Cheated by Patrick Jones Page B

smoke? Do you go toward a light? We’ll never know because the dead don’t talk to us, they just haunt us. Our ghost-to-be lies in front of us, arms outstretched, legs almost curled underneath him, and his tongue dangling from his almost toothless mouth. Even if he was alive, I doubt he could have breathed, because it felt like we were sucking up all of the oxygen in the cluttered, filthy space. What was his last breath like? What is the moment of realization when you understand that you’re about to die? Is it a thing of stark beauty or indescribable fear? Does it matter how you die? Is it better to go slowly with cancer eating away at your body, or to go quickly: in an auto accident crushing your bones and organs like a trash compacter, or a violent death at the hands of another, wielding a gun, knife, fist, boot, or brick? Is it better to know when and how you’re going to die, or to have it come upon you suddenly and unexpectedly? As I sit with my arms wrapped around my knees, and my head hanging low ready to vomit again, I want to rock myself back toward birth. If I’d never been born, then I wouldn’t have to die. If I’d never been born, then I wouldn’t have ever killed
.

After School / 3:00 p.m.
    I made my way to my locker after the prep-pep rally, walking mostly uphill against the teeming Red Dragon masses crowding the hallway. Brody was at the office getting his punishment, while I was caught in a cloud of negative thoughts. Maybe it’s how that day started with Mom’s questions about homecoming and some unstated expectation that I was failing to reach. Maybe it was seeing Whitney so beautiful at the bus stop or Rex so ugly to me before gym class. Maybe it was the stupid loudness of the rally or the silent loneliness I felt whenever I saw Nicole. Maybe it was all of these things, maybe it was nothing, but I’d never felt so pissed off. After tossing my books into the bottom of my locker, I loudly slammed the door on the day. The sound catapulted me into thoughts of tonight—drinking with Brody and Aaron, where nobody had expectations of me and there was nobody to answer to or judge me.
    â€œYou lock it?” I heard Aaron shout to get my attention. It was odd to hear Aaron’s voice at that volume. While Brody almost always yelled, I’d never known Aaron to, unless he was drunk.
    â€œSorry,” I said, then turned around to reenter the locker combination.
    â€œNo problem,” Aaron replied. I was amazed that Aaron, who had been so angry, so loud, and so drunk the night before could be so calm, so soft-spoken, and so far from hung-over.
    â€œWhat time? The bus leaves at seven,” I said, using finger quotes around the word
bus
.
    â€œWanna meet up around six forty-five?” Aaron replied. “I gotta spend stepdad time before.”
    My eyes bounced back a strange mix of envy and sympathy. “You going home now?”
    â€œNo, gonna go study,” Aaron said as he loaded up his backpack. That’s what hard classes and high expectations get you: strong arms and a surefire way to disappointment.
    â€œGotta run,” I said, then sprinted off toward the bus. I joyously pulled down crepe paper and stomped on balloons as I left the building, trampling on a little of that Dragon false pride.
    Outside, I hung back by the flagpole as other riders gathered for the bus. Rusty and Bob were absent, probably in some pregame team meeting. While I felt bad about Brody getting kicked off that team and all, I liked having him around to hang with at school and after.
    â€œYou catching this ride?” I pointed to the bus as Brody slouched toward me.
    â€œNah, I’m hitting the weight room,” Brody said, then slapped the muscle on his left arm with his right hand. “Be my last chance to move some iron after school for a while.”
    â€œHow bad?” I asked, but didn’t want to look Brody in the eye about this