“How was school today?" Martin asked, as I shoved my backpack (which was full of homework I knew I wasn’t going to do) onto the recently vacuumed floorboard of the car. Only Martin, I thought to myself, climbing in. Only Martin would take pride in his $500 cash car. My older brother’s flexible work schedule was one of the reasons that he was picked as my guardian over our druggie sister Sam. Ha.
As I went to open the car door, I heard Martin say, “Callie, I’m talking to you,” in an annoyed tone. The truth was, I hadn’t heard him with Boulevard of Broken Dreams blasting justifiedly in my ears, but it really rubbed me the wrong way when he took that tone with me, his angelic little sister. To show him this, I slammed the car door shut. Whatever. I knew I was headed to a place perfect Martin didn’t even know about. A place so dirty and discarded even I barely even wanted to go to it.
I entered the scrap yard and pushed the gate just open enough for me to be able to bend what little curves I had around the opening. Once cozied up against a stack of PVC pipes, away from another living soul, I breathed for the 1st time that day. I watched as the fog billowed from my lips and out into the cold air like a chimney, and I wanted to cry.
I rubbed my eyes and felt my damp, sticky face. The starry night proved it was past midnight. From a block away, I saw Martin’s hunched-over silhouette peeking out through our outdated, lacy living room curtains. This meant I had to get home.
“Before you say anything-” I said, stepping inside of the shared living room/kitchen area, but my fashionably late entrance did not amuse. Martin’s finger pointed in the direction of my room, and I went timidly, tail bent between legs. When I got to my room, I climbed into bed, ready for this shit day to be over with, but before I closed my eyes, I noticed that instead of a cat barely holding onto a branch in the “Hang in There” poster, there was a boy.
In my poster!
Startled, I ended up on the floor beside bed. After the nearly-soundless thud, I heard Martin’s heavy footsteps walking down the hallway. Oh no. The boy in the poster and I both froze; he sucked in and hung onto his branch tighter while I scrambled back into bed. Needless to say, when Martin pushed the door open, he looked unhappy to see the small Disney castle and North Pole snow globe that used to be on my wicker nightstand broken and on the floor. The boy and I exhaled and looked at each other when the door finally closed.
“Who are you?” I asked him.
“Your brother as his 14-year-old self ,” he calmly explained to me, stepping out of the poster and climbing into bed with me. In his spot under the branch, the original chubby tabby cat resumed its position. Then, 14-Year-Old Martin sarcastically added, “The junkyard gods, otherwise known as the adverse effects of asbestos, sent me.”
I was groggy as I slouched out of bed the next morning. The spoon I used to eat with clinked the bowl. I hadn’t tasted a single crunch that the Captain had just fed me.
“Hurry up!” I said, banging on the bathroom door. “I can’t afford another tardy.”
14-Year-Old Martin from the night before stepped out of the bathroom with one towel tied snugly around the tree stump of his waist and another delicately balanced in his hair. Now, the resemblance was striking. Martin always had soft features and dull blue eyes tucked behind the air of self-consciousness that always lurked around him.
“Did you at least leave any hot water for me?” I asked.
14-Year-Old Martin only shook his head. I knew it was a weak shot, but I looked over at the adult Martin anyway, to see if he was even remotely aware of our intruder.
“Goodbye,” I called out, as a last chance minutes later, too weirded out to be able to shower. We walked to school together in silence; I, still not accepting his presence. For some unknown reason, I felt like I was the one following him. Once I got to school, I realized 14-Year-Old Martin wasn’t with me anymore. When had he left? How had he slipped away without me noticing? I decided the best thing to do was go on my usual route and let him do all the work of finding me, since this was kind of his mission and all.
I saw Mr. Hemming’s writing class ahead, though the hallway I walked across was unusually chilly. And, as I got further down the hall, the walkway gradually disintegrated into dead grass, autumn trees, and crisp sky. Shivering, I realized I was now standing outside. Through the window in front of me, there was 14-Year-Old Martin wearing his flannel and knitted beanie hat, reading a book. So, this was a flashback. This must be what 14-Year-Old Martin wanted me to see. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw a girl and two boys come into the scene. They didn’t look antisocial, and I felt like I should already hold that against them.
“Hey, Martin,” the taller of the boys said.
Martin didn’t reply.
“Good book?” the girl asked while the shorter boy grabbed the book out of Martin’s hand.
A principal walked into the hallway at the same time 14-Year-Old Martin stood up and pushed the book-grabber forcefully against the wall. I banged on the glass of the window, desperate, because I knew that the principal was going to think. 14-Year-Old Martin didn’t flinch when the principal grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the office. I saw the flashback start to fade out and 14-Year-Old Martin split into two: one version the boy with his head down in the office and the other one that met me outside of the main exit. We started walking. To where? I had no idea where we would end up.
“What happened next?” I asked him after a long stretch of silence.
“Well, I certainly didn’t have anyone to go on a walk with afterwards,” he said, looking over at me. “I sat there until it was clear Mom and Dad weren’t going to show up, and I was put through everything you are being put through right now. The bullies never had consequences, and I’m actually Facebook friends with the 3 now.”
“Here, you have to-'' I started to explain, as we approached the junkyard by my house, but 14-Year-Old Martin pushed open and slipped right around the gate, better than I could.
“What? Are you surprised?” he asked me. “I practically lived here growing up.”
“How can you be so calm about it?”
“Callie, my dear sister, I look much better than those assholes do now. Their kids are bullies. They have horrible, boring jobs that don’t allow them any flexibility. I’m friends with them on social media now because I don’t think they’re a threat. They don’t have anything over me. And Mom and Dad suck right now, but I’m here. Your brother Martin is there everyday. For you.”
We spent the rest of the day like this, hanging out in the junkyard that turned out Martin knew everything about. I checked my phone. It was 3:30, so 14-Year-Old Martin and I walked back to the house so that Real-Life Martin could give me a ride to another counseling session. When Martin came home, I wanted to be laying in bed after school like any other Wednesday. 14-Year-Old Martin sat on the chair by my desk, but when Real-Life Martin came in, I saw that the 14-year-old boy was back inside of my “Hang in There” poster.
“Talk to him,” he told me before I slipped out the door.
“I’m not making any promises.”
“Are you coming?” Real-Life Martin called inside the house.
“Please, don’t cry again, Callie.”
Theme: GROWTH COMES FROM PERSONAL EXPERIENCES (AND NOT THE POSTER THAT’S TACKED ONTO THE WALL). Growth comes from how you apply the motivational words being thrown at you and not just having them around. Growth takes time; it can’t be forced. Having a poster on your wall doesn’t do anything, besides in the case of this extraordinary experience.
This was a Fiction Writing Assignment in 11th Grade at Bettendorf High School. Extraordinary experience but way too many motivational posters. I understand the short story is not perfect, but it pays homage to the Young, Hopeful, and Clueless high school kiddo I was <3
Credit for Image: "Laundry Clothes Line" by wal_172619 from Pixabay, 4 Dec. 2023. https://pixabay.com/photos/laundry-clothes-line-clothing-8424501/. Accessed 27 November 2024.