Authors: Travis Thrasher

Solitary: A Novel (3 page)

The scream is loud and low and scares me right out of bed.

I fumble in the darkness, trying to remember where I am, why it's so cold, and why the ceiling is slanted and hitting my head as I stand.

I can see the cold moonlight reflecting off trees that wave to me through the window.

Another scream comes, and this time I wonder if it's Mom. Yet it doesn't sound like her.

It doesn't sound human.

I race out the door and down the stairs and hear another scream, and this time I know it's Mom.

The light in her bedroom blinds me. I find her in the corner of the room, shaking, her hands waving at something in the air, her eyes glaring.

She sees me and screams again.

I've never heard a bloodcurdling scream before in my life, but now I know where they got the name.

I hold her in my arms.

"Mom. It's me. Mom. It's Chris. Mom."

I say this over and over again as I hold her. It feels strange, I think, that this person so much shorter and smaller than me is my mother.

Eventually she calms down. Then starts to cry.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

We sit at the small breakfast-dinner table. She's drinking a glass of milk.

"I hope I didn't scare you," Mom says.

"It takes a lot to scare me."

She knows this is true.

"What were you dreaming about?" I ask.

"The thing is ... I don't ... I didn't feel like I was dreaming. I know I was. It's just ... it felt so real."

"What?"

Mom looks at me, then shakes her head.

"I don't know. It's nothing."

But the look on her pale face says something else. Maybe she's not lying. Maybe she just doesn't want to say because she thinks it might scare me.

Or make me scared about her sanity.

My mom's not crazy. In fact, she's the sanest person I've met in this insane world.

My dad's the crazy one. Crazy for not loving her, crazy for leaving her, crazy for letting the divorce happen.

I don't want to talk about him or them. I want to talk about her.

Tara Buckley is a cool name if you ask me. I like Chris, but I love Tara. It sounds both classic Southern and also modern and hip. Buckley is my dad's last name, but Mom is going to keep it. She lost enough in the divorce. She decided she'd stick with the name she'd carried around for eighteen years.

Mom is thirty-nine but looks ten years younger. If I had a dollar for every time someone has expressed disbelief that she is my mom ... well, I'd be a rich kid. Which at this point in life would be nice. I think she's beautiful.

She used to complain about her upcoming birthday-the big four-oh-until she had other, more pressing things to think about. Sitting across the table from her, I see dark lines under her eyes. They're new. So is the lack of spark in her green eyes. And how thin she looks. And how faded her blonde hair seems.

I notice all these things now under the cold light above our little table. The first thing that I'd like to replace about this tiny little cabin are the lights. They seem like they'd be more appropriate in a dank prison than in a cabin nestled in the mountains of North Carolina.

The cabin is small. It doesn't have the dining room over here and the family room over there and all that. Basically, when you enter the cabin, you have the living room and dining room and kitchen all to one side. It's small. Cozy, my mother said. It had been large enough for Uncle Robert, but it was never meant to be a place a family lived in.

But it was the first, and only, place she thought of going after the divorce was final.

Mom grew up around Solitary, though she says she doesn't really remember it much as a kid. I wonder why she would want to come back to a place this remote, especially if she doesn't remember much about it. But she said that it's the only place where she still has family.

If you can really call them that.

The only real family member is Robert, and he's been missing for over a year. Sometimes I think she came back to find her brother and take him away from Solitary. Then again, I think a lot of things.

My mom is strong. At least, so far she's been strong. I know that deep down, underneath it all, she's sad. But sadness gets you nowhere in life. I think she would say that if forced to.

Sitting across from my mom, the lady known as Tara Buckley who has come to live in a cabin her brother abandoned for some unknown reason, I wonder if there will be more nightmares.

And I wonder what sort of visions brought out the screams.

Have you ever seen someone swatted? Not struck in anger or patted in amusement, but literally swatted like a fly?

I'm in the hallway and still don't believe what I just saw.

It's Friday afternoon, and the hallways of Harrington High feel a little more energetic than usual. I think it's because everybody knows they're about to be let out, to have a nice two-day break. The thought of being away from this school is promising, but what kind of weekend awaits me is a whole other issue.

I'm pondering this as I see a pack of four guys walk up behind a small kid. They're wearing smiles on their ugly faces. One of them takes the palm of his hand and bats it across the kid's head, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

They just keep walking by.

Meanwhile, I stop.

And then I resume walking, toward the four big guys, toward the kid now picking up the pieces to his glasses.

As I'm about to help the kid, the swatter turns and blocks my way.

"Got a problem?"

Man, is this kid ugly. A big meaty face with large pork chops for cheeks stares me down. His eyes look like something in a frying pan; his forehead is dotted with sweat; his AC/DC T-shirt is far too much of a cliche.

"That explains it," I say, moving past him and bending over to help the kid.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, a strong hand that pulls me back.

"Why don't you just leave now?"

Something in me just, I don't know ... ignites. Or explodes.

"You know what I think?" I say.

"I don't care what you think."

"I think that if I was born with such a homely face, I'd probably go around hitting people too."

The guy blinks several times, as if he's trying to compute what I just said.

I probably should try to figure it out myself, but instead my mouth keeps rambling. "What's the point? There are four of you. And do you even know him?"

"That's Newt," says a tall, skinny kid in the background. The rest of them laugh.

I turn and really see Newt for the first time. Something on his face startles me-did that cut on his cheek just happen? Then I realize that it's not a cut. It's a long, deep, bright red scar.

"Hey. I'm Chris."

"You're the new kid," says the big sweaty guy, hovering in my face.

"Are you the school bully? I've been waiting for one to pop up."

"Man, you don't even want to begin to mess with me."

"No, to be honest, I don't. Because you're bigger than me and sure, you could probably beat me up. But I can run faster than you because it looks like you've been wolfing down a little too much fast food."

Turns out Newt isn't the only one red faced. This guy is beet red.

There's probably a fifty-fifty chance I get decked, but for some reason, the big red-faced guy plays it cool.

It's about the guys behind him, about saving face.

Plus, I'm new. For all he knows, I'm a cage-fighting champion. He doesn't know that I've been in two fights in my life, and both of those I lost. Bad.

I help Newt to his feet. He's going to need a new pair of glasses.

Newt looks about ten, he's nerdy, and I can't help but feel sorry for him.

I can't stand bullies. I can stand a lot of things in life, but not people that pick on the helpless. Sad to say, Newt really fits that category.

Red-faced Ugly Boy still glares at me. "I'm going to tell you this one time and one time only: You come across my path again and I'll kill you."

"Fine. Let's make an agreement. I see you, and I walk the other way. I'll avoid you like the plague. But only if you don't go around acting like some hideous high school stereotype."

There the blinking goes again. I can see his brain not computing.

"I'm serious."

"Yeah, good," I say. "I am too."

"You have no idea where you are or who I am, do you?"

"Well, let's see.This is the backside of nowhere. So yes, I have an idea of where I am. And you're what crawled out of that backside."

This does it. The big guy lunges at me.

At that moment Mr. Meiners, my history teacher, walks past and breaks up the one-sided fight. He ends up taking a fist alongside his face before settling the guy down.

"Gus, you get out of here. Now! Boys, break's over."

Mr. Meiners has fire in his eyes and his voice. It looks as though he and Gus have butted heads before.

Gus looks at me and grits his teeth and starts walking away.

Where is he going? Is he just walking away after hitting a teacher?

And is his name really Gus? I mean, come on.

The other boys leave me with Mr. Meiners and a paralyzed Newt.

"Newt, you okay?" the teacher asks. "What happened?"

"Yes, sure, I'm fine." Newt has a high-pitched voice that doesn't fit his obstinate tone.

"They were picking on him," I say.

"I'm fine," Newt says again. "Really fine."

"Look, Chris. You don't want to get involved with Gus."

"I wasn't trying to."

"No, I mean you don't want to get involved with him, okay? I'm serious." Mr. Meiners sighs and rubs his bearded jaw. "He's got a pretty good right hook."

"Who is he? Where I come from, kids don't get away with slugging their teachers."

"Yeah, well, that's where you come from. Gus isn't the one I'm afraid of."

I wait for more, but more doesn't come.

"You seem like a good kid," Mr. Meiners says. "Guys like Gus aren't."

I nod.

"Be careful, okay? You too, Newt."

Mr. Meiners walks away.

I'm left with the short kid with the scar on his cheek.

"So is this a regular thing? Gus giving you a hard time?"

"He means it," Newt says, looking at me with strange, wandering eyes. "About Gus."

"What about Gus?"

"It's his father."