Unlocked by Ryan G. Van Cleave Read Free Book Online Page B

community,
the December wind only part of the reason,
unsure how my feet got me there to the brick wall
with iron spikes atop it in a long, sharp row.
    That was his house—there. With the big white pillars.
    Was he there now in his own big bed, stewing
over what to do with that gun, remembering
    the powder flash so hot on his hands, the Beretta’s
thunder still echoing in his mind?
Or was that just me?

MIDTERMS
----
    I tanked the math test.
After class, Mr. Oliver asked
if I’d flunked on purpose.
No,
I told him, knowing
he’d come down hard on Sue,
his best student.
I just suck at math
.
    At least I got an A in English.
My creative assignment about
the boy who could shoot laser beams
out of his eyes and saved the world
seemed to impress Mrs. Hawkins,
who had published three short stories
of her own, she repeatedly assured us.
    One A, three Bs, a C, and an F.
My father fired Sue (thank God!)
and threatened me with Catholic school
like my mom had suffered through (and still hated).
She told me it wasn’t a real threat
but that I needed to do better.
Just try
, was what she pleaded.
Just give us an honest effort
.
    When she wasn’t sobbing,
Mom could be pretty persuasive.
That word again buzzed
angrily in my ears.
Honest
.

CHRISTMAS
----
    Blake was gone
for three weeks.
Aspen, I think.
Somewhere you
could ski all day
and sleep away
the nights in log cabins
    We stayed home
and suffered through
a freak ice storm,
which shut down everything
for twenty-four hours,
whitening this dreary place
like frosting on a dumb cake.
    Blake didn’t call or text, but
he later admitted that the first day there,
he plowed headfirst into
a Colorado snow bank so far
that he had to be yanked out
by the ski patrol.
The phone was lost in the hubbub, apparently.
    I missed him. But I missed
the gun more, its terrific
kickback when it fired.
Its confidential existence.
Its ability to cement
my friendship with Blake.
    I wondered if that said
something about me,
that it took a gun to do all that.

NEW YEAR’S EVE
----
    With my mom planning
her usual laundry list of resolutions,
    Â 
    1. be 8 lbs. slimmer
    2. see Grandma more
    3. save an extra $5 a week
etc. etc. etc
.
    I picked at leftover turkey
and pried chunks of pineapple
off the honey-glazed ham
we weren’t eating
until tomorrow night.
The TV was on—some
holiday show with orphans—
but I watched the window,
hoping for a whiteout
that never came.
    March 5.
The date came back to me
like an old wart
you couldn’t quite shake.
I pressed another piece
of turkey to my lips,
but it had gone cold.
    I sealed it back
into the Tupperware.
    March 5.
Like most unknowns,
it made me anxious.

SPRING TERM
----
    Blake and I started school
again like we’d never left.
    We ate together, walked
the halls together, and we
fired the gun as often as three
times a week together.
    I started to smell gunpowder
on my hands in school,
so I took some heavy-duty
soap from my dad’s office
and scrubbed at my skin
until I was nearly bleeding.
    Like trying to scour out
a memory, the gunpowder reek
didn’t leave my hands.
    It never occurred to me
to stop shooting the gun.
    It never occurred to me
that I could hit
10 for 10 now
without
effort.

MOM
----
    locked herself
in the bathroom
one Saturday
and refused
to come out.
Then came
the sound of
shattering.
The mirror,
we thought.
Maybe
the hair dryer too.
And from
the sudden smell,
a perfume bottle.
    Give her some

room
, Dad said
as we went out
for ice cream.
The clamor crescendoed,
and he shrugged.
Grief does funny
things to people
.
    With Grandma
worsening daily,
    I was suddenly glad
I hadn’t burdened
my parents with anything
about Blake or the gun.
Crazy as my mom
had become,
she’d probably
throw me in jail herself.

AT BASKIN-ROBBINS WITH MY FATHER
----
    When I was maybe sixteen
,
Dad began, shutting his eyes
as if that helped him remember
himself as anything but a uniformed
nitwit with his initials