Or at least in someone’s garage, dreaming of being on a stage.
He steps right up to me, with his bag slung over his left shoulder. A lazy smile hangs on his lips as he pushes his hand through his sandy blond hair. “You have first period bio, right?”
What the fuck?
“Uh, yeah.”
“Cool. Let’s go.” Then he turns toward the ringleader of the bully welcoming committee. “Hey, Alex.”
“Hey, Hendrix.”
“Might want to lay off the onions in the morning. Your breath is rank.” Alex’s eyes go wide a second before his expression hardens. If he was planning on offering a rebuttal, he doesn’t get a chance, because Hendrix relaxes back into that easy-going smile again and pats him on the shoulder like they’re good buds. Something tells me they’re definitely not. “Thanks for looking out for my new friend, Hollis. I’m sure you were making him feel welcome.”
That hand on his shoulder squeezes. Hard. “Yup,” Alex winces.
“Oh, and Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“Stay the fuck away from my sister.”
Hendrix motions for me to follow him, and I suddenly wonder if I’m just trading one bully for another, but I walk ahead anyway.
“I’m Hendrix,” he says once we’re out of earshot of Alex and his friends.
“I gathered that. What I don’t understand is how you know who I am.”
“Oh.” He laughs. “I was in the front office when you came in this morning. Heard them say your name and go over your schedule. I’m nosy as fuck. But it worked out, right?”
“I can fight my own battles.”
“Oh, no doubt,” he agrees. “But I meant it more like now you have an excuse to be my friend.”
“I don’t really do friends.”
That’s usually a conversation ender. Not for Hendrix, though. He just seems to go with the flow and instead nods and says, “That’s because you’ve never been mine.”
Chapter Four
HOLLIS
On Friday morning, I wake up in a shit mood.
It’s been years since I thought about the Creed family.
Okay, not years, but outside of my scheduled therapy sessions, I’ve managed to shove all those memories to the back of my mind.
But seeing Hendrix in the club last night was like opening a closet full of crap you don’t want to deal with. You pack it so tightly that even the slightest turn of the handle could trigger an avalanche. Now, it seems I can’t think about anything but the Creeds and the year I spent almost believing I could be part of their family.
After a shower and a cup of coffee, I finally break down and text my therapist. It’s taken me a long time to realize that the shit I went through as a kid was still affecting me as an adult.
I think the tipping point was when I had a woman sleep over, and the next morning, as she was drinking a cup of coffee, she said something like, “Isn’t moving the worst?” When I gave her a funny look, she pointed to the stack of boxes in the corner—the ones that had been there for more than two years. The ones I never ever unpack.
My therapist says I’m afraid to put down roots because I never got a chance to plant any as a child.
She’s poetic like that.
My mom moved us around a lot, so much so that I lost track. It was always, “Oh, Steve’s house is so nice, you’re gonna love it,” or, “There’s a park near Mario’s place that has ducks, and he says he’ll take you for ice cream whenever you want.”
