West of Mars -- the Meet and Greet

I told Rhian last week that I'd post some high school antics for her in today's Poetry Train. Come on and jump on the train -- and don't forget the Hidden Treasures Contest! We're starting to wind down, so get your reviews in soon.

It was 3AM, right on the nose, when Patterson pulled into the driveway. He was so tired, he felt like he had to use his whole body to get the gear shifter, mounted to the steering column, up and into park. He hated these late-night calls, always had. He hated having to leave Sonya's side, hated having to sneak in and out of his own house so he didn't wake the kids.

Mitchell, at least, slept through anything. Short of pouring water over his head, that boy was near impossible to wake. An annoyance most days, on nights like this, it was a blessing.

With Amy at college, that should have been one less closed bedroom door to creep past. But she'd come home for a few days, needing to get away from the ruckus in the dormitory in order to study for one of her pre-med exams. He'd be sneaking for sure; she needed her rest.

Amy should have known better than to come home seeking peaceful surroundings, Patterson thought as he gathered up his briefcase and swung the door open. Since Trevor had moved in, the house wasn't silent anymore. Even when the boy wasn't home, it still crackled with his energy, as though he had somehow bewitched it.

That boy… Patterson sighed and heaved himself out of the front seat. Sonya had always wanted two boys to compliment her two girls, but Patterson didn't think she'd envisioned a son like Trevor. He'd come to live with them as the result of another late-night call and while no one regretted it, it certainly hadn't turned out as expected. The brightest point in a world made brighter by having Trevor in it full-time was that Mitchell was actually getting into less trouble these days. It seemed that having his partner in crime become a permanent fixture was making the novelty of their antics wear off. It was only a matter of time now before Mitchell straightened out the rest of the way. Nothing at all to worry about.

Patterson paused by the door, halted by what sounded like a cat in heat in the back yard. Since Mrs. Bretton's prize Persian had been impregnated by the Wilsons' tom, and since the coyotes had grabbed three cats from further up the street, the neighbors had been militant about keeping their pets inside, especially at night. It was doubtful that there was a cat, particularly a cat in heat, in the back yard.

What was back there -- or more appropriately, who -- didn't surprise Patterson in the least. Trevor perched a good ten feet up in a tree, one of the boys' guitars on his lap. Thankfully, given the hour, not even Trevor had been able to electrify it that high up.

Obstacles, however, didn't stop Trevor. Patterson groaned as the young man, seemingly oblivious to his company -- although with Trevor, one was never certain of anything except that frustration was imminent -- began to sing.

"Son, come on down now," Patterson called up to him.

"Finally home, huh? Did you catch the bad guys?"

"Nevermind that. Come on down before you fall and land on that guitar of yours."

"Not gonna happen, powerful legal guardian. I'm busy serenading the neighborhood. Wrote the song myself. Like it?"

Patterson wiped a hand over his face. "Trevor, son, it's late and we should both be in bed. You have school in the morning and I have work. Come down."

"Actually, it's early. And school's a waste of time."

"Regardless, you and I made a deal and I expect you to uphold it."

"I want to see who else I can wake up."

"So far, you would seem to have woken absolutely no one."

Trevor shrugged. "So I'm starting small. But mark my words, one day, when I'm famous and the whole fucking world respects me, these treeside serenades will be what people all up and down the street remember. And every single one of these losers who's too busy sleeping to appreciate my bad music will suddenly be my best friend." He cocked his head. "Sort of like how until you Vosses came along, all the people who pretended to be my friend would bug out every single time I showed up with a new black eye. Only in reverse." Trevor gave one of his satisfied nods, the ones that Patterson had learned meant he was hurting. "You watch. Every single person on this street will be able to tell you what songs I sang up here. Their memories will be so good, in fact, that they'll fucking fight about them."

"I suspect you're right," Patterson told him. This wasn't the first late-night escapade Trevor had pulled, and it wouldn't be the last, Patterson was sure of it. They tended to occur when the boy had nightmares and feared a return to sleep. This was probably the only part of the Trevor experience that he felt ill-equipped to handle; the boy's scars ran deeper than anyone had anticipated.

"Well," he said as Trevor began plucking away at the guitar again. "I am going to bed. These late nights may not be hard for you, but they are for an old man like me. I expect to see you at breakfast, ready for school."

"I told you. I'm not going to school."

"Then you will have to find yourself a new place to live." He stepped back a few paces so he could see Trevor better. "That was our deal, and I know you're not a deal breaker." He paused to let that sink in. The boy's pride would get the better of him; it always did. "Come inside with me and let's go to bed."

Trevor laughed, a brittle sound that carried farther and struck Patterson more deeply than his singing had. "Yeah, like I've even got a bed in this place. All you people gave me was a sleeping bag on blondie's floor."

"I seem to recall you being quite grateful for that sleeping bag. So grateful, in fact, that you refused our offer of a more permanent sleeping situation."

Trevor stroked his chin and pretended to think that over. "Know what I'm thinking?"

"Trevor, your thoughts are entirely your own."

"And that's a good thing. Remember that." Trevor pointed at Patterson like he was issuing an order. "Maybe I ought to go show some gratitude for that sleeping bag of mine."

"Wise choice, son."

Trevor monkeyed halfway down the tree, handed over his bass, and jumped, landing neatly beside his guardian. "But I mean it. One day, when the band's the biggest of the big, all the losers on this street will remember this night."

"Trevor, of that I have no doubt."

Labels: creative writing, fiction, outtake, Poetry Train, Trevor