Each time Bubba’s face ticks, I prepare to launch, but then Bubba just sits there, not making a move.
When Harold’s eyes meet mine, they look completely black, not a drop of light left in them. He’s staring at me like I just fucked his girl or something, and then he lifts the syringe over his head and walks forward slowly like this is a really bad eighties horror film.
For a split second, the world narrows to the glint of the needle and the pounding of my heart. I glance sideways at Bubba, searching for any sign—a twitch, a nod, anything—that it's time to move. But he stays stone-still, his eyes sharp. He's waiting for the perfect second. Somewhere deep inside, I cling to that sliver of hope, trusting that Bubba won't let this fuckin’ creep get the jump on us. The air is electric, and every muscle in my body is alive, ready to spring the instant Bubba gives the word.
“Johnny?”
“Yeah?”
He swallows, his eyes darting back to Harold. “Now.”
I move like static on a powerline, each step taken done with crackling pain igniting in my heels. I’ve never been a fan of astral projection, especially after the mishap in the changing room last time. It’s the fucking worst, but we’re at a standstill, and I’m a heartbroken mess of a boy, missing hisDaddies deeply.
I’ve only attempted the celestial walk a handful of times, never quite getting the hang of it. My psychic buddy, Brenny-pooh, says as long as I mentally latch onto a name and picture the person's face with my whole heart, I shall always bridge sleep’s divide, sounding like a fucking weirdo. I don’t know about all that, but I do know about Bubba, and I know about Johnny, so they’re who I cling to as the walk begins.
Physically, I’m lying in bed, surrounded by a circle of cinnamon-scented candles, each strategically placed around the bed. Each made by Ladonna. I helped, too, but I didn’t help a lot, so I don’t want to take credit. I just stood there scowling, being the world’s worst houseguest, knowing I was behaving like a prick the whole time, unable to refrain from prickish behavior. Then she did the funniest thing. She crinkled her nose and kissed my forehead, telling me I was the best helper she ever had. I don’t know if she was simply placating me, or if my candle-making skills are truly unmatched. All I know is when she said it, she was trying to make me happy. At every turn, she tries to make sure I’m comfortable. It makes it suck a lot less.
Ahead of me, purple mist spreads down the darkened tunnel, and I follow it for what feels like hours. When the tunnel opens up, I walk into a breathtaking setting. A highway through the galaxy, with stars going supernova all around. It’s a sight not unlike the Rainbow Road level inSuper Mario Kart. Picturesque is putting it lightly. It’s a fucking vision.
The road ahead is made of illuminated bricks, each shade a different hue, creating a rainbow with each step I take. I can’t lie, astral projection is super fucking gay, and I love that for my community. I skip down the neon highway. Why not? Who’s going to stop me? There’s not a soul in sight in the blackish, purple abyss, just me and aroad lighting up like the letters onWheel of Fortuneeach time my foot touches down.
I can’t remember where I’m supposed to be going. There’s no memory of my reason for being here. I feel like a man torn in two, like I’m half here, half not. I know I’m looking for something so, so very important to me. Something I may never have the chance to find again. It deserves all my attention, but then my attention wanders. Away from the neon light beneath my feet, off to my left. In the distance, there’s a scene unfolding. A man and woman, created as constellations, their bodies made of shining stars. They appear in jagged patterns, jittering and jolting out at the most confusing angles. The woman is sitting in a heap, legs tucked to her chest, arms wrapped around, holding them in place.
Mom.
I don’t know how I know it’s her, but I know it more than I’ve ever known anything. Her body is a swarm of pinks and reds, and the most stunning shades of purple. My father’s skin flickers in grays and olive green, lackluster and visually unappealing. Accurate.
I know this setting, and I know the scene playing out in front of me, but I don’t really understand what I’m seeing. Astral projection. It’s all in the name. A method of projecting oneself astrally. Visiting a different place in the world, right here, right now. This isn’t the present, though. This is a memory. My memory. The very, very worst memory.
I don’t want it. I’ve spent years pushing it down, but I don’t remember the specifics. I try not to think of this moment. Barbara usually floods my heart with warmth anytime it comes to mind, but Barbara’s abandoned me just like Dad did.
This is the day I lost her. This is the last memory I have of my mom. Dad is staring down at her in her crumpled heap, making allthese small, pained sounds. After she died, Dad said Mom had an accident—that she simply slipped and fell—but then he wouldn’t talk about it again, and I was no longer allowed to mention her.
Mom is writhing on the floor, and I stretch out at her side, unable to leave her while she’s hurting, even if I’m only locked in a memory. We’re lying face to face, and blue stars trickle down her cheeks like teardrops. I hear her whisper my name. Again, again, again, she calls out, “Ezra,” in this soft, soothing tone, like she’s trying to calm me down. She’s hurting—I can hear it in her voice—but she’s staring over at the toddler version of me, sitting a few feet away. I didn’t even see me there.
“Momma,” the smaller, starry version of myself cries, but my mother shakes her head.
“I love you. Momma loves you, Ezzy. I’ll always be with you, baby. I swear.”
But then she fades from sight.
To the side, Dad shifts, and another starry person enters the fold. Gold and green, and fucking hideous, my stepmother sits on what appears to be a starry sofa as my father glares down at me. We’ve moved on to another memory, just as dark, just as awful.
“You and that McMillan boy,” he growls. “You were kissing on him like a goddamn queer.”
“Dad.” The words are mine, but they feel foreign. “I’m still me. It’s still me, no matter who I kiss.” Immediately to my side, there’s a younger version of me, but older than the one my mom was talking to, earlier. He’s thirteen, and he’s shaking like a leaf.
I don’t want this memory. Why the fuck do I have to see this again? Wasn’t once enough? I’m all alone on the rainbow road, watching as my father prepares to throw me away. I don't want to see this. It hurt enough the first time.
My stepmom sits there, saying nothing, yet somehow saying everything all at once. There’s disappointment dominating the galaxies in her eyes. There’s a cigarette in her hand, and with each inhale, pink smoke spreads through her translucent lungs.
“Please,” I whisper, but it isn’t this version of me. It’s not current-era Ezra. It’s little me. Baby Ezra, looking sad and scared at thirteen years old. I can see it now. All the hurt that’s festered inside me all these years, personified, etched across my starry likeness. He knows his world is changing. He’s aware things will never be the same, but there’s still that sliver of hope to cling to. I see it. It’s right there in his eyes. It’s just a drop of pink in a sea of black, but it’s there, and it’s bright it’s fucking blinding. “Mommy, please?”
She glares at the younger me. “I am not your fucking mommy. Thank fucking God.” She turns to my father. “Do it. Get his perverted ass out of this house.”
I remember how much it hurt to watch them give me away. They surrendered me so easily, like I was a Christmas puppy purchased by an irresponsible owner, disposable and unworthy of their love. Five minutes earlier, my very first boyfriend gave me my very first kiss. We made plans to share a milkshake on Saturday night. All of that was gone. With the twist of a doorknob, my world crumbled around me.
Baby Ezra needed someone. He was lost at sea, fighting the tide, and there wasn’t a buoy to be found.
