Sequel: Cancer ›
Vegas Boys
Chapter 6
Summer dragged by painfully.
I was now forbidden to leave the house without express permission from Dad, but it was so hot and miserable outside that I probably wouldn't have gone anywhere even if I could've--not that I had anywhere to go, anyway. I still hadn't met anyone in Vegas, and as lonely as I was, I didn't really want to. I just couldn't get past the distrust of everything to do with this city that my mother had so purposely instilled in me.
I was bored out of my mind so continually that I couldn't remember what being busy or having fun felt like. Most of my friends back home were at camp or on vacation for the summer, and my mother rarely answered the phone when I called, so I had no one to talk to besides Dad--and his conversation was more like a series of grunts with varying emphasis, really. I watched so much TV that eventually everything was reruns--I had seen all television had to offer already. Not even the internet could keep me entertained for long anymore.
My two biggest pass-times, as it turned out, were things I never would have admitted to doing.
First of all, I explored Dad's house while he was at work--well, snooped would probably be a better word for it. I wandered around to different rooms, looking through drawers and cabinets, examining their contents. I found lots of useless odds and ends (like a rusty old swiss army knife that was probably left over from his boy scout days) and business documents I couldn't decipher, but occasionally I came across something interesting.
Once I found a box full of love letters from my mom, tied together with a neat blue ribbon; underneath these was a stack of old pictures of the three of us back when we were still a family. This particular discovery made me wish I'd never gone looking--the idea of my gruff, seemingly unfeeling father saving these things for so long broke my heart, and I couldn't stop thinking about it for the longest time. It just seemed so unlike him.
-----
I stumbled across my second hobby of sorts by chance.
My room was located on the far left of the second floor of Dad's house, so there was only about ten feet of space between my bedroom window and the side of Brendon's house. One day, when it was unusually cool and breezy outside, I opened my window while I curled up on my bed and read some book I'd found in my dad's study. I'd read about ten pages when I was suddenly distracted by music playing somewhere.
At first I thought it was coming from inside the house somewhere, and I was kind of freaked out, because Dad wasn't home yet and I hadn't left a TV or stereo or anything on, I knew. Then, as I got up off the bed and started to cross the room to the door to check downstairs, I realized it was coming from outside--or, more specifically, Brendon's house.
When I stood at the open window, I could hear the music well enough to distinguish the various instruments--or at least separate the sounds into guitars, drums, and vocals. I could tell it was a boy singing, but couldn't make out the words. I just stood there at the window, rooted to the spot with fascination, for what must have been at least half an hour until the music stopped. I was just about to walk away when a whole group of boys about my age emerged from Brendon's garage--I couldn't see it from where I stood, but the garage door must have been open--laughing and talking and a few carrying instruments.
Until then, I hadn't even realized that they were the source of the music. I'd just assumed that Brendon was listening to some underground garbage from the local music scene or something way too loud--it made more sense that a shitty garage band was playing live next door.
After that day, I always ran downstairs and opened the window in the living room (I could hear better there) and laid on my back on the couch while I listened to Brendon's band playing next door. They usually played the same songs every time--some covers of songs I'd heard before, and some that I guessed were their own songs. They were pretty good. Good enough to keep me entertained for an hour or two every couple of days, anyway.
I never would have admitted to Brendon that I listened to his band practice every chance I got. But really, it was probably the highlight of my whole summer in Vegas.
-----
I sighed with relief as I drew a big red X through the block on my calendar devoted to August 1st. Just two more weeks and then I could go home again. If I could endure this hellhole for two more weeks, the torment would be over.
I ate two of the glazed donuts I'd convinced Dad to buy at the grocery last night in celebration and mentally congratulated myself for sticking it out for so long. I had cried myself to sleep every single night and there were definitely times when I thought I would go crazy if I had to stay here a second longer, but it was almost over now. Just fourteen days to go.
Smiling cheerfully to myself for once, I decided to go get the mail. This was the only freedom from the stuffy indoors I was allowed while Dad was at work, and the warm sunshine and cool breeze playing against my skin were invigorating. The weather today was almost as extraordinary as my mood.
I was about halfway down the front walk when I heard voices conversing excitedly, followed by the shrill sound of girlish laughter. I paused briefly and glanced in the voices' general direction, then quickly looked away and pretended not to have noticed them.
Two boys and two girls stood casually in the driveway next door between the garage and a car I didn't recognize. The girls' backs were turned towards me, and I'd never seen one of the boys before, but it only took a split second for me to recognize the second boy as Brendon.
There wasn't much mail--just some bills for Dad and another cheesy postcard from Mom with a few insincere lines scribbled on the back--but I pretended to be deeply interested in it, staring unseeing at the addresses and occasionally chancing a subtle glance up at the four teenagers huddled outside Brendon's garage. I could hear the low murmur of the boy I didn't recognize every so often, always punctuated with the tinkling laughter of the two girls, who were saying very little. I didn't hear Brendon speak at all--which even I knew was unusual for him--but saw him nodding vaguely a couple of times.
The third or fourth time I snuck a glance at the four of them, I caught him staring right at me. Of course, I was immediately flustered, and busied myself with the mail in my hands again, but I could still feel his gaze fixated on me, and eventually I couldn't take not looking anymore. He was still staring unabashedly at me when I glanced over at him again, and our eyes locked and we just stared blankly at each other for a while. I kept waiting for him to call out to me, or at least break out into that huge boyish smile of his, but he never did--instead, his dark eyebrows contracted and the corners of his lips turned down slightly into a sad expression that made my insides squirm.
I had forgotten about the other three people standing with him until one of the girls stopped laughing and glanced back at me, looking to see what Brendon was staring at. I quickly looked away, but not before I noticed Brendon doing the same; when I glanced back him on my way up the front walk, his dark eyes were fixed on the ground and he was rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.
I ripped up my mother's postcard without reading it and threw it in the trash. I didn't need it anymore--Brendon had already ruined my good mood before she could.
I was now forbidden to leave the house without express permission from Dad, but it was so hot and miserable outside that I probably wouldn't have gone anywhere even if I could've--not that I had anywhere to go, anyway. I still hadn't met anyone in Vegas, and as lonely as I was, I didn't really want to. I just couldn't get past the distrust of everything to do with this city that my mother had so purposely instilled in me.
I was bored out of my mind so continually that I couldn't remember what being busy or having fun felt like. Most of my friends back home were at camp or on vacation for the summer, and my mother rarely answered the phone when I called, so I had no one to talk to besides Dad--and his conversation was more like a series of grunts with varying emphasis, really. I watched so much TV that eventually everything was reruns--I had seen all television had to offer already. Not even the internet could keep me entertained for long anymore.
My two biggest pass-times, as it turned out, were things I never would have admitted to doing.
First of all, I explored Dad's house while he was at work--well, snooped would probably be a better word for it. I wandered around to different rooms, looking through drawers and cabinets, examining their contents. I found lots of useless odds and ends (like a rusty old swiss army knife that was probably left over from his boy scout days) and business documents I couldn't decipher, but occasionally I came across something interesting.
Once I found a box full of love letters from my mom, tied together with a neat blue ribbon; underneath these was a stack of old pictures of the three of us back when we were still a family. This particular discovery made me wish I'd never gone looking--the idea of my gruff, seemingly unfeeling father saving these things for so long broke my heart, and I couldn't stop thinking about it for the longest time. It just seemed so unlike him.
-----
I stumbled across my second hobby of sorts by chance.
My room was located on the far left of the second floor of Dad's house, so there was only about ten feet of space between my bedroom window and the side of Brendon's house. One day, when it was unusually cool and breezy outside, I opened my window while I curled up on my bed and read some book I'd found in my dad's study. I'd read about ten pages when I was suddenly distracted by music playing somewhere.
At first I thought it was coming from inside the house somewhere, and I was kind of freaked out, because Dad wasn't home yet and I hadn't left a TV or stereo or anything on, I knew. Then, as I got up off the bed and started to cross the room to the door to check downstairs, I realized it was coming from outside--or, more specifically, Brendon's house.
When I stood at the open window, I could hear the music well enough to distinguish the various instruments--or at least separate the sounds into guitars, drums, and vocals. I could tell it was a boy singing, but couldn't make out the words. I just stood there at the window, rooted to the spot with fascination, for what must have been at least half an hour until the music stopped. I was just about to walk away when a whole group of boys about my age emerged from Brendon's garage--I couldn't see it from where I stood, but the garage door must have been open--laughing and talking and a few carrying instruments.
Until then, I hadn't even realized that they were the source of the music. I'd just assumed that Brendon was listening to some underground garbage from the local music scene or something way too loud--it made more sense that a shitty garage band was playing live next door.
After that day, I always ran downstairs and opened the window in the living room (I could hear better there) and laid on my back on the couch while I listened to Brendon's band playing next door. They usually played the same songs every time--some covers of songs I'd heard before, and some that I guessed were their own songs. They were pretty good. Good enough to keep me entertained for an hour or two every couple of days, anyway.
I never would have admitted to Brendon that I listened to his band practice every chance I got. But really, it was probably the highlight of my whole summer in Vegas.
-----
I sighed with relief as I drew a big red X through the block on my calendar devoted to August 1st. Just two more weeks and then I could go home again. If I could endure this hellhole for two more weeks, the torment would be over.
I ate two of the glazed donuts I'd convinced Dad to buy at the grocery last night in celebration and mentally congratulated myself for sticking it out for so long. I had cried myself to sleep every single night and there were definitely times when I thought I would go crazy if I had to stay here a second longer, but it was almost over now. Just fourteen days to go.
Smiling cheerfully to myself for once, I decided to go get the mail. This was the only freedom from the stuffy indoors I was allowed while Dad was at work, and the warm sunshine and cool breeze playing against my skin were invigorating. The weather today was almost as extraordinary as my mood.
I was about halfway down the front walk when I heard voices conversing excitedly, followed by the shrill sound of girlish laughter. I paused briefly and glanced in the voices' general direction, then quickly looked away and pretended not to have noticed them.
Two boys and two girls stood casually in the driveway next door between the garage and a car I didn't recognize. The girls' backs were turned towards me, and I'd never seen one of the boys before, but it only took a split second for me to recognize the second boy as Brendon.
There wasn't much mail--just some bills for Dad and another cheesy postcard from Mom with a few insincere lines scribbled on the back--but I pretended to be deeply interested in it, staring unseeing at the addresses and occasionally chancing a subtle glance up at the four teenagers huddled outside Brendon's garage. I could hear the low murmur of the boy I didn't recognize every so often, always punctuated with the tinkling laughter of the two girls, who were saying very little. I didn't hear Brendon speak at all--which even I knew was unusual for him--but saw him nodding vaguely a couple of times.
The third or fourth time I snuck a glance at the four of them, I caught him staring right at me. Of course, I was immediately flustered, and busied myself with the mail in my hands again, but I could still feel his gaze fixated on me, and eventually I couldn't take not looking anymore. He was still staring unabashedly at me when I glanced over at him again, and our eyes locked and we just stared blankly at each other for a while. I kept waiting for him to call out to me, or at least break out into that huge boyish smile of his, but he never did--instead, his dark eyebrows contracted and the corners of his lips turned down slightly into a sad expression that made my insides squirm.
I had forgotten about the other three people standing with him until one of the girls stopped laughing and glanced back at me, looking to see what Brendon was staring at. I quickly looked away, but not before I noticed Brendon doing the same; when I glanced back him on my way up the front walk, his dark eyes were fixed on the ground and he was rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.
I ripped up my mother's postcard without reading it and threw it in the trash. I didn't need it anymore--Brendon had already ruined my good mood before she could.