West of Mars -- the Meet and Greet

Trevor cradled his head in his arms and stared at the clouds. It was one of those days that was warm and the sun felt so good that he swore he could feel it reaching inside him and working on all those old broken bones, the ones the doctors said had healed but that hurt every now and then, anyway.

If he closed his eyes, he could imagine his body trying to repair itself. Eighteen was way too fucking young to be stuck with the scars from broken ribs, arms, and legs. Not to mention his nose; good thing Mitchell's dad knew someone who'd been able to save it from looking and acting like a mashed potato. So fucking what if it had a hook and looked like a bird's beak? It worked, it didn't hurt, and hopefully no one would break it again.

The only thing he needed to make this scene down by the river even better was a girl, soothing other parts of him. Maybe even more than one. Maybe one part per girl. Trevor had a lot of parts.

When the shadow fell over him, he knew better than to hope some higher being had agreed with his plan. It had to be Mitchell, and not just because the big idiot was probably the only other person who knew about this spot. Trevor had been waiting for Mitchell to get the news and show up. Mitchell was dependable like that.

"Why'd you do it?" Mitchell asked with a sigh before Trevor even opened his eyes.

For a second, Trevor thought about pretending to be asleep, letting Mitchell rant until he got so frustrated with Trevor's lack of response that he left. But it wouldn't be out of the blue if Mitchell tried to kick him awake, either, and wasn't he feeling some healing going on?

"I had a point to make," he finally said.

"Which was?" Mitchell sat down beside him. Trevor could picture him stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankle, leaning back on his elbows and turning his face to the sun.

"That if people don't wake up and fucking think for themselves, they'll never get anywhere in life."

"Maybe they're right. That you can't get anywhere without a high school diploma."

"Dude," Trevor said, opening his eyes and turning his head so he could look at Mitchell -- who was, predictably, stretched out just like Trevor had imagined. "We're in a band. We've got tour dates booked. We're going places. What do we need the lies they feed us in that joint for?"

"Just in case."

Trevor snorted, making Mitchell open his left eye, the one that was now looking right at Trev. "If things are broke, you ought to fix them," he insisted.

"So fix it," Mitchell said. "Don't go running off in a huff and expect everyone to fucking get it just 'cause you tell them to."

"If you don't shake things up, no one fixes shit. You know that as well as I do."

"Maybe they don't see a problem."

Trevor shook his head. Of course he didn't expect Mitchell to get it. People liked Mitchell. And he was a Voss. If he came to school with a fresh black eye every week, no one would sit his ass down and tell him that he should take lots of shop classes because that was going to be the best he would do for himself in life.

"I don't need a fucking piece of paper to prove I'm worth something," Trevor insisted.

"So shut up and just go and be something already."

Trevor jumped to his feet. "I'm fucking trying!" he screamed. "I'm the one getting out there and lining up gigs for us! I'm the one kissing ass and trying to figure out the fucking contracts and all that other happy shit that goes along with this! The way you three pussies act, I'm the only one who cares about this band!"

"That's because you're the only one of us without a fall-back plan," Mitchell said mildly.

"That's because I'm the only smart one around here," Trevor shot back. "I'm the one with all the faith Eric's always preaching about. Where's his? Where's yours? If I weren't up all your asses, you'd all be perfectly happy to sit around in your mom's basement and make music all day."

"Nothing wrong with that."

"There will be," Trevor said, jumping up and searching his pockets for a cigarette. "When she shakes things up and throws you out of her house and on your ass. Admit it. You won't do shit until she does."

Mitchell shrugged. "Maybe."

Trevor stomped a foot and dropped his lighter. "And that's my point!" He stabbed the air with his cigarette. "People don't do shit unless they're forced to. I'm not sitting around, waiting for you three to stop being scared of leaving town. I'm not wasting any more time in that fucking school. And I'm not putting up with any more shit! I want to fucking live already! Do shit I can tell my kids about one day! Live, motherfucker. I know I'm not the only one here who wants to."

Mitchell handed his lighter back. "Making another scene, or is this the one you didn't get to make in the office at school?"

"Fuck you, M," Trevor snarled and turned his back on his best friend. He'd known Mitchell wouldn't get it. Coddled little brothers like him didn't know how to scrap for shit. Well, he'd show him, Trevor would. He'd make their stupid little band into the biggest thing to come out of Riverview, or he'd die trying.

Labels: creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, Trevor