Chapter Text
You’re sweating so much you swear your skin is melting off and mixing with the water drops as they roll down. You’re practically welded to your bed from the heat, your limbs spread out like a starfish, desperate for the cool air coming from the window AC unit and two fans surrounding you to soak into your skin. The white plastic fan propped up on the desk that’s pushed up against the walk opposite to your bed is groaning in complaint of having to spin tirelessly all day. The ceiling fan is on the highest setting, even shaking a little which makes you worry it might take off on its own. The window unit that has held witness to every phase of your life sounds as if it’s using its last breath to cool the air as much as it can. Usually, your brother would fight with you for hogging all sources of cool air in the house, but he’s too distracted by the game he’s playing with his friend group in his room, Mike D’s whiney vocals shooting through the speakers of his cd player. His friend must’ve brought this CD, considering you haven't heard these songs in specific coming from his bedroom.
It seems like this is your lucky day, because suddenly, one of your sources of breathable air slows down, the pitch of constant buzzing emitted lowering until it’s silent. You turn to see that the old ass window unit has stopped vibrating and put your hand up to its vent with the false hope that the sound of the unit dying didn't mean anything, or maybe you just lost your hearing suddenly. Which, at this point, would be preferable compared to having to go through summer without it. Of course, neither possibilities are a reality.
“Fuck…” you whisper under your breath. You slap the thing twice, the metal clangs in pain, and your effort comes to no avail. You give it one more frustrated strike for good measure before falling back onto your sheets. After a moment of gathering yourself, you smooth your hair back to get it unstuck from the sweat that had glued pieces of it to your forehead, and sit back up for one more desperate effort. You twist the knobs a couple times, but your attention is quickly taken by the honk of a car horn outside. Propping yourself up to straighten your back a bit, you peer outside over your window unit. Your lowered gaze is met by a moving truck parked in the driveway of the house across the street and two small cars lined up along the curb of the front yard.
Well, shit. Ms. Fran’s family really did follow through with sending her to a nursing home. Either that or she died. And judging by how foggy your brain has gotten from the summer heat, you wouldn’t be surprised if you just completely missed it or forgot about it. Well, there goes the woman who would let you and your brother borrow her grandchildren’s drift bike during the summers and warm weekends of your childhood. Now being replaced by the woman with thick, bleach blonde hair exiting her car, followed by a mop of black hair that you can tell is hell to deal with in this heat, considering how hard the sun is beating down on it. That kid’s got to be suffering right now. The woman calls out to the man that is walking out of the front door. Another kid comes out of the house to stand beneath the awning over the porch, safe under the blanket of shade. Although, in your opinion, his place should be swapped with that of the black haired kid, since his hair is a little shorter and much lighter, meaning it is most likely less unbearable in the sun. You’re trying to figure out how old the two younger people are. Clearly not young enough to be used as an opportunity for you to make money off babysitting, but also not old enough for it to be weird that they still live with their parents. You assume they’re about your age, but it’s hard to tell without your glasses—which you barely wear in the first place—and obviously because they’re a floor below you and across a road.
A figure starts walking across that road, and you almost immediately recognize it as your dad’s, raising his hand and calling out, asking to join them. You sink down into the mattress at the revelation. The reminder of his existence takes you back to the last time people newly moved into the neighborhood. He invited them over for dinner as a way to help them have an easier “settling in experience.” Luckily though, they did not have kids, so you weren’t forced to really get to know anyone. Another benefit you have gotten from those people is extra time with an empty house since your dad still hangs out and has bonfires with them on occasion. Those are the best times to sneak out. But this situation is ten times worse because these people actually do have kids; teenagers, at that. And your dad has been getting on your case about having no friends, putting no effort into making any, and “wasting away” your teenage years. But you really don’t mind being alone. In fact, you quite enjoy it. Besides, you have better things to fill your time with than friendship drama, fights, or having to please people constantly. Like drawing, writing, listening to music, and on top of all that, you’ve been trying to learn to play guitar. You barely get the chance to practice though, honestly, because you only ever do so when you’re home alone because if not, your brother mocks you and wrestles with you for using his precious guitar that he hasn’t touched in months. So the guitar thing doesn’t really count…although you do make up for it by doing drugs at parties you aren’t invited to. But your dad doesn’t need to know about that. Ignorance is a bliss that he doesn’t cherish nearly enough.
The argument you’re in the middle of with the imaginary version of your father about your lack of a social life is cut off by the voice of the real-life version’s voice calling up the stairs and piercing through the blaring Beastie Boys coming from the other side of your brother’s door, demanding you and him to “be nice for once in your lives” and “help the lovely new neighbors unpack their shit.” Your brother clearly did not hear it, though, as presented in the cheers muffled by the walls, probably as a result of a win or something else to do with the video game they’re playing. You drag yourself out of bed and away from the little bit of heaven provided by the two fans still slaving away. You leave them running in hopes that when you return, your room will be at least a bit cooler. You slip on some shorts over your underwear and change out of your pajama t-shirt in exchange for a tank top. Checking in the mirror to ensure you’re at least presentable for your first impression to the new neighbors, you fix your hair. Once you’re done fussing over your summer bedhead, you open your door and take the two steps it requires to reach your brother’s room.
You hate most of his friends, they’re just as loud and obnoxious as he is. But you just have to push that down for the five seconds you need to talk to him. Without knocking, you twist the doorknob and push the door open. You’re immediately hit by a whiff of straight weed. You scrunch your face up, and his gaze, followed by two of his friends, reaches yours. The music blares in your ears and you have to raise your voice in order for “Dad said we gotta go help the neighbor unpack their shit” to reach his ears, a quote pulled almost directly from your father’s mouth.
He turns his head back to the television, his fingers moving across the game controller with practiced ease, “Tell ‘em I’m busy. I got friends over,” he replies coldly.
You knew that would be his answer, or at least some form of a “no.” But you need him to come with you because you really are not up to speaking to some random people. You hate talking to new people. It made your fingers reach for each other to peel the skin off around your nails until they bled. It made your heart race in the least romantic way possible because for some reason your body can’t decipher the difference between a huge bear coming to eat you and saying a few words to an unfamiliar person. “Dude, seriously, just go,” you try to convince him while simultaneously attempting to suppress any hint of pleading from reaching your voice. You go for your usual annoyed tone, the easiest one to hide behind.
He just ignores you, going silent and locking his focus fully back into the game. You know he heard you, but he’s pretending that his cd player is too loud to hear over or something. You slump in frustration, but you don’t whine any more, refusing to admit that you need him as something to hide your nerves behind. “Whatever,” you mutter, turning to leave. But not even five seconds after, you’re back at his doorway. “By the way, air this shit out. It reeks like weed,” you advise in order for him to avoid getting caught by your dad. But you don’t want him to think you’re suddenly nice, so you leave his door open as revenge for not going with you.
You get to the front door , but right as your hand reaches for the doorknob on the storm door, it gets ripped from your grasp as it swings open. You look up and make eye contact with your dad. His expression softens when he realizes you actually listened to him. He must have come back to get you guys to come down. He glances behind you before returning his focus to you, “where’s your brother?”
“Said he’s busy with his friends,” you explain.
“Oh, right,” his focus goes right back to his initial point “Anyway, c’mon, they’ve still got more boxes.” When he turns and starts to head back over to the other house, you step down onto the doormat and drop the door to let it close behind you as you follow after him. As you inch closer to the open moving truck, the woman that was standing there pauses in what she was doing when she sees you, and rather than grabbing another box, she grabs her son’s shoulder to stop him before he even makes his way off the driveway. The boy winces behind his glasses at the frustration of having to be held hostage by his mother while holding a heavy ass box.
Your dad turns to look at you to make sure you didn’t change your mind and run away or something before breaking the silence by introducing you and your name to the new neighbors, adding in “oh, and my son, Cody, couldn’t make it ‘cos apparently he’s too busy with his friends.” He keeps his hands in the pockets of his black cargo shorts, and you just stand there awkwardly. Well, at least you don’t have to do the talking.
“This is Mikey, and his brother Gerard’s in the house,” she glances at you, “I’m glad they'll have someone around their age in the neighborhood.”
You just nod, “so, what d’you need me to grab?”
Mikey lets out a breath as he hurriedly turns on his heel to get to the front door; a silent thank you for freeing him from standing there as his lanky arms had already begun to ache. “Anything would be helpful, honey,” she replies.
You don’t say anything in response, just step forward and pick up the smallest of the large boxes at the end of the trunk. Once it is in your arms, you look down at the top and see “G’s room” messily scrawled across the top in black sharpie. You point it out questioningly.
The man you saw earlier, who you assume is the woman’s husband, walks toward the trunk after the conversation he had with one of the movers, “means it’s Gerard’s,” he eases your confusion “I can show you where it goes,” he offers as he picks up a box, much larger than the one you had chosen to lift. You thank him and he leads you inside the empty, AC-cooled house. You remember what it was like when Ms. Fran owned it, the day you and your brother dumbly agreed to her offer to come inside and see her pet bird. That could have been the last time you saw daylight if Ms. Fran was a different person. The old, floral wallpaper is now gone, along with all the photos she had framed. You jump slightly at the sound of a heavy box hitting the ground and you look over to where the man is crouched over it, trying to stand back upright. His age evident in how much time it takes for him to straighten up. He notices you looking at him, so he says “sorry, dropped it from too high.”
“Nah, you’re good,” you reassure him, and he begins the trek up the stairs, you following suit. He stops at a half-opened door, and as his arm pushes it further open, it reveals that kid with black hair, who you assume is Gerard, hunched over a box, probably going through it to make sure everything is as he left it. Also most likely stalling so he can lift the least boxes he possibly can in this heat. The man nods toward the room as a silent “this is where it goes” before going back down the stairs to help move more into the house.
When Gerard turns his head to look at who's in his room, his studying eyes make you feel as if you are invading his space. “Sorry, my dad wanted me to help you guys,” you apologize.
He stands up, running a hand through his hair. He clearly did not expect any guests this early in the move. He was probably hoping he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone until the school year started. “It’s fine. Just, uh.. put that anywhere, I don't have enough in here to really care yet.”
You abide and place it against the wall beside you, and immediately walk back out. Maybe it’s rude, but you would rather be rude than get into any kind of small talk with him. It’s not like good friendships ever really stem from being forced to talk by your parents. Although, you wouldn't know, anyway. You haven’t had any friends for years now. As said before, you don’t mind it. You stopped caring in middle school when people started to expect more from you. It’s easier to be on your own. You don’t have to worry about those expectations, and more importantly, you don’t have to worry about people leaving.
When you come outside, Gerard follows behind shortly after. Your dad is in the middle of a conversation with Gerard’s. As what you assume is karma for eavesdropping, dirty words reach your innocent ears; “would you like to come over for dinner sometime next week?” You nearly groan in dread, but to avoid a lecture, you shut yourself up and grab another box.