Detox

Chapter 01: David

Just a boy,
Just an ordinary boy.
But he was looking to the sky.
And as he asked if I would come along
I started to realize
That everyday he finds
Just what he's looking for,
Like a shooting star he shines.

Los Angeles, 1983

Miss. Simmons looks so pretty today. I put the flower on her desk this morning, and she thought it was a nice gesture. I told her it reminded me of her eyes – the way it was so blue and almost violet, and she laughed and said I was such a poet. I want to write a poem for her, but I don’t even know where to begin. There are so many things in my head. So many things I want to say to her, but I can’t. I feel so trapped in this body. Like she doesn’t take me seriously. Sometimes I wish I was a grownup. Maybe then she’ll love me just as much as I lo...

RIIIIIIING!

I jerk alert with a small gasp, eyes widening as I stop doodling long enough for the sound of the closing bell to seep into my muddled consciousness. Noticing Kevin (one of my best friends) approaching, I rip out the unfinished thoughts from my notebook and manage to slip the paper between the pages of my Math textbook before he can notice.

“'Sup, Dave ma Man?” Kevin asks; looking like the Adonis many of the girls have labeled him. He seems to be taking the role seriously as he's begun to feather his trademark red hair giving him a Leif Garrett persona that's slightly cheesy. He grins and shows his megawatt smile, while reaching out to give me our 'cool guys' handshake...well more like a fist bump. “Hitting the courts with us for the game?”

I shake my head quickly; trying to look over his shoulder as Miss. Simmons speaks to two girls while packing up her notes and books. Damn it! I want to at least say something to her before she leaves, but with Kevin chatting me up as well as Adrian and Marcus now shuffling toward me, it's going to be next to impossible to make my move.

Ah fuck.

“...aww man!” comes the predictable complaint. “You promised -”

I did? When? In your dreams?

“...we need you to complete the squad. Those asshole upperclassmen said they were going to kick our asses, and we need you, bro. Pleeeease.”

His whining gets on my nerves, and I resist the urge to remind him that he was the one who courted the upperclassmen's wrath during lunch the other day. His loud taunts about the juniors wiping the court with their butts did not sit too well with the bigger boys. All the same, I mask my irritation with a purse of my lips and rise to my feet, which is a good tactic because it gets Miss. Simmons's attention long enough for her to flash me a brief smile before leaving the room with the two chatterboxes hot on her heels.

It was only a smile – barely two seconds of the quirk of full red-tinted lips - but my stomach is pretty much jello right now. I don't even think I can feel my legs anymore.

Oh, God. She is so...

“Dude! Snap out of it!” Marcus bellows and slaps me on the shoulder nearly sending me toppling over my desk. It jerks me out of my daydream, but now I'm really not in the mood to deal with him...any of them in fact. Sparing him a quick glare, which he acknowledges with a 'hey sorry, man!' and a raise of his hands as if surrendering, I straighten up and reach for my backpack.

“Sorry,” I repeat with a shrug, doing my best to ignore their plaintive looks (even Marcus looks panicked, which is a first, considering the big black kid with the Jheri curls could usually get by with just a thunderous scowl in the right direction).

“I've got plans,” I explain. “I've got to pick up my sister and take her to the dentist.”

“Awww, pwetty lil' Stephanie, huh?” Adrian drawls with a waggle of his brows that has my skin crawling. It's pretty gross that he keeps drooling over my seven-year-old baby sister, but he's got a good heart. He's a bit on the short side, and his crew cut might scream extreme considering the decade we're in, but it's all due to being raised by a military father. I swear the kid only manages to get a break whenever he comes to school. I've been to his house, and it's definitely no fun. It’s like living in an army boot camp.

“She's getting bigger everyday,” he continues as I lead the way out of the classroom; backpack slung over a shoulder with my hands burrowed deep into the pockets of my khaki pants.

“Leave my sister alone,” I mutter beneath my breath, hardly paying much attention to them as my glance darts down the crowded hallway in desperation. Maybe if I'm lucky I can catch a glimpse of her, but all I see are the boring colors of blue and khaki; young men dressed in our school uniform of either the navy blazer and striped tie or navy sweater over the light blue dress shirts beneath. The girls are in pretty much the same thing; only they have the choice of wearing a plaid skirt instead of pants. I spot my girlfriend (and her posse of three) approaching, and I use that term 'girlfriend' loosely because to be honest, we really don't have much in common besides coming from wealthy families. My mother is a good friend of her mother so...

Yeah.

Ignoring the whistles of appreciation from my buddies at the sight she makes (she's definitely gone out of her way to puff up her dirty blonde hair as high as it can go with hairspray. God, I hate this Valley Girl craze. Although there's no denying she is beautiful...if you like empty shallow airheads.)

“Hey, handsome,” she greets with a coy smile; her lashes batting prettily while twirling a strand of her hair before leaning close to accept the perfunctory kiss on both cheeks. Her brown eyes sparkle with excitement. “Are we still going bowling tonight?”

“No can do,” I reply quickly; already seeing Kevin about to protest if I agreed to this. If I could miss their basketball game, then surely I could miss a boring hour spent in Evelyn's presence. “Your aunt freaks me out.”

This garners laughter from my boys and a swat on the arm from my girl in retaliation. “That's mean, David.”

I shrug. “The last time we went out on a date, she kept eyeballing me like she hated my guts.”

“She's just going her job,” comes the pouty protest.

“Jesus, you guys still have chaperones?” Marcus asks with a laugh. “Maaaan, my girl and I just do whatever the fuck we want.”

“And that's why you're one step away from courting jail time, buddy,” Kevin remarks dryly.

While they continue to argue over who's going to end up in prison first (although my money's really on Kevin), I push open the large oak doors and step outside, where a humid Los Angeles afternoon awaits us. Blinking rapidly to get used to the sunlight, I squint and try to find my ride home. I finally make out my driver, Alejandro, waiting at the curb with the many other (seemingly endless) Mercedes Benzes, Cadillacs, or Rolls Royces as chirping students make plans the rest of their day in little groups and cliques.

It's one of the more annoying things about being in such an exclusive private school. It's all about status and being 'seen' and 'noticed'. The signs of excess are everywhere all thanks to President Reagan. It seems like everyone in America's gone nuts since they crept out of the depression the previous president sunk us into. Nowadays you were considered a nobody if you didn't have as much as a Casio CFX-400 on your wrist (which I have by the way and it's totally rad!).

“See you guys later,” I hail in farewell as I wave towards Alejandro, who tips his hat in recognition. I have no idea why Mom makes him wear that stupid chauffeur uniform anyway. I feel embarrassed for him, although he doesn't seem to mind.

“Call me!” Evelyn screeches, and I nod absently. Sure, sure, whatever. We'll just spend another mundane hour on the phone; me listening to nothing you say about who is wearing what dress and which party can we go to during the weekend etc. etc.

“Sell out!” Kevin complains in parting, and I give him the finger in retaliation. Let's just hope the seniors don't kill him, but knowing his temper and loud mouth, I'm sure he'll be sporting a black eye in the morning.

“Good afternoon, Master David,” Alejandro greets with his barely noticeable Spanish accent as I toss my backpack into the backseat of the Mercedes first before diving after it.

“Just David or Dave, remember?” I reply with a smile. “My parents aren't here, so you don't have to be so formal.”

“My apologies,” he answers with another tip of the hat. He shuts the door, leaving me in peace for a few seconds before he makes himself comfortable behind the wheel. “To Miss. Stephanie's school?” he asks.

“Uh huh.”

I cup my chin and stare out the window in boredom; allowing my mind to drift to my little sister and the 'dreaded' visit to Dr. Mercer's office. Knowing Stephanie, she's bound to kick and scream all the way there, but she's got to get her check up (me too actually), and since Dad and Mom are busy with work, I have to take over...as usual.

I don't mind really; considering Stephanie is more than just a little sister to me. In a way, I've come to see myself as her third parent; someone who will do anything and everything to make her happy, no matter what it takes. Since my parents are so buried behind their jobs in the health field (Dad's a neurosurgeon and works for one of the largest hospitals in the freakin' country, while Mom's a plastic surgeon, and I don't need to tell you how busy she gets in a place like L.A.), Stephanie looks up to me a whole lot more than she does to Mom and Dad. Can't say I blame her. The poor thing.

I haven't formally introduced myself, have I? Please pardon my rudeness.

My name is David King, and I am 14 years old...going on 15. I am a freshman at Exeter Academy, and as you can already tell, it's one of those posh and exclusive establishments Mom insisted I attend. I'd have preferred public school, but apparently Mom already registered me as a student here before I could even walk, and I'm supposed to be going to Harvard when all this is said and done.

Sigh.

Anyway, I do like my school...at least the sports side of things. I'm a big baseball fan, and have been in the junior league for a while now. So, it was a no-brainer that I'd want to join the team in Exeter (their record is pretty exceptional), but being in the baseball team would conflict with my other love – basketball – and boy! Do I love basketball or what? I could rattle out the names of every player in the Lakers and their stats all the way back to the 1950s! I'm also a fan of the Boston Celtics and the New York Knicks, and my dream – if this whole medical school thing doesn't work out – is to become an NBA star someday. People already say I'm tall for my age (and that I don't even look my age, which is good), so I'm going to keep training hard every day until I get noticed by a scout.

Might take some time to convince Mom that being in the NBA is my calling, but I'm sure she'll come to accept it with just the right amount of persuasion.

So thanks to the coaches here who took note of my potential during tryouts, I've sort of become the star player on the team – which isn't really sitting too well with some of the older players as you can well imagine. You see it's really odd/rare that a freshman would be a starter, since most of them are usually kept on the bench for the entire season (which sucks in my opinion), and for me to start in two key games so far....it's never been done before. Needless to say – and not to brag – I ended up scoring the most points and led the team to much-needed wins. We are now in the Division AAA playoffs, and the entire school seems pumped about it considering they haven't been there in the past few years.

Evelyn – my 'girlfriend' – is a part of the preppy sport brigade, in this case, Rowing. Since she's a freshman, she's a 'bench warmer' as well, but at least they do let the girls participate in some 'weak' competitions just to test their strength. I've seen Evelyn do her thing, and despite her flightiness, she doesn't joke when it comes to making sure her crew wins any race they participate in.

To cut a long story short, I've become a reluctant 'star' of the school, which is why everyone seems to want a piece of me. I didn't ask to become popular. Left to me I'd rather be burrowed in the school library studying my ass off or being a total and complete geek with the guys in the Science and A&V Club playing Dungeons and Dragons (by the way, they keep making me Dungeon Master – which is cool because I get to control everything). I'm supposed to be the cool kid, the one who can do no wrong, the one with the money, the looks, the talent, the brains...

Someone kill me now.

...and I suppose things would have continued that way if it wasn't for the day a certain ray of sunshine drifted into my life and changed it all...forever.

I feel my cheeks heat up and my stomach begin to give that nervous flip flop of excitement as I think about her.

Miss. D. Simmons.

I don't know what 'D' means yet, but I'm going to find out soon enough.

In a school filled with old coots and drab old marms as teachers, her arrival was nothing more than a breath of fresh air. She was introduced as our new Math teacher (Mr. Stafford, our previous teacher, finally retired after dozing off at his desk in the middle of lecture! The guy must have been pushing 90 for God's sake. He could barely walk down the hallway without breaking a hip) – but as I was saying, she was introduced as our new teacher barely three weeks ago. I can tell you that the moment she walked into the room, wearing a simple yellow sundress that fell just below her knees, revealing the nicest legs on anyone I've ever seen, and with hair as golden as Grandma's used to be, with the most beautiful pair of blue eyes in the world....I think I forgot how to breathe. In fact, I'm sure every male in the class – Mr. Dafoe as well – pretty much came in their pants when she smiled and introduced herself.

I can't remember a damn thing she talked about during that first lesson, and I think I even stammered my name when we were asked to stand up and introduce ourselves in return, and boy was I embarrassed as hell when some of my classmates gave me grief for being such a dork in front of her later that day, but I didn't mind.

It was love at first sight. It had to be, and I didn't give a damn that she was older than me, or that she was my teacher, or that there was no chance in hell she'd even entertain the idea of dating a kid like me.

So yes, I did once have a crush on my first grade teacher, but that quickly passed when I realized she was married and had two kids of her own. And besides, I was six, seven, eight? What did I know about love back then? I just know she smelled really nice and gave me cookies when I passed my tests.

However, with Miss. Simmons...I can honestly say this is something that's more than just infatuation. I can't explain it to you in mere words if I tried, which is why I wish I could be as poetic or dramatic as someone like say...Joey. Now that kid is a genius with Literature and shit like that. I've asked him to help me a few times with my essays, and I swear he should be in college already.

But back to my love – my very unrequited love at the moment – though she's been here for only two weeks, it's long enough for me to know that she's the one I want and ache for more than any of these teenage girls who throw themselves at me. I know she's not married because there's no ring on her finger, and if she's got a boyfriend...well, I don't even want to know about that.

Unfortunately, the problem lies in making her see me as more than just a student. I want her to recognize me as a man, and I know my voice has already cracked (and man was it humiliating when I was in that awkward mid-squeaky – high timbre phase). Stephanie said it was like listening to a chicken scratching a piece of wood, and I had to agree with her. It wasn't fun, so I had tried not to talk too much during that time. I like the way my voice sounds now. Not as deep as Dad's but enough to let folks know that I'm getting past that damn awkward puberty stage.

Every morning I examine my body for any sign of chest hairs or whiskers (I've even purchased some shaving cream and Gillette razors just in case). Sadly, just my pits and pubic area seem to be growing them more rapidly than the rest of my body, and I doubt Miss. Simmons would want to see my pubes on our first date. Another thing I hate is the fact that I'm not as buff as some of the other guys in my class. Sure I'm tall, but I'm like a stick compared to the others. Well, maybe not a stick...but I wish I could build more muscle like Derrick on the team. Now that kid's buff even though he's a senior. So I've decided to begin weight training at the school gym. Maybe that will help. Chicks like muscular guys, don't they?

And my hair. Why does it have to be so curly? It's not even that it's done in Jheri curls – the latest craze for the guys by the way. It's natural and has been that way since I was born. It sometimes makes me look like a girl to be honest, but Mom and Dad insist its distinctive and makes me stand out. Yeah, I stand out all right. Like a fucking shrubbery. It's like I'm stuck in the 70s and someone forgot to send me the memo that curly Afros are sorta out. It's no thanks to having a white mom and a black dad, so my mixed race has blessed me with hair that's not kinky or too straight. As for my eyes, they are as dark as Dad’s. My mom’s eyes are green, so Stephanie got a mix of the two. She's got beautiful hazel eyes that I like to stare into just to make her feel uncomfortable. Hah.

So, anyway, if Miss. Simmons can see past my skinny self with my curly hair and dorkish tendencies...do you think she could love me as much as I love her?

That, my friends, is the million dollar question.

And why do I love her already, you might ask? Because she's unpretentious and reminds me of our life before Mom and Dad struck it big. You see, I come from a kinda weird family background. My mom's side of the family is rich as sin (and you do not want to see where my Grandpa and Grandma live down in Lexington, Kentucky – it’s massive!), but Dad and Mom were living in a small apartment with barely enough room for me to crawl in during my formative years. So you can imagine me having to leave that tiny apartment, just for my poor mind to reconcile that all the horses, expanse of land, and lakes – at the Biltmore - could be mine someday when I was old enough. I didn't understand it much, but I sure as hell didn't mind the day we had to move to our present home. It's much bigger, and even better, I had my own room and no longer had to share sleeping space with Mom and Dad.

So I know what it's like to be 'poor', but before I could really come to appreciate that part of my life, I was soon thrust into a society where wealth and status really meant everything. My parents were now rich based on their merits, and with the new house came new cars, new clothes, new friends, new everything. I was barely five years old and already I didn't quite like my new life.

For you see, in this world, girls (and even some boys) are so plastic and fake, and it becomes really hard to tell who really likes you for you. Miss. Simmons, on the other hand, doesn't seem to come from a rich home as evidenced by the '79 Chevy she still lugs about. On the day I finally got the nerve to ask her if she needed help with taking some books to her car, I could tell that even her clothes were off-the-rack hand-me-downs though she wore them beautifully. On another day she had taken off her shoes to rub her aching feet, I noticed the worn out soles; evidence that they must be her most comfortable or only pair. My theory was confirmed when I noted she either wore the same ol' black pumps or a pair of white sneakers (worn as well) interchangeably. In fact, I was more than tempted to just buy her a new pair of shoes and deliver them anonymously to her door, but I had the feeling she wouldn't like that.

Besides, I don't even know where she lives.

Despite her state of poverty, she never lets on that she might be living paycheck to paycheck. She walks into class every day with a ready smile and a winning attitude, making most of us – who loathed Math as a subject – a fun and exciting hour of the day. Even the girls – many who didn't like her, at first, because of her popularity – slowly began to consider her one of their own. They would talk of how willing she was to listen to their problems and to give them advice when prodded. After all she was no older than most of them, and she could relate to their angst and woes.

Did I forget to mention just how wonderful she smells?

I don't know what perfume she uses, but it's airy, light, and reminds me of my Grandma's garden. Short of sniffing her like a goddamn dog whenever she walks by me in class, I could easily get intoxicated by that scent. I could write a poem about her smell...something about roses in sunshine or -

“We are here, Mas...David.”

Alejandro's voice jars me from my thoughts, and I sit up quickly to notice we are now parked outside Stephanie's elementary school (in actuality it's a sister school to Exeter). They don't close for another hour, but I've got a pass to get her out of school ahead of time.

As I make my way into the building, a wave of nostalgia hits me as I recall my days as a student in this very school. In fact my picture still graces the entrance hallway (along with others) as a salute to being one of their 'excellent' students. Whatever that means.

Man, they never did get rid of that new plastic smell around here, did they?

“Hello, David,” Mrs. Carter greets from behind her desk as I step into the admin office. She's still as buxom as ever I see, and how could I ever forget those tortoiseshell glasses with the attached chain holding it in place? “Goodness. You seem to be growing every time I see you, young man. You'll be taller than your father soon.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Carter,” I reply with a polite smile, trying to look sheepish at the compliment. “Doubt I'll ever get that tall, but thanks.”

“Come to pick Stephanie, have you?” she asks, her Boston accent seeping through. I've tried to mimic that a few times and fail miserably. It's funny to hear.

“Yep. Is she ready?”

“Right through there, my dear,” she says as she points towards the school clinic that's a short hallway walk from here.

I can't help the smile that comes to my face as I approach my oblivious baby sister. She's nose deep in a story book (Lemony Snicket's 'The Bad Beginning') on the waiting bench; her Barbie school bag at her feet which swing back and forth in knee-high white socks and shiny black Mary Janes. Her hair – as curly as mine – although much longer and much prettier is adorned with pink ribbons, and she looks prim and proper in the simple pink polo shirt with the Exeter badge/coat-of-arms and a short pleated black skirt.

Without making a sound, I tiptoe closer until I sit right next to her, and snicker when I notice she's actually mouthing the words in the book to herself as she reads. It's barely a whisper and it's a habit that's endearing.

“...interesting read, Princess?” I finally ask after she's turned several pages and still hasn't noticed I'm here.

She literally jumps and gives a comical yelp of surprise before hitting my face with the book in retaliation.

Ouch!

“You scared me!” she pouts angrily.

“Sorry, Princess,” I apologize, still rubbing my nose and trying to look contrite. My eyes are still watering though. She really doesn't know her own strength, does she?

“Can I get a kiss-kiss hug?” I beg.

“No.”

And with a huff, she reaches for her bag and stomps out, looking for all the world like a real princess who has been treated with much injustice. Hiding my chuckle – knowing full well it will only make her more upset – I trot after her; watching as she at least takes the time to give Mrs. Carter and Nurse Bevvie hugs and goodbye kisses.

“Hiiiiii Alejandrooooo!” she bellows happily as she skips out of the building and runs up to give him a hug too! Guess she's trying to make me jealous or pissed off or both.

During the drive to the dentist, she engages in conversation with the amused driver, pretending as if I don't even exist.

“Did you have a good day today, Alejandro?”
“Doesn't your hat itch, Alejandro?”
“Is that your new watch? Does it calculate things too?”
“I did this and that and this and that and this and that in school today.”

And on and on and on with nothing said to me...except to tell me to stop kicking her legs or she would hit me again.

Lesson learned.

However, her good mood (as predicted) begins to dissipate when she notices the building we are approaching. Oh right. I forgot to tell her the real reason she was leaving school early. We had decided to keep the 'surprise' until the last minute to save ourselves the drama.

“I'm not going!” she screeches before the car even comes to a stop.

“He's just gonna brush your teeth, Princess,” I cajole as she makes a dive for the door in an attempt to jump out.

Good grief.

I thought she was over this tantrum thing by now. Goddamnit! I swear she can act like a spoiled brat and it gets on my fucking last nerve.

“Stephanie!” I finally roar in frustration and that (for some reason always calling her full name does the trick) gets her sitting back with a sniffle, lips wobbling, and eyes welling tears. However, it's her expression that breaks my heart. Such fear. I wonder why though. Is she just afraid of the equipment or the aseptic environment (which doesn't really make sense because we've both been to Mom and Dad's office a bunch of times and she seems fine there), or is it Dr. Mercer that just freaks her out? But the guy's a harmless creature. Nothing but a college football freak who just happens to be the best damn pediatric dentist this side of L.A.

“It's gonna be okay, Princess,” I say softly, reaching out to pull her into my arms. She's literally shaking in my embrace, and as I place a tender kiss on her head and rub her shoulders in reassurance, I sigh and wonder when she'll stop being so clingy and gain her own independence. Maybe I really am spoiling her too much as Dad has suggested.

“Stay with me?” she begs in a small voice as she tightens her grip on my hand when we are in the office.

“Of course I will,” I insist.

As I fill in the paperwork; her features look pale, pinched, and scared and perhaps the nurse notices because she attempts to engage Stephanie in something fun and distracting; namely some kiddie books and toys that she's way past playing with or reading. Stephanie shakes her head and presses her face against my chest; refusing to even look at the nurse anymore. I smile at the older woman in apology and try to explain my sister's irrational fear.

She's tired. She's had a long day. Blah. Blah. Blah.

I notice that besides Stephanie and I, there are only two other families here; well more like a mother and her two kids and another with her son who must be a few years younger than me. Both mothers are engaged in conversation, neither seeming to notice that one of the little kids is busy munching on pieces of dirt from the carpeted floor. The older boy watches this with blatant apathy as if monitoring lab rats, and he sometimes even kicks some more dirt toward the kids in encouragement.

It's sickening, and I have a good mind to walk up to them, shake them, and make them realize that their children might be dying right in front of them and they just wouldn't give a damn.

“Ah, Stephanie and David King?”

We look up at the sound of our names, and it's a young smiling assistant wearing ridiculous Daffy Duck themed scrubs. I guess it's her lame attempt to be engaging to the young kids.

“Come this way,” she invites, while opening the door behind her. “Hello Stephanie,” she greets as we walk past and into the patient room assigned to us. “Ready to have your teeth all shining white?”

Stephanie says nothing, just looks at me as if hoping I'd give the response on her behalf.

“She's fine,” I finally reply as the assistant – her badge says Loraine – looks at us in bemusement. “She's just tired.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” she says with a smile of understanding. “Must have had a long day at school, eh?”

When Stephanie looks at me again, Loraine gives up trying to get the girl to cooperate and simply goes about prepping her for the procedure. Stephanie refuses to let go of my hand, and if anything her grip tightens as she's put on the reclining chair and the Sesame Street-themed drape is placed over her. Despite Loraine's kind words of encouragement, all I can see are her hazel eyes as wide as saucers, getting wider still as we soon hear the rumbling laughter of Dr. Mercer outside the door.

“Stay with me,” she begs in a thread of a whisper. “Don't let me go, David.”

“I won't,” I promise and lean close to place a kiss on her forehead now damp with a sheen of sweat. “I'm gonna be right here.”

“Aaaah! David and Stephanie!” Dr. Mercer booms as he steps into the room with a big grin on his jovial plump features. I think he’s giving Santa a run for his money with his size. “How are we today?”

“Good,” I reply. “Your team lost last weekend though.”

His face falls and he groans as if I've stabbed him in the heart. “You are a cruel lad, David King. A cruel lad,” he says with a shake of his head. “But! The season is just starting,” he adds with a puff of his chest as he drags his chair closer to Stephanie, turns on the overhead light and reaches for his pair of gloves. “They can still make the playoffs yet.”

He sits back and allows his assistant to place the surgical mask over his nose and mouth and taking a deep breath, he focuses his attention on Stephanie; smiling through the mask. “What's the matter, little angel? You look absolutely petrified.” He raises a brow at me in confusion. “Is she all right? Bad day at school?”

“She's always like this when she comes here,” I say with a shrug. “I guess she doesn't like the dentist....office,” I add quickly hoping he doesn't think I'm implying that he's the cause of her terror.

However, the real cause seems to be the sound of the drill because once that's turned on, Stephanie just about tries to leap off the bed.

“Whoa there, my dear,” Dr. Mercer urges as he nearly got knocked off his chair. “This won't hurt a bit. Just want to get out the little pieces stuck in your teeth. Get rid of the nasty cavities, eh?”

“It will kill me,” Stephanie confesses in a hoarse shriek, now looking at me as if hoping I'd make it all go away. “It will make me bleed all over the place....like in that movie.”

Huh? That movie?

“Movie?” Dr. Mercer asks with a raised brow before pinning accusatory eyes on me.

Movie....movie...what movie could she possibly be talking about...?

Ah shit.

Now I remember. It was some cheap horror midnight flick (ironically enough called ‘The Dentist’) Adrian and I had watched about a year ago during a sleepover. In the movie, the dentist was a monster and his way of killing his innocent and unsuspecting patients was to drill them to death while cackling madly in triumph. I had no clue Stephanie had watched it. I was under the impression she had fallen asleep on my lap because 'we boys were so boring' since we had spent most of the evening playing Pac Man and then Dungeons and Dragons.

Go figure.

I am single-handedly responsible for traumatizing my dear sister for life.

–-----

He said take my hand,
Live while you can
Don't you see your dreams lie right in the palm of your hand

“So technically you're saying it's all my fault,” I ask later that evening at the kitchen table while making a turkey and ham sandwich for myself after giving her a bowl of hot chicken soup to help with the pain. She glares at me and nods viciously.

“You coulda said something, Princess,” I grumble and take a bite out of my sinful dinner. Sinful because besides the turkey and ham, I've also added layers of other junk you don't need to know (I think there's peanut butter and marshmallows in the mix). Stephanie eyes my treat with envy, knowing she can't chew anything because of her mouth. Her cheeks look a little puffy and dare I say kissable and adorable.

Mom would never approve of my sandwich or eating habits for that matter, which is why we're trying to eat as quickly as possible before they get home. Even though the cook/maid had left some lasagna, neither of us want to eat it. Stephanie said it looked like someone had thrown up in the casserole, which had me dying with laughter. Doubt Mrs. Baker would appreciate her efforts being labeled as vomit.

“Want me to help you take a bath?” I offer, snickering as she shakes her head again and holds up her fingers to let me know that she's no longer a baby. Seven years old, David, her fingers yell. As if to prove her point, she finishes up the rest of her soup by slurping it directly from the bowl, and with an unladylike belch, she dashes upstairs before I can stop her.

She should be fine....still have to check up on her though just in case she drowns or something.

Dinner finished, I clean up the kitchen as best I can and jog upstairs to get my homework done. If I'm lucky, I can have enough time to come up with a poem for Miss. Simmons before it's bedtime.

However, I have to admit that Miss. Simmons takes a back seat for just a few minutes as I step into my room (my sanctuary) with a sigh of relief as if long deprived of this simple pleasure. I think my room is awesome, and it's partly because Mom and Dad allowed me to pick my designs when they felt I was old enough to do so. On my door is an old plaque, in the shape of a baseball bat, with my name on it. It's something I picked in an antique shop that Mom used to frequent a while back, and I loved the old rusty-looking thing at first sight. What was so cool was that it already had my name on it, and it made me think of some kid, back in the 20s or 30s, who must have hung it on his bedroom door as well. I even helped Dad hang it up; his first time allowing me to play with his hammer and nails, although he had watched me like a hawk as if afraid I'd drill my hand in the process. It was our 'male-bonding' moment, and it was always fun to hang out with Dad, like fixing things around the house, or tinkering with his cars in the garage, or playing a round of golf with his buddies from the hospital.

My room itself is pretty big; at least there's more than enough room so I don't trip over myself. Unlike most boys my age, I'm sort of a neat freak, or at least I like to keep my things as organized as possible. I think I got that OCD tendency from Mom. Anyway, besides my Queen-sized bed with its familiar Los Angeles Dodgers baseball-themed sheets and blanket, there's a desk next to the window with a great view of our backyard and swimming pool. On it sits my pile of textbooks, a picture of Stephanie and I at the beach last year, and a computer where I can play my games and type up whatever papers are needed. It's attached to a printer that's stuck. Dad's promised to have it fixed this weekend, which means having to write my essays long-hand until then. My bookshelf is filled with classic literature and some other fun novels (mostly mysteries and psychological thrillers), and of course the sports books and some Sports Illustrated copies (I keep the swimsuit editions hidden under my mattress so Mom doesn't freak out. Heh, you should have seen me and boys literally drooling over the sight of the luscious Cheryl Tiegs nips showing in a classic 1978 edition. Phew. What a swimsuit. What a babe.)

In addition to my shelf of books, there's the trophy case with all the awards and shit I've won over the years, but I won't bore you with that stuff. I've got a Sony T.V. With a VCR and several 'tame' movies (mostly boring stuff like 'Superman' and 'Star Wars'). The more risqué stuff I don't bother keeping here. It's either Kevin or Marcus that manages to sneak in one or two porn movies that, I have to admit, had me blushing like crazy when we dared watch it one night when my parents had to attend some fancy dinner banquet thing, and Stephanie was with one of our family friends for the weekend. It was an enlightening experience to say the least. I have never looked at the female body the same way again...perhaps that would explain my disappointment with some of the flat-chested girls in school (Evelyn included).

And of course there's my CD/Radio player with my precious collection of music; cassettes, LPs, and a few CDs. I've got Pink Floyd, The Ramones, Billy Idol, Madonna, Blondie, Diana Ross (and the Supremes), Smokey Robinson, Boston, Earth-Wind-And-Fire, Kool and the Gang, a collection of Jazz musicians from the 50s and 60s (sorry, guilty pleasure), but all of this pales in comparison to the section devoted specifically to a man I wish I could be. He’s a man I emulate and do my best to mimic as much as possible in temperament and mannerisms.

Michael – the King – Jackson.

I dart my gaze across my wall in loving reverence, marveling at all the posters I've managed to accumulate over the years. Some I have purchased with my pocket money, others I've won by entering writing contests hosted by some newspapers or magazines where you were required to write at least 500 words on why you liked Michael Jackson or the Jacksons. I would slave over these tasks, wondering how I could ever manage to convey my love for the guy in mere ink and paper...damn in just 500 freakin' words. Seemed too little in my humble opinion.

I have spent hours watching his videos, imitating his dance moves, and trying to perfect them as best as I can. There is absolutely no shame in being his fan, as about 90% of the school population love him just as much as I do. Hell, even Evelyn is crazy about him (and I can forgive her ditziness just for that). For Halloween this year, I am planning to dress up as he did for the music video 'Billie Jean'. At least my hair is curly enough to pass off as Jheri curls, so I should be fine. Last year I went as he looked on the cover of his album 'Off the Wall', only I had to definitely get an Afro at the Halloween store for that one.

I’ve always considered him an inspiration. That a family – poor as hell from Gary, Indiana – could come from nothing but hard work and dedication to become the biggest musical sensations on the planet? It was incredible. I gobbled up every magazine article written about him, watched every special or interview he did on T.V. or on the radio, even gone as far as trying to apply for a ticket to be part of a live audience for a variety show appearance about two years ago. That didn’t go anywhere sad to say.

I guess I should thank my dad for introducing me to him, because he used to play a lot of the Jackson 5 music when I was little, and when I was old enough to really appreciate the lyrical magic and content behind the teeny boppy hits and bubblegum pop sound, I learned of how deep, rich and intense his soul could be with just his voice. I'm not ashamed to admit that he's made me cry a bunch of times with some of his songs, and lately I find myself lying in bed at night – headphones over my ears – as he serenades my fantasies with Miss. Simmons. Lady in my Life gets me all the time.

And just to get me energized enough to pen my next poetic masterpiece for Miss. Simmons, I slip in my just about worn out Thriller cassette, crank up the volume, and park myself behind my desk to get to work.

…as soon as I finish my school duties that is.

-

And as he spoke, he spoke ordinary words
Although they did not feel
For I felt what I had not felt before
And you'd swear those words could heal.

I am so into 'Human Nature' – belting out the song along with Michael, while dealing with quadratic equations, when in the middle of...

“Why? Why? Tell 'em that it's Human Na -”

CLICK.

Silence.

What the fuck?!

I look up sharply, only to notice Stephanie – hands on hips – now dressed in her Barbie-themed pajamas with a shake of her head, and looking like a miniature Mom. I'd laugh if I wasn't slightly annoyed that she'd interrupt my private moment.

“Too loud,” she tries to say, although it comes out as 'Toof loughf'. Heh. The effects of the teeth cleaning hasn't worn out yet I see.

I smirk and decide to torture her a little more. “What's that?” I ask, cupping an ear and pretending I'm deaf. “What did you say?”

“Toof loughf!!” She stomps a foot and points to the radio. “Canft watch teef veef.”

“Teef Veef?” I look confused and scratch my head. “What does that mean?”

She looks like she's about to burst into tears or whack me over the head with the radio, and feeling sorry for her, I decide to drop the act and get off the chair to fall to my knees; arms open in reconciliation.

“I'm sorry, Princess. Hugs for me?”

She battles with this for a second before running into them to return the hug. I close my eyes and bury my face against her soft curls – which she's gotten wet even though she does know how to use a shower cap to protect her hair – inhaling her sweet scent and wishing such moments with her could last forever. But she's growing up fast, and as she reminded me downstairs, she's seven now; no longer going to be a cute little baby forever.

I dread to think of what she'll be as a teenager; when she'll become more womanly and start attracting boys. I swear if any of them ever hurt her...

“Davee?”

“Hmm, Princess?”

“Wachtf teef veef in yourf roomf?”

“Sure you can,” I invite, placing a soft kiss on her forehead and pulling away with a smile. “Just don't put it up too loud. I'm doing my homework, all right?”

She looks like she's about to argue that I had the radio at full blast, but decides against it, since there's no way she can understand that Michael gives me the inspiration to concentrate and focus on whatever I set my mind to. As if reading my thoughts, her gaze drifts to my posters, and she suddenly seems mesmerized by my latest acquisition; a rare Thriller poster (one of the many perks of being a part of several Michael Jackson fan clubs) that came in the mail a couple of days ago. Unlike the regular Thriller posters with just Michael in his white suit, this one has him with a baby tiger and he seems much more relaxed in this shot than the other one.

“You like that one?” I ask as we stare at the poster together; both of us now sitting on the floor.

She shrugs and nods at the same time; seemingly more interested in the tiger than the man himself.

“One day,” I continue quietly. “One day I'm gonna see him in person. I'm gonna go to his concert, and I'm gonna tell him how much he means to me. Maybe he'll let me dance on stage with him, don't you think?”

She nods at that one, now smiling brightly at me; and I swear my heart fills with so much love for her, I could cry.

“Youf the bestf dancerf evarf!”

I blush and kiss the top of her head. “Yeah, yeah. You're only saying that.”

She pouts as if upset that I don't believe her, and with a chuckle, I pull her closer to me; my arm around her waist as she curls against my body as if seeking refuge and solace. We remain this way for a while, neither of us seeming to care that she's supposed to be watching T.V. Or that I've got homework waiting to be finished. Outside, dusk falls fast and the first sprinkle of stars fill the night sky. Our parents will be home soon; usually Mom first and Dad about an hour later.

But right now...we are content to remain in our world. We are more than fine being this way.

“Stephanie?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you,” I whisper into her hair.

“I loff youf toof, Davee,” she replies and hugs me just as tightly with those small but strong arms...as if...as if...

…never wanting to let go either.

__

And as I looked up into those eyes
His vision borrows mine.
And I know he's no stranger,
For I feel I've held him for all of time.

Shit! I'm running late.

This is what I get for staying up too late to finish my darn assignments.

“'Morning Dad,” I greet as I jog downstairs while shrugging into my blazer at the same time. The smell of fresh coffee, toast, sausages, and eggs has my stomach growling, but I dash into the kitchen where my parents and sister are having breakfast to try to grab at least a piece of toast. I hate the school cafeteria food – their morning selections that is.

“Hey, Sport,” Dad hails as he lowers the newspaper he was reading. He's still dressed in his black house robe which leads me to believe he's either got a day off or has a late night shift.

“'morning Mom,” I greet, leaning over to kiss her cheek. Already dressed for the day in her beige power suit and trademark hair bun, she hardly blinks as she sips her coffee and nods in greeting.

“Sit down for breakfast, David,” she orders.

“I'm running late, Mom,” I whine; now noticing Stephanie....still in her pajamas and looking quite happy. Apparently, someone's not going to school today because of her tooth issues. She's swinging her legs back and forth on her chair, a piece of toast with loads of jam in her mouth and eyes glued on the T.V. where Sesame Street is currently being shown. Looks like the Cookie Monster is about to strike again...as soon as he finishes teaching the kids how to count to twenty.

I pinch her cheek and earn a pout in return, though she's still smiling. Guess the idea of spending an entire day with Dad is fun for the little tyke.

“I'll take you to school then,” Mom insists, now rising to her feet. She stops long enough to kiss her husband and daughter goodbye before reaching for her briefcase.

“Why can't Alejandro...?”

“I'm taking you to school, young man, and that's that.”

I look to Dad for help, but all he does is shrug and look sheepish. Talk about being pussy-whipped.

On the rare occasions Mom has taken me to school, it almost always comes with some tension-filled discussion about my schoolwork and today is no different. I love Mom to pieces, don't get me wrong, but I swear there are times when I really wish she'd let up on me. She puts all this expectations on me that sometimes drives me nuts.

“...spoke to Mr. Dafoe yesterday,” she's saying as she pulls out of the driveway in her brand new Porsche. It's fire-engine red and pretty sexy if I do say so myself. Hard to think of your mother being 'sexy' but the I refer to the car, not my mother. I can't wait to get my permit so I can begin driving this baby.

“What about?” I ask with a mumble; staring out the window with an inner sigh.

Here it comes.

“Don't slouch, honey,” she begins, and on autopilot, I straighten up to make her happy. “Now then, Mr. Dafoe says that you got a B in your History test yesterday, is that true?”

“...it's a B+...”

“Makes no difference, David,” she cuts in with a 'tsk', “Harvard will not be lenient with a B+, young man.”

“My grade point average is still high enough,” I protest; hating how small and weak I sound in her presence, but she is overpowering...smothering...with her 'love', and it's something I've had to deal with since I was little. I was the only kid for a long time after all. She had to transfer all that emotion to something, and that something just happened to be me. Unfortunately.

Though I wish she'd share more of her affection with Stephanie.

“Oh, David,” she sighs, and I sink a little lower in my seat; knowing full well the guilt-trip ritual is about to begin. I try to shut her out as she begins her litany about how much she does for me, and how much it breaks her heart that I do not seem to take my studies seriously and -

“...don't let me remind you that if your grades do not keep up...you're just going to have to cut back on a few things.”

“Like what?” I ask as I lift my lashes and pin her with a sharp look.

“You know what, David,” she replies without looking at me. Her features are grim, and my heart is beginning to pound a little faster in my chest.

“Mom...”

“No basketball or baseball...and you can also get those posters down from your wall. They really are unsightly, sweetheart.”

You...bitch.

I am shocked at the cold, hateful voice that ricocheted in my head, and a part of me is scared that she must have actually heard it. Instead, my only outward show of anger is a clenching of my fists and a tightening of my lips. I look out the window again for fear I might do something that will make me end up in jail or worse.

“So?” She finally throws me a glance. “Are we going to do better with our grades?”

I remain silent.

“David?” She calls me sharply. “Well?”

“I will, Mom,” comes my dead reply. “I will.”

“Good.” Her response of pleasure and victory makes me sick to my stomach, and that feeling finally dissipates after I've thrown up in the toilets of one of the school restrooms once she's dropped off. It’s a goddamn miracle I was able to hold in my disgust until I found an empty stall.

Trembling hands reach for the faucet to turn it on, and as I rinse my mouth, I stare at my reflection in the mirror and curse myself for being such a wimp. This is the best I can do? Throw up all the time when she wins?

I really am weak.

I hope to God Stephanie turns out to have stronger willpower than I do. She's definitely going to need it to deal with Mom when she's older.

The rest of the day goes in a blur for me. All I remember is sort of listening to Kevin whine about losing the basketball game (he ended up with not only a shiner but bruised knees and ego to boot) and having to become the seniors' bitch for a week. Evelyn was not much help either, and she gave up trying to cheer me up when I refused to admire her new ear piercing or jump for joy at having been invited to Tim Dutton's birthday party this weekend. Tim is an asshole; a rich, snotty asshole who thinks he owns Los Angeles because his father is a mayor or something like that.

Finally having enough of everyone, I decide to skip my Math class for the day; knowing full well that hanging around Miss. Simmons – in my current state of mind - will only get me more depressed. I 'hide' in the library for the hour...and the next...all because I found this really interesting memoir about Jackie Robinson (the baseball player). It isn't until a shadow falls over me (and that familiar sweet scent - that causes my stomach to flutter with nerves - assails my senses) do I look up with a start of guilt.

Holy shit! It's...it's...it's her.

And I don't think I remember my name anymore.

“So this is where you are hiding, David. You missed my class today,” she accuses me sweetly; a smile added even though she tries to mask her disappointment. “Is everything okay?”

I am in a private room – one of many in the humongous library – so I'm guessing she must have either been checking all the rooms for me, or the librarian ratted me out. Either way, staring at her now in her pretty white blouse and simple black pencil skirt, with that mass of blonde hair I just want to run my fingers through...knowing that she cared enough to search for me...

Miss Simmons...Oh, Miss. Simmons...where do I fucking begin?

I try to speak; I really do, but I guess all the stress of trying to meet everyone's expectations...the burden I bear of being 'perfect' and wanting to please everyone especially my mother...finally gets to me, and all I can do...all I can do...

Damn it. Why am I so weak?

...is burst into uncontrollable tears of frustration and desperation. Try as hard as I might to stop the torrent of my misery and to beg her not to think any less of me... my shameful tears are quickly muffled against the warmth, strength, and kindness of a woman who expects absolutely nothing from me in return.

Just a day, just an ordinary day
Just trying to get by.
Just a boy,
Just an ordinary boy.
But he was looking to the sky.