Grayson Snaps

Chapter 4: Plan and Execution

Chapter 4: Plan and Execution

Tristan Sinclair lives three blocks away in a slightly newer part of Bailey Downs. Down in the basement, Grayson and I hatch the details of our plan as Mom and Dad get ready for their little counseling session. We grab the dog, sprinkle the guts and blood on a little patch of his yard, and vola! Tristan Sinclair now thinks his dog has become nature's fertilizer.

The streetlamps kick on at 7:00, obstructing the fullness of the setting sunset. Tonight the sun has gone down just before 6:30, casting the whole of the sky in a dull salmon pink enclosed with orange. I actually watched it set tonight as Grayson dug in the shed for the supplies. With the setting sun, brings the rising cold. I can hear the slight static buzzzzzz of the streetlamps above our heads, the rustling of the trees, and the scraping of leaves against the solid ground. The whole of the street is lit by a distinct yellow glow, reflecting against the parked cars' tinted windows.

In the distance, a dog barks loudly; its woof is deep and penetrates the quiet air.

Cars whizz passed us, their headlights cutting through the dusk. Gray seems relaxed as we cross between two of the houses. If anything, he's excited. If I'm anything, I'm nervous. I don't recall the beginnings of me getting so anxious in the last two hours. My heart is thudding in my chest and I the back of my throat feels kind of sticky. He and I are both wrapped up in our coats and thick woolen scarves. My scarf hangs loosely around my throat, brown. Grayson's scarf is gray and fluffier, covering most of his neck. I have my camera slung over my shoulder on a strap. We probably look the farthest thing from a couple guys looking to get into trouble, except for what Grayson's holding.

He has a clear plastic bag in his hand. Or, at least, it used to be clear. Now it's stained red with the fake guts and blood we have stashed away. It sloshes when he walks. Slosh, slosh, slosh.

"Gray." I say as we slip down another strip of land dividing two of the houses.

"What?"

"We're going to get caught."

He looks at me like I just said I have genital herpes.

"No, we won't."

Maybe I am being ridiculous. But, fuck, I can see it now: the mass that is Tristan Sinclair standing in his yard having just caught Gray and I trying to kidnap his dog. I can see my face beat into a bloody pulp with his colossal fist. I can see Grayson with one too many broken ribs.

We step onto another sidewalk, walk a few yards, and are now by another fence. Past the hard, twisted metal I can see the park in the near distance.

"I bet the dog won't even be out," I say.

Now I'm really rethinking this. Why had I proposed this stupid thing in the first place?

"Well, E, he has to piss sometime," Grayson suggests blatantly.

"People don't leave their dogs out alone anymore."

"Fuck, this was your idea," he says in return, looking at me with an air of slight agitation, "Why are you backing out now?"

"There are these little things. They're called consequences. Ever heard of 'em, Gray?"

He continues as though he hasn't heard me. I can feel my face flushing in the cold and the frustration rise in me. I'd back out now, but we are almost to the park. Enclosing the park is dead, thick woods. There're trees upon trees. Some are so old that I can't even remember them not being there; Grayson and I used to play here when we were kids. I still have that memory of us rolling around in the sand, trying to make each other eat it. I can't help but smile as we walk along the wide sidewalk and onto the main stretch of grass.