred together. Maybe I just have a glass fishbowl on my head. Whatever the circumstance, I don't enjoy their company. I've never really liked adults. I even refrain from selling to them- but grown-ups are a lot more desperate for their next fix, and henceforth tend to pay me much more handsomely.
     I've never smoked, snorted, injected, digested, or drank in my life. I don't find the idea of being confused and having lowered senses to be so appealing, but I have a natural interest in plants, so I figured I could make a quick buck out of their resources. Maybe I just do it for the rush, or for the knowledge that I'm finally known for something. I've never actually needed the money, but any kind of attention is welcomed by me wholeheartedly, even when you're known around town as the Grass Kid. At the same time, however, I prefer that attention to be discreet, to know people are at least whispering about me behind my back, spreading my name like a plague. It makes me feel like I'm something... special.
     "Valentine will be suspended from school for the next month. He will not have the option of choosing his classes for high school like all the other students. Whatever he scores on his online finals will determine his grades for the eighth grade. He needs to be kept on a tight leash," the old hag's dark graying hair is pulled back into a tight, perfect bun. She turns to me with a sharp glare and I return one right back at her. What she needs is a swift kick in the-
     "I understand. I know what my son has done is inexcusable, but please do not advise me on how to handle my own child," there's a moment of silence as my dad lets that linger in the air before continuing, "is there anything else I'll need to fill out?" He asks, easing the tension only slightly.
     "Yes; well, just this," she slides a form across the desk along with a simple ballpoint pen. The entire time Dad fills it out, she's watching me, as if she's about to scold me for slouching, or say that I look too comfortable for someone being suspended. Maybe I would like my dad more if he weren't such a prick. Ever since the divorce he's been cold and solemn, only focusing on work. My mom tries to tell me that he's not a bad guy, but I've been reassured of that a lot less lately, since I've stopped staying at her house every weekend. We now only talk every two weeks, sometimes every week if I'm lucky. Even then, though, it's over the phone. I guess it's mostly my fault for shutting everyone out. Even my best and only friend Kyle has become a mere acquaintance.

        Throughout the car ride home, though the seats are comfortable and the drive is smooth, a sense of hostility can be felt in the cold air- but it's not coming from my dad. It's coming from me. "You do know that the only reason you're not in juvenile detention right now is because I have ties with the court, right? You're lucky to be getting off with only a month of community service," he chastises, or tries to, at least. We don't talk much anymore, so it's hard for him to say anything that will make me feel bad about what I've done.
     "Uh huh," I mumble. My cheek rests on my fist as I watch cars zip past us. The scenery seems duller than I remember, other than the speeding vehicles, and the last time I went down this road was only an hour ago. Still, everything is so... lifeless. Even the fancy houses with groundskeepers at work and fountains on the front lawn are boring. In fact, if my eyes aren't mistaken, some of the groundskeepers aren't even moving, and it looks as if their clothes have been torn. Maybe they're just taking a break, or the hard work has taken a slight toll on them. Whatever the case, I ignore it.
      Dad sounds like he's struggling for words. "Why... why did you even do it? I know you. You don't hang out with any of the people Ms. Wallace listed. I know them all- a bunch of... losers. I don't... I don't know any other way to describe them. Kids who are going nowhere in life. What happened to Kyle and Jenny?"
     Kyle and I had fallen apart from each other about a year ago. He didn't want to take part in my little business. As for Jenny... Jenny was a girl I dated a couple months ago. "Kyle and I stopped seeing eye to eye, and Jenny and I broke up a long time ago," I can feel dad glancing over at me while driving with a pained expression.
     "But Jenny was such a nice girl-"
     "I was twelve, Dad, and Jenny was the one who ended it. Not like you cared enough to ask," I sit forward and sling the strap of my backpack over my shoulder, as we now pull up in our driveway. I never say it aloud, but it always bothers me how big and modern our house is for only two people. I would enjoy it more if it was just a small, quaint Victorian home, or maybe even a simple townhouse. With a sigh, I step out of the car.
     "I've always found stoic people to be very admirable, Valentine," Dad says, but then shakes his head and closes his car door as he gets out, "but not in your case. It's not healthy to keep things all bottled up," he finishes, giving me a concerned look. Of course, I never actually make eye contact with him, I can simply feel him staring at me that way by his tone of voice. I ignore him and slam my door shut before jogging up to the front door of the house.
     It opens up to a hall that split in four different directions. One could go up the hard wood stairs to the bedrooms and restrooms, or one could stay on the first floor and veer left through the archway and enter the kitchen with upgraded appliances, black and white tile floors, and granite topped counters. From the kitchen one could walk into the dining room, much too big for only two people, and from the dining room you could enter the living room. There rested the only television in the house, black leather couches and armchairs, and glass end and coffee tables. From the living room one could either go outside to the back porch, or you could return to the main hall. If you were to go right after coming through the front door, you would end up in Dad's study, but no one goes in Dad's study.
     "Well, if you don't want to talk, then just let me give it to you straight. I'm having Billy come over tomorrow to clean out your room," Billy is Dad's friend from the police department, but I don't really care if he's coming; he can take what he wants, "and you and I are having dinner tonight, together. Be down in the dining room at seven," he says, but this time, he's the one who won't make eye contact. I furrow my brows at him before groaning and hurrying up the stairs to my bedroom.
     My room is rather simple, if you're able to look past the desk in the shadows of the room, layered in several dozen leather journals that are filled with pictures and descriptions of plants. Other than that, it's relatively average. My bed is covered in navy blue sheets and tucked into the corner, the walls are painted white, the carpet is colored black, and there are two floor to ceiling windows furthermost from the door. My laptop is lying on the ground by the bean bag chair, as is my backpack now, and only a few feet from them is the door to my bathroom.
     I groan and stumble to the mirror. It's eleven in the morning, way too early to be awake on a Saturday. In the reflection is a young boy looking a few years older than he actually is. He has shaggy sand colored hair, tanned skin, and a thin, scrawny build. He's between about 5'3", and he wears a simple green T-shirt as well as a pair of blue jeans. His features are almost ghastly; his dull grey eyes are sunken in with dark circles around them, his lips are pale and chapped, and his cheek bones protrude more than they should. He looks like someone who hasn't slept in weeks.
     I turn away from the mirror and fall onto my bed. That isn't who I used to be- I wasn't always tired, unmotivated. Before the divorce I was frenetic, happy, or so my mom would say. She noticed things about me that I never even noticed. I guess that's part of being a mom. I don't remember my parents ever being mad at each other. In fact, I can't seem to recall a moment when they weren't laughing or dancing. Sometimes I even found it hard to put up with their adulation, which I now look back on and see as odd, since I was only ten. A ten year old shouldn't be annoyed with their parents' admiration, they should bask in it. Because if they're like me, they'll never experience it again.
     I shouldn't be so depressed about it. It was over three years ago; I've gotten used to the loneliness of my bedroom, the gloom that follows my father wherever he goes. I can tell that he's been wanting to make it up to me, but it's just too late now.

        I stay in my room for eight hours straight, passing the time by thoroughly cleaning the place out on my own. I know Billy is going to double check everything anyway, but he won't find anything that's not placed right before his eyes. I even grab the weed from under the floor boards and in the separated pipes under the sink, stuffing it all in a plastic bag along with everything else. Plus, it gives me an excuse to finally make my bed and organize my journals. I have fifty two of them, divided into two groups- edible/harmless plants, and poisonous plants. Twenty six books in each category, a book for every letter of the alphabet. It took me months to create all of them, but afterwards it felt relaxing to kick back and read about every type of toxic plant that started with a V, or every comestible plant that began with a B. That's how I spend the remaining six hours before dinner.
     I'm not sure what Dad would do if I don't show up, but I don't really care enough to find out. I grab the bag of drugs and slump down the stairs. When I make my way into the dining room, Dad's already there, sitting at the opposite end of the table. Everything is set; a plate of roasted potatoes, caeser salad, two veggie burgers, and salted apple slices laid out in front of my chair. I glance back and forth between him and the food before tossing the bag on the dining table and plopping down in my seat. I'm already eating by the time he speaks up. "May I ask what's in the bag?" He questions from the other end of the table.
     "Everything," I reply without hesitation, my eyes not veering away from my food, "mostly just weed, but there's some heroin and cocaine in there, too, and a few syringes," I can hear Dad scoffing, at a loss of words as he shakes his head and buries his face in his hands, "plus a few sheets of rolling paper, some bowls, and a couple of lighters," I finish.
     "W-why," he stutters, leaning back in his seat and gaping at me in disbelief. Dad laughs slightly, but it's dry- definitely not a laugh of enthusiasm, "did you ever use them?" He asks quietly.
     "No," I snap back, insulted to be accused of such in the first place, "I only sold them."
     "Oh, because that's so much better," he shakes his head again, "for the rush? For the money? What could you possibly need money for? You're thirteen- your father is a... A great lawyer, if I do say so myself. You have nothing you personally need to pay for-"
     I slam my glass against the table, frozen for a moment before speaking. "I don't want anything from you."
     Neither of us say another word. Quiescence fills the room- the whole house, actually. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. I should have just lied and told him I did do the drugs, just to humor him. Dad is as speechless as I am, or less, I guess, since he's about to say something before the phone rings. I get up immediately to answer it. Dad sighs and hunches over the table, pinching the bridge of his nose. The only two reasons I get up to get the phone is one, because I need to do something other than sit and eat in silence, and two, because mom is the only one that calls this house anymore. "Hello, Mom?" I say, sounding somewhat demanding, but she soon beats me in that contest.
     "Valentine, sweetie? Valentine, you need to go right now. Get out of Baltimore with your father. I-I don't know what's happening, but it's not safe here, Valentine. Please-"
     "Mom? What are you talking about? What's going on over there?" I urge, my voice rising louder and louder by the second.
     "Sh, Valentine, you have to be quiet. Something happened to Darin, and it's happening to other people too. Please, just... just get out of the city and stay away from people- and take your father with you, Valentine. Make sure neither of you get sick, you have to look out for one ano-" she's cut off by some kind of angered groaning and seconds later the phone starts beeping rapidly. I hesitantly take the phone away from my ear and put it back in its holder.
     "Valentine," Dad calls from behind me, sounding concerned, and he should be. I am too, "Valentine, what was your mother calling about?" But I do not meet his eyes. I don't have time to, at least. As if on cue, sirens begin wailing outside, as well as the screams of children and adults alike. I run without warning. Dad calls after me, but I do not reply. I dash up the stairs and into my bedroom, pouring my journals into a duffel bag, as well as whatever clothes are in my immediate proximity. Mom said to get out of Baltimore, and she's never lied to me before, so that's exactly what I'm going to do- with or without my father.
     "Valentine!" He demands, now standing in my doorway.
     "Pack some clothes, food, water, whatever useful supplies you can find. Get the gun, too. Get the gun. Mom said to get out of town and to stay away from people. It didn't sound like she was joking, and by what I'm hearing coming from outside, I highly doubt she was. Hurry," I rush past him and jog down the steps.
     I pull back the curtains only slightly. Outside, chaos erupts on the streets. It's hard to make out what exactly is happening. All I can see is that people are biting and attacking other people, cars are smashing into houses, and kids are standing in the middle of the street, unsure of what to do without an adult. They just sit there and bawl their eyes out until someone comes and hurries off with them in their arms- or doesn't. I shut the curtains when I see a heavy old man tackle the four year old that lives across the street.
     Well, at least the community service will be postponed.