pencil shavings

five: peter

The slight breeze and postcard worthy sunlight flitters past me, wonderful as being slow cooked over a bonfire. Let me make it clear that I hate warm places, which is probably exactly why Mother Dear sent me here.

I also hate trekking 'home' by myself, with nothing but my earbuds to separate me from the agony of encountering fellow humans. The tourists, traffic, make-up smothered sales ladies. So I assume the standard Socially-Inept-Teenager position: I blast my most ear-splintering music, smooth the hair poking out of my beanie, shove my hands into my pocket, drop my head, and begin counting boxes on the sidewalk until I get to twelve because then I have to cross the street.

Horns blare, people yell in what I think is Chinese, and a mob of guys with tattoos squeal around the corner on their- oh God.

Harleys.

"Hey it's Twigs!"

Four pathetic wanna-be gang guys roll past, successfully blocking the street with their pricy hunks of metal and extensive egos. My nose crinkles at the overwhelming reek of cigarette smoke and insecurity, which sweeps in after them

"Great to see you, too, Dan," I murmur, willing a gust of hot air to blow them all away like leaves in autumn.

He offers that lazy smile and chews his lip, easing onto the ground. "It's Wingman. Damn it, Twigs, you gotta accept your place, you know?"

Arnie steps forward, squinting at me in what would be an intimidating fashion, had I not known that his crescent-moon eyes were from a deep need for glasses that he would never acknowledge.

"Why the hell you lookin' so preppy."

I raise my eyebrows with what I hope is nonchalance. Arnie's breath permeates the air with the vile tang of alcohol when he snorts out a laugh. The other guys wheeze too.

"Yeah Twigs, you look more like Mom than Mom does."

My brother finally steps toward me too, that lazy grin still plastered on his once-handsome face. The guys laugh again, coughing like a 60 year old chainsmoker.

"At least I don't look more like Dad than Dad does," I whisper, but my eyes are as hard as my voice is soft.

The laughing stops. Dan cusses, quietly. He fumbles back onto his Harley. His hair - just like mine - flops across his forehead as he shakes his head, just like always.

I wait there like a buoy, trying desperately to tether them to the shore.

"Party at the house while Susan's out," is all he mutters, not looking at me, before they roar away into the smudged gray-brown of the town. Gone. Just like always.

I let out a breath, even as something in my chest tightens a little more. My eyes turn back to the road, I cross the street, then let my head drop and count the boxes on the concrete again.

Again and again and again.

Two hundred fifty-six squares later, old doors creak once before the silent coolness of the library envelops me. The house would be a nightmare, so I resort to my only other residence within walking distance.

And waiting, safe from heat and stupid older brothers and parties and motorcycles, are Michael Crichton and Charles Dickens and Jane Austen and Shakespeare and Virgil and Cicero. Remember how I said I had friends? Well, folks, there you have them. And they're substantially superior to other high schoolers, let me assure you.

The squeaky linoleum is excruciating as ever as I squelch down the hall of dead quiet, each step like a foghorn worthy of shushing from the bespectacled librarian at the counter. A a homeless guy yawns from the thriller aisle, a mom reads aloud quietly in the kids area, pretty college girl pour over thick encyclopedias in a secluded nook. She looks like Sam for a minute, but it's not her. Right. She's probably all cozy at home with her photoshopped family, while Matt takes his hot girlfriend to some sappy movie, and, yes, thanks for asking, I'm all set for my date with a dead philosopher.

I settle into a corner with The Odyssey nestled in my arm, closing my eyes briefly to let the smell of something profound linger on its cover.

Dad is there, just behind my eyelids, with his eyes all scrunched up as he smiles, his hands so big and warm over mine, and Mom is laughing and laughing and everyone from Kelsie to Mark to freaking Dan is there and it's the Christmas before Dad lost his job and his will to live and Mom's hair is still a beautiful auburn and Dan is the football star and I'm not just doing well in school, but I'm actually enjoying it, and all the little ones are wearing new clothes and there aren't summers with Aunt Susan or scholarship writing camps or Harleys or nights alone in a library with Homer.

There's no Wingman, no Arnie. No tourists crowding the roads, no bespectacled librarian glancing at me over the stacks, no cute college girl packing to leave.

Just me and the classics and the history, with a dad like Aslan or Agamemnon...

Agamemnon. Right.

I fall asleep with my face squished on the table and my mind lost in the thickets of what sparse third-grade imagination I have left. Dang it Sam; I've been corrupted.