Spreading Roots

It was just one tool Uncle Frank needed.

One tool out of an entire set.

Couldn't he just borrow the same one from his garage-buddies? He was a mechanic; he restored hundreds of cars in the past twenty years, for Christ’s sake. Shouldn't he have another lying around somewhere? His entire garage was littered with them, after all.

Of course, I had to borrow the only freaking tool kit in the garage with the one damned tool he didn't have a million spares of. Normally I wouldn't have been so unhappy about retrieving Uncle Frank tools for him, but of course my mother had to stash them away in the basement last week after I left the case beside the back door.

In the dark, scary basement. More of a crawlspace, really; with barely six foot ceilings and only one light to see whether you're tripping over a bulky lawn ornament or a decomposing body of one of the poor souls who got lost in the mass of Mom's old Christmas decorations.

On the way down the stairs, I repeatedly cursed myself for even borrowing it in the first place. I'd had every intention to work on my dirt bike in the backyard but it had rained, as was usual for a fall day in southern Minnesota. So naturally I just hauled my bike back to Frank's house—who had the wonderful, heated indoor garage—and worked on it there.

Paused at the bottom of the stairs, I told myself it wasn't that big of a deal. I just had to go in, find the tool kit, and get out. Simple as that.

I could smell it already. 'It' was the full force of mildew that resided on all the things that hadn't been moved in almost five years. In reality I had no idea what was down there, spiders and rats being the least I worried about. It took me several more moments, hands clenched into pitiful fists at my sides, to psych myself up.

Finally I rushed in and pummeled through all of Mom's once beloved ornaments and other miscreants she didn't have a place for upstairs. In my haste to find the one light down there, I didn't care about whatever I may have been stepping on. All I could think about was the blackness in front of me, and what could reside in it.

Those kinds of thoughts probably weren't the most rational for a teenager such as myself, but I couldn't say I was the most mature fifteen-year-old in the world, either. Nor were they productive; it probably would have been more beneficial to me if I just blocked such frightening thoughts out at such a time.

My fear of the dark—nyctophobia, as some people enjoy 'professionally' calling it—was something I'd long accepted, and knew I'd have to deal with it for probably years to come.

Once in what I was sure was the center of the basement where the light was, I reached and reached, trying to find the decrepit string attached to the bare bulb. The ceiling may have been claustrophobically low, but the ball chain was moronically short and hard for my four foot eleven frame to reach.

When I found it at long last I could have danced and sung (something you would never catch me doing otherwise) in happiness. I settled on a few fist pumps and a whispered whoop for joy instead; it may have been just one forty-watt bulb for the entire basement, and it did cast an eerie glow over all of its contents, but I could see for the most part. And that's all I cared about.

Most of all it brought me closer to finding the tool kit, and therefore getting the hell out of the basement while I still could.

My green eyes zeroed in on the tool set almost instantly. It was in the far left corner of the basement, resting against the cement wall and on top of a large cardboard box labeled 'Santa and His Plastic Reindeer'.

I continued on my way, treading haphazardly over the garbage bags and boxes exactly as I had before, just at a slightly slower pace.

Just as my hand touched the tool kit's rough, textured plastic handle, the one little light—my lifeline—flickered as if it was on the brink of dying out. My palms turned clammy and made the tool kit's handle slick with my own sweat in just a few seconds.

Slow and just barely calm I closed my eyes and held my breath, expecting the worst and somehow just knowing it was to come.

A light, barely audible buzz echoed throughout the basement, and it wasn't until several seconds afterward that I finally worked up the courage to open my eyes.

One, two, three…

I was met with a wall of pure darkness.

For a single fleeting moment, I actually hoped I went blind. Anything would have been better than being literally cornered in the tiny, dark and secluded basement. Unfortunately I knew better. With my still-adjusting eyes I could just barely make out the small stream of light that flooded in through one of the basement's tiny, mossed over windows.

It wasn't nearly enough to soothe me. Hell, I wouldn't have felt safe down there with all the one hundred watt light bulbs on the planet at my own personal disposal. For some reason unbeknownst to me, it was just creepy. Something was off about it, more so than just my fear of the dark getting in the way yet again. I could feel it; it slithered down through my flesh and settled into my bones in a way that left me nauseated and gasping for air—air I could not receive through a constricted throat.

Without hesitation I let go of the tool kit and bolted in the direction of where I thought the door to be, blindly trampling over everything in my path. At that point I couldn't have cared less about how much of a pansy I was being, I just had to get out of there—at whatever the cost. Being the klutz I was always destined to be, I tripped several times over just about everything… even my own two feet.

My adrenaline was pumping then, and all I could focus on was the crack of light that managed to shine through the gap under the door leading upstairs.

I didn't care about what I was crushing under my feet or knocking over with my hands, but it sure as hell made a lot of noise. Ceramic Santa's and tiny, cliché towns that lit up met their untimely death, each falling to the floor with a resounding crash. It must have sounded as if I stepped on landmine after landmine, though I wasn't about to let any of it slow me down.

No one ever asked me why I was so afraid of the dark. Either they weren't even aware because with now being the exception, I was extremely discreet about it, or because they knew better than to bring it up. 'Sharing and caring' never accurately described me. Not by a long shot. And trying to get me to talk only resulted in one long, unnecessary argument and a grudge I’d hold against you for weeks on end.

So I naturally kept it to myself. Hell, I didn't even think about it either until confronted with a situation where my fear was able to rear its humiliating head.

I hurtled through the basement's door, slamming it shut behind me before leaning against it, so out of breath that I needed it for support. Although there wasn't any light in the stairwell, there was a window across from the top of the stairs which shone sunlight almost directly in my face.

For a moment, I almost thought I'd have to take a puff of my inhaler.

But like I said, only for a moment.
Due to my stubbornness, I powered through the familiar feeling of my lungs tightening and took as deep a breath I could, focused on calming myself down.

It was then I heard people upstairs and let out a silent groan. No one was home when I got in, so they must have come during the few short terrifying minutes I spent down in that goddamned basement.

Mom's voice I recognized instantly. It was shriller than usual, and sounded paranoid while she asked stupid questions like "Oh my God, what was that? Do you think—what if it could be… it could be…"

Typical Marilyn. Always asking questions, not bothering to figure out the answers herself.

The other, though, was masculine and deep. I felt sure I never heard it before in my entire life. Obviously this person was new, and I always had a hard time conversing with anyone I didn't know; or rather I just didn't have the patience to.

By then my asthma was long forgotten, all I could think about was what the hell my mom was doing with this guy in our house. She was going on fifty-five, and this dude sounded young, younger than Mom at least. They couldn't possibly have been dating, and Mom wasn't known to have 'friends'.

"Listen to me, just calm down for a minute," his answer wasn't going to suffice with my mother. Oh no, when she had questions she demanded the answers, and that really wasn't a response at all. "I'm gonna check it out."

Check it out? What did he think he was doing? This wasn’t some friendly game of role-play.

It dawned on me then. They were talking about me. They thought I was an intruder or something just as silly. News flash: this was Lake Crystal, Minnesota. Population two thousand four hundred and twenty. Break-ins were few and far between around there, and Mom knew that just as well as I did.

To save them from any further trouble, I quietly made my way up the stairs, fixed on confronting the guy. Along with my asthma, I was blocking out how utterly scared shitless I'd just been down there. It would only end up in me stuttering, and stuttering was never good.

Perhaps I could even get him to leave, because whatever reason he was there… well, it wasn’t good enough to deal with someone like my mother.

Someone like my mom… well, like her, it could sometimes be a little hard to explain.

There was no way I could avoid the situation completely as much as I wanted to, because there were no means of escape (at least not on the first floor of my house). The back door squealed something awful when you opened it and shut with a loud bang, similar to the sound of a gun being fired.

In other words, the back door was out of the question. As was the front, because I'd have to go past the two people I was trying to avoid.

So, I finally decided, I'd deal with the situation head on.

I stopped in the threshold, managing to balance my sneakered feet on the very edge of the top step. The only reason for my falter was the shadow cast across the kitchen, which I could just about see from where I stood.

The only thing separating me and Mystery Man was a slab of drywall and an even coat of Mom's lavender-colored paint. I was lost as to how I'd show myself; I imagined he had his guard up and was expecting a fight from the nonexistent burglar. If I just sauntered up from the stairs, I’d very likely get a good punch in the face.

Out of options and not knowing what else to do, I stayed where I was for one transitory second. Even though I knew better, the vibe I received from this situation in general shook my already rattled nerves.

On impulse, I decided that it was now or never. I did what in that moment I thought was right; I reached around the corner and grabbed a fistful of the guy’s jacket in attempt to push him away from me as far as I could. Doing so would also hopefully have him more inclined to leave, because no one wants to deal with a volatile daughter and her crazy mother at the same time, right?

In retaliation he did the one thing I wasn't expecting him to do. He took my arm that was still attached to his clothing and, in a vice grip, pulled me around the corner and twisted my arm painfully behind my back.

I was stuck. The way he had my arm bent already began to hurt; if I tried to move at all I knew I could do some serious damage to my arm. Defeated, I put on a tough face and looked up at him. Neither did I expect for him to be quite so tall. Standing at around six foot even, he had a good foot over my much smaller figure.

It only upped the intimidation factor in his favor. I craned my neck around in an attempt to make some sort of eye contact with him. Aside from the smell of liquor on his breath (he probably had to get himself drunk to go see Mom—smart move) what I saw shocked me. His green eyes were the same color as mine. They were a frightening perfect match. He stared down at me as if he'd never seen a teenager before. Or one that attempted to shove him away, maybe.

"I live here, so there's no need to manhandle me." I snapped, then irritated.

My voice was a little wheezy, as if I were out of breath. It got me thinking that I might actually have to take my inhaler pretty soon because my breathing was still pretty heavy too.

Mom axed the cowardly stance beside the stairs leading up to the next floor, on the scene as soon as she heard my voice. "Devon!" She was angry, nothing unusual about that, but she normally contained herself well on the rare occasion we actually had company.

Mystery Man let me go as soon as he learned I did indeed have a name, and after backing away from him, I turned to my pissed off mother.

“Hey Mom,” I grinned.

She stuttered at first, which led me to believe she was too angry for words. About what I didn't know, but I guessed she had caught wind of something I'd done in the past twenty four hours. "I—I can't believe you! You scared us nearly to death, Devon Caroline."

"Ouch," I muttered under what little breath I had left, sarcasm dripping from that one syllable like venom. "Double whammy. You know it's serious now."

Mystery Man shot me a smile at my remark. For the most part we both ignored my mother, who wasn't nearly finished with her rant about how I should come up from the basement and greet company—or something along those lines.

"Sorry about earlier, kid. Marilyn didn't tell me anyone else was home. Name's Dean," he said and extended his hand—the same one he used a minute earlier to pin my arm behind my back—for me to shake with an abashed smile.

While I was grateful to finally learn his name, I merely stared at him, his smile, and his hand. Dean seemed unfazed by my reaction and kept the smile on his face somehow, stuffing the hand he offered for me into the pocket of his jeans. He wore a weathered brown leather jacket and a plain black shirt underneath.

His eyes completely betrayed his 'uncaring' look and style. There was something within them, something far greater than sadness; loss. A feeling I knew all too well. If it was that easy to point the out his 'fakeness' when we only just met (and you know, had a little hand-to-hand combat), I was beginning to think that maybe my own did the same, too.

Mom abruptly halted her tirade, staring at us like she'd just made one huge boo-boo and then in another split second the look was wiped from her face as quickly as it appeared. Both Dean and I gave her the same blank stare. I knew what was up instantly. She finally noticed that it was two in the afternoon and that school wouldn't let out for another hour. “Why aren't you at work?” I asked, trying to distract her.

"Why aren't you at school?" She countered, which only made me groan. Her question only made my breath shorten even more, but she didn't look at all concerned that I could very well have suffocated then and there in our small kitchen… but if I chose to face the music, it wasn’t as if I expected her to show any worry over me in the first place.

“Touché,” I said on a grin. Quickly I tried my best to suck in just enough air that was needed to get one more short sentence out. If my lungs continued to do this to me, I'd have to leave soon. "I was—” another small gasp. “Suspended."

She didn't notice that I was quite literally suffocating in front of her. She never would.

Part of me was surprised that Uncle Frank hadn't called to tell her like he said we would when he picked me up today from school, four hours earlier than usual. Then, I remembered, he went back to Jed Foley's garage in one last fruitless attempt to get his old job back. He must have forgotten. Either that or he just didn't want to deal with Marilyn. I let out a groan at the look she shot me, which was one that could kill, and Dean's expression said he was in over his head with the situation he'd been put in.

"Why? How?" Mom finally managed to utter, her hazel eyes ablaze with concealed rage.

I impatiently tapped my foot and remembered the exact purpose I got suspended for and the reason I even came back home in the first place. I wanted to get back to Uncle Frank as soon as I could, with or without the tool kit I came for. He'd live without it for another day; I just wanted to spend as much time with him as I could.

Next, I made sure to choose my words carefully and make them as vague as I could get them. The last thing I wanted was for Mom to find out the real reason why I had myself suspended, on purpose no less. "Uh—you know, just a bunch of little things… that added up…"

I was referring to all of the demerits I’d racked up over the past month. Instead of three, ten strikes and you're out in other words, and of course I'd been planning all of it out. I would only be out of school for a week, and by then… well, Uncle Frank would be gone and I'd be going to school in order to avoid my mother. In that moment I decided not to mention I got kicked off the baseball team, too.

It would all work out as well as I thought it would. I just had to get away from Mom and everything would be golden—at least for a little while. Before she could head straight into another one-sided argument, I sent a glance between Mom and Dean, who had smartly remained quiet for the past few minutes.

"Listen, I'm guessing he's here for a reason," I started, jabbing my thumb toward Dean while I looked at Mom. "So I’ll leave you two alone."

With a sudden grin I spared them one more look before I made a break for it, eager to get away from my boiling mother and the peculiar stranger.

Uncle Frank only lived down the street from our small two story house, so I could walk there within a few minutes. I had much more important things to do than have a useless argument with Marilyn, like forcing myself to take a stupid shot of my inhaler on my way down the street. I tried not to dwell on the new guy or why he was there, and I'd never admit that not knowing was already beginning to eat away at me.

No, because that wasn't Devon Baker. Devon Baker didn't let people get the best of her.

Most of all, Devon Baker didn't let her curiosity get the best of her.