The Boy Who Broke Mirrors
(Chapter Four)
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I'm shaking. Another car swipes along the road, whipping my hair into a manic frenzy over my face. I was just on that road. Right in the middle of it, and I didn't even realise. I was so busy sulking that I didn't even realise I'd stepped onto a road. How could I be so stupid? I'm still shaking. I can't stop. My heart is trying to smash out of my body and I realise I've forgotten to breathe. How long have I been holding my breath? I release it and it comes out shaking, just like the rest of me.
A hand clutches my sleeve, and I scream.
"Whoa, it's just me, relax. Are you okay? Not too wise of a move back there."
I spin around. I don't even process who it is at first, but when I do, my shaking turns into stammering. Preston. His hair is drenched, his usually wavy quiff stuck to his forehead. Someone tugged me backwards... Was that him? No way. If anything, he would have bloody pushed me into the car.
"Yes, I'm fine, I've got to go," I mutter, feeling the embarrassment over what just happened creeping in.
I turn away from Preston, unsure of what actually did just happened, and try walking on. My legs feel like they could cave in any second though, and I'm stumbling. What's wrong with me? I'm absolutely soaking. My clothes are sticking to me and I'm freezing. I'm still shaking, and I've no idea if it's because of the cold or the shock.
I glance at my phone to check the time: almost five o' clock. Dad should be on his way home from work soon, so I could try ringing him to see if he can pick me up. I'm about to stop stumbling onward to dial Dad's number when I hear footsteps jogging after me.
“Effie, wait!" Preston again. He nudges me under the shelter of a bus stop. "You're going to fall back onto the road at the rate you're going, and it would be rather traumatic on my behalf if you got trampled."
"It's fine, I can manage," I try to sound snappy, but I sound about as threatening as a kitten. "I'll call my dad to see if he can pick me up."
Preston nods and he finally seems satisfied. He waits with me under the bus stop as I call Dad, who picks up after the first ring.
"Hey Dad," I clear my throat as I realise my voice is still shaky. "Could you pick me up by any chance? I missed the college bus so I'm walking home, but it's raining really heavily and I'm a little freaked out because I tried, um, I sort of tried crossing a road without looking, and a car--" Dad says something, but I cut him off. "I'm fine, don't worry, I just need a lift home."
"Things are hectic here, Eff, I don't think I'll be able to pick you up until six at the earliest. Who are you with? Are you alone? Do you have any friends who live close by you can stay with until I pick you up? I don't want you on the street for another hour, especially not in the rain."
"My place is only five minutes up the road, if you want to stay there until your dad comes. I was headed there anyway," Preston, who I almost forgot was even there, suggests.
Dad must have heard Preston because he begins interrogating. "Who's that, is that your friend? Go to his house for a bit, darling, don't wait on the street."
"No, don't worry, I'll just walk home instead or some--"
"You're not walking home alone, Effie, just wait at your friend's, and I mean that. If I find out you've walked home or waited on the street, you are in deep trouble, young lady. I've got to go, okay, text me the house's address."
Before I can even say goodbye, Dad hangs up. Well I just made that situation ten times worse. I'd really rather not be alone with Preston for an hour, so when he tries leading me away from the bus stop and towards his house, I don't follow. I'm still shaking a little.
I raise my eyebrows at him. “If you think I’m going anywhere with you on my own, let alone a house that’s probably empty, you may as well find the nearest brick wall, ram your head into it, knock yourself out, wake up, and then repeat the process all over again.”
Instead of answering, Preston shoots me his signature smirk. He bends down and begins untying one of his Dr. Marten shoes until the shoelace is pulled out completely. He stands up, black lace in hand, and places his arms out in front of him. Both wrists are aligned against each other as a grin erupts onto his face.
“Tie my hands together.”
“What?" Jesus, he’s weird.
“I won't be able to harm you if my hands are tied, not that I’m conspiring to do anything anyway.”
Preston hands me his shoelace but I simply stare at him with the lace in my hand. With a smile still on his lips, he nods at his wrists as the shoelace starts feeling rougher and rougher against my fingertips. This guy does owe me a hell of a lot... Plus I know for a fact that if stay here and wait, Dad will just about kill me. With a sigh, I wrap the lace around Preston’s wrists. All the while, I can hear him humming an unrecognisable tune that has a beat perfectly in sync with the pattering raindrops.
Preston’s hands are still tied as we enter his house. He's clearly lost all kinds of common sense because he left his front door wide open whenever he left earlier, and so we’re able to casually stroll inside. It's nowhere near as big as Robbie’s house, but it’s still rather impressive with a long, narrow hallway on the bottom floor leading to at least five open doors. I'm walking fairly steadily now, minus the occasional stumble, and I've texted Dad the address so I shouldn't have to wait long. Since I tied his hands together Preston’s not said a word to me. The only sound he’s made is that tuneless humming, and he carries on doing just that as he leads me up the carpeted stairs.
Once we’ve reached the landing upstairs, I’m led into a large bedroom with walls covered in colourful posters of what would be an eight-year-old boys’ dream, from pictures of threatening dinosaurs to Power Rangers battling each other. The double bed’s duvet has an image of some cartoon car on it, and there are curtains to match. I want to assume this is Preston’s bedroom, but if it is then there is something seriously wrong with the boy.
“This isn’t your bedroom, right?” I ask, slightly worried about the reply I’m going to get.
I don’t have to be wary about what the answer might be though because Preston doesn’t give me one. He says nothing.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re really weird?” I ask him.
“Has anyone ever told you that your first name sounds like an STD?”
“You’ve asked me that already, remember?” I snap back at him.
“I didn’t receive an answer, so I’m asking again.”
He doesn’t get one this time either, and instead, I shoot him a glare. He winks at me before wandering over to a silver stereo in the corner of the room. Rather awkwardly, as his hands are still tied, he fiddles around with it until I see him pop a CD into the machine. All the while, I’m sitting on the bed with my wet hair dripping over the cartoon car and wishing I at least had something to dry off with.
“I’ll get you a towel now,” Preston says as if he’s just read my mind. “And leave you with the soothing sound of Lithium by Nirvana.”
I look up to see him turning away from the stereo as a song begins to play, and I don’t take my eyes off him until I see the back of his worn out suede jacket disappear out the doorway completely. Unless my perception of normality is upside down, Preston’s a tad strange, and certainly not the Zack Maddox I met the night of Robbie Morrissey’s party. Any annoyance I have towards Zack is being slowly overcome by my curiosity and desperate need for an explanation.
By the time Preston returns I’m tapping my knees in rhythm to the song in the background, but quickly stop to catch the cream towel he throws to me. I manically rub my damp hair for a while until I realise that he doesn't have a towel himself. He's just as soaked as me. Come to think of it, why doesn't he drive home from college? Assuming he has a license and a car, that is.
"Aren't you going to dry your hair or anything?" I ask.
"I like rain."
As if that's a satisfactory answer he shuts his eyes and sits against the wall opposite the bed. I scrub at my hair for another five minutes, and when I'm done he’s lying on the carpeted floor with his eyes shut as he lights a cigarette from his jacket pocket. The Nirvana song is playing for the third time, I’ve dried myself off, the rain outside has fizzled out into nothing but moist air, and I’m questioning Preston’s trustworthiness. I really hope Dad gets here soon. Before my thoughts can develop further, Preston mutters.
“Birds scream at the top of their lungs in horrified hellish rage every morning at daybreak to warn us all of the truth, but sadly we don’t speak bird.”
“What?”
“It’s something Kurt Cobain wrote. The vast majority of people believe he was crazy, but I believe he was spot on.” Preston takes a drag, then opens his eyes to stare at the smoke he breathes out. “I maintain this theory that those who are labelled as sane are actually the clinically insane while those who are labelled as the clinically insane are actually sane. All of the legitimate crazy people are too busy living what they perceive as normal lives to realise that those they call crazy are the ones they should be listening to. The ones who know what the hell is going on in the world.”
I open my mouth but quickly realise I have no idea what to say, so I just sit there with a gormless look on my face. Preston’s silent as well and if it wasn’t for the song playing in the background, the room would be dead.
“Sorry, you don’t want a cigarette, do you?”
I shake my head. “No thanks, I don’t smoke.”
“Despite what everyone claims, it won’t kill you.” There’s a grin on his face. “Only the parts you don’t like.”
“I doubt your lungs would agree,” I mutter.
I’m starting to wonder if it’s just tobacco in that cigarette of his. Preston begins laughing quietly, then sits himself back up against the blue wall. He stands again as he awkwardly puts his burnt out cigarette into his pocket with his hands still tied. I’m extremely tempted to inform him of how there’s a good chance he’ll soon be on fire. I leave him to it though as he mumbles something inaudible. I don’t even get the chance to question him because before my mind can conjure up anything to say, he’s left the room again.
Well then, as lovely as this has been, I think I should maybe wait outside the house for Dad instead. As the temptation to do just that arises though, a completely different temptation overwhelms me. I could always have a little nosy around, couldn’t I? This is the home and possibly even bedroom, though I dearly hope not, of the famous Zack Maddox after all.
Screw it, why not?
I quietly lift myself off the bed and scan the room from corner to corner. My only guess is that Preston has a younger brother, but then why on earth would we be in his room instead of Preston’s? Besides, he really shouldn’t be smoking in here if it is his little brother’s room. Questions dance around my head as I wander around the room, and I become more and more confused at every colourful childlike poster and ornament I pass. By the time I reach the other side of the bed something metallic catches my eye, and as I approach it, I realise that it’s a silver photo frame. I pick the frame up as I sit back down onto the bed.
Encased in the silver border is a young woman with eyes like amber tinted crystals, and standing beside her is a young blonde boy, whose eyes match hers. On the woman’s lap sits an olive-skinned toddler. The blonde boy must be Preston. Does that mean this is his room? Is that his mum? Who's the other boy? They seem to be in some kind of children’s play area in this photo, and as I focus on the woman in it, I notice that she has a navy apron on. Actually, is that even an apron? It’s definitely some kind of bib or apron... Why would she be wearing something like that?
“I think your dad's here.” The sound of Preston’s voice behind me makes me jump out of my skin, and I slam the photo frame onto my lap. "I hear a car engine."
My heart’s battering against my chest as I suddenly remember where I am. I jump off the bed as I place the photo frame back into place as subtly as I can. I really hope he didn’t catch me looking through his stuff. When I turn to face Preston though, I exhale heavily as I notice that his eyes are shut, and the small smile on his pale lips implies anything but anger. He’s sitting against the wall with a cigarette in-between his fingers again as if he never left the room in the first place. When did he come back?
I glance out the square window to see Dad's indistinguishable four-by-four parked at the end of Preston's street. How the hell can Preston hear the engine from here? It's making a faint humming sound, but that could have been any car for all he knows. My phone vibrates with a text from Dad saying he's outside.
"Do me a favour," Preston says as I reach the bedroom doorway.
I look at him questioningly, and he responds by nodding at his hands. I completely forgot they were still tied. I quickly untie them, and he thanks me as I head back towards the doorway.
“I suppose I’ll be seeing you in the foreseeable future,” he mutters. “Bye for now, Euphegenia.”
I turn to him to see that his eyes are closed again. “Yeah... bye,” I reply.
As I make my way back down the stairs I can hear the same Nirvana song replaying in the background for what feels like the hundredth time. It's only now I actually remember why I came here in the first place. The car whizzing past me--literally inches away--replays in my mind. Did Preston really pull me back? It's the only logical explanation, and now that my mind is actually functioning properly, I realise that he must have. A wave of guilt almost knocks me over as I realise how much of a bitch I've been. I didn't even thank him. I still want to throttle him for being such a dick to me before, admittedly, but still. Maybe we're even now he's stopped me getting splattered by a car. I hesitate and consider going back upstairs to say a thank you, but quickly dismiss the thought. It's probably best I just leave.
The front door’s still open, and so I make sure to close it as I step outside the building. I can still see it when I’m standing at the end of the street a few minutes later. Dad's car hums beside me. I don’t get into it for a while though because as I stare towards the direction of Preston’s house, it’s impossible not to notice that the front door is, once again, wide open.
* * * * *
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