Never Eighteen (2 page)

"Why?"

"It's complicated," I answer, hoping that ends it.

"Well, will you marry me, then?"

I laugh. "Let me think about it. That's a serious commitment, you know." She shrugs and runs off, giggling.

Seconds later, Maddie, the middle sister, comes barreling down the stairs in her pajamas.

"Hi, Maddie," I say. When she looks up at me, her face flushes red, and then she turns around and runs back upstairs.

I hear her screaming, "Kaylee! Why didn't you tell me Austin was here? I'm in my pajamas! God, you're such an idiot!"

I can't help but laugh. I've seen Maddie in her PJs loads of times, but now that she's thirteen and has boobs, though small ones, she must feel a little more self-conscious about it. I think both Jordanne and Maddie have crushes on me. If only their sister felt the same.

A few minutes later, Kaylee comes down the stairs, smiling, blond hair still wet from showering. She's wearing jeans and a blue sweater. She looks hot.

"Ready?" she asks.

"Ready."

"Where are you kids off to?" Mrs. Davis asks just as we're about to leave.

"Mom! Do you have to know everything?" Kaylee cries.

"It's okay," I say, touching her shoulder, then turn to her mom. "I have a few things I need to take care of this weekend. Things I've been meaning to do for a while now. I need Kaylee to drive me. We might be out kind of late. Is that okay?"

She stares me in the face with understanding, nods, and, without a word, heads back toward the kitchen.

Kaylee's car, her prized possession, her baby, her red 1969 Ford Mustang. She bought that car with the money she made working at the café in the Lakewood Barnes and Noble, a job she applied for because of her addictions to coffee and books.
Pride and Prejudice
is her favorite. The car's not in mint condition by any stretch of the word—rust spots, torn leather interior, windshield wipers that only work on high—but it's hers. She owns it. She earned it.

More than once I've wondered if it would get us where we're going, be it Seattle, downtown, or just around the block. It hasn't failed us yet. I hope it won't today. I slide into the passenger seat, buckle my seat belt, and put my feet up on the dash, which Kaylee immediately slaps down.

"Get your feet off Candy. She doesn't like that," she says.

"Candy? Is that the name this week?" Kaylee has wanted to name her car since the day she bought it. All classic cars have names based on their personalities, she told me once. So far, this car has been Glory, China, Cherry, and Blaze. Now Candy.

"You should name it Apple," I say.

"Apple? Why Apple? That's stupid."

I pull the apple I brought from home out of my pocket, hold it up, toss it, turn it around. "Because she's red, shiny, smooth, and sweet."

"No, it's Candy. Plus, it's the same thing."

"Candy is not part of the four basic food groups," I say, chuckling, then take a huge bite.

"Sure it is. Candy, coffee, pizza, and gum, right?"

"You're such a dork," I say. She sticks her tongue out.

"You could have gotten your own driver's license, you know. Then I wouldn't have to chauffeur you around all the time."

"What's the point? Besides, I like it when you chauffeur me around."

"Whatever. Where are we going first?" she asks.

"Jake's house," I say, mouth full of apple.

"Jake's house?" she asks.

"Yep."

"Why?"

"I want to talk to his mom."

"
Ooookaaaaaay,
" she says as she starts the car.

I touch her arm. "Wait. Turn the car off." When she does I say, "If I tell you what I'm doing, do you promise to still drive me?"

"I guess so."

"There are some things I want to do, some crazy things, some wild things, some fun things, things I've never done, things I've never seen."

"Seems like a reasonable request."

"There are also some people I want to visit. People I haven't talked to in a while."

"Like Mrs. Briggs."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"That is the part I'd like to keep to myself."

"Gotcha. So we're off to Jake's then."

"Yep."

Kaylee turns the key in the ignition and shifts Candy into drive.

"Wait—one more thing," I say, pulling my camera out of my pocket.

"What?"

"We need a picture first," I say.

Kaylee leans in close, puts her arm around me. I breathe her in, smell the chewing gum in her mouth, and imagine tasting it on her lips before shaking that thought off. I hold my arm out and take a self-portrait of us. Looking at the screen, I see Kaylee made a goofy face behind me and held bunny ears over my head. So immature, yet so cute.

"Let me see," she says, grabbing for the camera.

"No. Later," I tell her. She pouts but pulls away from the curb and heads to Jake's.

Jake Briggs lived north of Forty-Eighth Street on the west side of Pearl. Although his neighborhood is only a couple miles from our own, it's what I guess you would call the other side of the tracks—houses a little smaller, yards a little less manicured, kids a little tougher. White trash is what others call it, though I don't like the term myself.

Jake was the third of our trio. He and I had been friends since kindergarten, and he gladly accepted Kaylee when she started coming around. We had other friends, but the three of us were pretty much inseparable. I don't remember how Jake and I came together, really; we must have just clicked. We could just talk and laugh for hours at a time about nothing at all.

Everybody loved Jake. He was funny, smart; there wasn't anything
not
to like. Girls loved him; he was good-looking, had cool hair—as Kaylee would say, he was hot. Plus, he was good at everything: drama, music, soccer, but especially skateboarding. His skateboard was a part of him, like some freakish growth. Jake idolized Tony Hawk, spent much of his free time at the skate park, and had tons of awards proving his talent.

He had loads of practice time, being an only child to a single mom who worked more than she parented, out of necessity rather than choice. Sixteen years old, unmarried, she was abandoned by Jake's dad when she was pregnant. She had no choice but to get a job and depend on friends and family until Jake was old enough to unlock the front door himself. When he wasn't hanging out with Kaylee and me, he was out late riding that damn skateboard. Unfortunately, that thing he loved the most had a hand in his death.

One Friday night, about two years ago, Kaylee and I had gone to Jake's to watch a movie, more than likely
Superbad.
What can I say? We're freaks. I remember the movie ended pretty late. When we left, Jake followed us out with his skateboard.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm just going to go out for a bit until my mom gets home."

"Jake, that's crazy," Kaylee said. "It's dark."

"I do it all the time, Kaylee. Look, I've even got reflectors on my coat
and
my board. I'm not stupid, you know."

"Just be careful," she said.

He just laughed and rode off down the street.

"I'm serious!" she called after him. He waved over his shoulder and flipped us off.

Ten minutes later he was hit by a car that never slowed down and never turned back.

We pull up to the curb outside of Jake's house. Kaylee begins to open her door. I touch her shoulder gently. "Um, Kaylee," I say.

"Yeah?"

"This is something I'd like to do alone. Do you mind waiting in the car?"

"Oh, no, sure, go ahead," she answers, though she sounds pissed.

"I'm not sure how long I'll be."

"Whatever." She puts her ear buds in place and turns on her iPod. She sticks her tongue out at me when I go to close the car door.

I knock on the door of the little rundown blue house at the end of a dead-end street. Too early for visiting most people, but because of Susan Briggs's work schedule, this is the best time to catch her home.

When Mrs. Briggs answers the door, she looks down to the ground and says, "Austin. What are you doing here?" I don't mind. I understand why she can't look at me.

"Can I come in?" I ask.

"Sure, for a bit. I have to get ready for work soon," she answers, gesturing me forward.

The stench of stale cigarettes almost makes me gag. The shades are drawn, darkness cast across everything like a ghostly shadow. I scan the living room, barely recognizing the place that used to be my second home. Once a small, clean sanctuary, now it is strewn with overflowing ashtrays, and dishes cover the counters and fill the sink. Pizza and takeout boxes litter the floor. No, it's not the place I remember.

"How have you been?" I trace my fingers along a picture of Jake and his mom, leaving a trail on the dust-caked frame.

She scans the room herself, an implication that the state of things should answer my question. She answers out loud anyway. "Oh, about the same. You know, hanging in there. Do you want something to drink? Coffee? Water? That's pretty much all I've got around here."

"No, thanks, I'm good ... So, how's work going?" I ask, stalling, still unsure what I'm going to say. She doesn't buy it.

"What do you want, Austin?" she asks in a tired voice.

I don't want to answer her question, not yet. If I do, she'll tell me to leave, to mind my own business, and that's something I don't want to do. I want to talk to her, to make her understand, and I don't want to fail.

"Can I see Jake's room?"

"Jake's room?"

"Yes, can I?"

Mrs. Briggs exhales and then gestures for me to follow. She leads me down the short hallway to the room at the end. Hanging on the door is a sign that Jake made out of his first skateboard after it finally fell apart from years of abuse. The sign is hand-painted with skulls and crossbones, and reads
BEWARE THE JAKE.

Mrs. Briggs places her hand on the knob and hesitates. Her pained expression makes me realize how difficult it must be for her to go in his room. I put a hand on her shoulder, and she twitches as if startled. Nodding, she turns the handle and opens the door, allowing me to enter Jake's room, while she remains in the doorway.

A forgotten shrine to a dead boy, the room is just how I remember. Music and girlie posters cover the walls; soccer and skateboarding trophies sit on the shelves. I walk in slowly, as not to disturb the dust and cobwebs. Jake's bed is unmade, as if he slept there the night before.

"May I?" I ask, motioning toward his CD collection. She again nods silently. I scan the discs, running my fingers across them as I read the names of Jake's favorite performers aloud: the Beatles, AC/DC, the Smiths, Incubus, Kanye—an eclectic assortment, for sure. Rage Against the Machine. I pull that one from the shelf. "This was his favorite," I say, showing his mom.

"I hated it," she says. Tears well up in her eyes.

I put the CD back in its place and move over to his dresser, its mirror plastered with pictures—memories of every important event in Jake's short life, and some of the not-so-important ones as well.

"Did you take this?" I ask her, pointing to one of the pictures. She nods. "It was his first skateboarding competition, right?" Again, she just nods. "And here's our soccer team the year we went to state. And this one," I add, pointing to another. Mrs. Briggs finally enters the room to get a closer look. "This was the fifth grade talent show. Jake and I did that rap song. Do you remember?"

"How could I forget? I had to hear that stupid song every day for two months. You guys were awful, by the way." She laughs.

"Yeah, I know. The audience actually booed us off the stage, but we had a blast."

"How did that song go again?" she asks. She appears to be digging deep for the memory.

I think it over a moment. It had been a while. "Jake's part was first," I say, finally able to pull the memory from my own cranial depths. "My name is Jake / don't wear it out / girls and skateboarding's what I'm about. Then it was my turn. My name is Austin, and if you think / that I'm a loser, well then you stink." I laugh at how stupid it was.

"It's worse than I remember. Dreadful. Inane, really," Mrs. Briggs says as if reading my mind.

"Jake was such a good friend, so fun to be around, so cool. I miss him."

"I miss him too," she says. She examines the pictures as if seeing them for the first time. She inhales deeply, I'm not sure why. Maybe she's trying to draw in just a hint of anything Jake might have left behind.

"You know he'd want you to be happy, right?"

"Yes. I know."

"You should think about it." Mrs. Briggs is like a second mother to me, and I wouldn't want my own mother to give up on life the way she has.

She nods and begins to cry hard, which makes me think she hasn't done it in a while, but I know I'm probably wrong. Not really knowing what to do, I put my arms around her, not saying anything, just allowing her to let it out. I hold her until she calms, relaxes. She steps back, straightens out her shirt, stares at the tearstains she's left behind, and says, "Sorry, Austin."