Sonya couldn't stop the smile at the sight of her son's swollen lips -- as well as his consideration to someone he'd probably never met before, knowing Trevor. "If your friend would like to stay for dinner, just let me know and I'll set an extra place," she said and closed the door again.
She didn't need to press her ear to the door to hear their sighs of relief. But she did need a minute to lean against the wall and laugh. That little scene was something Trevor had probably been working on for a few weeks now and while she supposed that as a mother, she ought to be yelling at her youngest for having sex under her roof, she and Patterson were liberal enough to know their home was the best choice. Lord only knew the sort of places Trevor would drag Mitchell to next time if she made a fuss now.
Trevor, on the other hand… Amy, too.
Sonya pushed herself away from the wall beside Mitchell's door, gritting her teeth. Trevor had provoked Amy to make that intrusion; of that, she had no doubt. Trevor had probably brought Mitchell and his friend back to the house for that reason alone.
Regardless of whether or not she'd been set up, Amy knew better than to go into the boys' room without knocking first. A closed door meant something in the Voss household, regardless of what lies Trevor told. Just as other families had inviolable rules about who did what chore on what day, the Voss family had rules about what a closed door meant.
Amy and Trevor were arguing in the kitchen, probably about what had just transpired. And something was starting to smell overcooked.
That needed to be dealt with before Patterson got home. Time was running short and now Sonya wasn't exactly certain how many she'd be cooking for. While she doubted the girl would stay, Mitchell could very well want some time to himself. A boy didn't lose his virginity every day, and a boy as sensitive as Mitchell was bound to need the time to make sense of what he'd just done.
Amy and Trevor, on the other hand… Yes, Sonya told herself as she straightened the hem of her shirt. Something was starting to smell overcooked in that kitchen of hers, all right.
Quitting
Two days before their high school graduation, Trevor decided to make a statement and quit school. He was eighteen; Mitchell's parents couldn't stop him, even though they tried. Besides, Trevor had plans. Now if he could only make Mitchell understand them…
Quitting, first posted October 12, 2006.
Trevor cradled his head in his arms and stared at the clouds. It was one of those days that was warm and the sun felt so good that he swore he could feel it reaching inside him and working on all those old broken bones, the ones the doctors said had healed even though they still managed to hurt every now and then, anyway.
If he closed his eyes, he could imagine his body trying to finish the repair job. Eighteen was way too fucking young to be stuck with the scars from broken ribs, arms, and legs. Not to mention his nose; good thing Mitchell's dad knew someone who'd been able to save it from looking and acting like a mashed potato. So fucking what if it had a hook and looked like a bird's beak? It worked, it didn't hurt, and hopefully it wouldn't ever be broken again.
The only thing that could possibly make this scene even better was a girl, soothing other parts of him. Maybe even more than one. Maybe one part per girl. Trevor licked his lips. He had a lot of parts.
When the shadow fell over him, he knew better than to hope some higher being had agreed with his plan and sent him a girl or two. It had to be Mitchell, and not just because the big idiot was the only other person who knew about this spot. Trevor had known that as soon as the news got around, the guy would show up. Mitchell was dependable like that.
"Why'd you do it?" Mitchell asked with a sigh before Trevor bothered to open his eyes.
For a second, Trevor considered pretending to be asleep, letting Mitchell rant until he got so frustrated with Trevor's lack of response that he left. But it wouldn't be out of the blue if Mitchell tried to kick him awake, either, and wasn't some healing going on?
"I had a point to make," he finally said.
"Which was?" Mitchell sat down beside him. Trevor pictured him with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, his face turned up to the sun like Trevor's was.
"If people don't wake up and fucking think for themselves, they'll never get anywhere in life," he said.
"Maybe they're right. Maybe you can't get anywhere without a high school diploma."
"M," Trevor said, opening his eyes and turning his head so he could look at the guy -- who was, predictably, stretched out just like Trevor had imagined. "We're in a band. We've got a tour booked. We're going places. What do we need the lies they feed us in that joint for?"
"Just in case."
Trevor snorted, making Mitchell open his left eye, the one that looked right at Trev, who said, "If things are broke, you ought to fix them."
"So fix it," Mitchell said. "Don't go running off in a huff and expect everyone to fucking get it just 'cause you tell them to."
"If you don't shake things up, no one fixes shit. You know that as well as I do."
"Maybe they don't see a problem."
Trevor shook his head. Of course he didn't expect Mitchell to get it. People liked Mitchell. And he was a Voss. If he came to school with a fresh black eye every week, no one would sit his ass down and tell him that he should take lots of shop classes because that was going to be the best he would do for himself in life.
"I don't need a fucking piece of paper to prove I'm worth something," Trevor insisted.
"So shut up and just go and be something already."
Trevor jumped to his feet. "I'm fucking trying!" he screamed. "I'm the one getting out there and lining up gigs for us! I'm the one kissing ass and trying to figure out the fucking contracts and all that other happy shit that goes along with this! The way you three pussies act, I'm the only one who cares about this band!"
"That's because you won't let us do anything," Mitchell said.
"That's because I'm the only smart one around here," Trevor shot back, stamping a foot for emphasis. "I'm the one with all the faith Eric's always preaching about. Where's his? Where's yours? If I weren't up all your asses, you'd all be perfectly happy to sit around in your mom's basement and make music all day."
"Nothing wrong with that."
"There will be," Trevor said, searching his pockets for a cigarette, "when she shakes things up and throws you out of her house and on your ass. Admit it. You won't do shit until she does."
Mitchell shrugged. "Maybe."
Trevor stomped again and dropped his lighter. "And that's my point!" He stabbed the air with his cigarette. "People don't do shit unless they're forced to. I'm not sitting around, waiting for you three to stop being scared of leaving town. I'm not wasting any more time in that fucking school. And I'm not putting up with any more shit! I want to fucking live already! Do shit I can tell my kids about one day! Live, motherfucker. I know I'm not the only one here who wants to."
Mitchell handed the lighter over. "Making another scene, or is this the one you didn't get to make in the office at school?"
"Fuck you, M," Trevor snarled and turned his back on his best friend. He'd known Mitchell wouldn't get it. Coddled little brothers like him didn't know how to scrap for shit. Well, he'd show him, Trevor would. He'd make their stupid little band into the biggest thing to come out of Riverview, or he'd die trying.
Dedication
A father-son discussion about dedication was born out of two things: reader input that they wanted to see more of Mitchell's parents, and my own determination to get Trevor's Song published. Mitchell is equally determined to succeed with his music, but sometimes, things go wrong, those feelings slip away, and you're left with something … else.
Dedication, first posted November 19, 2006
Patterson sent Sonya home with the car. "I'll wait for the boys."
"Will there be room?" she asked. She was tired, Patterson could tell; the night had drained her. If what he had to say to Mitchell wasn't so important, h
e wouldn't ask her to drive home without him. But catching the boy before he'd had a chance to sleep on what had happened was essential. It was entirely possible that Mitchell would wake up in the morning, no replacement for the guitar forthcoming and the band over. It'd be as finished as baseball was. And while Patterson hadn't minded when baseball had gone away, privately he thought his son might have a real future in music.
At the very least, the boy had invested plenty into it: piano lessons, guitar lessons, voice lessons, lessons in music theory and music composition. Some of it he'd figured out himself, some he'd learned from books, most he'd mowed lawns to be able to afford. Mitchell had shown that sort of work ethic with the baseball thing, but he'd been ten and so shy, working hard had been the perfect front to hide behind. Now, eight years later, Patterson was watching this band bring his son out of that shell. What was emerging was quite the young man: smart, loyal, driven, a planner, a businessman, and just plain pleasant to be around, if still a bit quiet.
The show tonight had been a disaster; there was no sugar-coating it. The lead singer fell off the stage and broke his guitar; the drummer put a stick through the head of his snare and didn't have a backup handy. Even the lighting and the sound had been plagued with gremlins. Ultimately, only one good thing could be said: not many people had been there. Patterson had counted about twenty, including himself and Sonya.
Trevor was, of course, grinning like the night had been perfect. For all that boy had been through, Trevor never stopped seeking the joy in life; it was that quality that Patterson had noticed the first time Amy had brought him home. It was that unfailing optimism that had led Patterson to take custody rather than let him face jail time.
Mitchell, though, was the opposite. Head down, shoulders slumped. It looked probable that there'd be no more band come morning. Maybe there was currently no more band.
"Son," Patterson said, trying to be gentle and not startle the boy.
It didn't work. Mitchell's head shot up and his eyes widened. "Oh, hi, Dad," he said when he recovered. He grimaced and covered his face with his hands. He peeked out between his fingers. "You going to rub it in?"
"No," Patterson said slowly, tilting his head at the empty spot on the bumper of his Bronco. As Mitchell uncovered his face and sat, Patterson noticed Trevor hovering, just within earshot.
Well, Patterson figured, this would be good for Trevor to hear, too. "Even if I could make it sound good, I wouldn't. You needed a night like this," he said. "You needed to know what it feels like to fall on your face."
"What?" Mitchell half-rose to his feet, then caught himself, as if suddenly aware to whom he was speaking.
"You can't succeed without tasting failure," Patterson said. "If you never fail, you never get to find out what you're made of. So. What are you made of, Mitchell?"
Mitchell shook his head, his hair dancing with his movement. Everything about the boy, even his hair, screamed of frustration.
Trevor tossed his own hair over his shoulder and lit a cigarette but kept silent.
"Are you tough enough to suck tonight up, learn what you can, and move forward? Or is the band over now that you broke your guitar?"
"What am I supposed to play? You can't be a guitar player without a guitar."
"True," Patterson said, proud the boy didn't whine. "Is that the only problem?"
Mitchell cocked his head as he thought. Patterson waited him out. "Yeah," Mitchell finally said. "I think so." He grimaced again, wider this time. "I've been trying to save up for another one, but it's not going so well. I uhhh… had to dig into it to pay for the latest run of t-shirts."
"Not taking your investment back out?"
Mitchell shook his head. "I figured it was worth it. Didn't think this sort of thing would happen."
"But it did, so where do you go from here?"
The boy rubbed at his face. "Figure out how to get a new guitar. Where else?"
"We'll steal you one if we need to," Trevor said with a shrug. "Sorry, Dad. You didn't hear that."
"That's true. I didn't." Patterson paused, noticing that Trevor had started to fade into the shadows. He wondered if Trevor was smoking something more than a cigarette; it wouldn't be the first time he'd tempted fate -- and the local cops.
Mitchell turned to Patterson. "I want this."
"This?"
"The band. A new guitar. Hell, a better guitar."
"Fame, fortune, and all the rest?"
Mitchell grinned at his father, a little boy all over again. "You betcha."
"Then, son," Patterson said, turning to him. "You know what it's going to take to get there."
"Yeah," Mitchell said heavily. "A shitload of work." He stood up and fumbled in his pocket. "I'd better get busy. Trev, you ready?"
"To do what?" Trevor eyed Mitchell and looked ready to bolt. Patterson bit back a smile. Getting that particular boy to do anything he didn't want to was impossible; Patterson knew it first-hand.
"Go home and get some sleep," Mitchell said, possibly the only thing that Trevor wouldn't rebel against just for the sake of rebelling. "We need to find me a new guitar tomorrow."
Patterson extended his hand, palm up. "I'll drive. You two can start plotting."
With a grin that said it all, Mitchell handed over the keys.
Flags
You'll notice that the river in Riverview plays a big part in these early years outtakes. I think there's something about moving water and being in nature that allows us to admit things we ordinarily wouldn't, and dream things we're ordinarily afraid to.
So while Trevor's the troublemaker, his love for the river shows that he's also a dreamer, and does he have dreams for his band…
Flags, first posted September 23, 2006
It was one of those autumn days that made everyone love being in Riverview, even Trevor. The air was so clear, every vein in every single last leaf stood out from miles away. It was the sort of day when you believed that nothing bad could happen. In fact, when you spent the day down by the river with your best friend and a bunch of daydreams, nothing bad could happen.
"A flag," Trevor said, his head nestled comfortably in his hands, his feet crossed at the ankle. A cigarette clung to his lip, comfortably. Right then, it was all comfortable.
"What the fuck?" Mitchell asked, pulling his one ankle underneath his opposite leg. Fucker could sit like that for hours, all knotted up, especially if he had a guitar with him. Which he didn't; too afraid of dropping it in the river and watching it get swept to God-knew-where.
"A flag," Trevor repeated. "A ShapeShifter flag. For our fans to pledge their love and shit to. You know… one nation, all for one, buy the inevitable shitty records and defend them to the death when people let themselves think mean words about us. A flag."
Mitchell eyed him. Trevor shrugged and uncrossed one arm, peeling his cigarette off his lip.
"A flag?" Mitchell said again. "Why not something easier, like t-shirts? They probably cost less to make than one stupid fancy-assed flag, and we sell a ton of 'em. Who the fuck would want a flag?"
At that, Trevor had to sit up. "I'm not talking of something for them. This is about us."
"It's all about us," Mitchell reminded him, reaching for Trevor's cigarette. "Those t-shirts are free advertising. Well, mostly free."
Trevor pulled it away. "Get your own, fucker."
"I'm out."
Trev grinned. "What? Spend all your allowance money again?"
"No," Mitchell answered in the same taunting voice that Trevor had just used. "That girl last night ripped my last pack off and I haven't had time to get more."
Trevor nodded. "You have lousy taste in girls."
"I bet she'd stand naked under that flag of yours."
"Okay, not so lousy." He handed the cigarette over. "But a flag." He let his eyes unfocus. "United Fans of ShapeShifter. I like it."
"You're a dork," Mitchell said.
Trevor glanced at him, unsurprised to see the wheels in the idio
t's own brain turning.
The Strand
This next outtake came from an unusual source -- a friend who posted to her blog a picture of an ancient hotel's sign. Rooms for seventy-five cents.
That picture inspired me, and The Strand hotel was born, this outtake quickly following. It's definitely one of the darkest outtakes I've written, in terms of giving you a glimpse into Trevor's life before he went to live with the Vosses. This may be the darkest thing I've ever written. Period.
I love this one for so many reasons, one of which is the rich descriptions. This is a scene that had to be set, and one that emerged straight from imagination, not experience.
If you're new around here, you'll notice this is the first time you encounter Mitchell's nickname. It's simple, yet it fits him pretty perfectly.
And now, The Strand, first posted on the auspicious day of April 12, 2006.
"Trev, what do we do? We can't take 'em back to the house; Ma's got that party tonight, remember? And neither of them have a place… what do we do?"
"Chill," Trevor told Mitchell, hating the way the guy was getting all twitchy like some Tourette's patient, only without the interesting vocabulary.
"The Bronco's out after last time…"
"I know, I know," Trevor said, trying to think fast. The girls would be back from the john in a minute or two, and they'd want a plan if they were going to head home satisfied. As if Mitchell knew how to satisfy a girl, but he was learning.
Dragging them to All Access just to use the back room wasn't a particularly good idea. Spending time there before heading back was fine, but showing up just for a quick fuck apparently wasn't.
They were currently at Decade, in fact, which was in one of the seedier parts of town, which meant that… "There's always The Strand," he offered.
Mitchell shuddered.
"Oh, like you've been there," Trev sniffed. "Fuck, even I haven't. Yet. Let's take the girls, make it a joke and see if we can get them to cough up something better."