Chapter Three: The Last WeekA Chapter by Not hereChapter 3“I don’t know why, but the last few weeks always take forever to go by,” Michael commented, looking out the smudged window beside their booth as numerous cars passed by, rumbling along Main Street, swiftly traveling by the small restaurant. “You have no idea; to those of us who don’t sleep through math class,” groaned Brandon, “it seems a whole lot longer.” He grinned, twisting his head to see Michael beside him. Across the four-seating table in a slightly dilapidated booth bench were his other best friends. Crystal and Christian sat, comfortable in the presence of their friends. Few people were in the restaurant now, since it was at that time of day between lunch and dinner where nobody pays to eat. These four made all of the noise, talking none too quietly amongst themselves. Sipping carefreely on the straw impaling his milkshake, Christian looked towards Michael, wondering what he would say to Brandon’s laughing accusation. “I don’t sleep in math class,” Michael defended himself. “And my grades are higher than yours!” “The drool stains on your paper are bigger, too. If you’re gonna sleep, you gotta get rid of the evidence,” Brandon said, wagging his finger like he had seen his mother do. “You look like my mom,” Christian said with a wide smile, the glasses perched on his nose nearly falling, and Crystal laughed, throwing her head back, sending smooth, dirty blonde hair flying back. “Maybe I am your mom, lil’ boy,” Brandon smiled. “That’s not actually possible-” Ignoring Christian, Brandon went on in a mock-motherly tone, calling out, “Christian, Christian, oh please do come get your clothes from the clothesline! I wouldn’t want all of Hardy to see your underwear from last night; wetting the bed leaves such awful stains.” Christian shot a spit ball at him through the straw of his milkshake, smacking him right in the mouth and entering in. Brandon choked and coughed it out, increasing the laughter and eventually joining in, while the few people eating in the restaurant stared at the noisy teenagers gathered together. Brandon was sharing a milkshake with Michael, like always, in the four-seat booth they often visited after school ended. Dashing out of last period, they would grab their bags and head to the diner, a small, locally-owned restaurant where the prices were cheap, the food was good, and, most importantly, the milkshakes were outstanding. Christian’s and Crystal’s mother, Mrs. Moore, worked there as a waitress, so most days she would take Michael and Brandon to their homes after her shift ended. Both of them had little sisters, Grace Gray and Lilly Walker, but they were in the half-day kindergarten class, so they got taken home by Mrs. Gray earlier. Mr. Moore was a traveling man, often driving back and forth between Hardy, where they lived, Marcy, the town a few minutes away where their mother worked and the children all went to school, and Indianapolis, the state capital where his official office was. Normally, he would come home for the weekend, tired and stressed, but always made time for his kids. Dinner on those weekends was fantastic, when their mother made the best possible meals they could afford and everyone sat down to hear what new stories The Traveling Mr. Moore, as he called himself when telling stories, had to tell them. Stories he told were different from any they heard at school or from friends; these were stories of the city. Lots of traffic everywhere, a combination of nasty smells and good ones, very influential and very corrupt politics; these were what he told them about, but not directly. No, in his stories, everyone had a good inside of them, whether they used it or not. There was hate and crime and manipulation, sure, but there was also love and friendship and pride in hard work. “That’s what important, kids,” he said one night. “No matter what happens, keep working hard and keep with your friends. That’ll get you through life just fine.” The Moore twins certainly did work hard; there was no doubt about that. Christian was top of his grade at school, and by a good amount, too. As well, despite her carefree, typical teenage attitude she shared with Brandon and Michael, Crystal had serious plans for the future, wanting to become a nurse and maybe work in a large, important hospital. When they first met, Brandon teased her about it, but since then her dreams to become a nurse, even without knowing the first thing about medicine, looked very probable compared to his dreams of becoming a Nascar driver. All considered, the Moore twins had a splendid life. Things were not quite as cheery at Michael’s or even Brandon’s house. At the latter’s home, his parents were together, yes, but were very strict. Most people assume being an only-child means lots of free time, free money, and freedom, but that is not always true, and it certainly was not for Brandon. If you had asked Brandon what religion his parents were, he would have said, “They’re Baptists, alright, but the really strict kind that won’t let you have any fun, and if you laugh during church you get a dirty look from the man preaching, right there and then.” The truth is, religion was not the reason so much that they were strict, as you might be presuming. Mr. Gray, Brandon’s father, had lived a rough childhood, working on the farm and being taught lessons the hard way all his life. Between his father’s tough regimen and the prejudiced, racist families he grew up near, Mr. Gray’s life had never been easy. Some men grow and flourish in that environment, making them stronger, but it had made him bitter and resentful. In regards to Brandon, Mr. Gray was a no-nonsense, punishment-ain’t-enough type of guy. He wanted Brandon to grow up as straight as a log, and about as tough as one too, so when he did not quite live up to those spiritual, physical, or mental expectations, his dad got really frustrated. Couple that with his mom’s religious values which she had burned into her at an early age, and you have a child who just wants some freedom, so he often found it with his friends, goofing around when they were allowed and even more when they were not. Now, Michael was a different situation altogether. When he was a young boy, not even a few months old, his father had left him. While the other families all around him had two adults, two parents, he had one. Up and down Country Road, where he lived, there were the typical farm families: one mom, one dad, a few kids. His house was different; they had no farming, besides his mom’s tomato garden that died every year, and certainly no animals, not even a dog. In his house, there was no Mr. Walker, so most people did not consider his mother a Mrs. Walker either. Michael was still the same old Michael, though. He had lots of freedom, but never abused it, and spent most of his time trying to be with Brandon or the twins. Especially the twins lately, because Crystal...well, he had a thing for her, and every time he saw her it seemed to get stronger. When they would go out to eat or go to the movies, he made certain to sit by her if possible. Someday, maybe, just maybe, he would get to hold her hand, although he was not sure if his heart could take that kind of exhilaration. “What time is your mom picking you up, Brandon?” Crystal asked curiously. He had a doctor’s appointment or dentist’s; she could not remember which. “And are we all still sleeping at your house tonight?” “Oh yeah, for sure,” he answered. “My parents probably won’t like it, but they agreed so now they have to let you all sleep over.” He smiled mischievously, and they all knew he was excited for them to come over. Rarely, if ever, did they go to Brandon’s house. Michael’s all of the time, and even the Moore’s frequently, but never Brandon’s. “Your house gonna be fun? Or like one of those places where you can’t talk without getting told to hush?” Michael asked. “You mean church?” he asked, and they all got a chuckle out of that. The expression on his face said that Brandon really wanted to tell them all about his house. “Nah, it’s not like that; we can just stay up in my room.” “I can’t believe your parents are letting a girl come over,” Crystal said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I thought for sure they would say no.” “I told ‘em if we didn’t let you come over, you’d get real upset and pester your mom about it. Made it sound like it was a real loving thing to do, letting you come over.” “And that got ‘em?” Michael asked him. Christian answered, “Obviously it did; we’d all be sleeping at my house if-” “Okay, okay; turn everything into Algebra,” Brandon mocked, throwing up his hands. “Whatever,” Christian grinned smugly while the others chuckled. “Hey, I think that’s your mom’s car,” Michael nudged Brandon, pointing out the window with his finger. Poking his head up to see over Christian, Brandon said, “Yeah, sure is. Guess I better go.” “Bye, man.” “See you later, Brandon.” “See you at your house.” “Goodnight to all, and to all a good night!” Brandon exclaimed with a bow before he exited through the diner door. When he was gone, Christian commented, “He just botched that line.” They laughed at that. Christian stood up from his seat, asking for Crystal to let him out. “What for?” “Gotta pee.” Michael grinned slightly, thinking now he would have some time with Crystal. When Christian went into the bathroom, he asked, “You doing anything this summer?” She shook her head. “Going to visit my grandparents towards the end of June.” “Sweet.” When she did not say anything, he broke the silence. “Aren’t you supposed to ask me?” “What? Oh, sure,” she giggled, letting loose butterflies in Michael’s stomach. “What are you doing this summer?” His face took on a macho expression and he flexed his biceps. “Just working on these bad boys.” She grinned, raising her hands up as if holding a game console and twiddling her thumbs. “You mean these?” He gasped, pretending to be offended, although it did not fool anybody. “I do not-” Christian interrupted him, slamming the bathroom door and announcing, “Don’t anybody go in there. The dude before me let off a big one.” “Christian!” his mother chided from behind the cash register. The other laughed, hiding their faces from Mrs. Moore, and not too long after, they were riding in her car up the hill away from Marcy, the brick buildings shrinking behind them in the distance, and towards Hardy, where they all lived and had for many years. Following one of the roads, they could travel up from the Ohio River valley on a winding, twisting road, under the shade of trees and with the accompaniment of beautiful scenery. Looking down on Marcy from a few of those spots would have made perfect images to snap with a camera and transfer to a postcard, except that postcards only came from big cities, big places, or big money. Marcy had none of those things; mostly, it was made up of a town hall, a library, about a dozen shops, another dozen restaurants, and what seemed like twice as many church buildings. That was alright, though; people loved it one way or another. The river was a crucial part of life in Marcy back when it had been founded, and with the right nurturing and business investments, it could have grown much larger, getting near the likes of other river-cities by Louisville and Cincinnati, not that folks from Marcy wanted it that way. No, they were just fine with the small town and small life they lived, away from the scrutiny of critics and glare of the flashing lights. This was home to them, and it most certainly would stay that way. Peace and comfort, though, could not last forever. Younger, more ambitious, never contented generations either wanted to move away to large populaces, opportunities, and buildings, or wanted to expand Marcy to become those. Constant turmoil between those who were content and those who were obsessively ambitious erupted almost on a monthly, sometimes weekly basis; you see, erupting on a daily basis would be too much work for both sides, and nobody liked to work hard too much in Marcy. Up that road, which eventually merged with Highway 62 and ran along a little farther into the distance, was Hardy. It was different than Marcy, in many ways. With such a small crowd of folks, and an even smaller crowd of buildings, it was truly peaceful. Any crime was petty crime, and any arguments were hardly even civil disputes. It was an entirely different world, where those who embraced it were embraced by it. Wrapped in its arms, there was a sense of community and bonding that you would be hard-pressed to find anywhere else. There were many farms in Hardy, but all of them were centered around the main streets and buildings, which essentially formed a square. Pine Tree Park was there, with walking paths for adults, playgrounds for kids, basketball and tennis courts for those sort of people. It had everything for everyone, and most of all it had family. Most weekends, a dozen miles away in Marcy, they were arguing over what to name such and such street, or what font should be used on the billboard. Meanwhile, there was a community-wide barbecue at Pine Tree Park, where only laughter reigned and drove away the petty worries of everyday life. It was full of a homy attitude, a familiar sense of togetherness, and the wonderful smell of every type of meat. Dry-roasted, barbecued, seasoned, sauced; there was something for everyone and someone for everything. That was the real Hardy. What those kids did not know, on that ride up Highway 62, was that as they got closer to Hardy, they were getting closer to a different one than they had left that morning. Strange, menacing things were lurking under the ground of expectations, ready to spring up and shoot out, blooming and blossoming into something terrible. That night was going to be different from all the rest. Those four teenagers would never be the same; those streets and those houses would never be the same; Hardy would never be the same.
© 2015 Not hereAuthor's Note
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