Last-Stop Suburbia

Dawson Beck remembers moving to Mattlin when he was ten years old, right after his parents' divorce. He remembers living in New York City before, and Pennsylvania before that. His best friend, Lex, also insists that he can recall a life before this new development.

Yet one day, when they follow a bus that goes out of town, Dawson Beck and Lex are shocked to find that the bus ceases to exist at the borders of town. As they try to walk past the borders, they are stopped by armed guards. This is, perhaps, the cover-up of the century: a town designed to keep all its residents contained. Nothing exists outside of Mattlin but a vast expanse of white.

Both boys struggle to determine what this captivity will mean for them. They agree to band together, recruiting a new friend, Miles, to see what the guards are hiding past the gates, and if there is or isn't any life outside Mattlin. But in order to do so, a choice falls upon Lex that he isn't sure if he can handle.

It’s supposed to be a joke, you know, saying that Mattlin is the edge of the universe. Mom likes to call it that, because a singular road leads in and out of town, corn fields stretch away from it as far as the eye can see, and soulless gray people float aimlessly up and down the streets. It’s like our own personal planet, she’d say. Just me and you here. In reality, we’re supposed to be smack-dab in the middle of Oregon.

Mom’s statement might be more accurate than she thought.

Since the town is so small, I should know everyone. Instead, people keep very much to themselves. Three people know me well out of the six-hundred-person populace, those three people being my best friend, Lex, his mother, and my own mother. On my way to school each morning, I talk to all three.

Mrs. Hadley-Packer, Lex’s mother, looks up from her planting to wave at me. “Dawson! Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I respond. I can see Lex watching our interaction from the window.

“Lex will be out in five. He has a coat in the dryer.”

“Yeah, he texted.”

She laughs and places a tulip into a hole at her mailbox. “Just making sure that you know.”

“Thank you. And it’s Dawson Beck, remember?”

Another laugh. Mrs. Hadley-Packer has the sweetest laugh on this side of heaven. “I don’t care what Lex calls you or whatever. You’re always going to be just Dawson to me.”

Lex stumbles out the doorway, shirtless, clutching what looks to be a bag of clothing. “Are we late did it leave yet I can’t walk today I have to run the mile in gym.” He often talks in run-on sentences, as if his brain moves too fast for his mouth to keep up.

On Lex’s appearance... Mrs. Hadley-Packer has the darkest skin tone known to man, flawlessly smooth and delicate. Her eyes and hair match. Mr. Hadley-Packer is her polar opposite. I’ve never met him before, but the photographs tell me all I need to know. His skin might as well be translucent, as pale as the first snow of winter, and he has hair so blond that it looks surfer-bleached. They have one son together, Lexington, who embodies an equilibrium between the two of them. Sometime after that, Mr. Hadley-Packer up and left the family, and they moved to dead-end Mattlin.

“No, it’s still on its way,” I assure him.

“Thank goodness.”

“You did the calc, right?”

“If I didn’t, I’d be dead by now.” Lex pulls a T-shirt from his bag and tugs it on. “Number fifteen had no solution, right?”

“I couldn’t find it.”

“Damnit, that means it probably has one.”

I punch him on the arm, and he reciprocates. We head down the sidewalk to the bus stop corner, a good half-mile or so. Lex picks up his girlfriend at her house as we pass it, meeting her at the bottom of the driveway for a hug and kiss, though I don’t know her beyond her name. He never even mentions her when we talk in his room. She enjoys fixing her hair in high ponytails that swing around in the wind and slap you in the face if you’re walking beside her, so I suppose I never think of her as a person worth getting to know.

“Hello, Dawson Beck,” she says, from obligation.

“Hello, Desiree.” These are the only words I ever say to her.

Lex stands between like we’re at risk of fighting each other. “So, are you guys ready for the test on Othello? Me, I still don’t know the significance of Desdemona versus Michael Cassio.”

“It’s easy.” Desiree turns up her nose. “Desdemona is there to show that love and war are not compatible. That’s why Othello tries to keep her and Cassio separate: the two of them represent his war life and love life intersecting.” We always talk about Othello.

“Okay, I’ll remember that.”

We walk for a while in silence. Lex wants me to say something to Desiree, I can sense it, but I can think of nothing to say. I don’t know her. I know three people in Mattlin. My own personal planet, indeed; only three people ping my radar.

Desiree goes to a private school just outside city limits, so she rides a different bus than Lex and I. It’s a good thing, too, since I can’t fathom being in her presence for more than fifteen minutes at a time. Maybe it would be better if we sat down and had a heart to heart, but I refuse to humor Lex by doing so. Besides, what if we just hated each other more? She kisses Lex on the lips, this gross, sloppy kiss, before turning down another street to her bus stop. Lex and I continue the walk by ourselves.

“She’s crazy,” I say.

“She’s my girlfriend.”

“Do you love her?”

Lex shrugs. “What isn’t to love?” He didn’t say yes. I bite down on my tongue to prevent myself from saying something stupid. Something inside me notes what he said.

“Where does she go to school?” I ask instead.

“You’ll have to ask her that when you guys talk.”

“Darnit, Lex.”

“Darnit yourself, Dawson Beck. Look, there’s the bus.” He points down the road to the looming yellow vehicle. “We’re gonna have to sprint.”

“Sorry,” I respond.

We take off down the last stretch of sidewalk to board before Mr. Delancey drives away. Even though I don’t know much about him, I know he was the type of ruthless person who will pull off down the street without you even if he can see you coming. I also know it’s my job to make sure Lex gets on this bus. He climbs aboard just before me, I follow, and the doors slam shut behind us. Close call.

Lex tries to strike up conversation with a boy sitting behind us, Miles Brandywine, and turns back to me when Miles doesn’t answer.

“He must have earbuds in.”

I look back at Miles. He’s the standard kind of guy. Brown hair, brown eyes, a smattering of freckles across his nose. No earbuds.

“Do you want to talk to him?” I ask Lex.

Lex considers for a minute. “Maybe tomorrow. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“So something will change by then?” I scoff at the thought. If Miles feels like being a jerk now, he’s going to be a jerk tomorrow. Those are the rules.

“Something always changes.” Lex sits back and looks up at the ceiling. There are dozens of small stains along the roof, and he counts them sometimes. At least, I think he does. I don’t know what else he could be doing beyond that. Perhaps thinking of other conversation starters because: “It is hot in here,” he comments, and we’re off the topic of Miles.

Another thing Lex is known for: his fast-paced subject changes. No sooner have we started talking about one thing than we’re talking about another. There’s a French idiom, sauter du coq à l’âne, which literally means to jump from the rooster to the donkey. If that’s not a summary of Lex’s conversational skills, I don’t know what is. I’m not sure how to feel about it. On the one hand, it allows me to have a conversation with him impossible for an outsider to follow, which makes me feel special. On the other hand, I struggle to follow. And he always directs what we address.

“What did you expect?” I ask him.

Lex shrugs again. I should call him the shrugging machine. “I don’t know. Maybe AC.”

“It’s a bus.”

The bus we take to get to school takes pride in how many kids it can cram in. Lex and I have a seat to ourselves, but most of the other seats have three or four people squished together or piled on top of each other. Too many students. Each vinyl cushion is a graveyard of personal space. The amount of bodies in such close proximity can only equal one thing for the poor souls inside: heat.

“Buses can have AC,” Lex says. “I’ve been on a bus with AC before.”

“It’s expensive, though.” He better not call me on this because I have no idea how much AC costs.

“How do you know how expensive AC is?”

Shit. “If our school can only afford two buses,” I say, “then any extra price is too much.” Saved.

Lex rolls up the sleeves on his reglan. “Yeah, but buses should come with it.”

"It appears this one didn’t.”

“It’s stupid.”

Miles, from the seat behind us, reaches an arm over to tap Lex on the shoulder. “Please, please, shut the hell up,” he says softly, before withdrawing. I turn around for the third time to look at him. This is who Lex wants to drum up conversation with? An inconsiderate asshole covered in dark speckles?

“Oh, so now he can hear me,” Lex mutters under his breath. Miles shoots him the bird, so we can see even more machine-gun freckles that line his arms.

The bus stops at the next pickup point. Roughly fifteen or so kids stand outside, instead of the usual five or six, and Lex and I both know what that means. We’ll have to share our seat with somebody that we don’t even know or like. No thank you. We’ve only done it once before, and Lex claims to still have nightmares about the cotton candy involved.

“Change of plans,” Lex says to me, suddenly gathering his belongings. He swings his backpack over one shoulder, and the plastic bag of clothing over the other. A shirt falls onto the floor, which he grabs with his left hand and uses to hit me on the shoulder. “We’re going to get off the bus here.”

The throng of students closes in as we slow down and prepare to stop. Do they care about getting hit? Doesn’t look like it.

Something about leaving the bus doesn't sit right with me. I’m Lex’s impulse control, or I might as well be. “That’s a bad idea.”

Mr. Delancey pushes the lever, and the bus doors swing open. We sit close enough to the front to get out before the kids stream in, but it’s a five-second window at most.

“I didn’t say it was good. C’mon, remember that cotton candy?”

Gah, that stuff got everywhere. I continued to pick it out of hair for a whole week after that one ride. “Fair enough.” Time for me to gather my things.

We both grab at our ears as Mr. Delancey hits the horn once, like he does when the bus has come to a halt. My head seizes. Is it always this loud? Three seconds to be at the front or already off. Yes, Mr. Delancey is the kind of person who opens the doors before the wheels finish rolling. I guess I know more about him than I thought. But not enough. It’s still my own personal planet.

The bus lurches as Lex and I jump to our feet and speed to the exit. I take yet another look at Miles— not sure why, something told me I should— and watch him rub his eyes with the heels of his palms. He must have a killer headache. Good. The bastard deserves it.

“Where are y’all going?” he asks, eyes closed.

“We’re going to catch a public bus,” Lex answers, already halfway out the door.

“Why would you want to do that?”

Lex doesn’t even bother to answer. As soon as he hops off the final bus step and onto the sidewalk, he whirls to me. His face lights up like a child’s on Christmas morning. “Do we even know of any public buses in this area oh gosh a feel so much like a rebel.” Then the gaze mellows. “We should get out of the way.”

Our five seconds are up, and the other kids begin to push by as they get on the bus.

“Yeah,” I say, backing to the side. A girl with a silver backpack almost knocks me upside the head with a poster board. As it is, I have to duck to avoid it. “Why so many people, I wonder.”

“Lincoln Road’s closed, so those kids probably came here.”

“Now that you mention it, that makes sense.”