Wicked

Today, you packed a bag. It doesn’t have much in it. A pair of shorts, a shirt, clean underwear. Things you’ll need when you go to your friend Tom’s house. You’re in your bathing suit and black socks. He has a pool you’ve been dying to get into it. You’re dying so much you can feel the cold blue water as you sink to the bottom. Actually, it’s not that cold, but it still refreshes. You like how sounds come to you so slowly underwater, how it cradles you. It’s so peaceful. You don’t even like Tom very much. He’s a bit of a bully, to be honest, but you want to swim. You stand at the door listening to your wicked stepmother telling you she won’t take you over. It’s not safe yet, she says. We should still quarantine. Your father will be home from work soon, and you should spend time with him. Besides, did his mother even invite you over?

“Of course, she did,” you say, not looking at her. Tom was the one that invited you. His mother didn’t.

She shakes her head. “You can’t go,” Wicked says. “Your father-”

“You’re not my mother!” you shout and see her wince, then stare at you. It’s the typical divorced child story line that no one deviates from. You are bound by instinct to repeat it. It can’t be helped.

“Mother or not,” she says. “I’m in charge while your father isn’t here.” To prove that she says, “And with that attitude, young man, you’re not going anywhere now.”

That’s when you ran out the door in your stocking feet. Because you’re only ten years old and running away is your only weapon other than shouting things you know will hurt. You do all this because you need everyone to feel your pain. Also, you must get away, or you’ll explode. You aren’t sure where the bus stop is, but you’ll find it. You have money in your pocket, all of two dollars. You hope it’s enough, although you have no idea how buses work. It’s hot outside. This rotten neighborhood has no sidewalks. You wonder if the old people that live here even walk around. They must not, or there would be sidewalks. You can’t run on the grass. Whatever grass Florida grows must spawn from AstroTurf. It’s prickly to walk on. Plus, there are sand spurs. They hurt if you step on one with bare feet. Pulling it out is hell. But if you have socks on, it’s even worse. It attaches your sock to your foot. Pulling the sand spur out then is so much worse. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. Worse of all are the fire ants. Nothing kills those little bastards, not even wicked stepmothers. So, you run on the hot asphalt, your feet hurting as you pound along. You don’t care. It’s better than what lays behind you—quarantine and not even with your father. Instead, it’s with the wicked stepmother and your asinine brother.

You’re sick of that and the masks you have to wear. How bad can a ventilator be? Don’t they put you asleep for that? Sounds good to you. You told your mother once a ventilator was better than the masks. It was a mistake. You learned more about lung damage than you ever wanted to know. So now you feel guilty for complaining. The icing on this rotten cake was your older brother taking the PS4 from you. He did it because he thinks he’s all that.

“It’s my turn,” Joe said, indicating the timer Wicked makes you set. “Your ninety minutes is up.”

“I wasn’t done with my level yet!” you say, trying not to cry. “I was just trying to find a save spot!” He knows you can’t save just anywhere, that games don’t work like that. He knows you must find a safe spot, or you lose all your hard-earned progress. “Now, I have to fight the giant boss bird again!” You dumb asshole is what you’d like to say, but you know better than that. He’ll hit you. You’ll have no choice but to hit back, and then Wicked will tell your father you two were fighting again. You’ll both be grounded. Because still, they think they’re being fair by not taking sides. So, you bite your lip before you can say more.

“You take advantage!” he shouts back. “You’ll be telling me you’re looking for a safe spot, but you take an hour to do it! I get a turn too.”

“I’m going to take the game if y’all don’t stop,” Wicked says tiredly. She never wants to take your side. No, y’all should learn to get along, she says in her stupid southern accent. Right. Like that’ll ever happen.

You run past an old woman standing in her yard. At least to you, she’s old as the hills though she has more brown hair than gray. There’s a kayak on top of her car she’s going to remove. She watches you go by, curious. And why shouldn’t she be? You forgot your shoes and can’t go back. You hope the bus driver won’t care. Well, socks should count after all. Your feet are covered, and that what matters. Besides, you’d rather run through a minefield of fire ants than go back and admit your defeat. You wish you had a kayak. Then you could get out of here. Maybe paddle to the Bahamas. You were there once when your parents were still together. The ocean is crystal clear there, not cloudy like it is on Florida’s east coast.

Your brother saw it coming. Probably you did too. There weren’t even that many arguments. They just barely spoke, slept in separate rooms. Your father came home from work and sat at the computer far into the night. Sometimes you watched him playing City of Superheroes. War of Worlds. You’ve seen your mother outside at night. Maybe she was crying. Perhaps she just sat there smoking her flavored cigarillos. You weren’t sure, and you didn’t want to know. They said it wasn’t your fault or your brother’s. But adults don’t always tell you the complete truth, and again, you don’t want to know. So you ignore the still small voice in your heart and swallow what they say like that catfish you caught by the canal last month. Hook, line and sinker. Now here you are with Wicked. Perhaps he even played with her online. You don’t know. You wish you could hate City of Superheroes. In truth, you can’t. It’s a cool game.

You can’t keep running anymore, so you slow to a walk. Too many video games, your mother would say. Why don’t you go outside and play with your friends?

“Shut up,” you mutter to yourself. A large shadow crawls from behind on the ground, about to swallow you up. You look behind you although you wish you hadn’t. Crap. It’s coming. You start running again, but the shadow follows you relentlessly, like the zombies in that show you’re not supposed to be watching. It’s the big boss bird, you realize. You run, even though you know the outcome. It’s hopeless. But you have to make a stand anyway.

“Go away!” you shout at what is behind you.

A gray monster pulls up alongside you. Wicked rides a Thunderbird. She says, “Bill. Please stop and talk to me.”

“Like you care what I have to say.”

“I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

“Oh, go away!” You start running again. But the Thunderbird follows along effortlessly. Unlike your game, these birds have no wings but plenty of energy, more than you do. And four rubber wheels to your two, aching, stocking feet.

“You know I can’t do that,” she says, this evil being. “I don’t want you lost or hurt. Please come with me and let’s figure this out. Why did you run away?”

“I’m not coming with you.”

“Okay.”

You’re surprised by that. Suspicious. She’s giving in too quickly. It must be some sort of trap like in the fairy tales you like to read. Wicked follows along next to you as you jog along the street. Behind you, the old woman watches everything. Probably she thinks I’m about to be kidnapped. Maybe you should have told her that. I don’t know this woman following me. Call the cops. Now that would be interesting, even exciting. You look back, but she’s walking away now. You’re too out of breath to shout at her. Or rather, too scared. Dammit. Meanwhile, Wicked is talking to you.

“Okay,” she says. “But I’m going with you.”

“No!” You start running again, but it’s sweltering. You think about that climate change thing everyone talks about that you don’t understand. All you know is the sun seems closer and closer every year as if it wanted to kiss the earth. Sweat is pouring down your face like you’ve been in Tom’s pool. Or the ocean. You realize sweat isn’t all that’s coming out of you. You wipe your eyes, knowing Wicked waits for you to get tired. Then she will bring you back home. Home. There’s a laugh. It doesn’t seem like yours anymore.

“Be reasonable,” says Wicked. “I know this is hard on you. But I can’t just let you run off. So, wherever you’re going, I will too. Or,” she smiled. “We could discuss this comfortably. Over ice cream somewhere.”

“You’re not getting me that way.”

You’re not looking at her, but you imagine her face-palming herself. She always does. She slides her hand down her face, stretching her nose and mouth like a rubber doll. “Why are you angry? Because I wouldn’t let you go to Tom’s?”

You don’t have enough words to answer that one. For that, you need a dictionary. And not the pocket one you got from school. You need the Oxford dictionary you saw in the New York public library once. So, you shrug.

She sighs, as the Thunderbird crawls alongside you. “His mother has asked we call first, that’s all. Tom doesn’t always check with her before he invites people over. And I hate feeling pushy like we’re inviting ourselves. That’s all it is. So, I didn’t want to call, okay? And your father wanted to see you this afternoon. He’ll be home in an hour and plans to barbecue for dinner. Then we can maybe use the fire pit tonight. It’ll be hot, but we can do s’mores anyway.” She looks at you panting. “It will be the only day he’ll have to do it. Tomorrow you and Joe go back to your mother’s. Stupid company,” she says, mostly to herself now. “They lay off half the people and then expect him-well never mind. Not important.” Thunderbird shrugs. “Well, it is to you. I know you’d rather see him than me. Don’t blame you either, but nothing we can do.”

You don’t care what she has to say. This whole scenario is like your video game. You point your finger at the Thunderbird. Pew! Pew! You imagine the bird recoiling, bleeding. But it isn’t easy to kill. It has lots of health and a strong heal. It keeps following you as you run, shooting back at it. Now you’re at the end of the block. If you turn right, it will loop around back to your house. If you turn left, you’ll walk up a block to another street, this one still residential but busier. Your dilemma is the damned bus stops in this damned town. It’s like finding those cursed save spots in a game. Your father complained the bus stops here are few and far between. But you’re pretty sure there’s one by your school, and you know how to get there. You stand there for a moment, thinking while the Thunderbird watches. You aren’t sure where the bus spot is. You don’t want to walk a mile to find out you’re wrong. But you almost don’t care. You hate Wicked, whose real name is Karen.

Karen. Like those memes about women complaining to managers. Besides, she’s the stepmother. She’s not your mother, and for that alone you hate her. You hate her by pure instinct because she married your father. And you hate Joe for taking the PS4 away. Stupid bastard could have given you five more minutes. You hate your parents for putting you in this position in the first place. They’re adults. For God’s sake, you think, act like it, and work out your bloody problems. You also hate Tom. He never asks his mother, and then these things happen. And you’re left disappointed. So, you turn left. Because although it’s hopeless, you’re bound to try. You’re on your mission to find the way out. Like Tombstalker, which you were just playing. Wicked flies alongside you.

“Bill,” she says. “This is foolish. You’re tired, hot. Please get in and cool down before you get heatstroke.”

“No.”

“Definitely your father’s son,” you hear her mutter.

“You…don’t know anything about me!”

Wisely, you think, she doesn’t argue. “Where are you going anyway?”

“The nearest bus stop. I’m getting out of here.”

“To where?” she asks. But you don’t know. You haven’t gotten that far yet. So, you say the first thing that comes to mind, something you heard in your game.

“I’m going where the east meets the west.” You turn right on the main street that will take you to St. John’s Ave and the bus stop. You hope.

“Is there such a place?”

“Yes.” You don’t tell her the east meets the west at the prime meridian. You looked that up on a website. It’s where the Royal Observatory is in London. A part of it that’s called the Airy Transit Circle. You like the name. But the website also said the line shifts because the earth’s crust moves. So maybe east and west don’t meet there anymore.

“The bus stop is the other way, first of all,” says Wicked. “Second of all, your father and I will miss you if you leave.”

“No, you won’t!” Because you figure you and Joe are just some kids she has to put up with. A package deal, your friend Jane once told you. Her parents are divorced too. You and I are package deals, Bill. Brought by UPS, I guess. You laughed that day. But not now.

“I would,” she said. “You’re a good kid even if you are stubborn, like your-“ she stops. “I don’t want you to run away.”

“You could have him all to yourself,” you mutter, or thought you did. But everyone always says you talk too loud even though you don’t feel you do. So Wicked hears.

“Bill.” She slams on the brakes. “Do we have to do this now? Like this?” She gestures at the road and the sky. This is no place to have this conversation, shouting at each other across a Thunderbird. The whole neighborhood could be watching, but you shrug. She runs her hair through her blond, short hair. She even looks like the Karen in the meme. Wicked looks across the seat, staring at you as you stand back from her. “How-how do you even think that? You glare at her, arms crossed. You just admitted your greatest fear. And you still want to hurt because you’re hurting inside.

“I think you’re a good kid,” she says again. “I truly would miss you because I care about you.” She sounds as if she swallowed something, and it’s stuck. You see her mouth and throat move. “And I hoped-well-we could be some sort of family. If not love, at least like each other. Look. How about you stay home tonight. And I’ll call Tom’s mother to see if you can go over tomorrow. All right? Come on, let’s go home.”

“I don’t care.” But you do. You’re tired, and the sun is giving you a headache. You’re not used to running. And here also is the horrible truth. You hate Joe and Wicked. Even your father and mother. Hate is the polar opposite of love like the east is opposite of west. But somewhere they meet. And like the prime meridian, that meeting place shifts. Love bleeds into hate and vice versa. It’s all mixed up in your hot, sunburned head. You could love Wicked even as you hate her. You hate your parents even as you love them.

As for Joe, well, he has a point. You realize that somewhere deep inside. You do take advantage when you can. You’re also thirsty, as thirsty as the dry pointy Florida grass for it hasn’t rained in two weeks. You’re that thirsty, and you wouldn’t even know what to do if you got to the bus stop. And of course, you don’t want to go back although you don’t want to go on anymore. It would be shameful to go back. So you run across the street without looking. Thankfully, no cars are coming although you hear Wicked shout out a warning anyway. You run back up the road from where you came. You run, knowing eventually you will be back in the house you all try to call home, at least until Sunday. The Thunderbird will chase you back there. You’ll compromise, you’ll get along with Wicked, with Joe and your father. On Sunday you’ll have to deal with your mother, who’s alone but stressed, impatient, and tired. And you’ll learn to love her too even through the hate. In the distance is the sound of approaching thunderstorms. In your ears also is the sound of your beating heart.