Page 2 of Fighting the Tide
“Don’t worry about me.”I throw my arm around Avery’s slim shoulders and then haul her to my chest.“It’s just so I can save up for new recording equipment.It’ll only be a few months over the summer,” I assure her.
She slips out from beneath my arm and gives me a scathing look from the side of her eye, making me laugh as we approach the locker doors.“It’s going to be a typical rags-to-riches love story.”She throws her hands in the air in exasperation.“Brooke saves Nolan from poverty and neuters him all in one summer.”
“If that happens, I will give you permission to bury me in the sand just before the tide comes in.”I turn to look at her, my hand resting on the handle of the locker room door.“I need this equipment, Avery.I have less than two years of high school left, and I need to start looking into scholarships because you and I both know I can’t afford tuition.”
Her eyes soften as her shoulders deflate and she exhales a long breath.“I know.”She nods and looks over her shoulder, back toward the bleachers.“I’m just worried about you.Brooke is vicious.”Then she faces me once more and reaches up to ruffle my thick, black hair before giving me a crooked smile.“I’ll let you interview me for your scholarship entry videos.”She pushes my hand away and pulls open the door as I laugh.“What?We’ll tell them I’m Cindy Crawford’s cute little sister.”
The bus ride home is filled with loud and rambunctious teenagers, some of them climbing over the seats to yank on each other’s hair, and when I look over my shoulder, I find a couple in the back making out.The guy has his hand up the girl’s shirt as Avery and I spin back around and sit stone-still in the center, her gazing out the window and me trying not to move an inch so as to not attract any attention from the asshole jocks who are throwing paper airplanes.Once they are fixated on a target, there is no stopping them until you get off the bus.
Sometimes, when the cracked leather of the seat squeaks under my legs, I try to imagine I’m sitting in my own Cadillac convertible with the top down and wide Ray-Bans covering my eyes.Except my convertible wouldn’t be pink.Instead, mine would be matte black.I’d have Korn blaring from the speakers as my fingers drummed along the steering wheel.It wouldn’t be some bubblegum pop, no, I wouldn’t be anything like Brooke Eastham with her long, blonde hair blowing in the breeze and those hazel eyes obscured by wide frames.No, I wouldn’t be anything like Brooke.I’d at least have a jacket to protect myself from the early summer chill, not have a top unbuttoned and those ample breasts pebbling as the wind assaults her skin.
I shift on the seat, the squeak garnering Avery’s attention.She looks me over as I keep my eyes to the front, praying my pants aren’t sporting a tent.How the fuck would I explain that to my best friend?Sorry, I’m a dude?Oh, that just happens every now and then?I need to use the bathroom?That would be a good one.Yeah, I’ll stick to that if she asks.I’ll say I’ve been holding it since we finished that interview and ran to catch the last bus.I’m put out of my misery when her face averts back to the window, her face looking contemplative in the glass reflection and her fingers twisting into the fraying edges of the nylon straps of her backpack.It's the same one she's had since middle school, and just like me, she won’t see a new backpack unless she’s able to buy it for herself.
Avery and I grew up on the poorer side of Cape Cod where the service sector resides.Now, depending on what service you’re looking for, also puts us in a class system of our own.You have the accountants, store owners, and contractors.They’re the higher end.Then you have housekeeping, lawn maintenance, catering, and food trucks.They round out the middle class, of the poor people mind you, and then you have a service that many look for here in the Cape.Self-taught chemists.Those who create tantalizing mixes of chemicals to take your mediocre mind on majestic journeys.It helps you to forget that you’re scum, bottom of the barrel, and gives you a complex that you could be somebody.That life doesn’t matter, and when you come down from that high, you’ll do anything to find it again.Meth is a tricky thing, but it’s here in abundance along the Cape, and even more so where Avery and I are from.Sure, we’re not in the slums of the slums.We pride ourselves on being mid to upper-class of the slums, but that doesn’t mean we don’t witness the degradation.The crumbling houses that reek of ammonia and the hooded figures who walk the streets with their backs hunched, hands in their pockets, making their way uptown to pander the American Dream in crystal form is a common sight.
The bus lurches, knocking me out of my thoughts, and I slam my hand on the seat in front of me to stop the collision of my face to cracked leather.Avery nudges me, giving me an odd look and when I turn my gaze outside, I see it’s our stop.
We exit the bus unscathed and breathe a sigh of relief when our shoes hit the cracked and warped sidewalk before the bus accelerates away, leaving us in a plume of exhaust.As soon as the toxic gas dissipates, I find Avery staring across the street, her jaw clenched with anger as her hands curl into fists.I follow her line of sight and find her older brother at the corner, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and speaking to a few kids from our grade who got off the bus a stop before us.
“Let’s go before he sees us,” she mumbles and then grabs my jacket to drag me down the dirt path toward our homes.Our feet scuff along the ground as silence coats the air around us.
Avery’s brother, Darren, is three years older than us and a college dropout.During the early morning and into the early afternoon, he works with their father as he tends to the rental homes’ lawns, then afterward, he panders the chemical, American Dream, to stupid high schoolers looking for a quick buzz.It’s no secret that Darren is selling, everyone knows it, but Avery’s parents refuse to acknowledge it.They’re still holding out hope that their son will see the light and become something besides a drug dealer.
“It’s embarrassing,” Avery growls as she releases my jacket and tightens her grip on the strap of her backpack.“Do you know how many people at school ask me if they cangraboff my brother?”
I do know.Not only do they ask her, they askmeto ask her.I would never tell her that though, it would only make the situation worse.“I know,” I murmur instead.“Did you want to have a bonfire on the beach later?I’ll meet you there after I help out Mom.”
Her eyes scan my face as a slow smile curls along her mouth.“It’s fucking March, Nolan.We’ll freeze.”She shakes her head and turns down a gravel path between two houses.
“We need to do it now before the summer assholes come.”I nudge her shoulder as we walk side by side.“We have a few months of peace onourbeach before we have to share.”
“Fine,” she relents, giving me a sidelong look.“You bring the beer this time.”
“8:30.”I hold out my fist and she crashes hers into it with a nod, then we part ways, Avery continuing straight ahead to her small bungalow and me waiting until she heads inside as I always do before I turn left down another gravel path.
The houses become smaller and a little more worn down as the grass becomes thinner and the trees sparser.My family may be cramped in with the mid to upper slums cast, but I would say we’re on the lowest rung.With Mom being the only one bringing in the steady income these days, it’s not difficult to admit we’re struggling.Dad finds work when he can by repairing a porch here and there or fixing a sinking dock, but his drinking is getting the better of him lately, and most days, we find him passed out on the couch by early afternoon.More often than not, it’s with a lit cigarette in his mouth.He used to be a well-known contractor here in Chatham until his business went under with a bad investment, forcing him to become a glorified handyman.
The gravel gradually gives way to mud, the thick clay coating the bottom of my shoes with each step, and the sound of its suction filling Avery's absence.The briny scent of the nearby shore wafts under my nose, carried by the chilling breeze.It ruffles my hair around my face as I take a deep breath, letting the scent of the ocean fill my lungs.No matter where I end up for college, Chatham will always be home.
I turn onto my driveway, the sepia dirt now crusting into the mud on my shoes.We used to have gravel, but that’s been worn away and replaced with potholes.Patches of wilting grass have started to grow along the path, the green blades reaching mid-calf, and some filling the deeper holes.My house is straight ahead, the blue paint long faded and peeling and the white shutters falling from the hinges in dangerous positions.Mom’s been at Dad to fix them, but it’s been years of disrepair and I can’t see that changing anytime soon.His alcohol seems to be more important than fixing the cottage.
I avoid the large hole formed by rotting wood in our front porch and avert my gaze from its dark depths when I see small, red beady eyes watching me.Rats have been a constant companion since I was a kid, but nowadays, it’s fucking embarrassing to have them around our house.Sometimes they’re eveninsideour house.I wrap my hand around the rusted door handle and give it a hard yank to the right before turning the knob and pushing the door inward.The hinges protest with loud, screeching noises, the sound like nails on a chalkboard.I’ve grown accustomed to the sound but I need to oil them.It’s been a while since the last time I did it, and Mom is too short to reach the top hinge.
“Mom!”I call out as I shut the door behind me and remove my shoes, dropping my backpack to the floor.“I’m home!”
Our house may be crumbling down around our heads, but the inside is very much a home.Carpets cover the cracked and worn wooden planks of the floor, and even though they are threadbare in places, they’re clean.The warped plaster is covered by sporadic pictures and paintings my mother has found in yard sales, and the uneven ceiling is decorated with driftwood, giving our one-bedroom cottage a rustic feel.It’s an open concept layout, save for the single bedroom and the small bathroom, the construction is simplistic and not meant for a family.It reminds me daily that I was never meant to be born.
My father built this cottage for my mother the year they married, a place to stay until they built their real home.Dad’s business was taking off and he was busy most days, but Mom had patience for the home they would build.That is until she fell pregnant after just two months of marriage.They hadn’t planned for such a thing and had been very careful not to get pregnant, but Mom had a nasty bout of sinusitis and the antibiotics messed with her birth control.Hence the creation of me.
Dad’s snoring rattles the foundation as I move closer to the back of the cottage, my eyes rolling when I find him on the couch, his arm hanging over the patched cushions resting on the fading wooden frame.My bed.His alcohol-drowned pores are all over my bed.When he found out Mom was pregnant, he panicked and was convinced to invest in a project, looking to make enough money to raise a family.Then it all went under, him along with it.I used to resent my parents for the way we are living, but that didn’t help any.
Movement through the window catches my eye, and I see Mom standing on the beach, her dark hair blowing in the breeze.Her arms are crossed over her chest as she watches the water move in tumultuous waves, her spine straight, but her shoulders hunched.Sadness saturates her aura and no matter how happy she forces herself to look in front of me, I can see the truth.This is not the life she wants but she knows she’s trapped.That’s why she’s trying to make sure I outgrow our cottage, this town, and move on to something great.
What she doesn’t know is that my soul is here in Chatham.
I open the back door and let it shut with a loud bang, hoping it wakes my father from his drunken stupor.Seeing him pissed off because of my waking him up would be the highlight of my day.She turns at the noise, her arms falling to her sides and her eyes meeting mine.A small smile curves along her lips as she raises a hand, her long, thin fingers curved with the work she does.
“Ready to go?”I call out, and she takes a deep breath, then looks back to the ocean.Sometimes I worry she won’t be able to resist its call and I will lose my mother to the very thing she loves above all else.
