To Walk in His Shoes

July 22nd.

Nighttime.

It’s still cloudy outside, and the stars are beginning to pop out from their hiding places, wherever that may be. Keith just left our house a couple of minutes ago. He said something along the lines of having to grab his car.

Most days Keith is too lazy to walk the block here, so he drives his old pick-up truck and always parks crookedly in our driveway. I used to wonder if that’s why the archaic junkyard on wheels has so many dents in it. I guess I’ll never understand, even though I really couldn’t care less.

I’m in my room, attempting to throw out some grown out clothes when Carter walks in. Bemused, I stop what I’m doing entirely and sit on my bed. I cross my right leg over my left and stare at him, wide eyed.

“Yes?” I ask over a very long, sprawled out silence. Carter leans his arm against my doorway and looks at me. He’s clad in a pair of dark semi-baggy jeans that almost hang too low and a graphic t-shirt with Albert Einstein smoking cosmos into the atmosphere. I stifle a chuckle at the sight because it’s completely out of Carter’s comfort zone. His sandy brown hair is kind of spiked out in the front, and the rest is shaggily spread across his head.

“I’m going out tonight, so don’t wait up,” he says, tapping his hand on the wall before quickly departing. Stunned, partly by the fact that he actually thinks I care where he is, but mostly because he’s going to a party, I rush to him.

“Wait, Carter!” I exclaim, tugging harshly on his shoulder and turning him around to face me. His gray eyes widen and he furrows his brows sharply, shoving my arm off of him. “You’re not going with Keith, are you?”

Subsequently, I realize how stupid my question is and frown, impatiently resting my fingers against my hip. Carter rolls his eyes and chuckles condescendingly at me.

“Yes, Kat, I’m going with Keith. When have I not been with him?” He queries, walking down the stairs and checking in the hallway mirror to see how his hair looks. After spiking some stray strands up, he gazes at me and smiles.

“Well, you’re not with him now,” I point out, making him laugh again.

“Okay, you’ve got a point. He'll be here any minute though,” Carter replies, pacing around the kitchen table.

I nod my head, sitting atop the counter near the oven. “Speaking of being here any minute, where is dad?” I ask, getting off topic unintentionally.

“He’s held up at the restaurant,” Carter says nonchalantly, picking at his fingernail.

When we moved here about ten years ago, my dad started working at the local fish and chips shack down by the harbor. It wasn’t much at first. Nonetheless, as he continued climbing the ladder over the years, he became vital to the restaurant’s survival. Last fall, when the manager got sick, dad took over. So now, even though it’s great we actually have money, dad is really busy. He sometimes works fifteen hour shifts.

I’m not surprised that he’s still there. As much as it hurts to say, that place is his life. He loves it – the people, the atmosphere, the sometimes free food – and wouldn’t trade it for the world, probably.

The door opens harshly and slams against the wall a couple of seconds later, and Carter and I both lift our heads in curiosity. However, to my unfortunate dismay, it’s just Keith, sporting a dirty looking leather jacket and red tinted sunglasses. He likes to believe he’s a trendsetter.

I frown in disappointment and sulk down against the tiles of the counter. “You ready to go?” He asks to no one in particular, taking off his cliché styled glasses when he sees me. “Kitty, what are you wearing?”

I look down, even though I know exactly what I’m wearing, for added effect. “Sweats,” I say happily, giggling when I see his reaction.

Carter stands in the middle of the kitchen, totally unaware of what’s going on. He switches between looking at me and Keith, and then he gives up. “Will someone tell me what the hell is happening?” He finally questions, holding the bridge of his nose, as if he’s overwhelmed.

“Your sister is going to the party,” he chuckles. “It’s only fair that I make it up to her from eating all of that lasagna.”

My mouth is a gaping hole right now, and Keith walks to me, so close that we’re inches away. His finger touches my chin so delicately that I question if it’s even there. And then my mouth is shut immediately by the pressure.

“You shouldn’t open your mouth like that, Kitty. You’ll catch flies,” he remarks, his eyes full of patronizing life. I gaze at Carter and am pleasantly unsurprised by his disgusted visage. In an instant, Keith is back where he originally stood, wearing that tiresome smirk.

An uncomfortable stillness fills the atmosphere, and we eventually all falter, although I’m the first to speak up.

“I’m not going,” I contend harshly, holding my ground. Keith stares at me, looking seemingly violent, for a very long time. It could have been seconds, minutes, or even hours. I really have no idea. Yet, by the time the uneasiness in the room settles down, Keith has given up. I can tell first by the look in his eyes. It isn't punitive like it had been before. Now it's nearly sympathetic. Though I won’t give that to him. He’s still a jerk to me, and he always will be.

“Loosen up a bit, Kitty. It’s just a party,” Keith says, a part of his voice sounding depressed, like he’s already accepted defeat. I scoff deliberately and start walking up the stairs.

“Have fun,” I say, not turning back around. I hear Carter snickering noisily in the background as Keith tells him to shut up.

I realize most teenagers, if ever offered the chance, would undeniably go to a party. However, I’ve never been interested in the drugs or the alcohol, and definitely not the guys. I guess I’m not totally educated on what happens at parties. But I’ve heard all I need to know, and that satisfies me enough.

Not even an instant after I’ve closed my door and lay down on my bed, Carter barges in again. He apologizes for Keith’s strange behavior, bids me goodnight, and then leaves.

I hear nothing but the sound of Keith’s filthy truck starting up and driving away. Unknowingly, I stand up and hastily hurry to my window. I give it one last thought, going with them. Surely Carter would make Keith turn around and pick me up. I mean, we’re not close, yet Carter and I still have a somewhat decent relationship. And then I remember that parties aren’t all they’re made up to be.

Sighing, I jump onto my bed and let all my worries fade right through me, the day’s memories passing quickly. And all too soon, my eyes shut rapidly, and I’m asleep in an instant.

~~*~~

It’s dark outside when I wake up, and rain is pattering on the roof. I tumble out of my covers and find my clock. 1:37 AM. Groaning, and also knowing I’ll never be able to get back to sleep, I begin to walk out of my room and down the hallway. The stairs are warm against my feet, and I feel completely protected. So it’s not much of a shock that I’m scared half to death when I hear a clash of plates downstairs.

I scuttle into the kitchen, towards the noise. At first I’m terrified that I’ve set myself up for disaster, that there could be a robber or kidnapper ready to pounce. But when I see the dark pile of unkempt hair, I rapidly recognize the stranger as Keith.

“Keith?” I yawn, nearly gasping when he turns around. His eyes are red rimmed and bloodshot, and he’s barely able to hold himself up. I find that the culprit of the noise is a dinner plate, smashed on the ground. I assume Keith was trying to get it out of the cupboard so he could eat. After piecing all of the evidence together, I fully comprehend that he’s absolutely wasted.

“Oh, hey Kitty-Kat!” He says so sweetly that I’m alarmed. He must be one of those happy drunks, I presume. I really need to learn more about drinking habits and symptoms.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” I ask, deciding it’s not smart to be mean to an intoxicated Keith. He starts to walk towards me, right where the shattered plate is, and I try my best to stay calm. “Wait, stop for a second, okay?”

To my utter astonishment, he halts, anticipating my next request. I put my hand out, signaling that he still needs to stay where he is, and head to find the broom and dust pan.

“Carter took me home,” he replies, his words a drunken mess.

When I come back, Keith is in the same spot, holding onto the counter with a death grip. I don’t ask why because I know he can’t hold himself up on his own. After cleaning up all of the broken dishware, I stand up and look at Keith’s exhausted demeanor. He’s struggling to stay up straight, constantly hurdling over his clumsy legs.

Disgusted, but grasping the fact that it’s the right thing to do, I jump over the floor onto Keith’s side and wrap one arm around his waist. Even though I’m quite aware I’ve just picked up all the shards, I don’t want to take any chances.

Keith smiles inadvertently, unintentionally resting his arm over my shoulder to stable himself. I begin to move slowly so that he doesn’t get dizzy, stopping every couple of feet for balance.

“Wh-where are we going?” He slurs, whirling his head around. I intake the unforgiving scent of liquor and squish my face upwards. I’ve never been much for the smell of alcohol.

“The couch,” I say frankly, directing him to the living room. By the time we’ve made it to the seemingly long walk to the sofa, Keith is weak and holding onto me by a strand. I set him down softly, smiling as he struggles to get comfortable. I throw a couple of blankets over him, and, when I’m pretty sure he’s sleeping, I head upstairs. Before I can make it to the steps, however, I hear a hoarse mumble.

“Kitty?” He asks, so vulnerably that I question if it’s even him.

“Yes?” I say, making myself sound as sweet as I can, because this Keith is different.

“Thank you,” he utters. And then he’s out, snoring like a train speeding off into the distance. I stifle a chuckle, and then let it ring out loud because I remember he’s still a jerk and we hate each other.

Besides, he’ll never remember anything he said in the morning.