Hide
Untethered
By Jax Spenser
Copyright © 2014 Something Else Publishing
All Rights Reserved.
Cover design by Matt Delisle
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
DEDICATION
For my wonderful wifey, Michelle, and my beautiful daughters, Lillie and Lola... you educate me, entertain me, and open my eyes up every single day. Our challenges are real but there is no one else I would rather face and overcome adversity with than you. Thank you for patiently waiting while I found my way.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to acknowledge the following super humans... again, Michelle, she rocks for always getting my back as I go after my dreams. Daughterlings, their constant attention and appreciation for my tall tales is the engine to my drive. For all those South Floridians who gave me constant nudges to stay on course... Kerry, Nicole, Jill, Laen (yes, I'm still working on that relationship with the comma) Mindy, and the others I'm surely forgetting, big thanks. My family that I grew up in because they're all lovely beings who made life way too interesting and helped ignite my imagination. Special nods to Steven dos Santos and Stacie Ramey who were my constant companions in laughter and creative discourse. To Joyce Sweeney, I will never forget how she convinced me that I was actually a writer; first in picture books, then in middle grade, and finally, in young adult. And finally, Shel Delisle... she always believed in this story and she was never reluctant to let me know what I needed to do to make it better. She broke ground in independent publishing at a time when others ran from it and then she pulled me in deep because of her unwavering belief in HIDE. Thank you all for everything that you've done for me and the readers who get to finally take the journey that I started years ago.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
To be continued...
About the Author
Chapter 1
I FEEL LIKE SHIT. Worse than the normal shit.
The taste of metal in my mouth makes me want to puke. I’m positive Mom’s parting gift of a broken nose has something to do with that. I’m sweating too. Bad. My clothes are sticking to me and I’m dizzy, like the ground is moving under me. Maybe I hit my head when I fell and blacked out. Again.
The rumble of an engine. Someone’s driving somewhere. Could it be that Mom’s actually trying to help me? Yeah, right, like that’s even possible.
The smell finally hits me, a menthol Tiparillo, Dad’s cheap wannabe cigar of choice. I force open my eyes. The early morning sun hurts and I cover my face with a hand.
I attempt to sit up in my seat but my knee bangs against the glove box. A spasm of pain makes my body jerk. I push through it and turn to him, “Dad? Why didn’t you come?” I stop because a rush of disappointment and anger dead-ends in my throat.
“Okay, okay, easy. Take it easy. I was late, Pal. Don’t get all … you know … just relax.” He smiles but his eyes run away from mine to somewhere safe, the road.
“You promised.” I bite back my words and take a deep breath. “Are we going to the hospital?” I sound stuffed up. I vaguely remember Dad parking somewhere and talking about cotton to stop the bleeding.
“Nope. We’re leaving.”
“What? Really?” No way. I almost don’t believe him. I want to smile, but my constant sadness puts a stop to that.
He clears his throat. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? See, I listened.” He always clears his throat that way, like a picked-on kid at school trying to speak up to the bully, but never really being heard.
I try again to sit up but the aches remind me of the one-sided battle royale I just survived. There’s pounding in my ears. I look at him, “Promise me we’re not going back. Just promise. Are we really leaving? Are we going to California? Can we go to California?” Is he lying to me? Is it just another lie? Always lies. His lie, her lie, and my fading memory. The memory is the hardest to take.
“Look, Keeg, I was late getting to the house, I know. When I finally came, she was already gone and you were just … lying there. In a pile. On the kitchen floor. I wanted to call the police but—” He chokes up. “I’m … just so … sick of this shit, Keegan. Sick of it. It never used to be this way, I swear--” He stops, unable to continue. Is it real?
I want to believe him as he rubs his eyes and tightens his grip on the steering wheel. But I know he thinks as long as he holds the wheel and watches the road, he’s safe. Safe from my ass getting beat. Safe from being a real dad.
I stare at him with my broken face and try to decide if this counts as him finally doing something. I should probably be doing a victory dance and high-fiving him. But I can’t. Because what if it’s all some cruel joke Dad’s playing? Why should I trust him now? Lies and more lies.
“Hey, can you believe how much blood came out of ya? Hell, it was like a water faucet.” Small talk, another safe place for him. He finally says, “Sorry, I was late.”
A sorry. More than I thought he would give, but he’s still not taking his eyes off the road. That stupid road. He must really think we’re free if he’s offering sorries. But I don’t feel free one bit. For all I know, she could be hiding in the trunk or the backseat, waiting for me.
He takes a drag of his wanna-be cigar and blows it out. My stomach heaves but I hold it down.
“Dad,” I say, not caring anymore, “the smoke’s killing me.”
“Ah, shit, sorry, Keeg. I’m not thinking. Just … this last bit.” He sucks on it once more like it’s his oxygen. Or courage. “There, done, okay? Watch.” And like that he flicks it out his window and exhales the last of the smoke with it.
“So we going to California?”
“California? Uh, well, we’ll drive a ways and then see if we can’t get you fixed-up better. She really did a number on you. That woman can put the hurt on. I guess talking helps, right?”
That’s his plan? He wants to talk it out? Pisses me off! Here’s an idea: how about some justice? How about we make little Mom voodoo dolls and throw her into the radiator fan, or zap her with the battery cables? I don’t want to talk about it. Talk never stopped a fist.
“Look at me, Dad. Mom did this to me. Your wife.”
“Ex.” As if it mattered. He doesn’t look. “What do you want from me, Keegan? I’m not in the house any more. And, you’re almost a man now. I’m not respons—Damn it, shit happens!”
“Oh thanks, shit happens, thanks a lot, Dad!” The weak stuff hits my eyes. I try to block the tears. Turn away. There’s no way I’m going to let him see me like this. Not after I proved I can take whatever Mom could give.
I look out the window on my side trying to push down the anger. I get no relief from the rows and rows of stupid fields flashing past my window. An occasional dumb cow. Just miles of flat, burnt-out dirt. I’ve been waiting so long to get away from her and now that it’s happened, it’s nothing like what I hoped it would be. There’s so much rage it doesn’t feel like anything good is ever going to happen.
I finally ask, “Dad?”
He clears his throat yet again, “Yeah, Keeg?”
“Just tell me where we’re heading.”
“I don’t know, Pal, far away I gues
s. Maybe we could start by heading west. That okay with you?”
He knows it is; I’ve only begged him like a million times to go to California. But I think I really need to hear it now.
“Yeah, I guess. My backpack?” I finally remember, “Did you get my backpack?”
He glances sideways at me. “Sorry, Keeg, I had to carry you out, didn’t really have time to collect a bunch a worthless junk.” A smile runs across his face, always a bad liar. “Happy Birthday, Keegan. I’m late with that too I guess. Pack’s in the back.”
Oh yeah, some birthday. What did I get? A broken nose from Mom and my own backpack with my own stuff.
I reach for it a little too quickly and sharp pains stab at me.
Shit, it hurts. Dad’s right about one thing, she can put the hurt on.
I take a deep breath and turn slowly this time.
There on the back seat is my backpack. He did get it. Great, that’s two. Two for two today, Dad, but two for one thousand the rest of my life.
I look through it and I see some little kid stuff Dad’s thrown in randomly: seven baseball trading cards, an MP3 player with only eleven songs, the only comic book I owned, Superman #775.
And my Memory Book. The only gift from her I ever wanted to keep. Not really wanted to keep it, more like had to keep. It’s the only thing that connects me to who I am and what I have to go through. It’s the journal of my messed-up life.
I pull it out and run my fingers over the cover. I smile remembering how I dropped a slice of pizza on it once, leaving a wicked pepperoni stain. In fourth grade, I drew the stain into a crazy looking zombie I called Mombie. In the bad times, which were pretty much all the time, the book’s always been with me, listened to me, like having a friend who didn’t judge me. And Dad remembered. It almost makes me want to forget (which will probably happen anyway) everything he’s done … and not done.
I open the book to last date and start writing. My right hand shakes and I have to steady it with the left.
July 22nd
Last night Mom broke my nose. Dad finally rescued me. We’re driving far away from her. I hope I never see her again in my life. And if I do, I’ll kill her!