Conjuring Dreams or Learning to Write by Writing

  Kismet

  Damn brat, Wayne thought, glaring at her through the cracked windshield of the '78 Ford pickup his old man had promised to fix up two summers before

  Today she was wearing pink—pink—from the bow in her white-blonde curls to the pink and white knee socks and her pink and blue sneakers. Probably wore pink panties underneath the ruffled skirt, though she seemed to have shorts on, too, so he never saw them. Playing in her pristine yard, on her fancy wooden playset with no-fucking-kidding rubber mulch underneath it so she wouldn't bruise her little pink ass.

  Nuthin' too good for Princess Abby.

  He felt a trickle of something down his back and jerked around on the cushions to make sure he wasn't bleeding on the seats. He had to bite down on a yelp, as his tender back scraped a torn part of the upholstery. There'd be hell to pay if he stained 'em. Didn't matter that they were already stained with sweat and likely puke and everything else besides, that they were torn up by what looked like wild animals. His old man was always on the edge these days, ready to lash out over any damn thing.

  He used the hem of his ratty t-shirt to wipe his face, sweat, old tears and snot, though he pretended it was just sweat. Summer was brutal and the truck was hotter'n hell.

  Summers weren't so bad before his dad got fired. Now his old man was around all day, only leavin' for one shithole bar or another, coming home drunk every night, if not in the morning, ready for any reason to beat the shit out of someone. This morning it was him.

  The girl's laugh floated through the open window and he sneered. Bet that little brat never felt the wrong end of a belting. Bet she never got backhanded into the wall and left to bleed on the floor while the old man went back to his dinner. Bet her mother wouldn't prim up her lips and look the other way while his father whaled the tar out of her only child. Hag was likely grateful it wasn't her taking the beating this time.

  Bitch.

  Brat was playing with her cat—a cat! Who plays with a cat? Never saw her dress the cat up or nuthin', but the cat was always following at her heels like a dog or on her shoulders on the swing, even fetching little cloth toys. The cat was freaky weird. It was scrawny and black with long legs, long tail, and huge yellow eyes too big for its face. Damn thing looked more like a spider than a cat.

  "Abby, come in. It's time for lunch."

  "Okay, Mama. C'mon, Kismet!"

  That's right, Mama, keep that eye out for Abby through the window. Someone was always watching out for Abby. Precious pink Abby.

  But it reminded Wayne he'd best get to the gas station and get the old man's smokes. His old man was in a drunken stupor now, but if woke up and Wayne didn't have his "cigs," Wayne was in for another beating. A bad one.

  He scooted out of the truck gingerly so he wouldn't make any noise. Even so, he hadn't made it to the gate before he heard the screen door slam at Abby's house. He turned in surprise to see Abby's mom beckoning him.

  Wary but curious, he stepped up to the chain link fence that separated their property and said, "What do you want? I wasn't hurtin' nuthin'." He tugged at his ratty shirt, scrubbed his arm under his nose. He tried to look nonchalant, but he had always thought Abby's mother was just a little too pretty. And she was as color coordinated as the brat—navy scrunchy holding back her blonde hair, navy shirt—with dots!—navy shorts, even navy Keds.

  The woman bit her lip, pink and pretty. "I know that, Wayne. It's just, I've noticed you when Abby's outside."

  "No harm sitting in m'own yard," he muttered.

  "No, Wayne. I know that. It's just . . ." She reached to touch his cheek which surprised him and angered him though he didn't yet know why. He slapped her hand away. "Are you okay, Wayne? If you're in trouble, if you've been hurt, if you need someone to stand up for you, you can call me."

  Shock kept him rooted to the ground, kept him from lashing out at her. She was pitying him? She with her little perfect husband and precious pink girl and tidy little house, she was feeling sorry for him? Oh, Hell no! He wasn't pitiful! He was freakin' powerful and someday even that bastard drunkard he called his old man would know it. But no dainty little bitch in her matching navy clothes was going to look down on him! She didn't know nuthin' 'bout nuthin'. She was lucky he hadn't never shown her what real pain was, never showed her real danger, her or her little girl.

  The woman pulled back her hand with real sorrow in her eyes that made his stomach roil. As if his old man beating him wasn't humiliation enough. He couldn't say anything or he'd lose it, and, if he slapped the neighbor's wife around, the cops would come by. The old man wouldn't like that.

  "I didn't mean to upset you," she said, biting her lip again. He wished she'd draw blood. He wanted to draw it for her. "I just wanted you to know there's help if you need it."

  "I'm fine," he bit out through clenched teeth. "I don't need nuthin' from you."

  He stomped away, before she saw his hatred. Before she saw the rage singing in his blood. Before she felt his power.

  He was gone much longer than he should have been, wandering some of the streets behind the gas station, hoping to come across a stray dog. No such luck. Not for a week.

  His old man was still snoring on the couch in a drunken funk, tank top stained and sweaty, stupid worn boxers, one sock on. He didn't look frightening then, all unshaven and sloppy, this thick lips snoring enough to peel paint. Almost, almost, Wayne wanted to chance it.

  Thing is, whatever Wayne did would have to take the old man out first shot. He was old and turned to flab, but he worked construction for thirty years. Wayne was still in his gangly stage. If his old man was awake and pissed, Wayne couldn't take him. Not yet.

  Wayne left the smokes on the coffee table and stumbled into the kitchen, still seething. When the old hag, faded and colorless like a ghost of a real person, told him to get the trash out to the curb, he welcomed the chance and hauled the bag out to the beaten metal container in the back yard. And tried to get control of his rage.

  He wanted to take out his father but he wouldn't try it until he knew—knew—he could take the old man, make sure the old man knew it, too. He ran through every expletive he knew. Twice. He was enraged, frustrated, still steeped in humiliation that anyone had power over him. He wanted to make his father pay, for whipping him bloody, sniveling snot and whimpering despite his best efforts. He wanted to strangle his mother since she just let it happen, pretended not to see it, not just this time but every time. He had to do something, he felt, something or he'd eat himself alive with his fury and shame.

  As he bent to retrieve the fallen cover, something brushed against his calves, startling a yelp from him. He turned, cover held high in his hands, to a gangly cat of dense black and two huge golden eyes too large for its face. And a fucking purple sparkly collar. With a bell for Chrissakes.

  Abby's cat.

  Perfect.