Kasie West - On the Fence

The two hours went by pretty fast, and I changed back into my normal clothes, then collected my bag of new clothes and my car keys. Linda said, “So, I’ll see you Saturday at ten a.m., Charlie.” She paused, thoughtful. “Is that a nickname?”

“Short for Charlotte. But Charlie fits me better.”

“It does.” She pointed to the bag of clothes. “You can wear them home, you know. They’re completely machine-washable.”

“Oh, yeah . . .” I shrugged my shoulders. “If my brothers saw me in these clothes, they’d never let me live it down.”

“We live in our own minds, child.”

Not in my house. In my house, we were always getting in each other’s heads. It was hard enough keeping the guys out without giving them extra ammo. “I guess.”

She had a set of keys in her hands and she followed me to the door, obviously about to lock up. “What about your mom? I’m sure she’d love to see you in those clothes.”

That look of pity Linda had given when talking about Skye’s motherless state flashed through my mind. I knew that look well. I’d seen it before. It was the look that always came after the line My mom died when I was six. That was my go-to line. That was usually followed by an apology from the listeners and then the look. Sometimes the look lingered for months, every time they saw me. It was hard to say which was worse: the look, or when the look finally went away, the memory of my story fading into the recesses of their minds. How could they forget when I couldn’t?

I hadn’t seen that look directed at me in a while. Most people just knew. We lived in the same house and went to the same schools pretty much my whole life.

I opened my mouth to avoid the question when “My mom’s like me. She doesn’t know a thing about fashion” came out. My face flushed hot and I stepped outside without turning back. Did I really just pretend my mom was alive? Not only that, I gave her my fashion sense. I knew that wasn’t even true. I’d seen enough pictures of her to know she always looked gorgeous. The picture my mind always went to was my mom in a long yellow sundress, standing on the beach looking out at the waves.

But I didn’t know much outside of pictures. I used to ask my dad questions about her, but as I got older I noticed the sad looks that accompanied the answers and stopped asking. I stopped asking long before I could start asking questions that really mattered. I wondered if I’d ever get the motivation or courage to start asking again.

It was the first night in a long time that I woke up with a start. My hands shook, and I clenched them into fists, then crossed my arms over my chest to try and stop the quivering there as well.

The nightmare always began the same, my mother tucking me into bed, kissing my forehead, and saying good-bye. Rain pounded the window as if trying to make her stay, my heart seeming to keep up with the rapid pattering. After that it was a variation. Sometimes it was a car accident, her car sliding off the side of a road and down an embankment. That nightmare made sense because it was what had actually happened. As such, it was the one I had the most often.

But sometimes there were different versions altogether: hands made of rain ripping my mother from where she stood in my bedroom doorway, instantly liquefying her; a strong wind tearing the roof off our house and sucking her into the night. Tonight she had stood in front of our house, in white pajamas, and the rain itself had sliced bloody cuts down her body until she collapsed to the wet grass, her white nightdress now red, her limp hand filling my view as I stared at its lifelessness.

My new job had deprived me of my late afternoon run, leaving my body less exhausted than normal. I’d have to figure out a new running schedule for Tuesdays and Thursdays. My dad didn’t like me to run alone at night, and it wasn’t often I could talk one of my brothers into going with me.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering what my brain would do to me if I fell back asleep. Late the next morning, we were supposed to play a game of basketball on the elementary school’s outdoor blacktop. I wished it were morning already.

My clock read three a.m., and my now frayed nerves weren’t letting me go to sleep. I rolled out of bed and walked downstairs. First I paced the kitchen, then I went outside. Before I discovered the amazing effects of running four years earlier, I spent a lot of hours in the stillness of my backyard.

I walked the cement around the pool, staring down at the dark water as I did.

A set of headlights swept across the blackness as Mr. Lewis’s truck pulled up next door. I was surprised at how late he was getting home. Lights went on upstairs a few minutes later, and that’s when the yelling started.

I backed up to get a better view of the upstairs. A few more lights flipped on, and then the back door slammed shut. Peering through the cracks of the fence that separated our houses, I saw Braden emerge wearing a pair of boxers and a hastily thrown-on T-shirt, all twisted at the bottom.

“Psst,” I called through the fence. “Braden.”

He looked around and then straight at the fence, not able to see me, but obviously knowing it was someone in the general vicinity.

“Gage?” he asked.

“No, it’s Charlie. What’s going on?”

He walked closer. “Where are you?”

I held my hand above the fence, then he walked straight to me. “You okay?”

He sat down and leaned his back against the boards. I did the same. “My dad just came home . . . drove home . . . drunk out of his mind. I almost wish your dad had seen him driving so he could’ve hauled him in.”

“Why does he feel the need to wake you and your mom up when he’s like that?”

“Because apparently he remembers everything he hates about us when he’s drunk and has an overwhelming desire to share his feelings.”

“That sucks.” The night was warm, and I let it fill my lungs. I pulled on a string hanging off the bottom of my cotton pants. “So you come outside when he’s like this?”

“Usually. I find that if I walk away he eventually cools down. My mom still hasn’t learned that lesson after all these years.”

We went quiet, leaving only the sound of muffled yelling coming from his house. “Is she . . . he won’t hurt her . . . will he?”

“No,” Braden said darkly.

I leaned my head back against the fence. His parents either went to bed or stopped screaming because I couldn’t hear them anymore.

Braden’s voice was lighter when he asked, “And what brings you out on this fine evening?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Really? The soundest sleeper in the universe couldn’t sleep? Why?”

“Stupid job messed with my schedule. I didn’t get a chance to run tonight.”

“Oh yeah, the job. I heard about this miraculous event. How did it go?”

“It was sheer torture. I’m counting down the days until I earn the five hundred bucks necessary to be done with this sentence.”

“Didn’t your dad say something about a hundred bucks a month after that too, though? For insurance or something?”

I groaned. “You’re right. I guess I’ll have to earn another couple hundred and hope I can plea-bargain after that. I think when school starts, that will be a huge argument against having a job.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure out something.”

Stillness took over for a while, and just when I started to think he’d fallen asleep there against the fence, he said, “You playing ball tomorrow?”

“Of course. You?”

“Yeah. Are you playing for the team this year at school?”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Uh-huh. Can’t wait for it to start. Talk about exhaustion. School, basketball, gym, homework, bed—now that’s a schedule my body likes.”

“Why?”

Crap. The problem with talking to his disembodied voice was that it made me less guarded. It didn’t feel like I was talking to anyone but the sky. “I just like to sleep good. None of this waking-up-at-three-a.m. crap.”

“Heck yeah,” he said in his best imitation of me (which wasn’t very good). Every time I substituted a bad word with a milder one, he made fun of me by doing his own bad-to-less-bad word substitution. His taunts weren’t going to pressure me into changing things. I was more scared of my dad’s no-cussing rule than I was of Braden laughing at me for it.

“I knew you were going to say that,” I said.

“Oh, really? You knew I was going to say ‘Heck yeah’?”

“Well, some variation of it.”

“You think you know me so well, huh?”

“Yep. Every last annoying habit.”

He gave a single laugh. “Well, it goes both ways. Actually, I probably know you better.”

“You think you know me better than I know you?”

“Yes,” he said confidently. “Because I see you every day, and when I don’t see you, I hear Gage talk about whatever lame thing you guys did.”

“And you don’t think Gage talks about all the lame things you guys do without me?”

“Okay, game on.” That was his competition voice. As he said it, I realized I knew it so well. His voice in general was so familiar to me. I was surprised I could picture his expressions as I listened to him talk. Right now he’d have a smug smile on his face. “We will prove who knows more about the other. We go back and forth stating facts. Whoever runs out first loses.”

“You’re on. I’ll start. You have swampy brown eyes.”

He laughed. “Oh, wow, you’re really starting with the basics.”

“Yep. I said I knew everything. That’s part of everything.” The truth was, I wasn’t sure I did know everything about Braden. As Gage’s best friend, he was as familiar to me as a brother, but in some ways, he was a mystery to me. But I assumed I was the same for him, so I had confidence that I knew him at least as well as he knew me.