Rocket Car

Chapter 12

Author's Note: Trigger warning for this chapter. Contains an attempted r**e. In real life, the next time I saw this kid he said, "You're the b***h that broke my ribs!" Sorry not sorry. It was good to write this, though, for my own sake.

Rocket Car

I wake up before everyone else – typical. The hideaway bed that Jolene had granted me was comfortable enough I suppose. Trying not to wake anyone, I tepidly place my feet on the soft carpet and step over the still-sleeping Jolene. I know my way around this house no matter how many years have passed, I realize. There are no thoughts in my mind as I go about a normal routine of starting coffee, brushing my teeth (um, whose brush did I just use, anyway? Maybe I didn't get enough sleep), and prepare for the day.

It isn't long until Jolene is awake, too. She greets me with a smile that is much too bright for my liking. Clearly, she's a morning person. I make myself comfortable in the kitchen as she goes about her own routines for the starting the day. I enjoy a cup of coffee and I dig out some oatmeal cookies and an apple for a morning snack.

Next awake is Barry. He stumbles into the kitchen, gives me a wave, then downs a cup of coffee before disappearing to the bathroom. When he returns, he's got a toothbrush in his mouth and drool is forming around his lips. Now I know whose toothbrush I used… I try not to make a face as Barry slams himself down into a chair at the kitchen table next to me. Do I make that much noise when I brush my teeth?

Barry looks like death incarnated. Shadows under his bloodshot eyes are highlighted by the lack of color in his face. His shoulders are slumped, as though exhaustion is all that's left in life for him. I have to wonder if I look that haggard after spending the last few days essentially couch surfing. Once he's done brushing his teeth, he instantly gets to cooking a full breakfast. No matter how many years pass, his big brother instincts are always working flawlessly.

Davis is the next to join us. He trails out of Willie's room, his phone in hand as he texts away. Behind him Edgar is sprinting down the hallway; the little kid nearly takes Davis out as he passes by. Somehow, Davis doesn't even register the existence of Edgar. I keep my eyes on him, examining his face as he plops down next to me. I can tell he's not happy, although a good percentage of that is probably due to a beer hangover.

"What's up?" I ask.

There's a light growl from his throat before he answers, "Gotta let my boss know I won't make it in this morning. Well, that I didn't make it in this morning since I'm already three hours late." With each word he speaks, his voice raises a notch. By the time he's finished, he's nearly yelling. The phone is slammed on the table for added effect. Barry finds this humorous, if his light chuckle is any indication. It sets Davis off and he shouts, "This is your fault!"

Barry is amused; he turns from his breakfast making adventure to face Davis. With a playful grin he says, "Mine? What'd I do?"

"You got me drunk!" Davis accuses.

Barry laughs again and he says, "Just offered a few beers! Besides, I was hoping to loosen you up a bit so you could, y'know? Get with – "

"Please don't say anything that's going to make today awkward," Willie's voice interrupts. I watch as he shuffles into the kitchen and snags his son. Barry says nothing; his expression falls into a frown for a brief moment before he turns back to breakfast. It must have signaled the end of the conversation, because Willie leaves the kitchen with his son and retreats back toward the bedrooms.

There's a moment of silence between the three of us still in the kitchen. It's oddly comfortable. Somehow I feel ten years younger. The combination of people and location certainly help fuel the nostalgia. Bacon being fried as a low hum comes from Barry tickles my memories. A hand from Davis involuntarily grabs mine and we're both transported back to being kids again.

Barry calls over his shoulder, "Hey, I heard something about a game going on today. So I took the liberty of calling some people down, to save you kids some trouble."

I shrug, not really committed to anything other than enjoying my last few days off. Davis, however, asks, "Who is 'some people,' exactly?"

By two in the afternoon, we know exactly. Some of them are classmates I've nearly forgotten; others are former best friends, like Lorie. I barely even recognize her, now that she's a mother of two and a career orientated woman on top of that. Gone is the youthful bounce she had when we were teenager. In its place is a step that I'm sure only parents could master, in order to keep up with their little hellions. It's odd how, despite our friendship in our youth, I barely have anything to say to her now.

It's not as though there was a falling out. Time was the enemy of our friendship, as it was with too many other relationships I've formed. Despite technology making it easier than ever to keep in touch, nothing makes up for physical contact. So far, Davis seems to be the only one I have fallen into a comfortable relationship with again, and with great ease as well.

There's one face I don't particular care to see again, yet of course he makes an appearance. James Ochoa strolls onto the Waechter property as though it was still a second home of his. He's brought his wife and their three kids. The youngest is barely two months old, and he's cradling the precious child in a caring way I never thought possible from him.

Across the field we make eye contact with each other. Something flashes in his eyes and he quickly looks away. Yeah, just as I thought. Hard to face the past sometimes.

But even if it's painful, we have to face it regardless. Somehow, we avoid talking to each other throughout the first inning of our scrub baseball game. The old base paths have grass growing atop them, making it hard to field plays. We're both shortstops, thus we play on opposite teams intentionally and no one questions it. Davis is the only person present that has any clue there's tension between me and Ochoa.

Eventually, I line a double down the first baseline. When I come screeching into second I nearly barrel into Ochoa. As the ball is passed back in there's a moment of awkward silence between us. My eyes are focused on the next batter as they take a few practice swings; he occupies his time kicking imaginary dirt.

"You look good," he says, breaking the ice. I look at him, surprised by his voice. It's softer than I remember. He senses my eyes and glances my way only to turn away quickly.

"You, too," I say. It's true; he's aged well. "Your kids are better looking than you, though," I tease.

He catches it was in good nature and makes a pitiful snicker. Then, he stops moving his leg in anxiousness. Here it is – time to confront what a piece of s**t he was in high school. He knows he has to say something, and I know I have to hear him out.

His ungloved hand reaches up to adjust the dirtied ball cap on his head. His eyes are somewhere else. "So, um," he stops, clears his throat, and then, "Sorry. About what I did."

He turns to face me and I know it's sincere. "It's alright," is all I can say. No, it isn't alright.

October 6th, 2005

In a small town school there aren't a lot of options for after school programs. Athletes have a tendency to play in two or three sports in order to keep up their fitness level and for scholarship opportunities. Sometimes, it was done just to pass the time. In Kristy's case, it was a little of all three. Despite having a terrible vertical, she still played on the volleyball team. Most of the games she spent on the bench, however.

If she didn't spend much time playing, she always volunteered to stay behind and take care of cleanup. It was easy work and it gave her a sense of purpose on the team. The coach was thankful for the enthusiasm and often left her to finish the cleanup and lock up on her own. It didn't bother Kristy one bit. Typically, she'd finish just as the boys finished their football practice.

On this particular day, she was running incredibly late. It was well past six by the time she finished everything and was finally getting a chance to shower. Football practice was over at five, so the only person still lingering around besides her should've been Davis, as they had plans per usual to play catch and grab some dinner.

Naturally, she was bit a shocked to hear Davis arguing with someone just outside the girls' locker room. Under normal circumstances she would run out there and defend him, but considering how well he'd defended her just a few days ago, that didn't seem necessary.

Her shirt was halfway over her head when she heard a voice call out, "Well, if it isn't Waechter's w***e. What's that faggot Barnes doing waiting for you?"

Hurriedly, she scrambled to get her shirt on properly. By the time she had it on and spun around to face the intruder three boys had already made their way inside. Leading the pack was the busted face of James Ochoa, the bruising that peppered his face from the severe beating Davis had given him but a few days prior. Fresh droplets of blood were forming on James's knuckles. Thus, it wasn't the sight of three boys barging into the girls' locker room that got her heart racing; it was the fear of what had just happened between these three boys and Davis that got her nervous.

"f**k off, Ochoa," was her only words to him.

James opened his mouth to say something no doubt insanely stupid when the door to locker room opened once more. In stumbled Davis, his face fresh with cuts from James's knuckles. "Get out of here, James," Davis warned.

"Or what, Barnes?" James taunted.

Davis said nothing, unsure of what to do next. Get a teacher? Where? Fight? But how would he win? Grab Kristy and run? Was that possible?

James made the first move. Swiftly he grabbed Kristy's wrist; she went to deck him but her other wrist was effortlessly stopped by one of the other boys. That was all it took for Davis. The space between him and James was covered in the blink of an eye. Yet his movement was sluggish from the scuffle he and James had just gotten into. When James decided to abandoned Kristy and focus on Davis, there was no hope.

James's fist connected with Davis before anyone could react. As Davis went to slump down, James snagged his shirt and threw another hit. This time, he let Davis fall. The lankier boy stumbled over a bench and crashed his head into a locker. That was it. What movement he made was very little. Blood poured out of the side of his head at an alarming rate.

Kristy's instinct was to move and assist Davis, so she didn't even notice that James was about to square a real punch on her, too. His knuckles smeared blood across her temple when his fist made contact. There was moment where she lost all sense of balance; even her memories went black for a brief second. Suddenly she was on the ground, barely able to process how she'd gotten there.

He had her pinned. Delirious, she could faintly make out the sensation of James's hand roaming in places she'd rather have him stay away from. Aware enough to fight, she attempted to throw a punch at him; one of the other boys had already grabbed her hands and his grip was tighter than she expected.

"s**t, I wish Waechter was here," James said. His voice was already heavy and winded, like merely grazing her skin through clothing had already set him off. "Why don'tcha make those noises he loves so much for me, you fu – "

He didn't get to finish. She had no idea what possessed her to attempt a head butt at that moment, but it worked. Her forehead connected with his chin and he bit his lip. The pain and shock was enough for his hands to disappear from her body. The boy that held her hands removed on his own as he raised his fist to punch her in the face. It gave her just enough of an opening to wiggle a hand free and smack him in the groin.

With hands free, she shoved James and squirmed away. She got all of about half a foot away before James managed to get a quick jab to connect to the back of her head. Her face bounced off the floor. Instantly her eyes teared up as her nose stung and blood oozed out. As it turned out, being hit in the head twice by a boy made it difficult to focus. Lesson learned.

James was furious at this point, but the fear that was taking over Kristy's body could not be denied. As James again attempted to pin her, she went wildly throwing punches. It was clear the other boys were getting cold feet, as they didn't step in that time. She felt a few hits make contact, but with her eyes teared up she wasn't positive what she had hit.

A strong hand placed itself on her face and forced her head back. At the sensation of her neck being twisted her hands focused on pulling the offending fingers off of her face. "You f*****g b***h! Hold still!" he screamed, demanding obedience.

For whatever reason, she heeded the order. Her hands went limp and she felt her mouth and nose finally freed from the hand that was suffocating her. She focused solely on getting control of her hazy mind. Get him to drop his guard. James is f*****g stupid, she thought. Easier said than done, she knew that; the fact that vomit from her panic was threatening to appear meant she was well aware her chance of getting away could be a mere heartbeat in time.

She saw his bloodied, swollen lip curl into a disgusting grin. "There, that was easy, wasn't it? Be a good girl and I won't hit you again," he said. Both of his hands lifted off of her. James was a slow mover when it came to these things, she noticed, as his hands lingered in the air for a second. That second was all she needed.

Another punch was thrown by her. It struck his nose. Now both of his hands were covering his sore face. Certainly between the beating he'd received earlier that week and this fresh hit, he was in a lot of pain. She hit him again, this time in the throat. If he'd died right there she would have been satisfied.

Uninterested in giving him another chance she successfully freed herself. Unfortunately she wasn't very stable on her feet. Only a few steps away and she swayed. Her hand used a locker to stabilize herself. Her eyes darted to the door, only to find that the other two boys were attempting to corral her. Of course, they wouldn't participate just to keep a clean conscious, but that didn't mean they wouldn't assist James.

There was only one option. A mop bucket was always kept in the locker room and it was in her sights. Using all of her concentration, she sprinted to the bucket and removed the mop. Hastily she turned back to face James with the intent to make her threat clear. The sudden movement coupled with that was obviously a concussion nearly had her topple over. Somehow, she was able to push through it and focus.

James was already on his feet. He was inching closer at a deliberate pace. No doubt he was trying to catch her off guard. "What're you gonna do with that? Stop making this so difficult. I wasn't even gonna do anything. But now you f*****g deserve it," he said.

Apparently, that was meant to be his cue. He attempted to leap at her and snatch the mop away. He failed. She swung the mop handle the same way she'd swung a bat thousands of times. The handle made contact with his open abdomen at a force she'd rarely used. Instantly, James was on the ground, clenching his side and howling in pain.

"Holy s**t!" one of the other boys cursed at the sight. His hands were in the air and he waved them like a madman. "Chill out, Kris! We're just messing around!"

The third boy was already knelt next to James. The star baseball player was withering around in pain. The howl he'd been making earlier had been silenced. Sounds of any kind were no longer coming from him at all. In fact, she was certain he wasn't even breathing. His mouth was open, yet all that seemed to come out was a small stream of blood.

"Oh, f**k! What the hell?! Caleb call an ambulance!" the third boy shouted. The second one scrambled out of the locker room in a flat hurry.

Kristy let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The mop handle fell out of her hands and clanked against the cement floor. Splashes and smears of blood decorated the floor and the lockers. At some point, she'd lost her shirt. So exhausted, she didn't even feel exposed in front of her remaining attackers. Besides, James was about to pass out, he'd never remember the sight anyway.

When questioned about what happened, she couldn't speak. Davis had tried to say she was attacked, but never once did she agree to that statement. It was just a scuffle that had moved into the locker room, that was all. Even his parents seemed to be content with that. If she never said anything, they'd never make a big deal about the fact she'd shattered three of his ribs and punctured a lung. Well, at least that's what Mrs. Ochoa had said.

Davis tried to get her to at least tell Willie, but she never did. Maybe one day, she figured. Yet that day never came. Of course, she assumed that was the last time she'd see James; she assumed that she could forget it had ever happened. Between the pain in her head, the fear in her gut, and the sensation of smashing another person's body, she'd rather it remained buried forever.