Chapter 1
Ezra
The sun drips its light onto the blank page.
It’s been empty for a while and will most likely remain so.
I tap my pen on my makeshift desk—a small fold-out table found curbside for free.
It’s not much, but it’s something—just like everything I own—the bed frame and the sheets over the mattress from the D.I. , to the splintering nightstand.
Orange hues paint the tone of my room. The space is scarce.
The twin-size bed adorned with the worn bed set, a three-cubed organizer brimming with Conin’s recommended books, and several posters tacked to the wall: Star Wars and my favorite CHVRCHES album cover.
I glaze my eyes over the sheet of paper.
Miraculously, words haven’t written themselves onto the page.
The lyrics are lost—they won’t come to me, no matter how hard I try to coax them out.
This song has been in my head forever. I know what message I’m trying to convey, but I can’t commit those words to written form.
I had finally mustered enough courage to write the song, but another unwavering, cemented wall blocks me.
I don’t know how to push through the worst of it.
I don’t know what it is. My frustration builds, and in a flurry of defeat, I toss the pen and watch it scatter to the floor in two pieces.
My gaze lingers where the ink spills. I don’t care enough to clean it.
Instead, I wonder if Conin’s ever been this frustrated with his writing.
I’d probably be a shit songwriter anyways. Better to acknowledge it now rather than later. I prefer not to give myself false hope. But then again . . . some of the best songs take years to finish. So, perhaps today isn’t my day. Maybe tomorrow will be.
A muted numbness creeps into my chest. I know this numbing sensation.
I’m acquainted with it, used to its debilitating effects.
I can’t ignore the feeling, so I let the permeations wash over me like roiling waves at sea, numbing me, numbing me, numbing me.
Of course, I’m left with no choice. There are always ways to dull the pain.
My parents’ bedroom door is cracked open.
I sneak inside, though no one is currently home.
My dad stashes his alcohol in the corner of their closet, hidden behind the drapes of hung clothes.
He’s not discreet about it. He thinks Thax and I aren’t stupid enough to steal from him.
Luckily for us, whenever alcohol goes missing, Dad assumes he consumed it because he never remembers.
Thax and I caught on pretty early that all we needed to do was return the empty bottle to its home. Lukeman Gray was none the wiser.
A fresh, gleaming bottle of amber liquid bestows itself when I swipe the clothes away.
Tequila, an alcohol I can stomach. I grip it hard, return the clothes to their original positions, and rush back to my room.
I choke down the scalding liquid. It tears at my throat, but I relish the burn.
It’s comforting. Familiar. Before I know it, the world is tilting and my vision sways as a burst of euphoria replaces the numbness.
The alcohol sloshes in my belly, distending tight against my abdomen.
After a while, the need to puke washes over me.
The pounding of my heart is loud, but all I can think about is the incessant worry that I don’t want to vomit. I don’t.
I carry myself to the bathroom and release the regurgitated liquid into the toilet bowl.
It makes me feel disgusting. I’m disgusting.
The thought of what I just did replays, triggering another gag reflex.
I sit over the basin for what feels like hours.
The wave of nausea doesn’t pass, not for a while, but it eventually does.
I’ve all but forgotten the split pen and the barren sheet of paper in favor of wasting away on my bed.
The world tilts. My eyes shut. Eventually, Thax lets himself in with some weed and an unfamiliar bong in hand.
It’s new, crystalline. But its presence is alluring, and I’m tempted when he offers to take a few hits with me.
I cave in like I always do. Guilt rises in my throat, though I’d rather not piss him off.
Weed is what keeps the peace between us.
So, he and I take turns passing the bong.
The sun sets. Moonlight filters through the blinds.
And it’s silent, too silent between Thax and I.
We don’t talk. We never do. There’s this mutual understanding between us.
I’m not sure you would call this brotherly bonding, but I’ll take this momentary truce.
Smoking weed is about the only thing we hold in common, besides our abilities.
Even then, our powers are nothing alike.
Today, I chose my battle. This is how I avoid the inevitable.
Then, miraculously, he speaks. Even as I buzz from head to toe, I’m floored.
“I met up with an old friend from high school the other day. It was crazy,” Thax says.
I can’t get my lips to move. Instead, I opt into listening, not caring enough to wonder why he’s telling me any of this.
“He asked about you, actually. I told him there wasn’t much to know. He’s like us.”
I’m already forgetting, losing consciousness, watching Thax’s face muddle into hues of peachy skin and brown hair. If he told me what the name of his friend was, I can’t remember. Frankly, I don’t care.
I don’t know when Thax leaves. He’s no longer with me when I slump onto the bed. I pass out immediately after laying my head on the pillow. A null world of black envelops me, beckoning me into its depths.
It takes me a couple of minutes when I wake to realize that I’m late for school.
I’d rather not go, but Ms. Bernard would be pissed if I missed today’s rehearsal.
I finally managed first chair and I don’t want to fuck this up.
But the second I stand, I know today’s going to suck.
My head pounds in a ruthless rhythm. I feel sick to my stomach.
In the same fashion as yesterday, I flee to the bathroom and discard the remainder of my belly’s contents. It only induces my already rising anxiety. It lingers and sticks to the muscles of my chest. But I need to get to school, no matter how shit I feel.
I hurry to get ready and find a clean long-sleeved shirt to cover the scars along my arms. I toast some bread, something bland, and drink about a pitcher of water before I bolt to school.
It’s about a five-minute walk, but I’m already an hour and a half late.
Above all my worries is the thought of if I’ll see Conin today.
I haven’t seen him in a while because of how busy he’s been.
And come to mention it, I forgot to reply to his text from yesterday.
I fire a quick response and shut off my phone when I arrive at English.
Conin’s taking AP this year. I miss the days when we’d share the same classes.
Thank GOD I missed chemistry, though suffering through Math is now the bane of my existence.
By fourth period, the tension in my shoulders eased as I entered the orchestra room.
The anxiety is still there, still persistent as I unpack my violin, tighten and thoroughly resin the bow hair, then tune the strings.
Ms. Bernard greets me with a curt nod but smiles, nonetheless.
Students pile in. Gleaming ebony shines under the rough fluorescents.
My head is a dull ache now. The more I sit here, the more I start to believe that I won’t be able to do this today.
I’m not sure why today out of all days is the exception, as every day before has been just as shit as the last, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that today is worse and that my performance is going to be severely lacking because of it.
And I’m not at all wrong. In fact, I am downright terrible. Fuck this hangover.
My head is not in the game, and it shows.
Ms. Bernard’s glance flicks to me, her lips pursing tightly.
The movements of her baton become less languid and more rigid.
My classmates’ gazes hold on to my every movement.
The ensemble starts to unravel, the tempo and notes missing after every interval.
Clara, sitting right next to me, casts cautionary looks my way.
Ms. Bernard pauses us so often that I start to lose track of how many times we need to replay a specific section.
I never heard my name uttered with so much disdain before.
Well, apart from the way Dad said it, I suppose.
Ms. Bernard is ruthless, but I can also tell she has no idea how to properly reprimand me for such a heinous performance because it’s never been an issue before.
Her nose twitches, and the wrinkles on her forehead solidify into deeper indents.
Eventually, she tells me to practice alone.
My classmates are just as shocked as I feel at that moment.
I don’t complain. I say nothing as I bury myself in one of the practice rooms.
I worked so fucking hard to get here. I wanted this with every fiber of my being, practiced countless hours at school to audition for Chamber Orchestra, and even managed to get first chair.
Pathetic. But instead of practicing, I reprimand myself over and over again.
When the bell finally dismisses us, I break out of my self-deprecating inertia.
I slip the instrument gently into its case, loosen the bowstrings, and tighten the clasps.
Everyone else stuffs away their stringed instruments, lazily and without the careful, deliberate movements I take to ensure the longevity of mine—the one possession I hold dear.
I suppose my classmates don’t have the same type of father I do.
I suppose they don’t fear for their lives and possessions like I do daily. It’s exhausting.
Lukeman Gray—my dad, if you will—gets off by holding the looming threat of my violin’s destruction over my head whenever I do something to upset him, but that never matters.
I usually upset him regardless. Nevertheless, I try not to do anything on the off chance he decides to stay true to his word one day and execute his usual empty bluffs.
I’m positive he hasn’t yet because he spent too much money on the damned thing, even when it was the cheapest, decent model one could get.
My mom, for all her worthlessness in my life, talked him into it.
It was the one time I was ever grateful for her—grateful I have a mom.
I’m cautious while using the strap to carry the case on my bony shoulders. I hug the case to my chest. Only once everyone’s gone do I attempt to leave. Ms. Bernard, however, intercepts.
“Ezra . . . what was that today?” she asks.
It’s not cold nor callous, but I can’t help but recoil and feel an immense amount of guilt.
Concern laces her eyes as she considers me.
My instinct is not to respond, but Ms. Bernard isn’t Thax or my dad.
I shouldn’t be rude to her just because I fucked up big time.
“I don’t know,” I say, honestly. Her nose scrunches and the indents along her forehead crease tighter.
Ms. Bernard sighs.
“Is something going on at home?”
My heart thuds against my chest. There’s no way she could know. My chest is tight and every part of me buzzes. Her conclusion was so abrupt that it caught me off guard. I genuinely have no idea how to answer. Though, if I don’t say anything, she’ll assume her suspicions are correct.
“No,” I say, “everything’s fine at home.”
“Are you alright?” Ms. Bernard questions with narrowed eyes. “If you’re not, you can tell me. I won’t judge. We can get you the help you need.”
“My mind just wasn’t here today. That’s all. I’ll do better on Tuesday.”
There’s a momentary pause. I can see her working on a reply.
“Ezra. Do you trust me?” she says.
“Of course,” I answer quickly.
To an extent. I can say the same thing about everyone.
I like Ms. Bernard over so many others—I can admit that.
But there’s still this barrier, this wall I put up.
There’s only so much trust I can allow and there’s only so much people can know about me.
I refuse to let her in on any of it. She may have an inkling, but an inkling is all she’ll ever have.
“A word of advice?” Ms. Bernard sighs.
No. I really just want to leave. I keep silent and study her intently as if I’m interested in her advice.
“You may be one of the best violinists in your class, but I’ve noticed how you isolate yourself. Try to open yourself to your classmates. Make some friends.”
“I have friends,” I interject.
“I know you do. All I’m saying is that to learn and grow, you need to put trust in others. Not everyone is out to get you, Ezra,” she says and purses her lips.
I have genuinely no clue where this came from.
My performance today had nothing to do with my trust in others, but perhaps Ms. Bernard can see right through my bullshit.
I nod, slip in a thank-you, and get the hell out of the orchestra room.
I find myself mindlessly walking to where Conin and I usually meet after school gets out.
When he isn’t there, I peer down both ends of the hallway.
He’s at football practice. Of course, he wouldn’t show.
And why should I expect him to when I’ve ignored him for the past several weeks?
Deflated, I make the trek back home. The house is silent when I return.
Mom’s most likely hiding in my parents’ room and Thax is either at work or hanging out with his stoner friends.
Dad, on the other hand, is probably out at some frequented bar.
I open the door to my room and let out a long, heavy sigh.
And there, half an empty bottle of tequila in hand, is Lukeman Gray wearing a livid expression.