Young Writers Society

A list of things that Isaac Campbell Loyola should be doing:
1. taking medication
2. living at home
3. trying to reconcile with his mother
4. working at some local fast-food joint
5. going to school

A list of things Isaac Campbell Loyola is currently doing:
1. none of those

Isaac sits on the bench next to Benji. The way the streetlamps reflect off of the Bellagio fountain is poetic in nature, if that even makes sense. It’s just so… powerful. He places his hand on top of Benji’s, and Benji squeezes it once as reassurance. A car rattles down a nearby street. Someone lets off an elaborate string of curse words as it goes by, tossing the remainder of their drink into the street.

“Are you cold? Because I’m cold.” Benji opens his backpack and pulls out a blanket to wrap about his shoulders. “It’s the air off the fountain. We should’ve picked a better spot to spend the night. Like that warehouse we stayed in, back in Carson City.”

“We can’t just stroll back into Carson City in one night. That was almost three days’ worth of travel on foot.”

“Well. We could at least find somewhere warmer for tonight. Maybe a homeless shelter, something like that. Just somewhere that we won’t freeze to death.”

Isaac shrugs his shoulders. He can’t take his eyes off of the blue-tinted bursts of water. “So go. I’ll be here in the morning.”

A thick stream of water near where they sit sprays them both with a fine mist. Benji shakes his head, and runs a hand through his thick brown hair.

“I’m not going anywhere without you. Best friends, remember? We go together.”

“So we’re staying here.”

A list of things Isaac Campbell Loyola should be thinking about:
1. whether or not it’s a good idea to be outside at this temperature
2. whether or not Benji is mad at him
3. whether oor not they’ll get arrested for spending the night outside the fountain

A list of things Isaac Campbell Loyola is currently thinking about:
1. the lights off the water
2. the Effiel Tower replica, and how he’d love to see the real Effiel Tower, if he survives long enough to get and job and be successful
3. the fact that he’ll probably never travel

Benji huffs. He wraps the blanket a littler tighter around his body as more mist rains down around them. Wealthy patrons of the nearby hotels and casinos cheer as the fountain shoots up gyser after gyser at mesmorizing speeds. So many people. The police can’t make Benji and Isaac leave, so long as they’re sitting up. For all anyone knows, they just want to see the shows. Isaac picked the perfect spot to stay.

“So you’re not going to leave?” Isaac asks after a while.

“Nah. We left hom together, so we have to stick together. It’s the bro code.”

Isaac laughs. “I doubt the bro code has a section about teenage runaways.” He throws his arm over Benji’s shoulder as the next flood of water bursts upward. If only the Strip would go black, just for a second, the liquid would look so beautiful against the stars. Isaac hasn’t seen the stars in a long time.

“Does too,” Benji retorts. He shrugs Isaac’s arm off. “Article thirteen, section eight, clause five.”

“You’re just making up random numbers now.”

“Does it matter if it’s in the bro code or not?” Benji unwinds from his blanket to stand. He picks up a rock and throws it into the fountain. A satisfying splash accompanies the action, and Benji smiles as a couple of twenty-year-old girls get splashed my the impact. “Listen, if you’re trying to get me to leave you behind in the Land of Drunks, it’s not going to work.”

The girls turn and begin to cuss Benji out, but Benji isn’t paying any attention. He smiles in their general direction, before motioning for Isaac to stand up too. Isaac stays firmly planted on the bench. The light colors underneath the water change, like a galaxy, almost, and so gorgeous… oh yeah, and he can feel his legs going tingly, getting numb again.

A list of things that Isaac didn’t bring with him when he left home:
1. food
2. a warm wardrobe
3. his MS medication

A list of things that Isaac has now:
1. a good friend
2. a pretty fountain
3. paralysis
4. regret

Isaac’s had plenty of MS episodes before. Some days, it’s just one side of his body. Other days, it’s the whole thing. He used to panic, but now he doesn’t. The new cocktail he recently received was doing a good job of stopping them, except he left his pills on the bedside table when he left the house. Not going to do him much good there, huh?

Benji reads the look on his friend’s face. “No, no, no. Not tonight. Not tonight.”

Isaac stands up, propping himself on the bench. “Relax. I can still walk. We can walk to the other side of the fountain. I bet it’s warmer over there.”

“No, we need to walk to a hospital.”

“Please. I’ve had episodes before. They wear off.”

“When you’re on your meds they do. Damn it.”

Isaac sits back down on the bench. It’s just his legs that feel the tingle, just his legs.Not his full body this time. Still, the moment is less than opportune. “Don’t get all upset. I told you I wanted to stay here for the night. We’ll just stay here, and we’ll think about what we have to do in the morning.”

“Severe fatigue is number one on the list of MS flare symptoms. Damn it. You get ‘roids for that kind of thing, right? The hospital gives you a dose so you don’t go all boneless.”

“Yes, but I’ll be alright. Here, you can go out for help, and I’ll stay on this bench. Then you can come back and find me.”

“Like hell I will.” Benji sits back down next to Isaac. “I told you, we stick together. Me and you.”

The group of girls seems to overhear a bit of this conversation, because they pass by way too close to Benji on the bench. They talk to each other in hushed tones, and one of them produces a mobile phone from her back pocket.

“They’re going to call the police, aren’t they?” asks Benji.

“Probably,” Isaac says.

“They might take me home.”

Again, Isaac suggests, “You could leave now, be gone before they get here.”

“We’re sticking together.”

A list of things that Isaac Campbell Loyola hates:
1. Child Protective Services
2. walking
3. MS
4. nosy girls

A list of things Isaac Campbell Loyola finds tolerable:
1. Benji Adams

“Yeah, we’ll stick together.”

Jonas doesn’t even bother going back to the apartment on Tuesday night. He knows what he’ll find when he gets there. A break-in. A murder. He listened to the voicemail all the way through. Viola Santiago doesn’t exist any longer, and really she shouldn’t, because she was about to have a heroin addict’s baby and there was no way that he and Tripp could pay for the kind of treatment needed to keep it alive. Yeah, Viola was a money-drain. He’s better off without her.

And Tripp. So he turns down another route.

Despite the fact that he’s basically just murdered his best friend’s girlfriend, he’s actually in decently good spirits. Without Julian—sorry, Adonis—taking all of the big clients… Life’s peachy. Funny, how all of his acquaintances are dying. Adonis, stabbed; Viola, probably shot. Tripp will starve without Jonas to pay for food. But it’s always for the best, of course it’s always for the best. You are the number one priority. You still have a future, but they didn’t. Therefore, their lives were less important than yours. It was necessary to let them go.

Jonas knows some friends in San Francisco. True, they’re not the best of friends, but at least they know him well enough to offer some kind of living arrangement for a month. He needs to catch a cab somewhere along this road to get there. Where are all the cabs?

He approaches the owner of a nearby candy store. “Excuse me? Excuse me?”

The owner steps out of the thick artificial shop light and into the street. “Yes?”

“Do you know of any buses around here?” Jonas asks.

“No, I’m sorry.” The shop owner busies herself turning off the neon “open” sign. “You’ll have to call a taxi.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks anyway.”

Jonas continues down the street, doing his best to stay in the darker corners of the streets. In Vegas, even off the main Strip, everything is bright. He doesn’t want the man who went for Viola to go for him. Going incognito is key. A taxi. He needs to catch a taxi. A pair of boys moves towards him, brandishing a camera and talking in exaggerated tones. He listens in on their bickering as they pass.

“I told you! We’re broke!”

“But it would be the perfect picture!”

“If we can’t pay the people, we can’t take it.”

“C’mon, Parker. We need this photo to complete the series. Don’t you want to complete the series…”

“I guess.”

“…and win the money?”

“Fine. You win. But we’ll give them something. What do you have on you?”

They move out of earshot. Jonas laughs to himself about the content of their argument. Photos? Of all things to be arguing about, they’re getting pissed off at each other over photos. They look like the sheltered kind of boys, Jonas decides, so they must ride around in cabs or buses. Probably here on spring break. He sprints to catch up with them.

“Hey! So sorry. Do you know where to catch a cab around here?”

The shorter of the two shakes his head. “We have been walking for miles. And this guy—” He elbows his companion. “—won’t let us take the dang photo.”

“I will,” the other boy, probably Parker, says. “Just… not until we get more money.” He swivels to address Jonas more directly. “I’m sorry, we don’t know. We’re about as lost here as humanly possible.” Again, this makes Jonas smile. They would never admit being lost to an adult, but gorgeous little Jonas (or Pace, as the ladies know him) never sets off any alarms.

“Okay, thanks anyway.” He backs away, and the two continue their fight.

Once he’s walked for about a mile, Jonas’s legs begin to give out. It’s too early in the night to stop for good, considering that his supplier just killed someone over the money he owed them. He parks himself on a bench next to the Bellagio fountain.

It’s strange to observe the people watching the fountain shows. Dozens of them hold full bottles of wine or beer that spill bubbles from their lids. There is plenty of yelling and cursing, but also plenty of smiling and laughing. Couples begin intense make-out sessions by the water. On another bench, Jonas spots a second group of boys his age wrapped tightly in blankets. One of them has Adonis’s crisp black hair.

But he will not remember, because he needs to forget. He files away the name as soon as it surfaces. If he feels guilty, he cannot keep his future intact. His future is the only thing that matters.

“Okay, legs,” he mumbles to himself as he stands, “you’ve had enough time to rest. For now, it’s time to move.” They protest, but he pushes through it. Remember, you can’t get any more heroin unless you get to San Fran. This thought is motivation enough to get him down a couple blocks and into a local sandwich restaurant.
--
If one focuses hard enough, they can turn off certain emotions. Jonas has done it before, so many times that he barely has to think in order to do it. Flip that switch, and he’s gone.

At one point in his sad, sad life, he spent a couple years living in a warehouse just outside of Carson City. There were dozens of people there, although they were all younger than eighteen, because the warehouse was a setup for underage runaways who would be sent home if found. He didn’t appreciate the simplicity of that place enough.

Out in the world, by yourself, it’s a whole lot harder. It’s helpful to be emotionless, because you’ll lose nearly everything you have time to gain. Even though the sadness has yet to set in, he knows that he will feel terrible about Adonis, Tripp, and Viola in the coming months. It’s better that he leave. If he leaves now, he preserves himself. Then he can turn off the guilt, and continue as normally.

It’s a scary thing to think about.

How am I supposed to preface this kind of revelation?

Now that I have Bryce’s complete attention, I have no idea what to say. A confession of this caliber deserves something more special than a room with an ice cream maker. Still, I need to start somewhere.

“My name isn’t actually Ian,” I say.

Bryce nods. “Is that it? My real name is technically still Baptiste Justin Emalia. I guess I’m legally allowed to change it now, being emancipated, I just never have. Doesn’t matter, I’m still Bryce.” The ice cream maker hisses, and Bryce hits it was a fist. “You’re still Ian, no matter what came before. Back to work now.”

“No, I’m not Ian.”

“Then who are you?”

I take a deep breath. “Dean.”

Bryce shrugs. “Okay, Dean. Cool. Who is Dean?” The ice cream maker begins to do its job, thank goodness. Bryce gives a satisfied smile. It’s a shame I’ll have to ruin it so soon.

“Dean is an eyewitness,” I tell him.

“An eyewitness of what?”

“A murder.”

“And what happened to Dean after that?”

“The Witness Protection Program told him he had to run away and hide.”

Bryce abandons the ice cream. I’ve piqued his attention. “Describe every detail,” he demands.
__

Pippa wasn’t the kind of person who took risks. She wouldn’t drive if she’d had even one shot, she wouldn’t leave any beverage unattended if she planned to drink it, and she dressed about as modestly as humanly possible. When she ate out, she got the same thing every time. Every steak was well-cooked. She didn’t even eat raw cookie dough.

Jason was the first step outside her comfort zone.

He was a good guy at first. He took her out to dinner every Monday night, to a local chicken joint that she liked. Jason was the lead singer of a local band, so he got discounts at a lot of the local restaurants. He wasn’t even that great of a vocalist.

Pippa, I suppose, liked his edgy hair and torn tank tops. She dated him for an entire year without much issue at all. Then everything went to hell in a handbasket. Something inside of me seems to snap as I explain it, which is weird, because I’ve known the whole story for a long time.

The first person on the scene after Pippa died—besides me, of course—was Pippa’s best friend. Rachel. Pippa called her on her cell phone after Jason made his first threat.

“I don’t feel safe,” she’d said. “I don’t feel safe. I think he’s going to hurt me.”

“I’m coming,” replied Rachel.

“Come quickly.”

Rachel was there right after the gun went off. She opened the door on the carnage, including me crouching behind the sofa. Blood splattered across the doorframe, across the wall, across my face, across Jason’s shirt. Nobody moved. Rachel was a witness too.

Where is Rachel now? I haven’t seen her since that night. Maybe she’s in the program. Maybe she’s spilling her story to her coworkers at ten o’clock at night. I’ll leave Rachel out of this confession.

“You don’t know until you’ve heard the screaming,” I say. “Pippa was dead. It wasn’t Pippa. It was Jason. He shot her in the head, without batting an eyelash. Then he blinked a couple times, and he ran to cradle her in his arms. It was this inhuman sound. The sound of pure agony. He wouldn’t stop scream-crying. Something must have happened before that, something awful, but I have no idea what it was. I can’t remember.”

“Woah.” Bryce leans back against the ice cream maker. “Please tell me you’re making this up.”

“Why would I make this up?”

“I don’t know. Why are you telling me?”

“I have to tell someone.”

The bell at the front counter dings, signaling the arrival of a customer. Bryce makes as if to get it, but I stand up first. “I’ve got this, okay? I’m sorry to do this to you.”

“No, you’re not getting anything.” Bryce grabs my arm. “People in Witness Protection aren’t supposed to tell. You just told. What happens now?” He freezes. “This is just a prank, isn’t it? This is just a prank. I knew Jordan was mad at me, but I didn’t know she was this mad. It’s all a ruse, right?”

“No, it’s not a ruse. You have to believe me!”

Bryce shakes his head. “No, Jordan put you up to this. Very funny, but I have to get back to work now.” He resumes his work on the ice cream machine.

“Please, Bryce. Someone else has to know. I’m going to explode if somebody else doesn’t know.”

Bryce shakes his head again. Thick brown sludge, not the quality kind of ice cream we serve, pours from the machine. “Nope, none of this happened. Your name is Ian Delgrat and you have a birth certificate and social security number, which is how you were set up as an emancipated minor like myself. Anything you say other than that cannot be true, and therefore I elect to ignore it. Wow, my vocabulary is complex.”

I’m about to tell him once again that he has to believe me, when it hits me that he already does. Of course he does. How can I be so stupid? But I’ve told him, now he knows. My secret is out. I am Dean Sullivan Thorne. Oh my gosh, I just confessed everything keeping me safe to another teenager. My stomach threatens to void itself of its contents.
“If you need any help…” Bryce trails off. I can’t hear him. It’s simple, what I have to do now. I have to leave Las Vegas. I have to find a new place to hide. Can I go back to the police? Do they even know that I’m here? There’s only one option that will keep me alive, now that Bryce knows. The East coast will hide me better.

I run from the back room, out into the serving area, and through the glass doors.

My feet hit the concrete as fast as they can go.