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Addiction

Chapter Two

One hundred seventy-nine

By:

Rufus Quentin

September 1, 1998

It was far worse than we thought. As soon as the diagnosis came in, I knew things would be bad, but this exceeded my expectations. Nothing could have prepared us for the abject horror that greeted us two seniors upon climbing into the rural school bus. The stink, the screaming, the sight of gossiping freshmen had a nauseating effect coupled with the anxiety common on the first day of school. My brother and I tiptoed down the narrow aisle, our faces distorted by looks of disgust, avoiding contact with anything and anyone as if we were wading through a warehouse filled to the brim with living medical waste. It had been several years since we last had to do this and back then we hadn't been spoiled by the wonder of having one's own car. You can never go back, I thought to myself, as I looked for a seat that didn't reek of urine or wasn't already occupied by some little snot or mental case.

We sat down sharing one of the sticky, precariously seat-belt-less, benches closest to the exit. Not once during our entire lives had we sat down next to each other on a school bus. This time we huddled together as if out of self-preservation, sharing a knowing glance that conveyed unspeakable revulsion and sorrow, but that was the only communication between us for that twenty-to-twenty-five minute ride to our run down, pathetic high school. We were entering into "school-mode," the permanently apathetic, defensive, at best invisible, behavior that would see us through the day. Most importantly my brother and I had to ignore each other. It was bad enough that we shared those embarrassingly similar fur patterns, let alone be seen together, on the bus of all places. This year would test this survival strategy.

Thankfully no one else rode the bus that would know us, that could betray this indignity to higher circles. The bottleneck would be on campus, where the bus would drop us off. That's where we ran the highest risk of being spotted. Dustin told me he knew a back route and that all I had to do was trust him and follow him. I didn't have much of a choice but to put my faith in him. I was never much of a status seeker in high school, but I wasn't part of the counterculture either. I just wanted to be invisible. I wanted to take the middle road. Though I would have denied it at the time, I did just want to fit in, not to a higher crowd, but to a circle. I really wanted to belong somewhere, with a group, with a collective identity. Aside from my friends, my colleagues of necessity, the three or four oddballs too idiosyncratic to be called cool, jock, goth or punk, I never really belonged anywhere. My senior year was my last chance to find it. Second to getting into college, that was my priority. Damn it if our broken truck cost that for me.

Our first day of school occurred on a dreary, overcast day, one that reminded us that summer was indeed coming to a close and that we could expect many more days like this in the coming autumn months. Stepping out of that bus onto the concrete curb in front of our building felt depressing, everything about it seemed tinctured in an unpleasant combination of déjà vu and fatalist nihilism. We were half pushed out by that throng of unpleasant children and half bullied our way free. My brother was nearly out of sight by the time my foot-paws hit the pavement. I bolted after him, looking both ways just to see if anyone saw us. Dustin took an odd route, darting or the fire entrance behind the auditorium where the dumpsters stood. I felt a little ridiculous, like a cub actually, for letting adolescent paranoias compel me into such clandestine behavior. It was sad that I let myself be moved by such things, especially since I was legally an adult.

Sure enough the back door was where he went. He held it open for me to follow. We wordlessly parted ways as soon as we entered. It would have been creepy for us to spend too much time together, costing us valuable social credibility points. From there the familiar ritual began; locker, bathroom, walk down the hall, congregation in front of the first period door, school. The first day is always useless, but useless has to start somewhere. The whole day was just a matter of listening instructor to instructor list off their I-told-ya-so's. The worst part was the back to school rally after lunch. The damn thing sopped up two hours where I could have been on my way home. Since I turned 18 a week earlier, I had the privilege of checking myself out without parental consent. Watching those cheerleaders do their shit and listening to our principal ramble made me worry that I'd be implementing that privilege more than intended. The day did end. One down, one hundred and seventy nine left to go.

Needless to say I in no way felt up to riding the bus back home. I asked around for a ride, checked with friends, friends of friends, loose contacts and associates, until no one was left willing to give me a ride to my backwater house. Downtrodden by seven hours of pointlessness I met my brother out on the curb where the busses were lined up for the torturous ride. This time we had to wait as if naked and exposed in front the critical eyes of all our peers like prey before predators.

"Hey," I said to my brother, my ears cast down as if I were about to take a beating.

"Hey," he said, looking more defiant to our circumstances than I.

"Find anything?" I asked.

"No. You?"

"Nope."

We stood there in the wake of diesel fumes resigned to our fate, the most painful part being that this was just the start of things. There would be so much more indignity to come.

"Do you want to just take the municipal bus?" Dustin asked.

"The municipal? You mean the greyhound?"

"Yea. Makes a stop here, then down at Shenandoah."

"Doesn't help us."

"Gets us closer."

"It's still a fucking mile away."

"More like two thirds. I know a shortcut. Plus you don't have to deal with..." he nodded in the direction of the rabid gathering of freshmen and sophomores.

"How much?"

"You got two bucks?"

"Yea."

"There ya go."

"Fine," I said, looking around and feeling antsy to get out of there. We walked the steps to the public bus stop and waited the five minutes or so for the bus to arrive. A few others our age waited there too, clearly we weren't the only ones to be in such a fucked up situation. That gave me a little bit more confidence in this makeshift solution.

The municipal felt like riding first-class compared to the school bus. We were dropped off in half the time, along with a few other juniors and seniors too poor to drive themselves and too dignified to get on a bus with the cubs. We still had an hour or so to go, so said my brother, from the bus stop on highway fifty-two. I had second thoughts as I looked at the hill in front of us. I've hiked it many times, none of those times for pleasure. It would be a predominantly uphill stint.

"Fuck," I said, looking up ahead of us.

"Not a bad walk. I run it every so often."

"Since when do you run?"

"Since always. A lot happens while you're sleeping 'till eleven."

"You do this every morning?"

"This is one of my hikes, if I'm feeling lazy. It's a short one."

"But all the hills?" I asked, still not comprehending how my brother could get up earlier than me and run at least a mile.

"You get used to them. It's actually better for you than flat land. Good cardio."

"I don't believe you."

"Are you asking for a race?"

"Hell no. I wouldn't make it a hundred yards," I said, feeling a little body conscious compared to my brother.

Dustin already started walking before I could fully comprehend his actual proactivity. I'd only ever seen him in his room or around the garage. It didn't really click that he was the athletic type. He never played a sport in his life. I bounced after him, sadly conscious of that thin layer of extra padding under my belly-fur. I followed him into the brush, my brother eschewing the main road for a steep trail leading uphill and into the trees. I already panted a few hundred yards in and did my best not to let on how quickly I got winded. The distance between Dustin and I got broader, despite my best efforts. Eventually he disappeared from sight over the next rise. "Asshole," I thought to myself, "lure me along and abandon me. Jackass."

He waited for me up ahead at a fork in the path, unvexed by either the exertion or the humidity. I couldn't conceal the fact that I was winded any longer. I buckled over, braced myself on my knees, and panted.

"I thought you were in better shape than this," he teased, "don't you still play lesbian softball?"

"Its softball," I corrected, panting each work. "But no, we didn't get any sponsors this year. Love the game though. Really sucks cuz I love any sport that puts a club in my paws. You didn't notice I wasn't going to games all summer?"

"Sorry," he said. "Lesbian softball is tautological anyway and I'm not your keeper, it's not my turn to watch you."

"Where'd you learn that word?" I asked.

He shrugged. "You I guess. If it's a big and stupid, I most likely got it from you."

"Jackass," I huffed.

Before I knew it he had his back turned to me and already followed the next path. Again I struggled to keep up. I lost sight of him in almost no time at all. I wondered if he ditched me this time, but after ascending and descending two more rises I saw him standing there, leaning against a tree. "Don't you know that in fairy tales, bad things always happen to the hare?" I panted. Taking a moment to sit on a nearby fallen tree.

"Who's racing? By all means go on ahead."

I tried to stand up, but couldn't. "Gimme a min," I said, catching my breath. "How far off are we?" I asked.

"Not far," he said, looking off in the direction we had to go. "We're right by the old fort."

It took me a few seconds to catch the reference. Hearing my brother's words struck me as if with a bat upside the head. I really hadn't expected to hear that little tidbit of nostalgia, let alone for my brother to even remember it. The fort he referred to consisted of four fallen logs, each crossing each other like a set of Lincoln logs. Over years the five of us augmented that natural formation with branches, logs, and stones making a regular little fortification out of it. It was our playground until one by one my older brothers got tired of playing with us cubs and moved on to more age appropriate things like girls, dating, and subsequently college. My brother and I inherited it, us being the last two in line, but we let it dilapidate. Dustin even tried setting it on fire once. I hadn't visited it myself since I was twelve.

"The fort?" I asked?

"Yea, it's still there," he said, matter-of-factly. "Wanna see?"

I wasn't much for dwelling on the past, plus I really wanted to get home since the hike had winded me more than expected. Every step would have been torture I didn't really want to put my foot-paws through. Somehow I still felt the curiosity draw me in.

"How far?" I asked.

"Not very."

Without saying anything else Dustin left the path, his paws stomping through fallen leaves and underbrush, as if he knew exactly where to go. I followed him, stepping a bit more gingerly, given a rather pronounced phobia of arthropods and arachnids known to lurk in these kinds of woods. This time Dustin didn't run off without me. He kept turning toward me to see if I stayed close behind. I didn't recognize anything around. Either we'd come in via an angle we never used to take as cubs, or the forest had changed so much over the past six years that nature reclaimed our little haunt and all the memories forged there.

"Here," Dustin said, wandering up to what looked like an earthen mound.

"This it?" I asked.

"Right over there."

We both wandered around and truly I could see some vague resemblance to my childhood memory. It was true a lot had decayed, but the general shape still maintained its form. Gone were our improvements, save for the few rocks and boulders we schlepped from god knows where to complement our defense against whatever foil spooked us the most.

"I can't believe you remember this place," I said, stepping carefully around the fallen branches and shrubs.

"I come here every so often," he said. He took a seat upon one of the mossy, fallen logs, dropping his backpack between his foot-paws. He unzipped it and reached around within, fishing out a crumpled up brown paper bag. He helped himself to a granola bar he'd apparently saved from lunch, washing it down with half a bottle of water. I sat down beside him, a little closer than I usually would have. There was no one around to judge, nor did I really even care.

"You?" I asked, following his lead and producing half a sandwich. "The nostalgic type?"

"Not nostalgia," he said. "It's quiet here. Gives me a place to stop and think."

"Hard to imagine you thinking. Don't even know what that looks like," I said.

"Don't give me much credit, do you?"

"That's not what I meant. I just didn't think you held on to the past."

"I don't know," Dustin said, circumambulating around the dormant structure. "It's more than you know."

"We were small back then when everybody was still around."

"Six, seven?" He asked.

"About."

"You always insisted on playing with us," he said.

"War games, usually," I completed.

"We always thought it was weird of you to be into those sorts of things."

"I kinda just wanted to be part of the team. Plus I never really cared much for the girly things. Ever known me to own a doll?"

"True. I wanted a BB gun, you wanted a BB gun. I wanted a G.I. Joe mail-order tank; you wanted a G.I. Joe mail-order tank. You were the copycat."

"I guess so," I said, mature enough to admit that that was precisely who I used to be. "Can you blame me? And it wasn't just you. I also wanted to be like Nathan and Danny."

"Me too," he said.

"It changed a lot when they left," I said, speaking for us both.

"Don't blame them. Same thing happened to us. You saw what happened to us back there on the bus. You really want to hang out with ten-twelve year olds? Can't stand them."

"They were different. They helped me out so much. I would have never gotten so far without them tutoring me through pre-algebra. They really cared."

"They were family."

"Exactly. Still are. They really came through after mom left."

"We got lucky," he said.

"We did," I agreed.

"They really looked after you. Me they could care less for. I guess since I was a boy, they considered me self-maintaining. You were another story."

"How so?"

"They put a lot of effort into you. Told me to lay off you all the time. I guess because you were our only sis. Only girl in the house."

"I never wanted to be treated any differently."

"I know. I was too dumb to treat you any other way."

"Thanks, I guess," I said, wandering around between the trees, as if looking for something, I wasn't sure what. Some sign maybe, a little artifact or time capsule that managed to survive. "Have you heard from them? Nathan and Danny I mean."

"Not for a while. They don't call much. They got their own little worlds now."

"Hard to believe they're already married," I said.

"Yea. Brandon is next. I kinda wish he would move out and do something. Get his life started, ya know? All he ever does is sit in front of that Nintendo."

"You just want his room," I said.

"Brandon hasn't worked since he graduated. He's been out of high school for like three years."

"Yea. Even dad's losing his patience. We should try getting him into community college. He got good grades, but at this point I'm not sure who'll take him."

"You haven't tried to recruit him for college yet?"

"No," I said, shaking my head.

"Why'd you try to talk me into it before him?"

I shrugged. "I mean, you're different. You're younger and college is the next logical step for you. It's easier for you to transition. Once you get out, it's harder to go back."

"How do you know all these things?"

I shrugged again. "I guess I watch people. That and I've had a lot of people tell me what to do."

"And is college really what you want?"

"Of course," I immediately replied.

"Why?" he asked.

I thought for a minute, collecting reasons. "I want to get out," I said.

"You don't have to go to college to leave the state."

"True, but I'm looking for a challenge, looking for other people like me. Plus it's the best way to find a nice job, a little extra money, open a few more doors in life."

"Yea and then you're paying off loans for the better part of a decade."

"I'm hoping I can get some sort of a scholarship. Since we're practically poverty level that might be an option."

"And if you don't?"

"We'll see."

"So long as it's your decision," Dustin said, "and not anyone else's."

"It will be," I said, confidently.

"Sis," Dustin said.

"What?"

"I, uhh, might need your help."

"With what?"

"Algebra."

"Don't you think you can do it in your sleep a second time around?"

"I don't know. Failed miserably. It'd be really embarrassing if I fucked up again," His ears drooped.

"Should be easy for the first few months, mostly review for you."

"You'd think," he paused, "I can't fail it again. I don't have time for summer school and I'm not gonna stick around another year for it. It just doesn't click."

"Sure," I said, "just show me your homework when you're done, but under one condition."

"What?" he asked, cocking his head.

"Promise me you'll take the SATs with me."

"Fuck," he said, "why?"

"Just to have it, if you decide to apply. Registration is soon."

"Sis, I don't have the money for that."

"It's only like a hundred bucks. We can get some from dad, he can't refuse it, and I'll foot the rest."

"You sure? Isn't that a lot of work."

"I want you to. It's important."

"Okay," he said, ears and tail speaking of resignation. "Why are you suddenly being so nice to me?" He continued.

I didn't have an answer for that. I didn't even think I was being nice. "I'm not," I said, "I'm trying to be firm. I think I'd be a dick if I just let you slide."

"I figured you were that kind of person."

"I'm not," I said, a little bit offended that he would think of me like that.

"I'm starting to see that... No. I didn't mean that. You're cool sis."

"Just a few weeks ago you couldn't stand me."

"You couldn't stand me either."

"What changed?" I asked.

"Life fucked us over."

"Fuck yea," I said, "about eighteen years before our truck broke down."

"Is it that bad?" Dustin asked. "I thought we had a pretty decent childhood. Things just got shitty when we grew up."

"You're right," I said and looked around. "We had a lot of fun around here. Pretty wild times."

"We used to play war," Dustin said, looking around what we both remembered as the former battlefield of choice.

I nodded. "We always ranked the lowest, since we were so small. Always privates."

"Remember when I set your fur on fire with a flaming pinecone?"

I chuckled. "I do. You fucker."

"You still haven't forgiven me for that?"

"You set me on fire!" I said, wide-eyed, enunciating each word slowly and individually.

My brother just chuckled. "Sorry," he said, after a while, still smiling.

"Do we still have those muskets buried around here somewhere?" I asked.

"Muskets," he thought. "Oh yea. I don't know."

"The ones Nathan made when he was in high school metal shop. He hand-whittled the stocks himself."

"Should be over here," he said, hopping into the vaguely square formation of fallen stumps. "I forgot about those."

My brother began to dig with his paws, brushing aside twigs and decaying leaves until he reached earth. His paws became brown with soil. He picked up a stone and used that as a shovel and after a while he hit something. "This might be it," he said as I stood outside the fort and watched. He unearthed a circa yard long, barely recognizable rod, arm thick on one end and tapering on the other. Within a few minutes he laid five of them on the undisturbed leaves around him. "Yep," he said, inspecting one of them closer. He brushed off the rusty barrel and what remained of the stock. "Bout to fall apart, these things." They were nothing more than a piece of pipe screwed into a wooden stock. They had no trigger or any moving mechanism. Our eldest painted them a glossy black back in the day, but none of that shine remained. They were just toys, things that made our play a little more realistic when we pointed them at each other and said "bang."

"Where's mine?" I asked, referring to the one our brother spent extra time on. Back then Nathan engraved mine with a unicorn, something girly lest I become too tomboyish. I was happy about it, although back then I asked him to add a griffin to the other side, to sort of balance it out. My brother spent a few moments brushing off the earth and decay from the stocks, until he found one with a few signs of etching. He handed that one to me. I took hold of it, a little put off by how dirty and moldy it was. I placed it on the log, and carefully continued to clean it with my fingertips. A unicorn appeared along with several worm-holes. I used my claw to scratch out the furrows and make the image a little clearer. On the other side, I did the same for the griffin. Once polished, I felt surprised at how well preserved they were given the moist climate. "Why you bury these again?" I asked, looking at my work.

"Dunno," he said. "When I was thirteen I didn't know why I did anything. I was a fucking sociopath and I see that now. I think I was angry at Nathan going to college and leaving us, sort of a weird, pathetic way of dealing with my frustration. I think I also wanted to leave a time capsule and decided these might as well get buried. We hadn't even played war in like five years by the time I did it anyway."

"Makes sense," I said, "sort of." I looked at my rifle, or at least the sorry rusty, moldy thing it had become. "Let's take these home."

"You sure?"

"Nathan put work into these. Might as well. If we leave them here they'll just fall apart, or more so than they already are."

"If you say so," he said, carefully gathering them up so they wouldn't fall apart before we even got home.

Within a few minutes we were on our way. I carried mine and Dustin carried the other four, looking as if he were arming up for some sort of zombie apocalypse. This time he didn't run off. He kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure I followed close behind. When we got home he asked if he could see mine, and absconded with it for the better part of the week. That Sunday afternoon, when my friend Bryn dropped me off from an excursion to Huntington, I came into my bedroom to find the rifle lying on my bed. At first I felt upset that Dustin snuck into my room, but when I inspected what he had left I forgave him. He had stripped and sanded the rotten wood and rust away, re-polished, stained, and lacquered the stock. He even added a fresh coat of glossy black spray-paint to the barrel. It had the feeling of an antique, something leftover from the civil war. Our brother's artwork shone through nice and clear, a primitive, yet thoughtful addition that made this example mine.

I made good on my promise to my brother. That evening I stopped by his room and knocked on his door. I asked if I could check his homework. Of course he hadn't even started it yet. I sat down with him on his bed, took out his books and his notebook, and organized his weekly calendar. I sat by and watched him get to work, supervising the tedious but necessary task. At first he resisted, complaining about every question, but once he realized I wouldn't leave until he was done, he quit bitching and just hatched off one problem after the other, listening to my advice as he went along. When he was done I taught him how to proof and stuffed his finished assignment in an apparent part of his binder, lest he forget.

After I'd done all I could and left him be, I paused in his doorframe and turned around. I looked back into his room as if to see if I could help him in any other way. I kept getting these weird feeling after the day the truck broke down, unpleasant ones. That event opened up the floodgates to what could be called conversations. Each talk left me more uncomfortable because with every one I was reminded that Dustin was a living being with preferences, opinions, and unique traits and not just some lazy sack of fur stinking up the house and eating all the good food. Scarily, some of his points of view were not dissimilar from mine. A family member began to take shape out of the thing the our dad forced me to share a home with. It's never easy when circumstances pry you out of your narcissism like a mollusk out of a shell and teach you that the bastard was you all along. The best I could do was penance.

"Goodnight," I said, watching him flip his books shut.

"Goodnight," he replied, gracious and uncharacteristically placid, looking at me with his large brown eyes as if he were afraid of ticking me off, as if he somehow thought he didn't deserve the positive attention I just gave him and expected some sort of a swipe to balance things out.

I turned around and left his room without saying anything else, wandering the short distance to my own room. I sat down at my desk and turned on the radio and lamp, keeping the dial on low as not to wake up our father, who'd go to bed early during the days he juggled two jobs just to keep us fed, clothed, and educated. I brought out my journal and wrote the day's happenings, my ears perked not to the sound of music, some Joe Cocker piece if I remember correctly, but rather the symphony of crickets outside my window, all chirping in unison as if they hadn't noticed that the month had transitioned from August to September. Summer, at least for me, was officially over.