pencil shavings

twelve: peter

I don't know how long I sit at that table in Mocha's with my head on my arms, scanning the Odyssey but not really reading it. The Greek is hard, and my mind is still spinning with something Sam said. Maybe not something she said, but more of the way she patted my shoulder on her way out, smiling at me and saying that she would see me tomorrow, joking about how she would wear her AC/DC shirt just to spite me.

And I, of course, had smiled back and told her that I would have said something rude, but I would spare her as she already was on the highway to hell. And then I had been alone at the table with a cup of cold coffee and a page full of notes. I'm simultaneously giddy at the thought of her as my friend, frustrated that I had allowed her to become my friend, and of course feeling pathetic that the whole friend thing is such a big deal to me. You'd think I was six.

"You planning on staying the night, sugar?" The plump lady comes over, clearing away dishes and smiling like Sam. No wonder they're friends.

"I wish," I say, shaking my head. "Brother's running late is all. I should go try to call him, I guess."

I start to stand, hoping she wouldn't see through my lie, but the lady doesn't move out of the way.

"Are you sure?" Her thin eyebrows furrow in concern.

"Oh yeah, thank you," I say with a forced smile. She nods apprehensively. It's getting late I know, but as I step out into the afternoon light, I still find it hard to stomach the walk home. Aimless walking while blasting Foreigner seems like the best remedy. Shoes squeaking, the wind around the corners, the chatter of couples walking past - it all fades into notes and words and raw emotion, something my teenage brain can understand. My reflection in the store I pass scares me a little, with the windblown poof of hair on my forehead nearly hiding my bloodshot eyes and my clothes clinging loosely to my thin form. I look like one of those skinny blow-up people they put outside car stores.

Sometimes I wonder if there's a world inside reflections, if it's like a Narnia in there and I can just go inside and be the mirror Peter and not whatever Peter I am now, and if I have magic powers to fight away any fears and friends always there to fight anything else. If there, I can be Agamemnon or some other character brought to life by that stupid writing group.

"Yo, Twigs."

"Hey... look who it is..."

And they wouldn't exist.

"Twigs, you seen your brother?"

My mind snaps to the ground at that.

"What do you mean? He was with you guys this morning."

I stand on the corner, facing the three guys on motorcycles as they shake their heads, all clearly suffering from bad hangover fogs.

"No, Twigs."

"We didn't see 'im this morning."

Arnie steps forward to grab my shoulder. My eyes widen.

"Kid, where's Danny?"

I can feel my breath go shallow. He was here this morning, it's fine, it's all fine, he's probably just walking or something...

I fumble for my phone, but Arnie stops me. "Tried it, man. Not pickin' up."

There aren't any words left in my throat. Not picking up. What the hell does that mean?

I call anyway and it goes to voicemail. Shit. The next time too. Arnie lets me try three more times and then stops me. Shit shit shit shit shit.

"I'm gonna go," I manage eventually, and the guys just look at each other warily. "Call me if you find him."

"Yeah, kid," Arnie assures me, watching as I cross the street. I shove my earbuds back in, and fear buries itself in me alongside them. Louder, louder, louder, I walk down the sidewalk and bump into a man in a trench coat, my eyes on the concrete slabs. One. Two. Three. There is nothing in my mind, nothing but my feet on the ground and the music in my ears and the numbers on my lips. Seven. Eight. Nine. Nothing, nothing, nothing; the rhythm of my steps dancing with the numbers and the music until it is all the same black hole of thoughts. Eleven. Twelve. And from the back of my empty mind, a little voice whispers his name with such repetition that the word denotes itself to a jumble of incoherent syllables. Fourteen.

I wander around the town, block by block, just looking. I keep going, even when my feet yelp and my eyelids weigh me down and the fear inside me thrives in a state of twisting dark. Fifteen. Keep walking, keep counting, keeping chanting in the exhales of my feeble breaths.

Dan. Dan. Dan. Dan. Dan...