Excerpt Two: A Friendly Chat

He sat on the porch later that day. There were too many people in the house, and now Mr. and Mrs. Parker, November’s parents, were over, speaking quietly to Raphael’s parents and aunt and uncle. The children—Gabe, Jess, Helen, and John—had been excused. Gabe, Jess, and Helen were probably down in the lobby right now, and who knew/cared where John was.

Raphael sat on the concrete, his back to the wall and he looked out at Portland outside. His mind was blank; he spent way too much time in the past few hours thinking and thinking and thinking. He was afraid that his brain would slip right out of his ears. But on second thought, it may be better that way.

The door slid open and John stepped out. He smirked at Raphael, his lip ring glittering in the fading evening light.

“Mind if I smoke?” he asked, pulling out a package of cigarettes. He walked over to the edge of the balcony and leaned against the railing as he pulled out his lighter.

“Since when do you smoke?” asked Raphael.

John gave him another smirk. “Since about two hours ago. Want one?”

Raphael shook his head. “No, not really. And you should not be smoking those, either.”

“Yes, mother,” said John. He lit the cigarette and put the lighter in his pocket. Inhaling deeply, he suddenly started coughing. He covered his mouth and coughed again.

So he came out here to attempt to smoke? wondered Raphael.

“So, Fail, what’s up?” asked John, turning around to face Raphael and leaning against the balcony railing. “I see that your imagination’s acting up, eh?”

Raphael glowered, but just stared at the floor. Does he really have to do this? It’s bad enough as it is.

John seemed to notice this. He held up his hands defensively and said, “Hey, alright, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Yeah right, thought Raphael. If there was one goal John had in life, it was to offend people.

Raphael could remember years ago when he actually looked forward to coming to Portland to spend time with his cousins. John was pretty shy back then, and Raphael felt sorry for him because his parents obviously preferred his older brother. Then there was the accident. Raphael did not know all of the details, but John’s brother, Frank, ended up dead. Electrocuted in the bathtub. Raphael felt horrible for John, but after that, he was a totally different guy. Instead of being shy, he was simply withdrawn. He would hide out in his room whenever Raphael and his siblings came over. He once overheard his aunt telling Raphael’s mother that she suspected that John was doing drugs and—gasp—he stole some clothing from the store. She was not one hundred per cent sure, but she thought that they might be girls’ pants.

A different John now. One who smirked instead of smiled. One whose favorite extracurricular activity was not videogames but stabbing his bedroom wall . It made Raphael kind of sad, and his stays with his aunt and uncle were never quite as fun.

“Okay, well,” said John, trying to keep the conversation going. He twitched his lip ring with his tongue. “So, did you really see zombies?”

Raphael looked up at him. Was he serious or was he making fun of Raphael?

“Well, yeah,” answered Raphael.

John gave a little laugh. “Shit, you’re really messed up, man.”

Well, isn’t that just the pot calling the kettle black, thought Raphael. He winced when he realized that he was just using the old saying his mother was so fond of.

“I am actually telling the truth,” he told John. Then he added under his breath, “At least some of us do.”

John rolled his eyes dramatically, emphasizing the orange eye shadow ringing the black eyeliner. “Yeah, I tell the truth to,” said John. “But at least I don’t think I’m fricken dead.”

Raphael tensed up. Did he have to bring that up? What he had worked on for two and a half years now to control and understand had suddenly been bruised and damaged with the death of his little sister. And John was now pouring salt of the wound.

Then Raphael wondered if this was John’s attempt at a friendly chat. He suddenly felt bad for thinking mean things about his cousin; he was just trying to do his best to talk to him about, well, normal things.

Because dead was normal to Raphael. And to John. Two teenagers who had nothing in common were both united in death. The irony.

“Well, I don’t think that I’m dead,” said Raphael calmly. “I know that I’m dead.”

John snorted. “Yeah, okay,” he said. He turned back and looked at the Portland skyline. Raphael could practically hear his eyes rolling in his head.

The door opened once more, and John’s mom stepped outside. “Sorry to interrupt your conversation—“ (John snorted again) “—but it’s time for dinner. Unless you boys would like me to bring dinner out here and, good gracious, John, is that a cigarette?!?”

John raised his eyebrows and spread his lips in a mock smile, waving the cigarette in the air in front of him.

“John, you know that that’s bad for your health,” scolded his mother.

“Mum, I’ve already gotten the lecture,” he said, glancing down at Raphael. He glanced back to his mother, then headed inside, brushing past her.

She looked down at Raphael and gave him a sympathetic smile. Raphael turned and looked out the balcony.

Excerpt One: Leon's Destiny Revealed

“Let’s put Cody where he belongs.”

Leon backed into the alley, surrounded by six of the school jocks. His eyes were wide and he backed slowly away, tripping once over a piece of garbage. The lead jock—none other than Bobby Hughes—cracked his knuckles menacingly. He smiled his creepy grin and the boys behind him laughed.

Leon started to panic. They would beat up him again and he had done nothing this time. He would return home and his mother and father would look at him disapprovingly. “Why can’t you be like your older brother?” Leon knew what they didn’t know. Their precious child sold drugs to high school students near his college. But Leon never said this. Why create more problems than necessary?

The boys circled around him, and Bobby drew back his fist, then slammed it forward into Leon’s face, immediately blackening his eye. Leon fell backwards against the stone wall and hit his head. He sat down on the ground and rubbed his head, wincing. Well, it wasn’t too bad, he consoled himself. But before he could contemplate the extend of his injury, the fist connected with his face once again, this time causing blood to run from his nose. He fell back to the ground and sat there, looking at the dirty floor and hoping that Bobby would just leave and take his gang with him.

What luck! They were almost done. Bobby, who seemed to grow tired of picking on Leon today, grabbed him and with help from his friends (since Leon was not lacking too much in height), tossed the boy into the garbage dumpster, where he landed amongst a pile of stinking debris. He lay there on his back, his head pounding and his nose gushing, but he didn’t move as he looked up at the darkening evening sky above him. Maybe he wouldn’t even bother coming home tonight; his parents would not miss him.

Footsteps and laughter disappeared, and Leon knew that Bobby and his gang were leaving. He let out a long sigh. Yes, tonight he would not go home. He would probably smell at school tomorrow, but . . . but tonight he wouldn’t return home.

Finally he sat up, his head spinning wildly. He put his hand to his forehead to stop it and then he fished a Kleenex out of his pocket and pressed it against his bleeding nose. He had learned that you were supposed to tilt your head back when you had a bloody nose, but he knew that you could choke if you did that. Experience, maybe. But he did not want to choke.

“I love you too,” he said aloud, not really realizing that he even uttered the words. He leaned against the inside of the dumpster.

“Oh, Leon,” said the talking pie. “You barely know me.”

Leon jumped and let out a scream of terror. He fumbled around in the garbage, trying to find a way out of it. He was alone! How could there be talking? He knew that he didn’t say anything, and now there was talking!

Had he really done more damage when he hit his head than he thought? Leon was one to talk to himself . . . but he at least answered with his own voice.

As he scrambled around the dumpster trying to find the rim and his head throbbing wildly, the pie spoke again, “Leon, don’t try to leave.”Leon paused in his frantic clambering and looked around him. There, buried slightly by a pile of garbage near where Leon had been thrown, was a pie with slits in the top for eyes and a mouth. It smiled jovially at him.

“I’ve lost it!” he said to himself as he gazed at the pie sitting there with that pie-y grin on its face.

“Don’t worry, Leon,” said the pie. “You’re still sane. Well, as sane as Leon Cody could possibly be.”

Leon looked down at it and considered this. A talking pie calling him sane? Although the boy’s right hand was on the lip of the dumpster, he didn’t bother trying to get out now. He was too interested in this . . . pie.

“Who are you and how do you know me?” asked Leon, sinking back down to his knees on the pile of garbage.

“One question at a time,” chirped the pie. Leon saw with fascination that a couple of berries formed the eyeballs inside the slits in the crust. He watched with awe as the pie continued to talk. “I am here so that you can fulfill your destiny.”

Leon shook his head. “I have no destiny.”

The pie took him in, the boy with the white hair and the pale skin, the dark eyes and the equally dark circles ringing around them, the blood dripping from his nose. No, Leon knew as the pie scrutinized him that he certainly was not a person of great destiny, especially not one who had to “fulfill his destiny.”

“I believe that you are a naïve little boy,” said the pie now. “But I think you have great potential which has not been realized here.”

Leon frowned at the pie, trying to figure out what the heck it was really trying to get at. The pie looked steadily back at the boy.

“So what . . . what is my destiny?” asked Leon finally. This had to be a joke.

“You will soon find out,” answered the pie.

Leon reached out a shaking hand, his fingers completely white. He picked up the pie and turned it around in the air, trying to find the string attached to it.

“What are you doing?” demanded the pie, its tiny voice high with fear.

“I’m looking for your batteries,” said Leon, now flipping the pie almost upside down so that he could examine the bottom of the pie pan.

“I don’t have batteries, you fool!” screeched the pie. Leon, satisfied with what he found, returned the pie to the top of the garbage heap in front of him. “I don’t get paid enough for this,” huffed the pie.

“Okay, what do I do?” asked Leon, intently watching the pie’s reaction.

The pie said, “You must come with me.”

“Where are we going?” the boy asked.

“You’ll see.”

“How do we get there?”

“Hold my hand.”

“You don’t have a hand,” Leon reminded the pie.

“Oh, crap, you’re right,” said the pie. It looked like it was biting its lip as it thought, and Leon sat back on top of the garbage, sinking slightly in its filth.

“Okay,” continued the pie, “pick me up. But don’t drop me! And don’t turn me over.”

Leon nodded and reached out, picking up the pie gently with both hands. The pie grimaced as it traveled upwards closer to Leon.

“Now make a wish,” ordered the pie.

Leon thought about it for a moment. “I guess . . . I guess I wish to be happy.”

“You know I was just joking about that part,” said the pie with a little giggle.

Leon looked away at the pile of garbage, his eyes downcast.

“Alright, alright, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” said the pie hastily. “Now, close your eyes. I’m serious about this one.”

Leon closed his eyes, and immediately felt like he was disappearing, disintegrating into nothing. He opened up his eyes just in time to see a black space filled with twinkling stars envelope him and the pie.