How We Deal With Gravity
Read How We Deal With Gravity Online
Authors: Ginger Scott
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #New Adult
Gravity
a novel
by ginger scott
Text copyright © 2014 Ginger Scott (Ginger Eiden)
Smashwords Edition
All Rights Reserved
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places
and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is
entirely coincidental.
Ginger Scott
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For every parent of a child with autism.
Chapter 2: People Don’t Change
Chapter 7: And Then There Were Four
Chapter 8: Just Another Day at the
Office
Chapter 12: Learning How to Do
This
Avery
The looks on their faces—that’s the worst part.
Nobody tries to help. They never do. They just rush by with
their own children, hiding their eyes so they don’t see
the woman causing the scene with her kid
.
They scoff at me, judge me. They make grand assumptions.
“She needs to learn how to control her son,” I hear them
whisper.
Or, “I bet she lets him walk all over her. It’s her own
fault, really.”
Sometimes, I actually feel ashamed. I mouth apologies, as
best I can, and I cry. Sometimes…I
cry
.
Then there are other times—the ones where I grit my
teeth, and I stare back into their eyes, with laser-like precision. I bite my
tongue, fight against my grain, wanting to shove them, swear at them—make
them feel small.
But most of the time, I just count. I count and I
pray—not that I’ve stepped foot inside a church once in my life, but I
pray anyway, because if someone’s going to be heard, Lord, it
has
to be me.
I’ve made it all the way into the thousands before the
counting stops. I’ve had security step in, try to
calm
the situation. I’ve broken displays in the grocery store, set
off car alarms in parking lots, and toppled tables in restaurants.
That’s part of the reason I don’t go out much. It
just…well…it just isn’t easy. Hell, it’s
far
from easy. It’s barely possible. And some would argue it isn’t.
But it’s only Max and me in this world—and sometimes,
he and I have to conquer its cruelty together.
His teeth are locked on my arm. I felt the skin break
minutes ago, and I know when I finally pull his mouth away, there will be
blood.
Four hundred seven.
Four hundred eight. Four hundred nine.
I’m clutching Max to my body, our grocery bags splayed
around us near the store’s entrance. I keep staring at the lone red apple that
rolled furthest away. Even the damn produce is abandoning me—hiding.
Four hundred sixteen.
Four hundred seventeen.
I shut my eyes, tired of the furrowed brows and the sneers
from the old ladies pulling out their carts. If I don’t see them, they won’t
exist. I won’t hear them. There’s no way I could over the shrilling scream Max
has kept up for at least 15 minutes straight. His body relaxed in my arms a few
minutes ago. But I made the mistake of thinking it was over—that we were
done. I tried to walk him to the car, leaving the groceries where they lay. And
that’s when he got me with his teeth.
My arms are so tired. When Max is like this, it’s like he’s
possessed with super strength, and it takes all I have in me to keep his arms
down, to keep him from hurting himself. This little boy, barely five—I
don’t know what I’ll do when he’s ten, fifteen or…
Sometimes I can send my dad out for these errands. But he
almost always gets something wrong, coming home with strawberry pastries
instead of cherry. Getting something wrong is almost worse. But today? Today, I
don’t know. I think I’d pick the pastry meltdown.
I had to park far. Not in
our
spot. He was edgy then, shuffling his feet more than normal,
and bouncing on his toes. Then the bread aisle was blocked because we were
later than normal, and the deliveryman was stocking the shelves. We always go
down the bread aisle first.
Always.
But today we couldn’t. And somehow, through a miracle, Max
accepted that. But his feet began moving faster, and his arms began swinging
more, his hands reaching to
almost
touch everything, careful to come within a millimeter without actually pressing
his skin to anything foreign.
We gathered our small list into the basket. We paid. We
bagged the groceries. And we were almost out the door.
Almost.
I felt the handle slipping. Like slow motion, I saw it all
play out in my mind before it really happened. The bag tore open, and the
apples—Max’s apples—all rolled onto the ground—the dirty
ground. And Max had met his match.
“What a spoiled brat!” the woman says as she shoves her
plastic purse in the top basket of her shopping cart.
All I can do is smile, and meekly, at that. “
I’m sorry.”
That’s what I’m saying with
that smile. That I’m sorry my son has autism, and that I don’t know how to hide
it from you.
Max’s grip is loosening even more, and my lungs finally fill
up.
I look back at the apple.
Four hundred
sixty-one. Four hundred sixty-two.
Today, I will make it home before dark, but without apples.
I can’t do this again…not
today.
I’ll
send my dad for the apples tomorrow. And I’ll give him pictures so he gets it
right.
But I’ve got nothing left. Today is one of those
sometimes.
The ones when I cry.
Mason
I can’t believe I’m back here, in this
shit hole!
At least I’m not staying with my mom. She’s been
shacking up with a new guy, some rich asshole she met at the big car auction
that comes to town.
He’s hung around longer than most. I think it’s been a few
months, not that I pay attention to the pointless stories she tells me over the
phone.
She hasn’t given up the apartment, which is good. She did
that the last time she met the guy that was going to be
the one.
She had to move all our crap into storage and back out
again a month later. She lost the two-bedroom, too. Just one more reason to be
glad I’m not staying with her while I figure things out—I hate sleeping
on the fucking couch.
Calling Ray Abbot was really my only option when the label
dropped the band. Ray’s taken me in most of my life. He taught me my first
chord and gave me my first Gibson for my sixteenth birthday. He’s the reason I
love rock & roll and the blues. Ray put me—scared shitless—on a
stage in front of a mic and a drunk-ass crowd of locals when I was ten, maybe
eleven. Changed my life.
I still remember climbing up to sit on the stools in the
back of his bar after school while my mom finished her shift. When I called,
Ray told me she quit again after she started dating the new guy. But her
locker’s still there, along with all her shirts and her apron. He even made a
joke about how he doesn’t peel off the “Barb” sticker from her nametag anymore
because he knows he’ll just be printing a new one out in a few months.
Thank God for Ray Abbot. I swear, with the amount of times
Barb Street walked off the job during a shift, if it weren’t for that man and
his forgiving nature, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have had food on my plate when
I was a kid.
I didn’t tell my mom I was coming home. She would baby me,
tell me it was the band’s fault, and that I needed to find someone new. I’ve
been with the guys for years, and she still doesn’t know their names. I’ll call
her in a few days, when I have something to say—when I can tell her I’m
hitting the road again and getting the hell out of Arizona.
Ray’s bar looks exactly the same. You would never believe
the talent that’s passed through this joint by looking at it from the gravel
parking lot out front. The metal sign that reads
Dusty’s
is banged up and crooked, and the spotlight that shines on
the marquee is dim. I don’t even know why Ray bothers to put up the names and
show times—there’s no way a car passing by out here in the desert would
be able to read it. Hell, I’m standing seven feet out, and I can’t make out a
goddamned word!
The people come anyway. Ray could post on that sign out
front that the world was ending, and he’d still have a full house by 8 p.m. on
a Friday. It’s because the music is
that
good,
and you can count on it. It’s simple—if you’re a hack, Ray
won’t put you on.
There’s a new band jamming tonight. I scope them out when I
walk in and slide through the crowd lining the tables in the back. They’re
pretty tight. A country band…a little bluegrass maybe? I like their sound.
“Well, are you just going to stand there, numbnuts?” I hear
the gruff voice say from behind me. Ray bumps into my arm with his elbow, hard
enough to knock me off balance.
“Hey, old man, just cuz my ma quit, don’t go thinking I’m
picking up her shifts. You can bus your own tables,” I joke back, following him
into the kitchen.
Ray dumps the bin of dirty glasses into the sink, and nods
to a couple of the guys working in the back before drying off his hands on the
towel tossed over his shoulder. He settles his gaze on me with a tough-guy
sigh, but I know he’s just giving me shit. He lets it go on for a couple of
seconds before he starts laughing and pulling me in for a hug.
“Damn, Mason. How long’s it been?” he asks.
“Five years, Ray. Five years,” I say, both sad that I
haven’t come to visit, and dejected that I’m right back where I started.
“Wow, man. That long, huh?” Ray says, nudging me to follow
him to the back office. Just like the rest of the bar, Ray’s office looks like
time stood still. The layer of dust on all of the framed photos is thick, and I
zero in on the one of him with me right away.
Five years—five years ago I took a picture with Ray on
that stage, celebrating my big break. Some fuckin’ break. The boys and me have
played nothing but shit-small towns and tiny venues without as much as a month
or two off in between, and I don’t even have an album to show for it—at
least, nothing anyone’s playing.
“So, label bailed, huh?” Ray says, kicking his feet up onto
his desk and gesturing for me to take a seat on the old sofa.
“Yeah, it was time, though. They weren’t doing anything for
us,” I say, falling deep into the worn cushions.
“Hmmmm,” Ray says, chewing at the inside of his cheek, and
twisting at the end of his graying mustache.
“Oh, come on, Ray…you know we’re good. You
know
it!” I start to protest, leaning
forward, ready to stand on my feet. Fuck this, I didn’t come here to get a
lecture. I called Ray because I thought he would understand. He’s the one who
pushed me to fight for this, and he’s half the reason I want it so damned bad.
If he’s going to tell me I can’t make it now…
“Sit your ass down, hot head,” he halts me. I roll my eyes
at him, but I sit back, giving him the respect he deserves. However, I’m not
opposed to walking right out of here and slamming his door in his face if he
starts to get high and mighty.
Ray leans forward and reaches into his desk drawer, digging
through piles of notebooks and papers before finally coming up with a giant
envelop full of clippings. He unfolds the top and dumps six or seven newspaper
articles on his desk, spreading them out like a winning poker hand. I keep my
eyes on him the entire time—I don’t dare look down at the papers, because
I know what they are, and I hate that he’s read them.
“Let’s just take a look, shall we?” he says, pulling his
glasses from his front pocket just to be melodramatic. This is going to be
way
more painful than I thought. I
should have known—Ray doesn’t lecture. He doesn’t need to. He can put you
in your place in an instant just by pulling at the threads of your skeletons
and weaknesses.
“This one’s from two months ago. Says here Mason Street and
his band left a crowd of nearly 3,000 ticket holders waiting until almost 11
p.m. before finally taking the stage in Oklahoma City,” Ray says, flicking his
eyes to mine for a brief second, just long enough to burn in his
disappointment. “Oh, wait…there’s more. It goes on to say that when the band
finally took the stage, they only made it through one song before the drummer
passed out. And then…wow, really? And then Street broke his guitar over his
knee and punched his bass player, starting a brawl that police had to break
up.”
“Yeah, yeah…I get it,” I say, but Ray’s quick to cut me off.
“No, Mason. I don’t think you do. Let’s take a look at this
one,” he says, unfolding the one that’s going to hurt to hear. I’m not going to
get out of here without letting him say his piece—so I sit back again and
get comfortable. I still won’t look at him, though, so instead I stare at the
wall of photos.
“The Mason Street Band was arrested for disorderly conduct
after trashing—
trashing!—
a
Reno hotel suite. Damage was estimated at $250,000 and included two windows,”
Ray pulls his glasses off and rubs at his forehead. He doesn’t need to finish.
“Damn it, Mason. You really don’t know why the label dropped you? You and
those…those…those clowns that you call a band. Jesus, boy! It’s a good thing
you’ve come home, but I don’t know—”
I turn to him now. If he’s about to say what I think he’s
going to say, I want to look into his eyes while he crushes me. “What, Ray?
What don’t you know?” I ask, throwing my shoulders up in defeat.
Ray’s slow to respond, spending his time folding up the sad
scrapbook he’s kept on me. The worst part…I don’t think there’s a positive
article in the mix, and I wouldn’t know where the hell to find one. He slides
the folder back into his drawer and leans forward on his elbows, cracking his
knuckles while he studies me.
“Kid, you sure made a mess of things. You’re the most
talented thing I’ve ever put up on that stage. But your goddamned head is
thick, you know that?” he says, mouth tight, and showing only half a smile. “I
don’t know if you can fix this, that’s all. But we’ll try, okay? We’ll sure
try.”
Ray stands up and walks over to reach for my hand to pull me
up to my feet. He pats my back as he guides me back out to the bar. I just
shake my head, because I really don’t have any answers. I get how Ray sees
things, but he also doesn’t understand what it was like to play, night after
night, in some of those joints. Every month there was promise of a bigger
ticket, of coming in for an album, recording something new. But then another
month would pass, and nothing. The guys quit believing about a year ago, and I
just couldn’t keep it going anymore. I quit writing, too.
“Hey, Ray,” called the waitress from behind the bar, “we’re
getting hammered out here already. What are we doing about Barb?”
“Avery’s coming in early. She’ll be here in a few,” Ray says
back.
I can’t help but chuckle at the thought of Avery working the
bar. Ray’s daughter has always been mousy. We all called her Birdie when we
were younger, because when she talked it sounded like chirping.
“Avery actually works here?” I half laugh to Ray as I join
him behind the bar. Out of instinct, I start grabbing glasses and drying them.
I did a lot of dishes at Dusty’s before I hit the road, and if Ray’s going to
put me up for the next few weeks, the least I can do is help out until Birdie
shows up.
“Yeah, she works the night shifts. She’s going to school,
too. Girl works her ass off,” Ray says, either not picking up on the humor I
see about Avery in a bar, or just ignoring it. “Hey, will you take these to the
back and bring in the clean ones?” Ray asks, handing me a bin full of dirty
glasses.
“Sure,” I say, lugging them with me to the back. Sal and
Manny are working the kitchen today, so I spend a few minutes with them. Those
two have been working here almost as long as my mom has, and they’re like
uncles to me. Hell, Sal taught me how to throw a punch when I was getting
picked on in fifth grade. And Manny taught me how to take one in high school.
My mom was pissed when he punched me in the face, but when she found out it was
because I was dating his daughter, she never brought it up again.
Ray yells through the swinging door. “Hey, Mason! Avery’s
here, so why don’t you take my keys on over to the house and get settled?”
“Ah right, boys. I’ll catch ya later. I’m going to see if I
can talk the old man into letting me play a night or two,” I wink. I dry my hands,
and then shake theirs before heading back into the busy bar, where the crowd is
starting to build. Ray’s manning the tap; it’s at least two-people deep, and
most of the tables are full. I recognize a lot of the familiar faces, but
there’s always a batch of new ones, too—tourists and college kids looking
to party.
“You sure Ray? I can stay, help out?” I offer, but Ray just
pulls out his keys and tosses them to me.
“Nah, this is nothing. Just another Thursday night!” he
says, topping off a beer and going right in to fill the next one.
I grip the keys in my right hand, nod
thanks
to him and turn around, but before I make it a full step, I
slam into one of the waitresses. Trying to stop myself, I accidentally grab her
tit with my free hand.
“Ugh, asshole!” she pushes me to the side as she flies by
and whips through the swinging door into the back. All I see is her long,
straight, strawberry-blond hair as she disappears. I’m probably going to see
this girl for the next few weeks, so I follow her back past Sal and Manny into
the small locker room, chuckling a little and looking at my left hand with
fondness.
“Hey, wait…hey, I’m totally sorry. I really didn’t mean to
grab…shit; I mean…I didn’t mean to do that. Damn, I’m sorry,” I say, lightly laughing
and waiting for the girl to turn around.
“Whatever,” she says, clearly unimpressed with me. She pulls
one leg up to tie her shoe on the bench, and then tucks her hair behind her
ear. I’m about to give up and go when I realize just
how bad
this is.
“
Birdie
?” I say,
my mouth moving toward a big grin. She tosses her head up when I say her name,
and the fire in her green eyes pretty much knocks me on my fucking ass! This is
not the Avery Abbot I knew in high school. I know I’m walking on thin ice, but
I can’t help but let my eyes wander down from her soft face and pink lips to
what might just be the tightest goddamned body I’ve ever seen. I can see every
inch outlining her bra under the thin, white Dusty’s T-shirt; the black shorts
hug her hips so well, I’m wishing like hell she’d turn around and drop
something just so I could watch her pick it up.
“Mason,” she says, forcing my gaze back up to her eyes. She
isn’t smiling when she looks at me.
Shit,
I need to fix this. I can’t have Ray’s daughter this pissed at me.
“I’m so sorry, Birdie. I wasn’t looking, and I totally
didn’t know that was you,” I say, trying to make my tongue work in my mouth,
while I search for something else to add, something
smart.
I’ve got nothing, so instead I just lean to the side and
watch her push past me again. I breathe deeply when she walks by, and the girl
actually smells like vanilla—like a fucking dessert!
I stumble back out to the bar and look at the keys in my
hand, then back up to Avery as she ties the green apron around her tiny waist
and pulls her hair back into a ponytail. She always wore her hair like that,
but I don’t know—it’s somehow
very
different
now. The tiny freckles on her neck have me in a bit of a trance when Ray bumps
into me.
