Lucky
By Evan T. Apollo
Copyright 2015 Evan T. Apollo
Cover art by Taryn Carlino
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
About the author
One
Jiggle. Turn. Push. Yank. Shove. Body slam.
This was the process required to unlock and open the back door to my house. At first glance it appears to be falling off its hinges, but it’s actually quite stubborn when it comes to letting someone in. The upside was that it pretty much guaranteed no one could ever sneak in through the back door. After seventeen years I had the door opening process down to a science - albeit a science that appeared somewhat convoluted to the casual observer.
Once in, I quickly closed the door behind me and let my back pack clumsily drop to the floor.
The warmth of the house was inviting, consuming the chilly autumn air that had seemingly engulfed the Jersey suburbs overnight. I placed my car keys on the rightmost hook on the kitchen wall and felt grateful to finally have parking privileges at school, which were reserved for seniors only. I definitely did not miss the two mile walk to and from school that I had been required to make the three previous years.
The house felt unusually quiet that afternoon and I sensed something was a little bit off. Something was missing. After looking around the kitchen I soon realized there was no orange tabby cat at my feet – a cat that would normally be tripping me the moment I walked in the door. It was a daily routine I had grown accustomed to when I would come home and she would pretend as though she hadn’t eaten in months.
Her absence now made me worry because in addition to her ceremoniously greeting me for as long as I could remember, she had been acting peculiar since the week before. One year ago, she had been diagnosed with feline leukemia, but up until recently she appeared to be in good health. I’d kept putting off making follow up appointments with the vet both out of laziness and because of the bickering that would ensue with my dad as he felt things like pets were expendable and just added clutter to your life. My father wasn’t stingy, but to him, a cat wasn’t worth the cost of a vet bill.
I cautiously wandered from the kitchen through the dining room and then into the living room, making the noise that everyone makes when they are calling a cat. She unfortunately did not come running no matter how much I pss-pss-pss’d.
I reached the front of the house and there was Lucky at the foot of the staircase. Dead.
“I’m not sure what to do. I mean, this never happened to me before,” I explained on the phone to Kate, one of my two BFFs.
“Are you sad?” she asked.
“Well, yeah. And it’s just – kind of icky.” The cat simply looked like she was sleeping at the bottom of the steps. To the touch, she felt more like a cold, furry, dried up pot roast someone had forgotten in the back of the fridge.
“Look, Trav, I really am sorry,” Kate sympathized. “But I promised mom I’d wait at the bus stop for Brandon. I’ll call you later, okay?”
Brandon was her eight year old smart ass brother whom I didn’t particularly care for. Kids in general just weren’t my thing. I loathed being around people with babies because they always wanted me to hold them. Why? Not everyone finds joy in cradling your little bundle of slobber and poop. Trust me.
“Alright. Bye,” I said, hanging up without waiting for Kate’s part of the goodbye exchange.
I wandered out to the front porch, walking around in no particular configuration. I took some deep breaths and tried to clear my head and then called Patrick. He was my other BFF, but he wasn’t particularly keen on my referring to him as such.
“Hello, caller. You’re on with Patrick,” was what he said upon answering.
“Hey, Patrick,” I said.
“What’s going on?”
“I need you to come over. And bring a shovel.”
After a moment of silence, he said, “Nothing good ever comes out of someone telling you to come to their house and bring a shovel. Unless you mean, like, a snow shovel. But it’d be pretty weird if it was snowing there considering that it’s 55 degrees and mostly sunny.” This was the typical sort of response you were likely to get out of Patrick. It was often entertaining, but at times like this I just wanted to reach through the cellular airwaves and put my hand over his mouth. “I feel I should also point out that it’s too late in the year to start gardening.”
“Not a garden shovel,” I said, interrupting his babbling. “Not a snow shovel. A dead cat shovel.”
I was trying to keep myself together by somewhat making light of the situation, but in reality, I knew the tears would be catching up to me at any moment.
After another short silence Patrick finally said, “Oh, hell.”
While waiting for Patrick to show up, I considered finding a towel or box or something I could bury Lucky in. I headed back into the kitchen toward the basement when I spotted a note on the refrigerator that stopped me in my tracks.
Travis:
One of our partner firms is undergoing major restructuring. I have to go to Chicago right away to help get things organized over there. I may be gone for a couple of weeks. I left some cash and a credit card for you in the top desk drawer. I’ll call you later.
Dad.
PS: Please get rid of your dead cat.
I stared at the note for a moment, absorbing the information and could feel the rising anger in the pit of my stomach. I was used to my dad being consumed with his work, but this was a new low, even for him, to write a message telling me he was going to be gone for weeks. He couldn’t even wait to say goodbye in person. And, apparently, he hadn’t considered the fact that I might be a little upset about my “dead cat.” A cat who, I might add, had logged in more hours with me than some fathers I could mention. Get rid of your dead cat. The words somehow stuck beneath my eyelids.
“What a jerk,” I said, out loud to the fridge.
“What a jerk,” Patrick said to me, after reading my dad’s note.
I crumpled it up and tossed it into the garbage.
“Maybe you should call the vet or something,” Patrick said.
“What for?” I asked.
Patrick shrugged. “Autopsy?”
“I know why she died,” I said.
“You don’t know for sure. Could be foul play,” Patrick mused.
“Oh, right,” I said, in a mocking tone. “Maybe Mrs. Diadoro’s asshole Chihuahua broke in while we were out and laced Lucky’s kitty treats with arsenic.”
“Hmm. So now what?” Patrick asked, looking at me.
“I don’t know. I guess we should go dig a hole.”
“I never had any pets that I couldn’t flush,” Patrick said, flatly. “We probably only have an hour of daylight left. It’s maybe a good idea to get started now.”
I closed my eyes and sighed. Sadness was coming and going in waves. I took a deep breath and then walked out through the kitchen and into the back yard w
ith Patrick trailing behind me.
Both of us shoveled dirt until we were sweaty and tired. I could feel the muscles in my arms growing weak as we pushed our way into the hard earth. When I decided that the hole was of an acceptable size I stopped Patrick from digging any farther. I brought Lucky out, stiff and cold, and placed her in the hole without a blanket or anything else to cover her. Patrick graciously offered up a used Amazon box that was in his trunk and I declined. It wasn’t as if it would save her from anything and I’m pretty sure they didn’t offer two day shipping to kitty heaven.
We tossed the loose dirt on top of her and stared at the mound briefly once we were finished.
Patrick broke the silence. “Well, there goes the only pussy you’ve ever touched,” he said, with a cautious smirk.
“You’re not going to make me laugh,” I said, fighting a smile.
“If it’s alright with you, I’m gonna take off. Dad’s cooking tonight.”
“Okay. Well, listen – thanks for doing this,” I said, grateful I didn’t have to bury my cat alone.
“It’s cool,” Patrick replied, and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m real sorry about your cat, dude.”
“Thanks.” My eyes drifted to where his hand was. “You’re kind of getting my shirt dirty.”
After seeing Patrick to the front door, I watched him get into his little blue car and drive away.
Until a few years ago, Patrick lived across the street (and a few houses to the left). We’ve known each other for as long as I could remember. Our families used to get together sometimes. Our moms would always visit with each other, shop together, and even joined a bowling league briefly. Sometimes in the summer his dad would barbecue and they would invite us over for hamburgers and hot dogs.
Then, in a short period of time, a lot began to change. Patrick’s mother disappeared. She didn’t vanish, but she left in a Lifetime movie-esque I can’t stand my husband anymore way. Not more than a year later my own parents split up and my mom moved back to upstate New York, where most of her family lived, while I stayed in Jersey with dad.
Patrick’s father decided to move across town to be closer to the firehouse (a matter of convenience since he was the fire chief) and I had panic attacks for a week thinking I’d never see Patrick again. Of course, I saw Patrick every day at school and we continued to hang out all the time, so my anxiety ended up being a huge waste of paranoia. But I was good at that sort of thing.
Patrick and I have always been best friends, even after I came out to him two years ago. Which brings me to another thing you ought to know: I’m gay. You might have picked up on that a little while ago when in the midst of a personal crisis I had worried about my shirt getting soiled. But seriously, it’s a designer shirt. Where was I going with this? Oh, right. Basically, Patrick and I grew up together. Best friends, blah blah blah, you get the picture.
I was still staring out the window long after Patrick had driven away and there was nothing to see but an empty road and the autumn leaves pirouetting across the pavement. I watched Mr. Henderson pull into his driveway across the street and walk into his house with some groceries. Dinner for me was out of the question since my appetite had left me a couple hours earlier so I decided to shower and get started on my homework. Nothing like trigonometric equations to help forget your troubles. So after I stared at Lucky’s kitty bed and cried, sat on the couch and cried, sat in the kitchen and cried, drank a bottle of water, and sat on the steps and cried, I haphazardly did my homework.
I had just finished conjugating the last verb in my Spanish workbook when the house phone rang. I knew it was dad calling before I even looked at the caller ID and I was less than enthusiastic to speak with him.
“You know these things happen from time to time,” he said, defending his spur of the moment trip to Illinois.
I was silent because I was angry. Not because he was away, but because of how it happened. The fact that my cat had died earlier, as well as his indifferent attitude toward it, wasn’t helping my emotional state.
“You like having the house to yourself,” he said, trying to cheer me up.
“What about Thanksgiving, Dad? You were supposed to drive me up to mom’s Wednesday after school. You know my car can’t make that trip.”
“Hey, I’m sorry about that. Listen, maybe one of your friends can drive you.”
“Yeah, right. I’m sure they’ll be lining up to drive my ass three hours each way to drop me off and then again to pick me up.”
He said nothing.
“I’ll take the bus. Again.”
“Well, use the credit card I left for you.”
“Mm-hmm.” A three hour car ride was more than four hours by bus. I couldn’t wait to see how many screaming kids and smelly bus people I’d get to sit uncomfortably close to this time.
“Well, listen kiddo, I have to go,” dad said. Of course he had to go. Anything can be argued ad nasuem in a court room, but any conflict with your son and, gee, look at the time. “Say hello to your mom and grandparents for me.”
I know it was rude, but I hung up on him anyway. The week was turning into a disaster and Monday wasn’t even over yet.
I was walking toward the stairs when my cell phone rang. This time it was Kate.
“Hey, I just wanted to know how you’re holding up,” she said.
“It’s been a pretty sucky day,” I told her.
“I know. You up for going to the diner?”
I was about to say no but quickly changed my mind. Maybe a good distraction was what I needed.
“Sure. Fifteen minutes?”
Patrick and Kate were already at the diner when I arrived. Daniel had apparently invited himself to sit with us as well. He had just eaten with other friends at a different table, but it didn’t stop him from scarfing down another meal with us.
Daniel was, for lack of a better term, a frenemy. This word was not part of my everyday vocabulary, but when it came to my relationship with Daniel, it was the only one that hit it on the head. Patrick, Kate and I all viewed him this way. He forced himself upon all the social clusters at school, bouncing from group to group with his bitchy attitude and bad acne. He was condescending and self-serving and somehow everyone had grown to tolerate him over time (even me). It was understood that Daniel was the kind of person that was generally harmless as long as you kept him at a distance.
“Oh, can we have menus?” Daniel asked the waitress.
“Sure, hon. Be right back,” she replied, turning and trotting away. This waitress was new. It was obvious because we frequently ate at the diner and were quite familiar with the staff. She was also way too happy and accommodating to have been a server for very long – especially in a place that catered mostly to obnoxious teenagers who typically bought very little and left tips in the form of coins.
“Daniel, why do you need a menu? You know everything that’s on it and you always get the same thing,” I pointed out.
“Well, I may want to get something different. I want to see my choices.” He looked around in anticipation of his menu arrival.
“Just get your damn Philly cheesesteak and curly fries already,” Patrick said, sharply, in the mock half-southern accent he lapsed into every now and again for no discernable reason.
“Don’t you have some bible study you should be attending?” Daniel asked Patrick, with a sour expression. It was sort of the pissed off, squinty-eyed look a cat gets when being held against its will.
“I’ll be doing a study on kicking your ass in a minute,” Patrick emptily threatened, as our waitress arrived with three menus.
I often wished I could see inside Patrick’s head. He was a mixture of many things; I had a lot of admiration for him. He was intelligent, good-looking, loyal to his religious beliefs, spiritual, artistic and musical, with just the right amount of sarcasm to mesh everything together. He had a soul that went much deeper than the average slacker teenage guy.
The religious thing had always perplexed me. I
never considered myself a religious person although I wasn’t completely nonspiritual either. As I grew up it became increasingly hard for me to accept all of the beliefs and limitations imposed by Catholicism and I practiced it with the least amount of effort and enthusiasm possible. It seemed that everyone had their own interpretation of what they believed in, and there was a gray area where people would find varying degrees of devotion. Patrick, for instance, firmly believed pornography was wrong, yet he swore as much as anyone I knew. Where exactly was the line? How far can the rules be bent before trespassing into sinful territory? It seemed to me that it should all be very cut and dry: you had to follow all the rules of your faith otherwise it became something else, which is exactly what it now appeared to be. A religion that’s selective and subjective. A remix. The words were the same, but the entire interpretation around them had been altered through years of revisionism. In some ways it was for the better, but can you really say it’s still the same thing?
“Asshole,” Kate said, as she threw her cell phone in her purse.
And here we go with yet another fascinating look into Kate’s relationship problems. I loved Kate, but this was a topic of which I tried to keep my involvement at a minimum as it’s often complicated and exhausting.
“Who’s an asshole?” Patrick asked.
“I’ll give you one guess,” Kate said.
“It couldn’t be Derek, the love of your life,” Daniel said, sarcastically.
“The love of my life,” she repeated with disdain. “He is such a jerk. We were supposed to go out yesterday and then after hours of waiting for him, he’s all like, ‘Oh, sorry, I was playing Xbox with Jeremy.’ Then he said he would come out with us tonight and now all of a sudden he’s not feeling so good and maybe he shouldn’t go out. Maybe he should go to hell.”
“Far be it from me to defend your Neanderthal boyfriend, but there is a chance he could really be sick,” I said.
“I just saw him like 45 minutes ago and he was fine. Obviously something better came up in the meantime,” she said. “I think I may have to take a ride past his house tonight and see just how sick he really is.”
“I want to come!” Daniel yelled, excitedly.
“This is a solo mission,” Kate said.
“I will never understand you guys,” Patrick said. “You always seem so miserable with each other.”
“Yeah, I don’t really get it either,” she said. “Guess I’ve been brainwashed from all that hot sex,” she said, matter-of-factly. “But you boys wouldn’t know about that.”
“I’ll have you know that I’ve been having sex since I was thirteen,” Daniel said.
“Letting your cousin touch your junk through your eighth grade graduation robe doesn’t count as sex,” Kate said.
“Don’t act like you never wanted me,” Daniel said to Kate, which of course we all knew was untrue.
“Well, there goes my appetite,” Kate said.
The details of Daniel’s life were always questionable. We all knew Patrick was a virgin. I, on the other hand, was not so virginal, but my dabbling was nothing compared to getting it regularly as Kate did with Derek and many who came before him. I was wondering if the sex alone was good enough to make Kate stay with him when our waitress delivered our food.
Daniel ended up ordering a California cheesesteak and curly fries while I settled on a bagel even though I still wasn’t really hungry. Kate picked on cheese fries and coffee and Patrick was content with his unsweetened iced tea.
As we ate, Daniel started telling us about how this girl Rebecca (whom none of us had ever heard of) was into him. I already knew that this Rebecca person will never come up in the future and I learned a long time ago not to ask questions like “Whatever happened to…?” An explanation from Daniel was a task of separating fact from embellishment. I wouldn’t call him an outright liar, but in his versions of stories he always came off a little too well and the others he spoke of definitely did not. Daniel constantly saw himself in the tall and skinny funhouse mirror while everyone else he saw was short and fat and warped. Furthermore, Daniel always had tales of girls that were supposedly chasing him, yet my gaydar suspected otherwise. It was never discussed, nor would I want to have that discussion, but my instincts had Daniel pegged as a homosexual living in a very thin, poorly constructed closet with a flimsy door that was going to fall off its hinges any day.
“So, it’s not a total loss, right?” Kate asked, bringing the conversation back to my father’s impromptu business trip. “I mean, at least you’ll have the house to yourself for a while.”
“This is true.” I said.
“What? You have the house to yourself?” Daniel asked, enthusiastically. “Party at the Travster’s,” he said with a grin.
“I’m not really in a party mood, Daniel. And how many times do I have to tell you not to call me Travster?”
“Alright, alright. Put the claws away.”
“Anyway,” I continued, “it looks like I’m stuck taking the bus up to mom’s.”
“Oh, lord,” Daniel remarked, “You’re going to be a bus person?” His inflection made it sound like I was going to hitch a ride on the back of a livestock truck.
“I’ve taken the bus before, Daniel. I’m already a bus person.”
“Ew.”
“What’s wrong with taking the bus?” Kate asked. “You take a bus to school, right?”
“That’s, like, a whole different dimension of public transportation,” Daniel said. “They’re not full of mutants with freaky diseases and screaming babies.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Kate said.
“What diseases?” Patrick asked.
“Badly outdated hair,” Daniel said, counting on his fingers. “And children. And poverty.”
“Stop being such a tool,” Kate said.
“Well, I might be a tool,” Daniel replied, “but Travis knows I’m right. Don’t you?” He turned his attention to me.
I sighed. “Don’t make me say it.”