The Art of Fading

My life starts when I wake up.

No shit, right? But it’s not like that. Some nights I feel like there’s something medically wrong with me. It’s like, I’ll be asleep—not even aware that I’m asleep, just surrounded by complete darkness and my body is somehow breathing and pumping blood on its own. Then in the moment right before I start to hear Ike’s alarm, or someone shaking my shoulder—it hits. Like night terrors but in the span of a second, this weight like freight train nails me right in my gut and somehow I can’t breathe. All the air in my lungs leaves me and I feel that absence of security. Of not knowing if this is my last look at the world.

Generally I’m staring up at the grey ceiling, or I’m on some stranger’s floor. Not much cinematography to work with if ever anyone wanted to document my life…

The terror is manifested in this physical shock and always accompanied by the thought, they know. As soon as my brain thinks it, I can breathe again.

That can’t be good for my health? Like, something is seriously fucked up when you’re seventeen and in danger of having morning heart attacks on a radically consistent basis.

“You okay, man? You look like a Smurf.”

I look up and Ike is giving me this lazy squint while his jaw is still unhinged a bit from sleep. He’s hovering over me, making me dizzy while I look up at his face. I have to twist my fists into the sheets and close my eyes—or else I’ll probably be in danger of having another panic attack, for different reasons of course.

“M’fine,” I mutter under my breath and kick away the sheets and toss the pillow back on Ike’s bed. The sheets go down the hall in the linen closet; I return them to the same shelf, not even bothering to wash them because I’ll probably be here next weekend and I don’t want to make more laundry for Mrs. Lahore.

Ike is already getting dressed, pulling on his t-shirt and pants as I walk in. I slept in the same clothes from the previous day, and I just borrow some of the deodorant sitting on the dresser. I’m basically ready to go. My backpack is already on before Ike has time to tie his last shoelace.

“I’m so buzzed. Let’s stop by McDonalds, I need some hash,” Ike says, and he bumps me as we stomp out of the front door. I don’t really have time for Mc-y-D’s but Ike is my ride so I don’t really have a choice. Half the time I can’t tell if he means he wants food or he’s trying to hook up with his dealer. So I buy hash browns no matter what and it’s a bonus if Ike scores.

“You think Toshiba will be there?” he asks, checking the clock before pulling out.

We’ve missed first period; by now it’s half way in progress so we might as well eat. Cafeteria food sucks anyway. I shrug at Ike and give him a once-over. He’s about as put together as I am; damp hair from the morning drizzle that still hasn’t stopped—he’s got on some sort of lyrical t-shirt and black jeans. Not those types that the band kids wear but the kind that he’s had so long they’ve got holes in all the pockets and shredded at the heels.

Mondays are not our thing—I can say with all honesty that if the real apocalypse hit on Sunday night, we’d sleep through the whole thing and wake up late for the coming of Christ, and if McDonalds was still open, we’d probably stop by for a McGriddle before joining the other damned souls.

I just smile though—thinking back to what he asked—Toshiba is this big Mexican dude that generally takes our order at the window. It’s not even his name or whatever—it’s just so fucking hilarious how huge this guy is. Ike had started the joke about ‘Toshiba’ ever since it looked like the guy’s face couldn’t even fit through the drive-through window. The “Latino Fat Albert” is what Ike likes to call him. Stuck in the TV.

Probably made more sense when we were drunk. Most my jokes are shit when sober, and mediocre when smashed; but Ike is always funny.

Unfortunately Toshiba is not working the window, or the front register. So when we go in and order we have to look at the bored white girl who probably didn’t make it out of high school due to boyfriend troubles and the fetus growing in her belly.

“Dude,” Ike whispers, “I think that was my girlfriend in sixth grade. Just saying...” He heads off to the back to speak with one of his friends. While I eat my hash, Ike is probably looking to hook us up. This past weekend we went a little crazy—what with his parents being out of town for two days we didn’t have to find anywhere else to smoke. So we’d basically sealed his room and baked ourselves. A few people came over but I vaguely remember that happening.

As we’re walking back to the car and I toss Ike his breakfast I catch a glimpse of myself in the large McDonalds window.

God damn, I really do look like a Smurf. Probably more when I was deprived of oxygen, but my hair still does this stupid thing where it puffs up like I’m a fucking troll doll. I smash it down with my hoodie and try not to fuss over it on the way to school; even though my fingers are itching to just rip it out. The rain doesn’t help much, only makes it frizzier and shit-like.

►

Something in my gut tells me today is different. As Ike and I take our usual seats in the back of our math class we get chewed out more than usual.

“—and fourteen tardies means Saturday school. Do you know how many you’ve got in this class alone? Do you?” Ms. Smith demands. She’s snippier than normal today since we’re ten minutes late. We had to stop by my locker though and stash our leftovers though, or else she really would have been mad seeing us bring in breakfast to her class.

“I’m just going to throw out the number seven,” Ike says, slouching in his chair—uncaring. “It’s just an approximation though.”

“Nine,” Ms. Smith snipes. She turns up her nose and goes back to her desk to where her attendance sheet is. “Today makes ten. You’re not even three months into the semester and you’re looking at Saturday school…”

I tune out the rest of the class; I’m not really concerned about it, really. Ike is smooth talking Ms. Smith to a nice simmer all throughout class and I’m sure she’s not really going to report us to the VP if it really comes down to it. I doze off a couple times and Ike has to elbow me to keep Ms. Smith from really shitting a brick. But it seems like only a few minutes pass and the bell is ringing.

“Hope that’s not on the final,” Ike says, “for your sake.”

I roll my eyes; Ike is usual cheating off of me—so really I don’t think he cares that much. It’s more like he’d like for me to help him with the answers. I don’t care though. Math is the only thing that really makes sense so I tend to do well enough in that area.

“Bran,” Ms. Smith stops me, “stay a minute, please.”

“Oh,” I stop. “Well, I don’t want to be late for my next class so I really should get going. I have a lot of tardies, actually. Saturday school is a real bitch—“

“Sit,” she points at the stool near her desk, her tone sharper than a tack. I made my ass comfortable for the sake of just obeying for once.

Before she can start in on me (and I know she’s about to, she’s got one of those Lecture Faces on and a storm brewing in her eyes) a boy jogs into the room, all breathless and disheveled. Possibly he looks worse than I do.

“Is this second period?” he asks. His scraggly hair is all wet on the fringe and dripping on his face. His clothes are sort of damp and he looks expectantly to Ms. Smith.

“This is the maths room,” I say to him, “dumbass.”

“Can I help you, hun?” Ms. Smith asks, ignoring me and walking up to the boy.

“Um—I think I missed your class,” he says, turning over what looks to be a schedule. It’s all damp from the rain and undoubtedly the ink has smeared.

“You know what, that’s just fine, it’s your first day, isn’t it?” she asks, tenderly trying to pat away his panic.

“Yes,” he says, “I’m—sort of lost. I’ve never been to a school with more than one floor level. Is A the bottom floor?”

“A is the top floor,” I say, hiking my backpack up on my shoulders. “B is the middle and C is the bottom. It’s on the outside of the building. It’s pretty hard to miss. And this is second period for A days, you have a B day schedule in your hands. Which means this is your first class and you missed it.”

Ms. Smith is eyeing me, but really, I just want to get this over with so I skipped all the “it’s okay’s” and grooming that she would have done and just gave the facts. It’d be faster that way.

“I don’t know how you missed it,” I say, “there are signs on the doors. Everywhere.”

“You’ve been going here three years and haven’t been on time once yet, Bran—what’s your excuse?”

“I had a bad a case of the McMunchies,” I muttered and something of a giggle came from the random student at the door.

“Look,” I say, snatching the paper from his hands. “He’s got uh…next class near mine. I’ll show him around.”

Before Ms. Smith can object I’m grabbing this random by his soggy clothes and hauling him along with me, down the hall, far enough away from my maths class before letting him go.

“Hey,” he says, catching up with me, “that McMunchies thing was funny. My mom got me McDonald’s too, before school, ‘cause I’m new and all.”

“Oh really?” I turn on him, feigning an interested face and enthusiasm I can barely muster when Shark Week comes around. “Did she pick out your clothes and help you tie your shoes also?”

He touches on the polo and Chinos he’s wearing and frowns down at them. Somebody else must have dressed him because kids these days don’t dress up for school. Hell, if we were allowed to I’d probably come in my boxers and socks most days.

“Bet’cha watched Steward Little the night before or something…” I added, going up to the vending machine and fishing out some coins. I popped them in and still came up short twenty-five cents. “Dammit.”

“Uh—here,” the boy put in a quarter and I nod, bending down and grabbing the chocolate Pop-Tarts.

“So—you’re Bran,” he says to me. I don’t know why he’s still hanging around. I try and lose him by picking up the pace. The halls are crowded, it’s possible to get lost if I dodge enough freshman… “I’m—“

“Don’t care,” I cut him off.

He hurries on, “I think that we’re—“

“Still,” I throw back the last Pop-Tart and trash the wrapper in my pocket, “don’t care.”

“Are you at least going to help me find my next class?” He grabs my shoulder and I finally stop, catching sight of Ike waiting at the stairs for me. This boy steps in the way though, blocking my view a bit. He’s about my eye level, and I’m sort of stunned with his green eyes. But he needs to get them out of my face.

“Yeah, B12. Down the hall—you should be able to find it,” I say, brushing him away and chasing after Ike.

“But—“ is the last thing I catch before I’m caught up with Ike and his friends.

“What’d Smith want?” Ike asks. We all start to head down the stairs in a group—one last look over my shoulder and I see the random still standing in the middle of the hall, like he has no sense of direction. Idiot.

“Don’t know? Probably the You’re Better Than This speech.” I shrug.

“An’ that—“ Ike nods over his shoulder. “Who was he?”

“Someone,” I shrug. “I don’t really know. Anyway—what’s the plan for tonight?”

So we walked around campus for a while and during lunch we discussed how we were going to catch up on all the weekend homework that was “do or die” as Ike liked to put it. We sat under the covering of the outer cafeteria since it was still raining. Jamie and Sara were with us and a few of the guys that general stuck around; it wasn’t a huge group of us but I sort of liked it better that way.

Jamie and Ike talked mindlessly about the weekend. She’s one of the cool chicks that doesn’t seem to constantly be after everyone’s cock. Which makes it nice to just be able to hang out with her for a while and not bring drama into stuff. I’d known Jamie since pre-school practically but never could really work up the courage to ask her out or anything.

She’s sort of way prettier than most of the tom-boyish girls at school, with long brunette hair and a crooked smile. She played pretty much every sport out there and is decent if not the best on the team. I watch from the corner of my eye as she sits across from me, talking to Ike.

He’s sort of hunched over his lunch, nodding and conversing easily with everyone. Ike hasn’t changed much since I’d first met him, but maybe he’s grown a lot taller and matured a bit. We all have, since freshman year. But Ike more than most—he’s got this really adult looking face, where he could really get some serious facial hair going after a week or so of not shaving. He looks a lot like his dad, with long brown hair and these super brown eyes. When he smiles it brings two tight wrinkles up from his chin to his cheeks.

And he does a lot of smiling.

Like right now, he’s cracking up over something I’d done or said. I used to be able to remember those things I did—now it seems more like I’m not even aware of myself when I do them.

“And so we have to call for delivery ‘cause we’re way too fucked up to drive. When the guy finally does arrive, Bran answers the door basically naked, and he’s got his sister’s shorts on. And—and he says—“ he can barely speak, his eyes are watering up from laughing so hard “he says something like “I wanted the soy sauce to go on the soy. Where the fuck is the soy?” and then he doesn’t have enough money to pay the full bill so he—“

Aw, shit. I do remember this part.

“He leans up against the door frame and makes eyes at this little delivery boy and says—“

“Nothing!” I pipe up, my cheeks flushing and I try and kick him under the table. Jamie yelps and glares and me; I’m mortified with the next thing that comes out of Ike’s mouth.

“—he’ll blow him if he covers the rest of the bill!”

Steven, one of Ike’s buddies gives me a wry look and elbows my side. They’re all having a really great laugh and my expense. What’s more terrifying is that it’s probably considered sexual harassment on my part and now China Palace will never deliver to my house again. Though…I do remember having Chinese food that night, so I’m a little fuzzy on what transpired after my offer.

“Oh my God he’s blushing,” Jamie giggled like crazy. “Bran—you’re so adorable…”

I wasn’t blushing then, but I am now that someone had to go and point it out. I have to wipe my palms on my jeans; I know they don’t really mean any of it but it still has me pretty well embarrassed. I have to get out of there. Lunch is going to be over soon anyway—which means one class left and I’m out for the day. I grab up my homework I was doing and stuff it into my back pocket. The pencils and pen go in my front and I dash out of there. Before they can make any more jokes.

“Oh c’mon!” Ike is chasing after me. “Don’t get all butt sore about it.”

I glare at him sharply and he can’t keep a straight face long enough to ignore his own joke. He just laughs and keeps pace with me.

“We have class together, genius,” he reminds me.

I ignore him still, stopping at my locker and grabbing my backpack. It’s there where I pretend that my locker door is a wall between us, and nothing he says can hurt me—I won’t let it. I know he’s only joking, and that’s why I don’t understand why it gets me so mad. It really ticks me off when people like Steven and Sara just have to join in, even when they weren’t there. I can never be mad at Ike—but other people tend to easily piss me off.

Stupid shit like this makes me even doubt my mental sanity. At any moment if Ike went too far I don’t know if I’d rip his throat out or curl up in a ball. Fucked up, right? It is, and it’s all this, this tightly woven emotion coiling deep inside me that I have no clue how to unravel; but I feel like if I were able to I could just let go of it all. How childish was it of me to hold onto this for so long? At some point I was going to just have to coup d'état all this baggage and do like the Japanese and fucking surrender. There was no point in fighting any longer, it feels this way.

“Aw—“ Ike breaks me out of my mental freeze with a tight arm around my neck, nearly suffocating me. “Bran-Bran, you know I love you, bro. You stupid jackass.”

Then he does things like this, and I feel my heart race and my rationale take a vacation to the Island of Delusion. I’ve always hated my name. Bran. My parents couldn’t even finish the don piece of that and the end. It was like they were too lazy and didn’t give two shits since their names were like…Louis and Susan. Of course they’d want my name to be as messed up.

“There’s no shame in what you do when you’re off beat,” he says. “Remember that time I slept with that ugly chick—like fucking Dona or some shit?”

Yes, I remember. Her name was Dona Cardaron and she wasn’t half a bit ugly, and he’d been drunk and a little stoned but he knew what he was doing. It had been because she had the best weed ever and I think it was Ike’s way of thanking someone. But he’d done that to a girl—and decent looking girl and I had offered oral to some pimple-faced delivery boy because…

Well. Just ‘cause, I guess. It would be pointless to rationalize those sorts of things right now.

“Just get off me,” I say, shoving him away and slamming the locker shut. He knows I’m not mad though, ‘cause he’s got this smile on his face and I return it as best I can. “And don’t even repeat that story again.”

“That’s fine with me,” he holds up his hands dejectedly. “But it’s not like you don’t give me plenty of other material to work with.”

It’s true. I’m an ass—and I do ass-like things and I’m not a happy drunk or a mad drunk. I’m both in one; deliriously happy and crazy like I’ve been dropped a few times on my face. So I’m likely to be the person who falls in the pool or walks in the shower clothed. Or I’m usually in your parent’s bed, naked when they arrive home the next day. I’ve also been known to dace. I’ve never been able to understand that since I lack rhythm even when it comes to things like Twinkle Little Star.

We get to our last period class, and this is one of the few I have with Ike. We’re just barely on time and we take our seats as the bell rings. Ike is suddenly wrapped up in a conversation with a talkative redhead and she’s caught most of his attention. It’s not really until the middle of class that I groan.

Hurrying through the door looking flushed is the same tard-ass that couldn’t find one of the easiest classes. Who gets lost these days? We have recourses, our phones have built in GPS—I do not understand. I really have no empathy. He had the entire lunch break to find the civics room. It’s on the first level for Christ’s sake.

“Yes?” Mr. Ramsey asks the boy. He’s in the middle of his little rant but is easily pulled away from talking about our community service that’s due.

“I’m late,” he says, sort of staring dumbly at the front of the classroom like a deer in the headlights.

“No you’re not!” Ike contradicts sarcastically and most the class sniggers. The boy up front blushes a bit and clutches his smeared paper in his hand.

“Um—yes,” Mr. Ramsey smiles at the boy. Lord help him, he’s a sad sight. Hair flattened against his temples, shoe untied and backpack heavy from probably not having an assigned locker yet. “Go ahead take a seat. We can talk after class.”

“Thanks,” he mutters and the only seat open or not being used by someone’s feet is a chair across from me at a lone desk. He hikes up his backpack and slides down the aisles, sloshing a bit.

He sits and I roll my eyes, seeing that he’s got water all over my desk from dripping by me.

“Hey, Bran!” he whispers brightly, giving me this weird ass smile. All I do is ponder this a moment before dismissing him entirely. I turn to Ike and assume he’s definitely got a comment for this poor sap. He seems to be evaluating him, just like I figured but ends up shaking his head.

“It’s too easy,” he says. I agree—but I had been looking forward to some quip or something.

After a while Mr. Ramsey is finished up with his little lecture and we’ve still got time to kill. So he decides to put Socially Awkward on the spot and calls him to the front of the room. Again, he sloshes up and joins the teacher at the front of the room.

“We all did this at the beginning of the year, so it’s really only fair,” he explains, sort of apologetically to the new guy. “Just, state your name, favorite color and one fact that you’re not ashamed of. We’ll all receive you with acceptance.”

Let’s see, if I remember this correctly, I refused to go to the front of the room, my name of choice was Mike Jones, my favorite color was ‘ice’ and I wasn’t ashamed that I’d made a country thuggin CD. Ike followed that up with naming himself High Lord Radgard of the Elvin tribe. So really, when Mr. Ramsey said we’d all done this, he meant we had half-assed it and excluded all personal information and basically pushed the limits of what was appropriate. Of course, this kid had no idea. No one told him in advance.

He scratched on his forearm in thought before biting his lip. “I’m Kenny.”

“Hi Kenney,” Mr. Ramsey says, as a formality. He’s such a dork.

“Hi,” he says briefly. “Um. I like the color silver—that’s sort of odd I guess but whenever I used crayons I kind of liked the shiny ones. And uh…well, I’m not really ashamed that I’m gay.”

Oh…oh—he definitely took the ‘receiving with acceptance’ thing serious.

There’s a paused, accompanied by silence. There is hardly ever silence in high school classrooms—so this is bizarre. What’s more bizarre, is that he’s looking straight at me when he’s saying this. I can’t help but feel very, very uncomfortable. Ike seems to notice because he gives me one of those lip-tugging, what-the-fuck looks. I think it’s just because he somehow thinks we’re friends or acquaintances or whatever. But we’re not and I’m making a mental note to get the fuck away from this Kenny kid the second the bell rings.

Mr. Ramsey coughs but for the most part he does a good job of hustling Kenny the Unashamed to his seat.

►

“So I found out some dirt about this Kenny kid,” Ike says.

That feeling, the one I got early in the morning where I knew it wasn’t the rain that was throwing me off—I feel it again. Just mentioning his name had me all twisted inside.

It’s only an hour after school and we’re just hanging around the parking lot, loitering. Not in a rush to get back home but not really having anywhere to go.

“He’s a transfer from out of state,” he says, glancing down at his phone and smoking the last of my cigarette. I nod, uninterested. “I heard from Jenny’s brother that his parents work at that health food store that just opened. His dad is the OB GYN at the new hospital. He’s an only child, clearly a shit dresser and he’s obviously gay. Or he’s got one hell of a sense of humor.”

I make a cross noise in the back of my throat and pull out another cigarette, the blood is rushing to my head and I can’t even tell if it’s because I’m so blown away by his straight forward introduction or if it’s just the fact that Ike is so connected within this town and he’s giving me a info-dump that I can’t handle.

“He’s also your neighbor,” he says, and he doesn’t hide the smirk.

“I’m moving in with you,” I say on reflex, blinking back the burning of the smoke that’s gotten in my eyes.

Ike looks at me suddenly seriously, he takes my lighter and grabs from my cigarettes that are sticking out of my shirt pocket. I try to slap him away because he never buys me cigarettes when I ask but always steels them. In the end I let him win.

“You really want to move in?” he says it like he doesn’t know the answer. So I just shrug and look away.

“What about Summer?” he asks.

“Mom has partial custody for now,” I explain. “She won’t move out though since she can’t afford rent for anything bigger than a single bedroom.”

He nods, and I think in a way he understand that this is something I hate talking about. More than my fucking up emotional instability and lack of self control when it comes to boundaries. I don’t want to talk about my parents and their soap opera drama—it’s so melodramatic and not even worth it.

“You’re welcome whenever,” he says. “You know that, right.”

“’Course,” I nod. “Thanks.”

“So back to the new guy,” Ike changes the subject quickly and wild smile breaks on his face. “I think he’s got a crush on you.”

He’s not laughing after my fist hits his face.