Short Fiction – KEVIN CRAIG

DUBIOUS PICKLES AND THE CURIOSITY OF ARBOUR LÉVESQUE – A Short Story

Today, I’m going to share my short story about Dubious Pickles, a character in a novel I wrote. I later shelved the novel and made the first chapter into a short story. This short story originally appeared in the ID Press anthology PURGATORIUM. My post on this is found here.

This story now appears in my short story collection 7 – Paris at Sunset and Into the Night. The collection is only 99 cents and contains the following seven stories:

PARIS AT SUNSET AND INTO THE NIGHT
THE WOMAN DOWNSTAIRS
THE LIGHT HERE MAKES IT REAL
ISOBEL SWALLOWS A WARRIOR
SUN’LL COME
DUBIOUS PICKLES AND THE CURIOSITY OF ARBOUR LEVESQUE
THE HALF-DRAWN GIRL ON THE CROSSTOWN BUS

You can pick up my short story collection on AMAZON. JUST CLICK HERE IF YOU’RE IN USA.

CLICK HERE IF YOU’RE IN CANADA.

Here’s the full short story about Dubious Pickles:

DUBIOUS PICKLES AND THE CURIOSITY OF ARBOUR LÉVESQUE

“Something ain’t quite right with Dubious Pickles,” Doc Jenson said from his pulpit behind his thrift shop counter. The string of bells announcing Pickles’ departure had not quite simmered to a whisper before his proclamation was out.

Doc, who wasn’t really a doctor at all, spent his days passing such judgments on the few customers still brave enough to subject themselves to his ridicule.

Dubious Pickles, being of birth Paul Dubois, however, was definitely not quite right. Doc was dead on the money with that one. All the children in Dobber Corner knew this. Children are the first to know when somebody is not quite right. Children are smart that way.

Arbour Lévesque, being one of the town’s brighter children, knew Doc was absolutely right. Arbour turned his gaze from the door and tried to shake the lingering shiver-creeps from his spine. He stepped up to the counter, and braced himself for Doc’s microscope of scrutiny.

“And to what do I owe this honour, my dear Master Lévesque?” Doc asked, not even attempting to hide his scorn. In his desire to needle the boy, he went as far as to pronounce the ‘s’ in Arbour’s last name. Everybody in Dobber knew the ‘s’ was silent.

Doc’s bald head glistened under the bare bulb dangling directly above him. Though the shop had air conditioning, nobody in town had ever stepped foot in the store for the sole purpose of escaping from the heat outside. Doc never actually had the air running. Doc glistened from May to September in his penny-pinching stubbornness.

Arbour cleared his throat and attempted to sound much older than his ten-and-three-quarters years.

“Just this here pair of boots, Doc, and…the lunchbox behind you.” He pointed to a shelf behind Doc as he tossed a pair of well scuffed size 11 cowboy boots onto the counter.

“My, what big feet you have, Master L.”

Arbour, of course, blushed from tip to toe. Children do not like such things to be pointed out. Spotlights scare them almost as much as not quite right people like Dubious Pickles. Arbour tried his best to smile, but inside he cursed the glistening doctor.

Billy Mahone, who stood beside the counter holding court with the good doctor, chuckled like his head would roll from his short troll-like body. Arbour paid him no mind. Billy’s nervous twitch and outhouse-dunked donkey scent scared Arbour more than just a little bit. He often wondered how a person could smell so bad and still be among the living.

“There you go, then, Arbour,” Doc said, “That’ll be seven-eighteen.” He placed the lunchbox down beside the boots and extended his hand to receive Arbour’s money.

“But the boots say two dollars?” Arbour whined, confused by Doc’s tally.

“Yes. What is it with you kids, always comin’ back at me with these ‘but the boots say’ accusations? The boots be two dollars and the lunchbox be five-eighteen. That, Master Lévesque, comes to seven-eighteen where I come from.”

Arbour lifted the lunchbox up for inspection. Beyond it, he saw Dubious’s face staring in through the big front window of the store. Like a little boy, Arbour thought. But Dubious was a man. Very much not a boy.

The mere presence of Dubious Pickles had terrorized the minds of children in Dobber Corner for decades. His tentacles of auburn hair sprayed away from his deformed face in a way to suggest it, too, wanted nothing to do with its proximity. His features seemed to fall away from where they rightly belonged, making it appear as though you were always seeing him through a rain-soaked window. Arbour now stared at that tortured face in wonder.

Dubious had cupped his hands around his eyes to block out the glare so he could see inside the shop. Arbour accidentally made eye contact. Dubious smiled, his crooked mouth looking like a frenzy of hostility. Arbour couldn’t tell if it was an I’m gonna eat you smile or a nice to meet you smile. While he was deciding, Dubious did something else. Something that took Arbour’s breath away.

With his hands cupped tight to the window, Dubious stared directly at Arbour as four Indian rubber balls juggled through the air above his head. Arbour’s eyes went to the balls, then back to Dubious’ cupped face. Dubious raised his eyes, as if to look at the balls dancing above his head, then winked at Arbour through the glass. Arbour watched as, one by one, the balls began to drop from sight.

Dubious’s head shivered impossibly, as though it were a jackhammer on full throttle. His features blurred to nothing more than a wild smudge of auburn as everything winked out but the wild bush of hair atop his spasming head.

“Earth to Arbour,” Doc said, noting what had stolen Arbour’s attentions. “You in there, sonny boy? You pay no never mind to that Pickles character, hear? That’s a curiosity that’ll getcha trouble you can’t pay for.”

Dubious’s head slowly stopped its wild impossible frenzy and came to a simmering rest on his shoulders once again, unseen by all but Arbour.

The lunchbox rattled ever so slightly in Arbour’s hands. Unable to figure out Dubious’ hands-free juggling trick, or the earthquaking head trick that followed it, Arbour forced himself to return his gaze to the doctor.

“The tag says three-seventy. That’s five-seventy all together, Doc.”

Billy bawled another stink-filled stream of open-mouthed laughter. Again, Arbour ignored him.

“Well. I’ll be bashed in sideways,” Doc said. “You’re right, there, ain’tcha Arbour? I suppose—but just for today, mind you—I can let the works go for five-seventy. Don’t you go tellin’ anyone you got a deal, though, hear?”

“But it’s not a deal if—”

“You take your kit and go now, Arbour. Before I change my mind and shake ya backwards for the other dollar forty-eight.”

Arbour was more interested in getting outside than arguing with the cantankerous Doc. His sights were now set on Dubious, who had moved away from the window. Arbour gave Doc his money and grabbed the boots up off the counter. As he ran for the door, he heard Doc mumble something. He smiled as the bells cut off the good doctor’s parting words.

Like most kids, Arbour was over-curious of the comings and goings of Dubious Pickles. Unlike most kids, Arbour almost always followed his curiosity wherever it took him. Outside the store, he looked in all directions. When he didn’t see Dubious, he picked up his Windmaker 900—the bike that outbikes all bikes—confident he would catch up with Dubious before he made it back to the Dubois mansion. This wasn’t because he had the bike that outbikes all bikes. Not completely. Arbour’s brother Newton had modified his Windmaker. Newton, who was four years older than Arbour, was a bona fide genius. He was, in fact, a card-carrying member of a real-life society for geniuses. Newton’s modifications to Arbour’s Windmaker made his bike run just about 38% faster than the bike that already outbikes all bikes. This made Arbour the envy of all of his friends.

If Arbour had taken his skateboard to Doc’s Emporium of all Things Fantastical, he would have had an easier time of things. As it was, he had to hold his new boots in one hand, his lunchbox in the other, and his handlebars in both. If you had seen Arbour speeding down the sidewalk trying to catch up with Dubious Pickles, you would have half expected to see him going ass over tea kettle. Or, at the very least, head over handlebars.

But Arbour was an excellent cyclist. He was off Main Street in no time, and heading up the hill in the direction of the Dubois mansion.

Up ahead, Dubious was turning off the sidewalk and into his driveway. Poor Arbour. Even with his tricked out Windmaker, he was not a match for a man who could hands-free juggle and move his head at a speed faster than the human eye can see. He was not going to make it anywhere near Dubious before he disappeared back into the darkness of his crooked little mansion.

As Arbour neared the top of the hill, he suddenly forgot all about the now vanished Dubious Pickles. What with the hundreds of dark pink Indian rubber balls that rolled and bounced down the hill toward him, it was all Arbour could do just to keep his Windmaker upright. Dubious Pickles was the least of his worries.

Arbour knew how bad it hurt when an Indian rubber ball hit flesh. This is a thing that boys do to each other when recess is drawing to an end and they have run out of things to do. During that last minute before the bell rings, that’s the time when balls are thrown and bruises form on the skinny little arms of the boys who are not quick enough to jump out of way of incoming artillery.

To avoid the barrage of balls assaulting him, Arbour steered his bike to the opposite side of the street. But he didn’t give up on his quest. Once he got to the top of the hill and faced the bulging Dubois mansion, he stopped.

Off his bike, he took a deep gulp of air, relieved to have been missed by most of the balls that were identical to the ones that had hovered over Dubious’s head earlier in the window of Doc’s place. Arbour convinced himself this was all he needed to summon the courage to cross the street. Just a simple deep gulp of air. Surely that was enough.

Setting his new purchases and his bike down in the grass beside the curb, Arbour began the last leg of his journey. He would get to the bottom of this Dubious thing if it killed him, but he wouldn’t bring his bike any closer to the Dubois house. He knew that if anything were to happen with his Windmaker, Newton would lay a hefty beating on him when Arbour finally made it home. Newton was very protective of all his inventions. It wouldn’t do to bring the Windmaker home if anything bad were to become of it. Newton would cream his clock and kick his butt into next Tuesday and back. The family genius was high-strung and short-fused.

Arbour paused for a moment with his feet on the yellow line in the middle of the road. He was about to step into the world most feared by the children of Dobber Corner. Once he crossed that line, he knew he would be in Dubious Pickles territory. The mansion itself lurched forward toward that very line, as if reaching out for any child foolish enough to come this far. But Arbour had to do it.

He looked up the street. Nothing. He looked down the street. He could still see the last of the Indian rubber balls making their way to the bottom of the hill and into town. There was nobody else around.

Arbour placed the toes of one shoe gently down on the pavement on the other side of the yellow line. It reminded him of testing the water at the local swimming hole. When nothing horrible happened at that first touch, he considered it safe to step down into the forbidden land of Dubious Pickles.

~~~

After peering into the basement window of the Dubois mansion for several minutes, Arbour realized he had to do something. He couldn’t just lie there in the grass staring into the emptiness hoping for something to happen.

What he wanted to do was call his best friend Woodrow Thompson on his cell phone. The reason he didn’t do this right away was because of the threat that loomed over his head regarding the use of said cell phone. His mother had threatened him many times not to use his cell minutes unless it was an emergency, and Arbour had a hard time deciding what was and was not an emergency. According to his mother, Arbour was batting oh for seventeen so far. Hence, his reluctance to call Woodrow.

Once Arbour made a decision, though, it was pretty hard for him to unmake it. He would stay a while longer and continue his vigil at the basement window. He was just deciding how many Mississippis he would count out before calling it a day when the light went on in the room he was peering into.

But it was not Dubious Pickles who walked into the room. Arbour pulled himself back from the window. He rubbed his eyes. He returned to the window and peered in. He couldn’t decide if he was actually seeing what he was seeing or not. And rubbing his eyes had not helped him to unsee what he had seen.

Arbour knew he couldn’t explain to his mother why he was certain this was an emergency. He decided he would take his chances. He dialled Woodrow’s number.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Arbour whispered into his cell. “You have to come to the Dubois place, man. Pronto.”

“What’s that? Arbour? Is that you? I can’t hear you. What’d you say?”

“Dubious Pickles. Come to the weirdo’s house. Hurry!”

“You’re either crazy or crazy, Arb,” Woodrow said. He whistled into the phone. “Ain’t no way in hell’s bells I’m going there. If you’re there, you shouldn’t be. You know that’s the place where every dog and cat in town go to die. What the hell, Arbour?”

“Come. Now.” Arbour disconnected and returned his cell to his pocket. Only, he was too busy watching old Miss Laroche walking in a circle in the middle of the room to notice that the cell didn’t quite make it to his pocket. It parked itself in the grass beside his pocket, instead. The cell phone can not be blamed for this. The misdirection, of course, was all on Arbour.

Old Miss Laroche was a teacher at Trudeau Elementary when Arbour’s parents went there, maybe even when his parents’ parents went there. The rumours of her incredible and mythical longevity were epic. Until she had died three weeks earlier, there had been talk of having a plaque erected at the edge of town beside the one announcing the town name. Dobber Corner ~ Home of Hélène Laroche, Canada’s Oldest Old Bag! Or something like that.

Arbour wished he was one of those kids who could walk away from questions unanswered. But he wasn’t. Between the furiously shaking head, the juggling balls, and the dead old lady walking, he was hooked. Hoping that Woodrow would eventually show, but positive he wouldn’t, Arbour made his way to the back of the Dubois mansion in search of a way in.

Arbour only had to wade through a handful of Indian rubber balls at the top of the stairs that led to the cellar door to know they weren’t there by accident. To a boy who read all the Edgar Allan Poe he could get his hands on, he knew before he even took the eight steps down to the door that it would be unlocked. When he reached for the knob, the door creaked a breath forward to invite him inside.

To the boy who often listened late into the night for signs of a tell-tale heart beating somewhere deep within his own house, Arbour knew this was a little too easy. He knew that when a kid followed the town weirdo home—the same weirdo who just happened to be hosting the town’s latest octogenarian to have passed on to the other side—that kid was in for a heap of trouble and chaos.

Arbour also knew that when you found an unlocked door in the Dubois mansion—practically inviting you inside—you should run like hell, get the hell on your Windmaker 900, and head for the hills. Or, at the very least, head for home.

Arbour pushed the door in and stepped inside.

He could hear the shuffling footsteps of his old teacher in the distant room, so he decided to steer clear of that particular direction.

“This isn’t happening,” Arbour near-whispered. In the old cellar that felt recently dug out of the earthy soil it still wreaked of, his words bounced around and got louder as they crawled deeper into the darkness beyond him. He imagined old Miss Laroche’s head swivelling in his direction as she heard him speak. Before he gave himself time to contemplate whether or not the dead were capable of hearing, Arbour made a quick beeline for the stairs. He hoped they led to the main floor of the Dubois house.

Surely it would be better upstairs where the amount of walking dead might be slightly fewer. Whatever he found up there surely had to be better than old Miss Laroche wandering aimlessly in a dark, dank cellar that stunk of earth and rot… and maybe a little like old Miss Laroche herself.

Even Arbour Lévesque knew it would be better to dance with the dead than to come face to face with Dubious Pickles. As he approached the top of the stairs, he slowed his pace and tried to think about what his brother Newton would do. Being a genius, Newton would probably not go anywhere near the crooked old Dubois mansion.

At the top of the stairs, Arbour opened the door and came into a large room that felt bigger than the outside of the house should allow it to be. His eye was immediately drawn to the grand staircase in the centre, leading to the top floor. It was a staircase that went off in two directions about halfway up.

Arbour knew instantly which of the two forks to take when an Indian rubber ball began a slow descent down the left side case. One stair at a time. Newton would tell Arbour that physics would not allow for an Indian rubber ball to descend a flight of stairs in this manner, calmly and decisively like a Slinky.

Having more curiosity than common sense, Arbour took to the stairs. Halfway up, he scooped up the descending ball. He held it at the ready, should he need to whip it at someone with only a moment’s notice.

As Arbour went to place his lead foot down on the upstairs landing, it came down on the first step back at the bottom of the staircase. Just like that. The adrenalin this caused was enough to make him flee the house screaming. But as nothing catastrophic followed the impossible feat of finding himself back at the bottom of the staircase, he made the climb again. Second verse, thought Arbour, same as the first. Again, he grabbed the slow meticulously bouncing ball on his way up. Now he had two weapons, should he need to whip them at someone’s shins.

The second time he planted his lead foot on the landing, that is exactly where it fell. Perhaps it was just a case of it being a staircase that did everything twice.

At the top of the stairs, Arbour found a long hallway that went madly off in both directions. He knew the shell of this house could not possibly fit its contents. He didn’t need his card-carrying genius brother to tell him this. The Dubois mansion definitely defied physics.

When he noticed the two Indian rubber balls floating at the end of the hallway on the left-hand side, he knew he should run like hell and not look back until he was down the hill and back in the safety of the town’s main strip. He also knew this was the direction he would take. The balls had, after all, lead him every step of the way so far.

As he approached a door, the balls dropped to the carpeted floor with nary a thump. They did not bounce.

Arbour grabbed the doorknob. His premonition told him this was the point of no return. If he crossed the threshold of the room behind this door, there was no turning back. Dubious Pickles juggling without hands, Dubious Pickles making his head spasm faster than the speed of light, old Miss Laroche dead and walking in the cellar, Indian rubber balls defying gravity at every turn, and a staircase doing everything twice. These things did not stop him, but also did not mark any paths of no return. But behind door number one? Oh, he just knew this was it.

Without a sign of Woodrow’s approach, and the comfort that the reinforcement would give him, Arbour turned the knob and stepped inside.

Dubious Pickles stood in the centre of the cavernous ballroom. A chandelier the size of a small planet spun above his head, much like Dubious’s head had done earlier. The scream of spinning crystal shards and icicles clanging against one another in such an impossible display of centrifugal force brought Arbour immediately to his knees.

Arbour, on his knees with his Indian rubber ball filled arms clamped tightly to his ears, was a pitiful sight. His muffled yell of, “Too loud!” was barely audible above the racket of the chandelier.

This made Dubious laugh. As Arbour cupped his ears ever tighter to escape the chandelier’s scream, Dubious bent in laughter. As Dubious rose back up to a full standing position, a good three feet taller than he had been back at the store window, he pointed at the careening chandelier.

Arbour, never for a moment taking his eyes off Dubious, noted how the finger controlled the chandelier’s movement. At its whim, the motion stopped, the scream became a whisper…almost a remembrance of noise. The way the world goes hum-silent in a snowfall.

Arbour removed his hands from his ears and breathed a sigh of relief. The scream of glass and crystal had filled his universe. He stood up, looked at Dubious, and waited for his hearing to come back to normal.

Before it did, Dubious began to walk across the floor in Arbour’s direction. Arbour tried to move, but couldn’t. His feet were no longer his to control.

The smile that cracked across the long and twisted face of Dubious Pickles was the smile a thousand Freak Show aficionados would pay to see. It was an angry knife slice of a wound, from ear to ear. The more Dubious smiled, the more his face slit open. His gums were as visible as his teeth. His uvula dangled menacingly like a pendulum, keeping time with the footfalls of Dubious’s approach.

What would Newton do? What would Newton do? It was a mantra in Arbour’s brain as he tried with every cell in his body not to scream.

Before Dubious quite made it to Arbour, though, the room filled with a sharp tingle, tingle, tingle. He knew that sound from the approximately eight-hundred and forty-nine times Newton had dropped a scattering of ball-bearings across their shared bedroom floor.

While Arbour was lulled by the memory of those falling ball-bearings and the safety of being in his bedroom with his brother, the floor at his feet began to fill with what looked like pearls.

He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. By the time the pearls had reached the height of his ankles, Dubious stood before him…mere inches from his face.

Arbour attempted to hold his breath. He needed to keep the dank swampy earthiness of Dubious’s breath from entering his lungs. From the gashed-mouth trick, which was now in full-swing, Dubious’s breathing was made sickly. Arbour tried to keep the wet flapping sound of the raspy inhale-exhale rhythm from entering his brain, but he couldn’t. The sound filled his head just as the pearls appeared to be filling the impossibly vast ballroom. They were now up to his knees. He was finding it difficult to keep his focus, what with the non-ending chorus of swirling pearls and raw wet rhythmic breathing coming from Dubious.

When Arbour attempted to step back from Dubious, he found he could move again and it was relatively easy to navigate through the waist-deep pearls. Despite the bloody gash on the face of the maniac in front of him, the demeanour of Dubious Pickles was one of playfulness. Perhaps he was not yet quite ready to eat Arbour.

In fact, Arbour thought maybe the man wanted to play with him. But that couldn’t possibly be the case. Could it?

No words had been uttered by either party.

Arbour knew none of the other children of Dobber Corner had ever heard so much as a peep out of Dubious Pickles. In fact, the rumours were that if you did hear Paul Dubois speak, it would be the last thing you ever heard.

Though the sound of the pearls swirling together like an ocean of glass and tinkling gritty sand was almost enough to drive Arbour insane, it was still a comfort to him that Dubious had thus far refrained from speaking.

Arbour remembered the balls he had kept carrying. Two. That he had at one time considered them weapons now seemed silly. With Dubious in front of him, his bloody maw of a grin slicing his face in half, he knew there was nothing in this world he could possibly do to hurt him.

With the pearls now up to his chest, Arbour needed to act or drown in the sea of pearls that was now threatening to swallow both him and Dubious Pickles whole.

Just as Arbour was finding his bearings in the impossibility of his predicament, Dubious extended a hand for him to take. A hand as hideous as the open gash of a smile he also extended freely in Arbour’s direction.

With his nails long and jagged and filled with earth and stench, Arbour could only assume Dubious had dug out old Miss Laroche with his own bare hands. A flap of skin fell free of Dubious’s extended index finger and came to rest upon the one below it as he shivered his hand a bit, urging Arbour to take hold.

Seeing no alternative, Arbour reached through the pearls that now swallowed up everything but his shoulders and head. Swimming his hand up through the pearls was easier than he thought it should be. They gave way to his movements where he thought they would cement him in place.

Dubious being inexplicably taller—and quite possibly still growing—Arbour had to reach to slide his hand into the rank and bloody one being proffered. But Arbour was also pretty sure his feet had left the floor a while back.

Once the two held hands, Arbour’s fear redoubled. The grip was not something he would ever be able to break free of, should it come to needing to. Holding Dubious Pickles’ hand could very well be the last thing Arbour ever did.

The pearls now threatened to fill in the rest of the room. Dubious gave a tug on Arbour’s hand and up they swam, rising to the ceiling on the momentum of the pearls quickly filling in all the spaces behind them. As they reached a vent near the ceiling, Dubious opened the little grate covering it and began to swim inside.

As the vent hole widened to allow both of them to enter together, Arbour swam in alongside the town monster. Two peas in a pod, Arbour thought with not a little internal scream popping off inside his vast cavernous panicky mind.

Dubious let go of Arbour’s hand long enough to reach behind him and close the grate. Arbour’s last glimpse of the grand ballroom showed him just how bereft it was of pearls of any kind. Were it not for the few fallen pearls about them in the tiny shaft in which he was now trapped, the last few minutes of noise and pearl-ness would be a mere dream of improbability.

Arbour didn’t have to ask himself what Newton would do if he found himself stuck inside a vent shaft in the Dubois mansion nestled in beside Dubious Pickles. It simply wouldn’t happen.

Dubious reattached himself to Arbour’s hand and began to drag them both through the over-warm shaft. Arbour could see, not five feet ahead of them, a light bright enough to blind. He prayed it would lead to a happy place, but the closer they crawled to it the worse the smell that engulfed them became.

Once at the end of the shaft, a mere twenty feet from where they had begun, Dubious spilled himself out onto the floor beyond. He helped Arbour out of the shaft, handling him as though he were nothing but a bag of rice.

When he plopped the boy onto the dank cellar floor, Arbour made a noise much like a rabbit in a snare. It was nothing like the noise a little boy should be capable of making. Before his mind could make the calculation of impossibility that brought him from the third floor to the cellar in a short crawl, Arbour heard the scritching dragging feet of the dead making their way in an ever-widening circle of pointlessness on the other side of the room he had just been delivered into.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Arbour said to no one. He could feel his sanity shaking his insides, much like Dubious’s head had shaken earlier. Back at the store when Arbour still had a chance to walk away with his cowboy boots and lunchbox.

“Arbour. Play.” Dubious was apparently incapable of stringing together a sentence. He was more a man of single solitary words stitched together between intakes and outtakes of breath. Words you held your own breath to hear, to piece together, to fathom. “Arbour. Play. Miss. Laroche. Sing. Song. Arbour. Play.”

“Play,” Dubious repeated as he pushed the boy towards his former teacher. “Arbour. Play.”

Dubious Pickles laughed and clapped his hands in eager anticipation, hopeful for a day of fun with his newfound friends.

Arbour stumbled ever closer to his teacher as Dubious began a shove, clap, shove, clap shuffle across the room. “Arbour. Play.”

“Newton,” Arbour whispered in a final plea to be saved by the only genius he ever knew. The genius who had helped him out of so many predicaments in the past. But Newton, he knew, would not be able to help him out of this one. He tried, with everything he had, to hold on to the final tendrils of sanity he felt escaping him.

As he heard a sudden thumping coming from above, he knew one thing for sure. Hearing Dubious Pickles speak was not necessarily the last thing a child would ever hear. As Arbour felt himself blink out of existence and into insanity, it was the voice of Woodrow Thompson that was the last thing his mind registered before leaving him.

As he was pushed up against his rotting scurrying former teacher by the persistent Dubious Pickles, Arbour heard his name being called by Woodrow. “Arbour? Arbour Lévesque? You in here?”

But Arbour Lévesque was suddenly nowhere to be found inside the head of Arbour Lévesque. Arbour Lévesque was gone.

THE END

The Woman Downstairs – A Short Story

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Today, I’m going to share another short story. I wrote this one in 2019 for the NYC MIDNIGHT SHORT STORY CONTEST. My heat in round one had 3 stipulations. The genre had to be DRAMA, it had to involve PET-SITTING in some form and one of the characters had to be a FIANCEE.

I decided to write a sort of pastiche to Rear Window. Sort of.

It WON 1st Place in my Round One heat!

nyc

Here’s the feedback I received from one of the judges for THE WOMAN DOWNSTAIRS:

“The writing is top-notch, perfect for the setting. The POV character’s world of the dog and the window reminds me a bit of REAR WINDOW, and the dog is like the cast, keeping her from going out. The drama she watches and the drama she lives come together at the end.”

THEY GOT THE HOMAGE! Yay!!!

Without further ado, here is the story…

THE WOMAN DOWNSTAIRS

“Madame. Pas de cheins,” the waiter says as I sit down. He tsks and points to a sign in the window. It’s of a dog being crossed out by an angry red line. “Go, go. No dogs. S’il vous plait, laissez. Go.”

I thought I would be okay if I sat at the farthest table from the restaurant’s entrance and tied Chewy up to the outside of the fence separating the patio from the sidewalk. I quietly get up, untie Chewy’s leash and make my way along the sidewalk towards Notre-Dame.

I underestimated the strain house-sitting for Stacey would put on me. It sounded like a lovely idea at the time. How could a third-floor walk-up on Rue Saint-Louis en l’Île in Paris not be a dream come true? The apartment is mere steps from Notre-Dame Cathedral and walking distance to most other major attractions. Even with her little Yorkie included in the deal, it seemed doable. The dog-sitting was incidental, really. Paris was mine.

Robert was supposed to join me on day three so we could spend the rest of the three weeks together. We needed the little vacation prior to the chaos of our impending wedding. Two and a half weeks in Paris together sounded like perfection, a way to get back on track after our disastrous year. I wanted to show Robert the city, have some fun, and put the past behind us.

Alas, he’d have to actually show up for that to happen.

I take Chewy to the little parkette behind the cathedral and sit down at one of its many benches. It’s a perfect place to feel sorry for myself, complete with gargoyles glaring down disapprovingly from above. With no breakfast in my belly and no Robert at my side, my misery is complete.

I pick Chewy up and smother him in kisses. He rubs his face against my cheek and I’m reminded I’ve gone another day without makeup. I never go anywhere without it. I blame Robert. It’s my eighth day in Paris and I’m still alone. It’s my favorite city in the world and because of him, I’m miserable. Every day brings another excuse, another delay in his arrival.

After festering in the shadows of the cathedral for a few minutes, I place Chewy on the ground and we head back to the apartment.

Once inside, I return to Stacey’s kitchen window. The only habit I’ve picked up since my arrival has nothing to do with the city sights. I’ve become fascinated with the woman downstairs, a strange once pretty woman who wears nothing but a graying white camisole that barely conceals her morbidly obese body. Thank God she never looks up.

When I originally told Robert about Downstairs Lady, I gave her the name Fanny-Mae. I can be so cruel sometimes. Robert and I did that thing where we create fantasy worlds for the unsuspecting quirky characters we stumble upon. We give them names, spouses, children, problems and dreams. Backstory.

I played our little game over texts this time around. I couldn’t bring myself to send Robert a discreetly stolen snapshot like I usually do, though. Downstairs Lady is different. Taking her picture would somehow steal her soul, her inescapable beauty. I couldn’t insult her honor that way. When I tried to explain this to Robert, he asked if I was okay. “Are you taking your pills?” “You need to stop obsessing over this lady.”

I promised I was taking the pills I never once opened and he promised he’d soon join me in Paris. Our lies canceled each other out.

Stacey’s window looks into Downstairs Lady’s dining room window, where she’s trapped in an over-sized hospital bed in a room not designed for beds. Through her casement windows, which are left open day and night, I can make out the bottom of an ornate chandelier that hangs above her bed. Being in a circular courtyard, our windows are extremely close to each other. I can even catch whispers of conversation.

She eats relentlessly while watching black and white movies on a small TV. She leans up on one elbow and fills her face with the endless supply of food her gorgeous dark-skinned French lover brings to her bed. He’s always cooing sweet nothings in a sexy voice filled with longing. Mon petit ange, mon amour, mon tendre. I decided to call him Henri. I melt each time Henri enters the little vignette the window allows me, or opens his mouth to coo. What must it be like to have his kind of love? I adore how she owns it and how she unapologetically lounges about, erotically certain of her powers. She could lead a revolution. This is why I changed her name to Belle days ago.

I fill Robert in on Belle’s daily food consumption, while I myself forget to eat. I only break my vigil at the window long enough to drag Chewy throughout the streets of this little island. And I speak only when Chewy’s neighborhood fans stop us in the street to worship his undeniable cuteness.

Robert assesses me with each text I send, evaluates my mental state with each of our infrequent calls. I know I’m slipping, but can’t stop it. I struggle between over-exaggerating my fall and disguising its depths. Which side of the scale will bring him to me quicker and which will push him away?

The constant silence reminds me I’m shutting down. Robert calls this Phase One. “I know it’s bad when you stop talking.” I’ve been startled by the sound of my own voice lately, after going hours at a time without hearing it at all. He suggests bike rides and jogging as possible remedies, but this would be a moot point if he would simply join me in Paris. That would solve everything. I think.

***

“Hello?” I say into my cell as I struggle to gain my bearings. My screen reads five-thirty a.m.? He’s done it again. My twelfth day in Paris and he still can’t get the time zones right. “Robert? It’s not that difficult. You’re six hours behind.”

“Emma, I’m sorry,” he says. He sounds overly animated, like he’s been drinking. “I forgot.”

“Why are you awake? It’s…” I do the math. “It’s almost midnight there. You’re never up this late when you’re working.” There’s a din of muffled voices and laughter about him, accompanied by the pounding bass of dance music. “Where are you?”

“Sorry, baby,” he slurs. “I miss you.”

“Robert, hang up. That’s so rude,” says an unfamiliar woman’s voice in the background. There’s a rustle as his phone is jostled.

“Robert,” I say, now fully awake and sitting up. Chewy eyes me with suspicion from the foot of the bed. “Who’s there? Where are you?”

“Just out for drinks with a few guys from the office, Em. Crazy day. We needed a reprieve.”

“Robbie, come back to the party. I’ll smash that phone if you don’t hang—”

The ambient noise cuts off, along with my connection to Robert. I place my cell back on its charger and try not to think about what just transpired, try not to think about his cheating or how it led me to my last breakdown.

My head drops onto my pillow and I turn away from the glaring moonlight streaming in through the un-curtained windows. I need more sleep but within minutes Chewy is in my face, licking and whining. He’s been awakened too early and won’t be appeased until he does his business.

Once dressed, I carry Chewy down the spiral staircase to the ground floor. I forego the inner courtyard for an opportunity to explore the wakening city. We make our way through the alleyway that leads to the narrow street and I wrestle with the large creaky door that separates the two worlds.

Finally, something I can love the way Henri obviously loves Belle. Paris. In my gloom, I’ve forgotten how enchanting Rue Saint-Louis can be, and how it comes slowly to life in the mornings. The street cleaners make their way up the sidewalks, spraying down everything in their wake to wash away yesterday’s layers of grime. Tiny delivery trucks crawl up the roadway, dropping off goods to the local stores before the impossibly narrow street becomes too congested for them. Shop doors open and entryways are swept clean.

Chewy offers a few reticent yelps to the street’s interlopers while I attempt to push Robert’s phone call from my mind. His past cheating fills my head and my heart begins to race with the panic of a new certainty. He’s doing it again.

We walk towards the cathedral and make a left at the next footbridge in order to head down for a walk along the Seine. The sky plums above us and I decide we should see the sunrise, now that we’re out in its beginnings. My beautiful Paris.

As I descend the stairs to the path along the river, my cell goes off again. I look at the display. Round Two.

“I’m sorry,” Robert says. “I know how that probably sounded. I’m home now and ready for bed. I don’t want you to think—”

“What am I supposed to think, Robert?” I try to sound level, but it’s impossible. “That history doesn’t have a way of repeating itself?”

“It’s not what you think,” he says, panic slipping into his voice. Panic, with a side of irritation. “You have to trust me. This isn’t fair.”

“Come, goddammit,” I say. “If you want to prove something to me, put me first. Put everything else aside and join me in Paris like we planned.”

“I can’t, Emma,” he says. “It’s not that easy. It’s such a bad time here. We can’t seem to get ahead of—”

“Liar. It didn’t sound like you were having a bad time when you woke me up earlier. Were you at the Black Stallion again? Getting your fill?”

“Jesus, Em. Between your paranoia with my imaginary flings and this woman you’re obsessing over in the window, you have no room for anything else. You’re slipping again. Why would I want to join you there just to hear more of this? We can trade insults over the phone.”

“Imaginary flings? Really?” I ask. I stop walking. Chewy glances up at me with what looks like concern. I take a seat at a nearby bench and Chewy settles in at my feet. “Cheryl was not a figment of my imagination, Robert. Why are you doing this? I’m your fiancée. We’re getting married in two months. Please put your ‘work’ aside for one hot minute and come? It’s Paris, for God’s sake. No one should need to be convinced to come to Paris.”

The inflection I place on the word work has the desired effect. He runs with it.

“Stop accusing me of cheating. It was one time. I’ve apologized. I can’t do anything else to prove my dedication to—”

I disconnect, put my phone on silent and slip it into my purse. The sun has somehow risen without me noticing. I get up and make my way back to the apartment with Chewy. It’s almost time for Belle to begin her day. I love the way Henri interacts with her. It reminds me that love and tenderness still exist in the world. Perhaps their intimacy had something to do with me renaming her Belle. She is loved and beautiful to him.

This woman won’t leave my head. I can’t believe Stacey never mentioned her. There’s heartache and happiness happening right outside her window and she’s never once mentioned it to me. Perhaps she hoards it as her own little secret proof that beauty exists.

***

Chewy stirs me from my sleep with a low grade constant growl, a sound I haven’t heard in all of our two weeks together. There’s a ruckus in the courtyard below my open window and it’s lit like a fairground down there, enough to fill my room with a soft glow.

I scoop Chewy up and move to the window. The courtyard is filled with firemen, police, and EMTs. They make frantic gestures and speak in super-fast French I wouldn’t even be able to comprehend if I had polished up on my high school French prior to coming to France. The scene is chaotic and their conversation is in a state of escalation. I think of Belle and bring my gaze back up to her window.

More EMTs and firemen. My heart sinks. This can’t be. She’s hidden behind the swarm squeezed about her inside the tiny room. Some work on her as others look around the room and out the window to the crowd of first responders gathered below. They all appear helpless, lost.

Henri storms into the room, desperate, hands flailing. I can hear snips and bits of his words. Enough to feel his love on fire. Through tears, he tells them she is beautiful, asks them to be gentle and tells them she is loved. This much French I can piece together from the little I know.

Chewy’s urgent barks cause all heads to turn in my direction and I’m finally discovered. I scurry away from the window, humiliated, and prepare to take Chewy outside. Making my way through the commotion of the courtyard, I have to walk past the first responders who only moments ago caught me ogling. The sting of my humiliation heats my cheeks. I’m relieved to escape to the street, even though I’m terrified for Belle and desperately want to know what’s happened.

I walk for hours, barely able to keep myself together. Chewy steals glances my way, silently pleading with me to end our walk and take him home. But I can’t go back. I don’t want to know.

My cell rings. Despite seeing Robert’s name on my screen, I answer it.

“Emma?”

“I can’t do this, Robert.”

“I’m at the airport, Em. I came. I’m in Paris. I just landed.”

Now he comes?

“I think she might be dead,” I say, ignoring his statement.

He sighs and I know Henri would never be this exasperated with Belle. He’d have endless patience. “I’m on my way. Okay?”

“I can’t go back there. I can’t see that bed empty.” My words stop me in my tracks and niggle at my mind. They ignite something inside me, but I can’t quite grasp what it is. I bend to pick up Chewy and realize how spent he is. His panting fuels my guilt.

Frozen amid the busy sidewalk, I cuddle Chewy for dear life as the true meaning of my words sharpen into focus. Robert is the there I can’t go back to. Our empty bed is the one I can’t bear to see again. Our time apart has clarified what I knew all along.

“Tell me where you are. I’ll find you.”

“No,” I say. “I’m in Paris. You can’t have it. Paris is mine.” He groans in palpable frustration. But I finally realize it’s too late for us. “Goodbye, Robert.”

I shut down my phone to remove his ability to argue. With Chewy in my arms, I run all the way back to Rue Saint-Louis. I need to know.

THE END

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This is Me in Grade Nine – A Short Story

Hello readers!

I’m sharing a short story today that originally appeared in an anthology called LOVE IS LOVE. All proceeds from the anthology went to the Trevor Project. I was so honoured to be asked to contribute to it.

My story, THIS IS ME IN GRADE NINE, is the story of a transitioning teen’s preparation for and first moments of grade nine.

You can read the short story below…

(Book cover photo courtesy of Emma Eden Ramos.)

THIS IS ME IN GRADE NINE – by Kevin Craig

The first day is always the worst day. My brother Dillon told me this, but I already had my suspicions. I’m kind of good at coming to conclusions on my own. The first day is the day you’re forced to let go of all the confidence and royalty you gained in being in the highest grade in elementary school. Eighth Grade rules. In grade nine, however, you start all over again at the bottom. Grade nine is the kindergarten of high school. I’m the new kid again, stripped of the glory of my former elementary school standing. Minor-Niner.

I blindly reach for my phone with my eyes closed. After a failed swipe to turn off my alarm, I give up and open my eyes. I need to shut off the noise. I set it twenty minutes ahead. Last night’s me knew I would need a few minutes in bed to contemplate the hugeness of this day. The first day of the rest of my life.

I told my parents when I was ten. I thought they’d be okay with it. They even mostly convinced me they were okay with it. Until Dad came up with the plan for me to fake it until I was older. He thought it would be best if I didn’t rock the boat.

I’m pretty sure he was talking more about his boat than mine.

I don’t really blame him. (Yes I do). He was only trying to protect me. (Protect himself).

Today is the day. I worked up to this all summer. Mom’s on board and Dad pretends to be. I can see him coming apart at the seams, though. I sometimes imagine how difficult it must be for him. The least I can do is cut him some slack. I know he’s trying. I know he loves me.

He did allow me to redo my bedroom almost right away. My ten-year-old self went to town on Barbie pink decor. Something I have slightly regretted ever since. But what ten-year-old doesn’t see pink as the exact opposite of boy? Dad was also okay with me making subtle changes along the way, like growing my hair out. But there has always been the public me and the private family me. He’s been very protective of that barrier, even though it’s been eroding the entire time. I watched it slip away between his fingers. But I won’t feel bad for him. This isn’t about him.

Mom’s my rock. Our shopping trips to the city were the best part of my summer. If it makes me pathetic to enjoy shopping with my mother, oh well. Mom gets me. She even seems to know the kind of girl I want to be. By the end of the summer, I even let her choose the outfits while I stood in the change-room pacing back and forth waiting for the next dress or sweater or tights to come swinging up over the door-frame of the stall. It was a summer of preparation and today is the day we prepared for…it’s here.

My first official day.

I glance over to the hook on the back of my bedroom door and see the outfit I picked out for today. The clothes I’ll wear to meet the student body of Hubert B Larson Secondary School. A butter yellow blouse with exaggerated double-bell sleeves and jeans with slight bedazzled embellishments on the pockets. Not a dress, not yet.

I imagine myself in the swishy blouse with the fun sleeves. I’m utterly in love with those sleeves. Before I drag myself out of bed, though, there’s a soft knock on my door. I pull the duvet over my head, but say, “Come in.”

I hear the door open and sense someone approach. They sit down gently on the side of the bed.

I pull back the covers, expecting it to be Mom. Seems like an excellent time for a Mom Talk. But it’s Dillon. His back is to me. I can tell he’s ready for school. He smells of Axe spray and cleanliness. And his dirty blonde skater hair is perfection, as usual.

Without turning around, he says, “You know I’m here for you, right.”

I don’t answer. He’s not finished. There wasn’t quite enough of a question to his question.

“Whatever you want or need, you come see me. I don’t care if I’m in class, in gym, with friends, in the can, or whatever. You come see me, Kristy. You got me?” His resolve almost comes across as anger, but I know better. It’s fierce sibling loyalty. Fierce loyalty, period.

The way he slipped my name in there—just like that—brings a tear to my eye. I swipe at it and take a deep breath. I remain quiet. Maybe this is my Mom Talk. Maybe Mom sent in Dill to pinch-hit for her.

“Remember that day in Paris. The summer before I started high school? Three years ago. Wow. Time flies, Kristy. I was so scared. I even thought about running away. In Paris, I thought about running away to avoid high school. How crazy is that?”

I sit up. It’s time for me to enter this conversation. I swing my legs over the other side of the bed and come around and stand in front of him in my Wonder Woman pajamas. He offers up that amazing Dill smile he has. I smile back.

“You did run away, loser,” I say as I sit down beside him. A little laugh escapes me and Dillon chuckles in return. “You texted my cell when I was with Mom and Dad in Shakespeare & Company. Mom couldn’t get Dad to leave the upstairs part, where all the dusty old books are. The ones you can look at but not buy. You texted that you loved me and told me, keep being you.”

“Yeah. I’m such a loser. You’re right.”

“Because Dad made us all share our locations on Google in case someone got lost and because you were too stupid to turn your share off before you texted, I knew exactly where you were.”

“And you came across the river to talk me down from the ledge,” Dillon says. He puts an arm around my shoulder and looks me in the eye. “And everything turned out okay. I survived Grade Nine. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I imagined it would be.”

“You do know there’s more to it with me, though, right?” I ask. “I mean, it’s not the same.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Dillon says with exaggerated annoyance. “Come on. I just mean, you know…”

“I get it, Dill. Really. Grade nine is scary. But honestly, I’m not even thinking about that right now. I know I’ve been preparing for this for forever, but it doesn’t make it any less scary. Today, I’m becoming myself. It just so happens I’m doing it on the first day of Grade Nine.”

“No,” he says. Now he holds both of my cheeks in a too-tight grip. He gives me his laser Dillon eyes. “You’ve always been who you are. You have to remember that part, Kristy. Dad was wrong to make you wait. You’ve always been you.”

“Yeah, I know, Dill,” I say. “Thank you.”

“I’m here. That’s all I want you to know. I know you didn’t text me or nothing. You weren’t throwing out a life-line hoping I would save you from yourself. That’s because you’re way braver than I ever was. You’d never run away. But I’m here. I need you to know that. If you ever need talking down from the ledge, I’m your man. We got this. Together.”

Though he’s holding my cheeks in a death grip, I break free and hug him. For a big brother, he’s pretty great.

After a moment, I let go.

“Okay,” I say. “That was nice and all, loser, but I have to get ready for school. This magic isn’t going to happen all by itself, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dills says. “See you downstairs, sis.”

The sis comment hits me in the feels in a way I don’t expect, so I usher Dillon out of my room as quick as I can. I will not cry, I will not cry.

That top is waiting for me. I can’t wait to have those sleeves to shake around. First, however? Shower, hair, and make-up.

***

Four. That’s how many kids from my Grade Eight class are going to the same high school as me. All four of them, along with their parents, came over to our house this past long weekend. Mom orchestrated the meeting. I have no idea what she said to get them to come. My preparation was her summer project. This was The Summer of Becoming Kristy Mason. Mom thought of everything. Even one-on-one make-up application classes. I didn’t even know they existed.

Titan Banks, Emily Jackson, Rob Denison, and Sarah Parker. I have never walked in their circles. Sure, we had classes together. We know each other fine. We just never hung out together. I wondered what it would be like to be Emily’s friend. I’ve had a crush on Titan Banks since the first day of kindergarten when he shared a red plastic boat with me at the water station. He was really nice about it. That gesture was enough to cement a life-long attraction that will never go anywhere. We have ricocheted noiselessly in and out of each other’s orbits ever since.

Emily and Titan are going to Larson Secondary because they’re moving across town. The other two are probably going there for the same reason as me…a fresh start. If anyone needs to reinvent themselves, it’s Sarah Parker. Kids can be so mean when they weaponize social media. Sarah explored the Grade Eight boys of Piedmont Elementary a little too freely and she has seriously paid for it over the past year.

Everyone seemed okay with Mom’s announcement, initially. They were polite and smiled at all the right places. They attempted airs of casualness. Everyone but Rob, that is. His mouth hung open from the second he set eyes on me. The mere presence of my clothes, hair and make-up was clearly more than he could bear. But the façade the others had managed to momentarily hold onto slowly began to show cracks. It was Emily who finally broke the spell.

“I mean, it’s cool and everything,” she had said. “But you’re crazy if you think for one minute I’m going to call him Kristy. His name’s Chris.”

The hardest part of hearing that statement had nothing to do with her intentional misgendering or the way it made me feel. What broke my heart was the way her words completely and utterly deflated Mom. I watched as her carefully maintained smile drooped at the corners and then faded completely away. It was immediately replaced with a pained expression that made me want to punch Emily in the throat. I think Mom finally realized, in that moment, how difficult this new reality was going to be. Not only for me, but for all of us.

How could she not have known?

After a moment of silence where my entire family buried their well-intentioned hopes that everything would run smoothly, my father brought the conversation back to life.

“Yes, well…” That was all he had. The extent of his contribution.

“Emily, dear,” her mother had said, clearly feigning outrage with her daughter. She then turned to Mom and said, “I’m so sorry. This must be so difficult for you. I’ll talk to Emily. I’ll make sure she calls him—“

“Her! Calls her,” Dillon had said, the sheer volume of his voice made me jump. Dillon got up from where he sat, came within an inch of my face, grabbed my cheeks and said, “You’re my sister. You’re a she. Do you hear me? I don’t want you to hear any of the bullshit. Don’t listen to it. Do you understand?” His eyes bore into mine and I could see he was waiting for me to actually answer his question.

“Yes,” I had said, feeling the tears forming but pleading with them not to fall.

“You’re wrong,” Mom finally said, turning to Mrs. Jackson. “It’s not difficult for me. This,” she continued, waving a hand to encompass me, “This is not difficult for me. My daughter is not difficult. Accepting her and loving her has never been difficult. The only thing that is difficult for me right now is that I counted on the kindness of strangers and hoped for some understanding. It’s difficult to see how much I misjudged this.”

“It was nice of you all to invite us over to discuss this…situation,” Titan’s father said, ignoring the flow of the conversation. “But really. This doesn’t involve us. We have no reason to force our kids to help you in whatever it is you want their help in. They went to the same school as him. They don’t owe him anything. If we’re done here, I think we’ll head out. I’m sure the rest of you have better things to do with our Labour Day Saturday. I know I do. Come on, Titan. We’re leaving.”

“Dad,” Titan had said. “No. Don’t be a douche.” He had turned to Mom and offered her a slight smile. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mason. I’ll look out for Kristy at Larson. I’ll look out for her. I promise.”

I’m sure Titan wasn’t expecting the smothering hug he received from Mom, but he allowed it to happen all the same.

“Thank you so much, Titan,” Mom had said. She even tousled his perfectly messy black mop of hair.

“No problem,” Titan had said. His perfect smile quickly faded to a menacing dirty look as he glanced over at Emily. Once he was certain the look had hit its mark and Emily had recoiled herself away from it with a flinch, Titan had turned to me and my brother. “See you at school, Kristy. You look great.”

Sitting here at the breakfast bar, eating a banana with my dry Cheerios, I can feel my cheeks burn with the memory of that compliment. Dillon had made a huge point of thanking Titan. He had been the only truly supportive person in the entire group. After that, everyone decided en masse that the meeting was over. They made an exodus to the front door. There were promises and apologies and awkward goodbyes and it was over.

I finish my cereal and bring the bowl to the sink. Seeing my arms move in my double-bell sleeves makes me lighter. Seeing Friday’s manicure on my outstretched fingers as I toss my banana peel into the compost gives me power. Another thing Mom and I did together over the weekend. Matching manicures. And I somehow made mine last.

“Sweetie,” Mom says as she comes up behind me. “You look so beautiful. Did you eat enough? You have your cell phone? You sure you don’t want me to drive you? I’m sorry Daddy’s not here. He had to go in early for a meeting. He told me to tell you—”

“Mom, stop. Slow down. Please.”

“I’m sorry, dear. I’m just nervous.”

I place a hand on her shoulder and make her look me in the eye. “It’s the first day of high school, Mom. I’m not going off to war.”

“After this weekend, I’m not so sure that’s true,” she says. “What if everyone is like those people?”

“Mom, please,” I say. “It’ll be fine. You don’t have to drive me. Dillon said he would. He’s going there anyway, right. I’ll be okay. I promise. You know Dill.”

“I honestly don’t know what I would do without him, sweetie.”

“Yeah, well. Me too.”

I’m glad Dill and I had our conversation earlier. I’m guessing he’s gonna be a bit all-over-the-place during the ride to school. If Mom’s any indication.

“Please don’t be angry with your father, Kristy. He’s trying. He’s doing his be—”

“Mom, no,” Dillon says as he comes down the stairs. “Don’t put this on her. Don’t tell her how to feel. And don’t protect him. He’s doing shit.”

“Language. And he is trying. I promise you, he’s trying.”

“Mom,” Dillon says. “There is no trying. Don’t you get it? He shouldn’t have to try. Are you trying? No. You’re just doing. Don’t stick up for him. He has work to do and we all know it.”

“Just…it’s okay, Dill. Could we just go?” I make my way to the front door, grab my school bag and purse. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

I’m not the least bit ready, but I’m more not ready for this conversation than I’m not ready for school. The closer I get to who I am the farther away from Dad I become and it’s really freaking me out.

Mom catches up to me as I reach the door. I find myself smothered in a last minute hug I’m not sure I’ll survive.

“Baby, I hope I did everything right. I did, right? I did everything right?” She mumbles into my neck, choking back sobs as she speaks. “I just want my girl to be happy. I don’t know how to protect you. I can’t protect you if I’m not there.”

Dillon steps in to save me, prying Mom away from me. It’s taking everything in me not to break down and join her. And Dillon can see how close I am.

“We love you, Mom. I’ll text you later. Kristy’s golden. Okay. We got this.”

We escape to the car. I am mere moments away from high school. Surprisingly, we drive in silence for the most part. We’re about three minutes away from school when we simultaneously burst into laughter. I look over and Dillon has his head back and his mouth open and he’s totally lost in it for a split second that seems to last forever. As he looks back at the road, he says, “She’s your mother.” This only makes us laugh harder.

We pull into the parking lot and it gets real. I can’t do this. After Dill parks, he gets out and runs around to my side of the car. When he opens the door for me, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Loser.”

“I know, right,” he says, chuckling. “Who the hell am I?”

“Chivalry is alive and well and living inside the zombie that invaded my big brother’s body.”

“I deserved that,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Dillon heads toward the school, feigning a casualness I can see right through. My protector. He’s having last minute nerves. I catch up and we turn the corner to the front of the school together. I’d have to be blind to miss the looks I get as we proceed, the whispers, the nods, the gasps. I think Dill can hear them too, though I’m not certain.

“Oh,” Dillon says, surprise in his tone. We’re walking up the front steps and I look around to see what caused his shock. Titan Banks leans against the building, just off to the side of the entrance. He doesn’t see us. His head is buried in his phone and there’s a smile on his face. It kind of erases some of the effects of the other crap that’s happening around me.

He finally looks away from his screen and the smile becomes more.

Dillon gets to him first. “Thanks, bro,” Dill says. “You’re kind of awesome. Thank you.”

“Hey, Dillon,” Titan says. They actually bump fists. It’s weird.

Dillon moves towards the entrance after a moment’s hesitation. He turns back and gives me his Dill smile one last time. “Remember Paris,” he says.

“Loser,” I reply. We share a look that is everything I need in this moment. It tells me he’ll be there for me at a second’s notice, that he’s just a text away.

“I’m sorry for my Dad,” Titan says once we’re alone. “He’s a bit of a prick.”

“I’m mostly sorry for mine, too. But we shouldn’t apologize for other people.”

“Come on, Kristy,” he says, leaving our fathers in the dust. “I’ll show you where your locker is.”

“Huh,” I say, ignoring the whispers about us. “How would you even know?”

He puts a hand out. “Come on.” I’m nervous at first, afraid to reach out for the offered hand. “I talked to the office. Arranged it. Made sure our lockers are together. Side by side.”

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

“That’s why we need to be friends. There’s lots you don’t know about me. I get things done.”

The fear’s still there. The uncertainty bubbles just under the surface. But I’ve been waiting my whole life for this. We enter the building. All it takes is one more plea and I accept Titan’s hand, allow him to walk me to my locker. I catch our reflection in a trophy cabinet along the way. This is me. Finally. I look down at these amazing sleeves, the color of sunshine, and I realize I made it. This is me in Grade Nine. Kristy Mason. I’ve waited so long for this.

THE END