|
Title: The Persistence of Memory It's not something he specifically goes looking to find out at first, it's just something that, well... Happens. Happens in that he comes down one morning, takes out a bowl, spoon, milk, cereal, sits down at the table and says good morning to his father. The paper twitches away from his father's face, and he doesn't even notice the frown there until his father clears his throat and says, "Excuse me, but who are you, exactly?" "I..." he begins, and for a minute there he panics, and he doesn't know if it's because of his father or if it's because he honestly doesn't know the answer. "Don't be silly," his mother says as she turns away from the coffee maker, "it's just Brendon." And yes, Brendon. He relaxes and grins at her, sees his father relax as well. He's Brendon, their son, their youngest. Yes. Brendon can't imagine how he ever could've forgotten. The next time it's nearly a month later and he's been busy with things – busy with school, busy with work, busy with music. He spends hours at a time messing around with notes, melodies, tempos, constructing something new in between studying for tests, writing papers, making minimum wage, and somehow Brendon goes for nearly a week without talking once with his parents, without seeing them. It isn't intentional, it just happens. Friday evening he comes home late after the school football game and his mother freezes when he walks in the door. "Hi, Mom," he says, giving her a curious look. "Who are you?" she hisses in a hushed tone, reaching into the kitchen. When her hand reappears, it's hold a carving knife, the blade gleaming in the weak yellow light of the hall lamp. "How did you get in here?" Brendon slowly lowers his bells case to the floor, not taking his eyes from her. "I... have a key? Mom, it's me, Brendon," he says, but there's no recognition in her eyes. "Hey, Brendon," his sister says, coming out of the living room and pausing at the base of the stairs before heading up. "Did we win?" "Yeah," he says, forcing a grin, and their mother's put away the knife and is smiling warmly at them both now. "We're going to playoffs." Which'll mean having to prepare a special half-time show and losing even more time to band practice, but it's something Brendon enjoys. His oldest sister calls that evening. When he gets the phone, Brendon asks her if there's any history of Alzheimer's in their family. He's joking, really, but that doesn't stop him from feeling relieved when she reassures him that no, there isn't. Brendon wishes her good luck with her finals and passes the phone to his mother. He's halfway out of the room and up the stairs when he overhears his mother's voice. "No, she isn't dating anyone at the moment. What, just now? Honey, that was Brendon. I know his voice is still changing some, but he doesn't sound that different." Brendon hurries up the rest of the stairs to his room. He doesn't want to hear anything more. Several weeks of experiments follow. Experiments with his family, friends, classmates, coworkers. And Brendon learns – decides, theorizes, hypothesizes, learns – that if he doesn't speak to someone for a while, doesn't interact with them, they forget him. The better he knows a person, the closer he is to them, the faster they are to forget. If he tries to remind them, it doesn't work, but if someone else tries, it does. Brendon begins greeting each member of his family each morning, calling his sister every evening. Remembering the first time, the time he couldn't even tell his father his own name, Brendon talks to himself softly when he's alone. Short little phrases, bits of sentences, random tidbits. He doesn't want to lose himself. He isn't sure what to do about it, wants to tell someone, but he can't think of who he can tell. His family won't believe him, and he's a little afraid of what his friends might think. In the end, he asks the clerk at the music store. The clerk is odd, quiet, and relatively new, having been hired in the last few months or so. He can't be more than a year or two older than Brendon, which makes it a little easier to talk to him, and Brendon figures it can't hurt to tell him anything. If he decides Brendon's crazy, Brendon can just stop going to the store. He could probably stand to save the money he spends there anyway. "People forget me if I don't talk to them," Brendon tells him, leaning against a wall while he watches the clerk alphabetize the rhythm and blues. "That's nice," mutters the clerk, clearly not paying attention to what's being said. Brendon hands him an out-of-place CD, sighs, and shakes his head. "No it's not. It really sucks. Now I have to talk to everyone all the time, every day, or else they might forget me. If I miss someone, it's like they don't even hear me when I try to remind them who I am. I have to get someone who does remember to do it for me." The clerk extracts a mis-shelved Joni Mitchell album and sets it to the side. "Maybe you know too many people." "What, you think that's why they're forgetting me? That makes no sense – it's never been a problem before, and if that was the case, then I should be forgetting them, rather than the other way around," Brendon insists, but the clerk just shrugs, ignoring him. "What should I do?" Brendon presses. "Why do you think this is happening to me?" The clerk sighs, pushes his hair out of his face, and rolls his eyes at Brendon. "I'm not a therapist or a bartender, you want advice, find one of them." "I'm too young to go into a bar and I don't think this is something a therapist could help with. I'm not the one with the problem, after all, they are." Though Brendon's the only connecting point here, since everyone else remembers each other just fine. The clerk just shrugs again, and Brendon makes a frustrated noise and leaves without even bothering to buy anything. It's not until he's out of the store and halfway home that it occurs to Brendon that, if nothing else, the clerk never said he didn't believe him. And that has to count for something, right? Maybe Brendon'll go back sometime soon, talk some more. Try to figure this whole messed up thing out. He doesn't go back to the music store for nearly a month. It's not that Brendon's intentionally avoiding the clerk and his exasperating, unsympathetic manner, it's just that he's busy with things – school, band practice, work, and now this, this thing where he has to constantly maintain and keep up all his relationships in order to make sure no one forgets him. Brendon's girlfriend goes to Australia for winter break, and the long-distance charges are such that they don't call each other even once during the time she's gone. He worries and obsesses over it, seeks her out as soon as he can when classes resume in January only to find that she remembers him fine, even though it's been two, two and a half weeks since they last spoke. At first Brendon's relieved, but relief quickly disappears as he listens to her chatter away, because what does that say about them, about her? He'd thought they were close – they've been dating for nearly four months now, after all – but apparently not. "Sorry," he says suddenly, interrupting her. "Sorry, but, um. Were you talking about me earlier? With someone?" "No. Geez, Brendon," she says, rolling her eyes and tossing her hair, "not everything is about you. Anyway, so you'd think it would be cool since it's wintertime, y'know? But it was sweltering, I swear, things are crazy down there, and—" Brendon tunes out her babbling because it's dull and clueless and he tries to remember how it is that he ended up dating her in the first place. He thinks their parents might've introduced them to each other at church one Sunday, since he's pretty sure they've never shared any classes. She's on the varsity girls' volleyball team, isn't interested in music, hasn't any real plans for the future. They have nothing in common except that their families go to the same church. "I. I have to go, sorry. Band practice," he says and leaves. Brendon makes it to his locker, changes his mind, and ends up skipping practice entirely for the first time in ages. He needs time to think. Brendon's feet take him to the mall, to the front of the music store without his even realizing it. He tells himself he's just checking to see if they have the new CD he wants as he goes inside, that he's not checking to see if the clerk is there, the new one, the odd one (his clerk). He wanders down the world music aisle, humming to himself as he browses through the new releases. He pointedly doesn't look in the direction of the register. "Motion picture soundtracks are the next aisle over," a bored voice says. "The ones for children's movies are at the far end." The clerk has his head down when Brendon looks up, dark hair obscuring his face. "I know," Brendon says with a smile. "Just, if you want Sleeping Beauty..." The clerk shrugs and takes a M2M CD out of reggae, muttering under his breath about idiots who can't tell brainless pop from real music. "Well, I do, but I was hoping for the new one done by the M— Symphony," Brendon admits. "It's supposed to use the glockenspiel." And the ukulele and the kazoo. "And the koto." This time the clerk actually looks up, and Brendon swears he sees the other boy's mouth twitch slightly, like he's trying not to smile. "So you know it's not just a Disney soundtrack." "Duh. Tchaikovsky." Brendon rolls his eyes. "It's a ballet." And yeah, that's a smile, or at least the start of one. "My girlfriend didn't forget me," he says suddenly, because he has to tell someone, even if it's just this odd guy who likely doesn't remember him anyway. "We didn't talk for almost three weeks because she was out of the country, but she didn't forget." The clerk raises an eyebrow and Brendon bites his lip, since the guy clearly doesn't remember their last conversation. But then the clerk says, "You're not being forgotten anymore, then? Good for you," as he turns back to what he was doing. The tension in Brendon's shoulders drains away. "It hasn't stopped," Brendon says, shaking his head and leaning against the rack of CDs. "Christmas was insane. Half my cousins freaked out when they saw me and my grandmother tried to attack me with her cane. My uncle though I was my sister's new boyfriend and it was. Awkward." "Your life is clearly just one hardship after another," the clerk says dryly and Brendon tries to remember why he thought telling his problems to a random stranger seemed like such a good idea in the first place. Still seems like a good idea. "What's so bad about your girlfriend remembering you? Most guys would love for their girlfriends to be able to recall that they're actually seeing someone," the clerk says, sounding slightly bitter. Brendon wonders if he's had problems with that in the past, but he doesn't ask. He doesn't want to know anything about the clerk, that would just defeat the purpose of this. "I just... I thought we were closer than that, y'know? We've been dating for a while, but she didn't forget at all," Brendon says. The clerk rolls his eyes. "Maybe it doesn't work the way you thought it did. Might just be your family that forgets." Brendon's stomach churns. Somehow that would be even worse than it being just anyone, he thinks. But. "No, it's not that. My band instructor didn't know me in class today. I've had him for band and orchestra for almost four years, and he helped me get a scholarship to go to band camp last summer. It's. He should've known. One of the flautists had to say who I was." Brendon still hasn't figured out what the exact correlation is between how close he is to someone and how long it takes them to forget him. At least two days for his close family, he knows, though it could take as many as four. He isn't sure. "You play?" asks the clerk, for the first time looking interested in what Brendon has to say. "Oh. Yeah. Piano and bell lyre and some other stuff." A whole bunch of "stuff." Brendon has a hard time focusing on just one instrument, a hard time limiting himself like that. "Nice," the clerk says with a nod, and, "here." He hands a CD to Brendon. "Sleeping Beauty on the glockenspiel and the koto. And the kazoo and ukulele, if that's your thing. Some idiot put it in with the anime soundtracks." "I— Thanks," Brendon says, smiling, following the clerk to the register, where the CD's rung up. "What're you going to do about your girlfriend?" asks the clerk when he hands Brendon his bag. "I think I'm breaking up with her," Brendon says, a bit surprised when when says it. He hadn't realized he'd come to that decision until the words were already out of his mouth. "We don't have much in common, and graduation's in six months anyway." The clerk's head jerks up, and for a moment he looks surprised, but then his face quickly settles back into its normal bland expression. "You're a senior?" "Yeah. I'll... see you around, I guess," Brendon says, giving a half-wave and leaving quickly. If he wants to be at the school when his mom comes to pick him up from band practice, he has to leave now. He's a bit annoyed – there's no reason the clerk should've been surprised about Brendon being a senior, he isn't that short. School is intense. Marching band is over for the year, but now there's orchestra and Brendon's playing in the ensemble for the school musical again this year. There are AP tests to study for as well, because his parents want him to get a degree in something real and practical after high school, and apparently music is neither of those things in their minds. Brendon is secretly contemplating becoming a cosmetologist just to screw with their heads. He breaks up with his girlfriend halfway through January. Two days later he finds her making out with one of the guys from the track team behind the stairs to the second floor where the language classes are. Somehow he's not surprised and Brendon can't find it in himself to be upset about it. Most days Brendon forgets that things are any different than normal. As long as he doesn't hole up and retreat in on himself for days at a time, there aren't many possibilities for it to become a problem. He starts to think he might have made the whole thing up. The rest of his family takes a trip to visit his oldest sister at her college over spring break, and Brendon stays home because he has orchestra practice and study sessions for his AP classes. He's distracted enough by both of those and the extra hours he's picking up at his part-time job that he misses the first two times his mother calls to check up on him, though she leaves messages. He has a good time listening to them, laughing when one of his sisters steals the phone and starts describing their oldest sister's newest boyfriend's outrageous mannerisms. Brendon makes sure to be there and ready to pick up when his mother calls on the third day of their trip, but her call never comes. He worries over it incessantly, eventually calling her cellphone himself, and his heart sinks when she answers and doesn't know who he is. At first he tries to explain, but it goes nowhere and she keeps insisting he must have the wrong number. Finally, she just hangs up on him. When they come home on Saturday night, Brendon makes sure to have someone over, a guy from his economics class that he sometimes studies with. Lets him speak first when his family comes into the dining room and hesitates, clearly unsure why there are these strange boys in their house. "Hi, ma'am," the other boy says, not glancing up from his book as he waves distractedly in the direction of Brendon's mother. "Sorry to impose. Brendon and I are trying to pool our answers to this outrageously difficult study packet. Did you have a nice trip?" The tension disappears from Brendon's family as recognition sets in. Brendon's chest starts to burn, and he realizes he's been holding his breath. He slowly lets it out. The experience is jarring enough that it leaves Brendon on edge for weeks afterwards. What would have happened if he hadn't thought to have someone else there when his family came home? Would they have believed him if he'd tried to explain, to get them to wait while he fetched someone else, someone who remembered him? Or would they have just kicked him out? Or called the cops and had him arrested for breaking and entering? The question are terrifying enough that they force him to realize something Brendon's been trying to deny for months now. "I can't go to college," he says without preamble. The music store clerk passes Brendon a box of tacks to hold while he unfolds a footstool. "No money?" he asks, climbing up the stool and positioning a poster on the wall. Brendon hands him a tack before he asks for one. Brendon shakes his head. "No. The money's there – my parents set up college funds and shit for me and my siblings years ago. I just. My brother and sisters are always saying how intense college is, y'know? Sometimes they don't have the time to call us for days on end, and. I can't do that. What if I can't call for too long and they forget all about me? They won't even know to pay my tuition and I'll get kicked out of school." He knows now that two days is the limit for them remembering him, and if college life is as stressful as he keeps hearing it is, he also knows there's no way he'll be able to remember to call his family every other day for four years. "Huh," says the clerk as he reaches down for another tack and Brendon hands him one. "Point. Couldn't you just go to school locally, live at home? Or go on a scholarship, I suppose." From the look on his face, it's clear the clerk doesn't think Brendon could possibly manage a scholarship. The way his grades have been hurt by the stress of this whole thing, Brendon supposes he couldn't now, not unless it was a music one, maybe. Only. "The deadlines for most scholarships were back in the fall," Brendon says with a sigh. "And I didn't apply to anywhere nearby – I wanted to live on my own, get away. I didn't think this thing would last so long." "There're always community colleges," the clerk says. He climbs down, moves the stool a few feet to the right, grabs another poster, and climbs up again. "Yeah, right. Like my parents are really going to understand my turning down acceptance at a four year university to basically continue high school for another two years," Brendon snorts. The clerk accidentally crumples the edge of the poster he's holding. He swears softly when he notices the damage and tries to flatten out again. "I'm at a community college," he bites out. "Don't knock them. They're a good way to save money." "Oh, shit. Sorry. I didn't realize you were—" Brendon breaks off, biting his lip. He feels horribly embarrassed. He hadn't realized the clerk was in school, had just assumed he was some kid who hadn't had any other option after high school than to take some low-paying customer service job. "You didn't know," the clerk says with a shrug. "Can't you just explain the whole think to your family?" he asks. "Tack," he adds, holding out a hand. Brendon hands him one. "They'd think I'm crazy. I. I've tried to explain it in the past, but. It's like they don't hear me." Which might be because he always tries when they don't remember him. He's too scare to tell them some other time, some time they know who he is. At least people don't seem to really remember what he says when they don't recognize him – he'd hate for his family to think he's crazy. Brendon explains all this to the clerk. "Wait. You're saying I'm pretty much the only one you've told about this?" the clerk asks, head turning slightly and he stares hard at Brendon, letting go of the poster he's hanging. It lists sideways, hanging on its one tack. "No, of course not. I just felt like unloading all my shit on a random stranger one day and now I feel like I have to give him constant updates on the drama that is my life," Brendon says sarcastically. "Fuck, of course I haven't told anyone else. The last thing I want is for someone to decide I'm crazy and have me committed." The clerk jerks around, grabbing the box of tacks from Brendon and glaring viciously at him. "I'm not your therapist, kid," he snaps. "I have a job, that job is to sell punk CDs to preppy kids who don't know shit about music and Frank Sinatra to middle-aged housewives. You want sympathy, tell mommy and daddy. Maybe they'll let you use your college money to see a shrink," he sneers and Brendon jerks back as if burned, hurries out of the store without saying anything more. Goes home and drags out his government book and tries to memorize all twenty-seven amendments. After a while, he hears the front door open and close, and his mother calls up to him, asking if he's home. He hollers back a yes and gratefully abandons dull, dry constitutional intricacies in favor of helping her unload groceries from the car. A little while later, he's leaning against the kitchen counter, folding paper bags while she puts things away. "Mom? Can I... talk to you about something?" he asks cautiously. "Sure, honey," she says, smiling at him. "Is this about college? You've done well – accepted at four of the five places you've applied to! Your father and I would feel best if you went to BYU, of course, but if you've your heart set on one of the others, I suppose that's fine as well," she says brightly, and Brendon can tell from her look that it's not fine, not really. He gulps. "I guess it's about college, kind of?" he hedges. Maybe if he starts off with that he can... sort of ease her into the idea that he's living in some sort of Twilight Zone episode. "I was thinking of doing community college first. Get myself used to it? I'm not sure I'm ready to handle the workload of a four-year yet." Again, mostly true, yeah. She'll buy that, won't she? She laughs. "Brendon, honey, I know school seems like a lot right now, what with tests and preparing for graduation and everything, but I'm sure you'll find that college isn't that much harder than high school. There are fewer classes per term for one thing, and you'll have more free time since you won't being wasting so much on music." "I. What?" Brendon splutters, staring at her and clearly flabbergasted. "Why wouldn't I be doing music?" There are still bands in college, after all. Bands and orchestras and people who actually know what they're doing, aren't just there to get PE credit or fill their fine arts requirement. "Well, it's just not practical, is it?" she says soothingly. "It's something that makes a good extra-curricular to put on your college applications now, but it's hardly something you can use in the real world." "Is that what you think I've been doing for the past ten years, learning music to I can put it on applications?" he demands, appalled at the very idea of doing such a thing. "It's a nice hobby," she says agreeably, patting his shoulder. Fuck. Why did Brendon think his parents could possibly understand what's happening to him when they can't even understand what music means to him? He was wrong when he told the clerk that they didn't hear him when they didn't remember him. Well. Not wrong, just misleading. They don't hear him any time he talks to them, not really. They never hear the things they don't want to hear, don't need to hear. His gut twists, and he turns on his heel and leaves the room. He can't deal with this now, can't talk to his mother right now. He just. Can't. A few days later Brendon tries going to music store, hoping to apologize to the clerk if nothing else, but there's someone else behind the counter, a bored-looking girl with periwinkle blue hair who doesn't even try to pretend she knows anything about the stuff she's selling. Brendon can't ask her about the other clerk, his clerk, because he doesn't know the guy's name, doesn't want to know his name. It's easier to keep him at arm's length this way. Easier to make sure this doesn't turn into yet another high-maintenance relationship that requires constant upkeep. That's one the reasons Brendon decided to bring this to a complete stranger in the first place. He lingers in the store for a little while, wincing as the girl puts a Simon and Garfunkel CD in the G section of soul music. No wonder his clerk is always having to re-shelve things. He means to come back and try again in a couple of days, but then AP tests are finally upon him, with the spring musical right in the middle of them and after that the teachers for all his AP classes assign final projects and papers and he has to spend all his time on those. Brendon skips his prom, ignores his mother's fretting and goes to bed early. Someone in his government/econ class told him that his ex-girlfriend's going with the guy from the track team, and Brendon's really not in the mood to deal with that. Once the last project is turned in, Brendon's ready to collapse and just rest, but then it's time for graduation. He's glad that he's finished, but he's just not ready for it to be over. Three days after graduation Brendon's standing in front of the music store again. There's graduation money in his his pocket (from his parents, from more distant relatives, nothing from the ones in between, close but not too close, the ones he hasn't had a chance to call regularly), aching to be spent, but he doesn't plan on going inside if it's periwinkle girl again. He wants the other clerk. Needs him, needs someone who'll listen to him when he speaks. Inside there's movement and Brendon catches a glimpse of dark hair, smiles, and goes in. Before he can say anything, the clerk (his clerk) is looking straight at him and saying, "If they really cared about you, they'd at least listen and try to believe you before trying anything as drastic as having you locked up," as if picking up their previous conversation just where they left it. "I'm just saying." "Sorry? I mean, um. Sorry. For last time. I was a jerk, I shouldn't've— Sorry," Brendon says, ducking his head and trying not to smile, because he's sure the clerk's had that waiting for him all this time, it sounds like he has, at least, and that means he's been looking out for him, waiting. Like a friend would. Which isn't a good thing. Brendon shakes his head and schools his face into a more sober expression. "I tried to tell them. Well. To tell my mom, but she wouldn't... She didn't really listen to me at all, not even about the simple stuff. It's. I want to study music," he explains, "but they think it's no good, it's not practical. They want me to learn something that'll help me in the real world." He sighs and rolls his eyes because. Because this isn't anything new, really. They've never bothered to listen to him, not to the things that've really mattered, not to anything that doesn't agree with their feelings, their views. Sometimes it feels like they've never really bothered to know him at all. "A lot of kids feel that way about their parents when they're your age," the clerk says in a weirdly cautious manner. Snorting, Brendon rolls his eyes. "You can't be more than a year or two older than me," he insists, watching as the clerk takes a Moody Blues CD out of classical music, muttering about idiot customers. "So, um. You don't work on Tuesday afternoons, I guess?" Brendon asks tentatively. The clerk shrugs. "I had a lecture then last semester," he says. "Witchcraft and Religion in the Middle Ages. Social science requirement." His head snaps up and he peers intently at Brendon. "Are you stalking me?" "No, um. I just. I came in a while back, and you weren't here is all." He shoves his hands in his back pockets, worrying his bottom lip, trying to think of something to say. "It's no wonder you always have to re-shelve things all the time, what with periwinkle girl," he manages after a bit, wandering over to soul music and yeah, sure enough, there are four Simon and Garfunkel CDs there – two under G, one in S, and a third in B (for Best of?). He pulls them out and hands them over to the clerk with a hopeful smile. "Periwinkle?" the clerk asks dubiously. He takes the CDs, setting them on top of In Search of the Lost Chord and continues to thumb through the classical music. "Er, yeah. She has these sort of... periwinkle blue spikes? The girl on duty here when I came in last," Brendon explains. He kicks at the maybe-red carpet of the store, staring at his feet. "I finished school but I don't know what to do next," he blurts out suddenly. "My parents, they want me to go to BYU, but that's out of state, I can't go there. And. And if I continue to live at home they're going to know something's up, but you know they're never going to believe me if I try to explain the whole forgetting me thing to them." The clerk's silent for a while, seemingly totally immersed in the CDs he's looking through. Brendon shifts nervously for a few minutes, then bounces off to look at the pop/rock, unable to stand still for too long. Finally the clerk makes a frustrated noise and Brendon's head jerks up. "What?" he asks a little nervously. "Why is it so important that they remember you?" the clerk asks, back ramrod straight as he glares down at the the CDs he's been organizing. "They're... they're my family," Brendon says, at a loss for how the clerk can ask that. The way Brendon's been raised, family is everything, after the church. "I... We're really close, we tell each other everything. It's. We can always trust each other, can always depend on one another." "Right. Which is why you've been telling a complete stranger about all this," the clerk says skeptically. "That's different—" "And clearly you all understand each other so well, seeing as how they don't agree with you about your studying music." Brendon gulps and stares down at rack in front of him, not seeing any of the CDs there. The clerk has a point, one Brendon has been ignoring and trying not to notice. There's a gap between Brendon and his family, one that wasn't there when he was younger, but has been steadily growing, widening in recent years. "Is it really you they're remembering, or is it the idea of you they've created for themselves?" the clerk presses, his voice soft. It hurts, and Brendon doesn't want to hear it. He grips the rack of him, willing his legs not to collapse out from under him. "It's not— They're my family," he says a second time, and even to his ears it sounds more like a plea than an argument. "Family's always there for you, no matter what. That's what family's about." "Not all family," the clerk snaps. Brendon doesn't know how to reply to that, so he leaves. A week later, Brendon moves into his own apartment. It's a shitty little hole in the wall, but it'll hold his guitar and his CDs, keep the rain off his head. He moves out while his father's at work and his mother's visiting a friend. A coworker of his has a truck, and between the two of them they're able to load up all the furniture from his bedroom, plus the ratty couch from the den that Brendon's mom has been wanting to get rid of for years. "Mom's going to throw a fit when she finds out you're gone," his brother says as he watches Brendon and the other guy awkwardly walk the couch out the front door. "Give her a couple of days," Brendon says through clenched teeth. He doesn't know if he's clenching them because the couch is so heavy or because he's trying not to cry. "She'll probably forget all about it." One of his sisters catches his arm on his last trip out of the house. "Is this because of the music thing?" she asks. Brendon stares at her, trying to think of how to answer. He doesn't want to lie, has been raised to always tell the truth. "I... Partly," he says finally, and it's true, he supposes. Had it not been for his parents' inability to understand the importance of music in his life, Brendon doubts he would've ever had the guts to follow through with this. (Had it not been for the cutting, pointed words of the clerk at the music store, Brendon knows he would've never done anything.) "I'd explain it to you," he tells her, "but you wouldn't believe me if I did." She frowns and protests, but Brendon just shakes his head and removes her hand from his arm. "Won't you at least wait until they're home so you can tell them yourself?" she asks. "I left a letter that explains everything," he says. "If they want to talk to me, they know where I work." Brendon doesn't expect his parents to come looking for him, but. He wants to believe that they will. Wants to believe that family means enough to them that they'll at least try to believe the contents of the letter he's left them. Will at least come to talk to him. They may not understand him, may not see eye-to-eye on any number of things, but they're still his parents, and they raised him to think of family as something of great import. Brendon would like to believe that they practice what they preach. Brendon climbs into the truck next to his coworker, directing him to the tiny apartment he's rented. They unload Brendon's things, and the guy is nice enough to help him haul the heavier stuff up the stairs and inside. "You owe me big time, man," the guy says and Brendon nods, agrees to switch schedules with him next week, even though the hours are shitty and horrible. He can't switch right away – he has to be there when his parents expect him to be there. "Sucks about your family," the other guy says as he gets back into his truck. "What happened? They kick you out for being gay or something?" Choking slightly, Brendon shakes his head vigorously. "No. We just. Grew apart. I can't be the son my parents want me to be anymore and." He shrugs. "It's hard to explain." "Naw, man, I get it. Everybody has to leave the nest sometime. Spread their wings and fly. 's cool," the guy says, shifting gears and pulling away with a wave. The two days immediately following the move are the hardest for Brendon. It's the time period during which he knows his parents will still remember him, might come to see him, and his neck starts to hurt from his head snapping around to watch the door at work each time a customer comes in. He's always so sure that this one will be his mother, his father, both of them together. He isn't sure if the twisting feeling in his gut each time he hears the bell above the door jingle is hope or fear, isn't sure whether he's hoping they'll come and fearing they won't, or the other way around. Work is hectic, crazy, absolutely insane. He somehow manages to get promoted to shift manager within two weeks of making the transition from part-time to full-time employee, which is, Brendon supposes, the one advantage of having worked there since he was sixteen. The promotion means a slightly higher wage and a whole bunch more responsibility, and he isn't sure if it's really worth it. He spends a lot of his free time frying to find something better, but it's hard when he has no means of transportation beyond the bus and his own two feet, no degree beyond his high school diploma. It doesn't help that he's only eighteen. A month passes without his realizing it, and it suddenly hits him as he's leaving work one day that not one member of his family has come to see him. His stomach twists and he's halfway to the music store before he even realizes he's still walking. "I moved out," he says when he comes through the door, not even bothering with a greeting. It's typical of him, of them, and he doesn't even think of it as odd. The clerk glances over from where he's speaking with some boy about Brendon's age, but doesn't say anything to Brendon, just keeps listening to what the other guy is saying. Brendon bites his lip and wanders over to the blues section, pretending to browse even though he hasn't the money to buy anything. Sometime in the next fifteen minutes the other guy must leave, because the next time Brendon glances up the clerk's standing silently on the other side of the CD rack, watching him silently. "Um," he says, because he's ever so eloquent. "Hi?" The clerk raises an eyebrow. "A proper greeting. How amazing," he says dryly. "Hello. What did your parents think of your moving out?" "Dunno. Left them a letter and told them they could come to my work if they wanted to talk, but. They never did." It's something that both hurts and reassures him. Hurts that they didn't even try, reassures him that he did the right thing, made the right choice. "Wimp," snorts the clerk, rolling his eyes. "Well? What are you going to do now?" "Live, I guess," Brendon says. "I mean. I still want to study music and everything, but classes cost money no matter what school you go to, and I can barely support myself as it is." It's ironic, in a way, he supposes. He left home because his parents hadn't understood, were never going to let him pursue music as a career, but now he's not any closer to that goal now that he's on his own. If anything, he's even further from it now – there'd always been a small chance that he might be able to talk them into it before. Eventually. Maybe. The clerk is looking at him strangely. "What?" Brendon asks, surprised to find his voice sounding choked and thick. "You're not going to cry on me, are you?" asks the clerk. The way he says it makes it sound like Brendon crying would be something disgusting and unbearable. In fact, he sounds so horrified by the idea that it drags a nervous laugh from Brendon, one that really sounds more like a cough than a laugh, but that's okay. Brendon takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out, takes another. He knows he's an emotional person, that he gets upset easily, tends to blow things out of proportion. He also knows that if he takes it slowly he can usually manage to not burst into tears at the drop of a hat. "No," Brendon says after he's calmed himself down enough that he trust himself to be able to speak. "I'm good." The clerk looks doubtful, not entirely reassured. "Really," Brendon insists. "It's just been a really intense month, what with moving out, and increasing my hours, and the promotion." "You're working?" "Yeah, customer service. The hours are horrible, the pay's worse, but it's better than nothing, and at least I can pay rent." Brendon sighs, pushes up his glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose. "I mean. I'm about ready to strangle the yuppie customers, my apartment's crap, I can't get sick since my work doesn't give benefits and I can't afford insurance, and I really miss my family, but. I'm okay." He lets his glasses settle down again and forces a tired smile. "Trust me." The clerk blinks and hums a snatch of music, and Brendon laughs. It sounds more solid this time, more real, and Brendon can feel the tension draining out of his shoulders as he and the clerk smile at each other. "Hey," says the clerk as he brushes back the dark fall of his hair, "are you busy right now? I get off in ten; we could get coffee or something. My treat." As soon as the clerk asks if he's busy, Brendon can feel his stomach drop out, his smile disappear. "I. No. Sorry. I have to. I should go," he says, edging away, moving towards the door. He didn't expect this, didn't see it coming. The clerk's so snide and nasty most of the time, with little, digging barbs for all the customers he deals with that Brendon never expected he actually enjoyed their conversations. The clerk rolls his eyes and snaps, "Look. I'm not hitting on you, alright? I just think you have good taste in music and we could talk somewhere else for once so you don't have to feel guilty about coming in and never buying anything." He says it flippantly, like he isn't hurt by Brendon's refusal, but his smile is gone and Brendon can see his eyes are shuttered now. "It's not a date or anything. I'm just saying we could go somewhere as friends." "I know," Brendon says as he leaves without looking back at the clerk. He feels horrible. "I know. I'm sorry." Brendon lets a month pass before he goes back to the music store, and he's relieved to find that things aren't as awkward between himself and the clerk as he was afraid they'd be. He and the clerk talk about music, and movies, and books they've read rather than what's been happening to Brendon for once. It's refreshing and nice, and Brendon starts coming in more often to just talk with the clerk, rather than unload his problems. Sometimes Brendon knows the clerk notices him watching someone outside the store with a longing look, and he's grateful that the clerk doesn't ask about it, just reaches out and covers Brendon's hand with his own. It helps some, Brendon thinks. To know that someone else knows. Sometimes the clerk makes overtures to meet up elsewhere, to get to know each other outside the music store, but each time the conversation starts in that direction, Brendon withdraws, pulls away, closes up and leaves just like he did the first time. It's difficult, because Brendon both wants and doesn't want to know the clerk better. While the clerk is wonderful, the one real constant in Brendon's life right now, there's too great a chance that if they grow too close, get to know each other too well, Brendon will end up forgotten. To this end, he shoots down all attempts to interact outside the store, refuses to give his name, to learn the clerk's. He tells himself it's better this way, it's safer. Six months after he leaves home, it occurs to Brendon that the person he's closest to nowadays is none other than the clerk. Brendon occasionally runs into people he's known even longer, and while they occasionally know who he is, they ones who remember are never anyone who Brendon's ever really known all that well. He doesn't know their last names, their favorite books, movies, colors. He just had had trig with them in junior year, or Spanish in sophomore year, or something similar. They've never been friends. Sometimes Brendon wonders what his parents make of the photographs of him that surely must still be around the house somewhere. Of the bedroom at the end of the hall, with all the little things he had to leave behind. Did they box them up and discard them? Or leave them there and pretend they don't exist? Do they agonize over who that strange little boy in various family photographs is, why they're carrying him around, hugging him, holding him? Or do they just ignore it all and act like they don't see it? Brendon wishes he could ask them, but he doesn't know what words he could possibly say. One day he's walking down the street, on his way home from a job interview when he practically runs into one of his sisters. He gapes and nearly turns and runs, but her boyfriend, a guy Brendon's only ever met once or twice, recognizes him and smiles. "Hey, Brendon," he says, "haven't seen you around lately. How're you doing?" "I. Okay, I guess," Brendon says, trying hard to act casual, act normal. "I just had a job interview," he says in a rush. "For tutoring kids in piano. I think there's a really good chance they'll hire me." "That's wonderful, Brendon," his sister gushes. They chat for a few minutes, but she and the guy (who's no longer just a boyfriend, is now a fiancé, apparently) are on their way to see a movie, so they can't talk for long. "We should get together sometime. You and I haven't spoken for ages, and I want to know what my baby brother's been up to," she says, and they arrange to meet for lunch later in the week. Brendon goes to sleep that night feeling better than he has in a long time. Thursday, the day of their lunch date arrives, and Brendon shows up at the deli they've agreed to meet at a little early. He stays for as long as he possibly can, until he really has to get back to work or risk being fired, but she never shows. When calls her during his afternoon break, she has no idea who he is. After this, Brendon just turns around and starts walking in the opposite direction whenever he sees someone he vaguely recognizes. He can't go through the pain of regaining someone only to lose them just as suddenly again. It hurts too much, and he just isn't that strong. It's not the only time something like that happens. Brendon runs into other siblings under similar circumstances where there's a third party present, someone who knows who he is, and each meeting sparks of brief periods of remembrance. Each time it happens he get gets hopes up, thinks that this time will be the time it it sticks, but each time it just... doesn't work. The clerk at the store gets angry every time Brendon admits that another one of these episodes has occurred. Bristling, the clerk snaps at Brendon that if he's going to insist on setting himself up for disappointment then he very well shouldn't whine about it afterwards. Brendon knows that the clerk's upset that Brendon lets himself get hurt, angry that he can't do anything to help. Frustrated that Brendon won't let him try to do anything to make it easier. All he can do is listen. Brendon receives the letter informing of his qualification for the last of the three scholarships he applied for months earlier on a Tuesday, and he has a hard time not smiling all day. Tuesday he works as receptionist from eight to four, does hour-long piano lessons from four-thirty until nine, with a break at seven when he eats supper. It's the same schedule he has every weekday except for Friday, when he only works at his first job until noon, and doesn't have any piano lessons. The clerk at the has morning classes Mondays and Wednesdays this term, evening classes Tuesdays and Thursdays. The store is only open until nine o'clock Monday through Thursday, so Brendon doesn't have chance to tell the clerk about it until Friday. When Friday comes, Brendon can hardly contain his glee as he bounces into the music store, face lit up, eyes sparkling. The clerk is busy talking to a pudgy boy Brendon's see there a few times before, and sometimes they'll talk for ages, so Brendon busies himself browsing the used CD rack, seeing whether there's anything that looks good. Most of what he earns still goes towards food and rent, but his current jobs pay a fair amount more than his old one at the smoothie place, and while he saves the majority of the excess, he has enough spending money that he can splurge on things sometimes. The other guy leaves and Brendon's clerk comes over. "Something came in yesterday that I think you'd like," says the clerk, and he's not smiling, not really, but there's a warm glow in his eyes and the corners of his mouth quirk up, and Brendon knows him well enough now to know that's the closest he gets to a grin a lot of the time. "I put it to the side for you – didn't know when you'd be in next," he explains, and he fidgets for a second, then plucks at the corner of Brendon's sleeve and drags him over to the counter. The CD turns out to be one Brendon's been wanting for a while, ever since he heard some of it on this one guy's walkman during lunch back in eleventh grade. It also has a big warning for explicit lyrics on the front, which would be why Brendon never bothered trying to buy it back then. They talk for a bit. The clerk tells him about how the teacher for the creative writing class he's taking this term is an idiot, Brendon chatters on about one of the ten-year-olds he's tutoring, a little girl who's mother wants her to learn classical pieces but who keeps trying to convince Brendon to teach her jazz and rock. The clerk's in the middle of explaining some crazy thing that happened to a friend of his in the statistics course he's taking when Brendon suddenly blurts out, "I'm going to school. Again. I mean, I'm going to take classes this summer. And in the fall. I got scholarships." The clerk tilts his head to the side, and it seems like his voice is carefully neutral when he asks, "You're moving, then?" "What? No. I'm doing community college, like you suggested," Brendon says, smiling tentatively. "It's. I don't make enough to go to something fancier yet. The scholarships help, but mostly they just mean I can cut down on the number of hours I work so that I can take classes. I'll probably have to cut down even more just to get my assignments done, and anyway, I don't have the money to move near a four-year." "I'm transferring," the clerk says. "At the end of this semester." Brendon's a little surprised by the surge of disappointment he feels – he hadn't realized how much he'd been looking forward to maybe seeing the clerk more frequently. "Oh. Hey, good for you," he says. "You too," the clerk says, nodding. "With school and everything." "Yeah." Brendon stares down at his feet, trying to think of something to say. "I'm going to miss you around here," Brendon says at the same time that clerk says, "I've been accepted at UNLV. They have a really good creative writing program. But they're expensive, so I'm probably going to keep working here." Brendon blinks. "...oh. Um. So when you say you're transferring, you, um. Just mean you're switching to a four-year." "Well, yeah," says the clerk, rolling his eyes. "No point in staying where I am when I can't get anything more than an AA." "Right. Right, yeah, of course," Brendon says, feeling bit relieved and a bit stupid at the same time. Brendon taps his fingers on the counter while the clerk rings up the CD, foot bouncing slightly along with the music playing on the store's sound system, and blurts out, "It's weird." The clerk pauses in the middle of what he's doing, raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything, just waits. "I mean. Three, four years ago I wouldn't've even thought about going anywhere other than BYU after high school, and I really didn't want to go anywhere else. And now I'm really excited about taking classes at the local community college." He grins ruefully. "You've changed a lot," the clerk says, and Brendon wonders if he's agreeing or asking a question or stating a fact. He wonders if he has changed all that much in the time he's known the clerk, or if most of the changes took place before this whole thing even started. Brendon's fingers and foot still suddenly, his hands gripping the edge of the counter as he thinks. "I... I really have, haven't I," he says softly. "I mean, I was really freaking about this whole thing when it started, and now I don't give it a second thought a lot of the time, but. But that's not much of anything at all, really, that's just been me getting used to a new idea." He frowns, worrying the inside of his bottom lip between his teeth. "I think... I think the real change happened years ago. It's. I should have freaked out more, y'know? About my family forgetting and stuff. I should have tried harder to make it work, to fix it. But I didn't." "It's not your fault, they didn't try either," the clerk argues. "No, I know," Brendon says, shaking his head. "I'm not saying it's a bad thing I didn't try harder, I'm just saying that, four years ago, I know I would've. But a year ago, I didn't. I think. I think I didn't try because I didn't need them anymore. They weren't... I'd changed so much, I was so different from what they wanted, what they needed, it wasn't. It wasn't really like I was losing them, it was more like I was letting go of something I'd outgrown." Which has to be a messed-up way of looking at things, Brendon thinks, and for a moment he feels guilty about it, for a moment he lets it bother him – but only for a moment. Then he lets it go. "I didn't fit in their lives anymore. I didn't fit, so they took me out. And, you know? I don't think it was really a bad thing, in the long run. I mean, if it hadn't happened, I probably wouldn't've ever had the guts to try and make it on my own." The clerk raises an eyebrow. "That's pretty zen of you," he comments. Brendon laughs and shrugs. "I guess? I don't know. I'm not, like, angry at them or anything. We grew apart, but I don't think I ever really belonged in the place I was with them anyway. I needed to be somewhere else, and I. Think I've found that place." Because if he's honest with himself, he'll admit that he's happier where he is now than he where he'd been with his family for the past few years. "You think the universe restructured itself so that you could figure out you didn't get along with your parents," the clerk says doubtfully. "I figure it makes as much sense as the rest of this," Brendon says with another laugh. He glances at the clerk, hesitates for a moment, and bites his lip nervously. "Hey, you get off soon, don't you?" he asks. The clerk passes Brendon a bag with his CD and shrugs. "Yeah, so?" "Are you busy afterwards? I was thinking we get coffee or something. Celebrate both of us getting into school," he says, flushing slightly as he takes the bag. "So. Want to?" The clerk gapes, clearly surprised, and Brendon tries hard not to laugh at his shocked expression. "I," says the clerk, "I, um." And he laughs, not just chuckles, but all-out laughs, his face breaking into a beaming smile with too many teeth. "Yeah," he huffs, still smiling. "Yeah, I'd like that." "Sweet," say Brendon, grinning back. "I'm Brendon, by the way." He offers his hand, and the clerk takes it, clasping it gently. "Ryan," says the clerk. Standing there, Ryan's hand clasped in his own, Brendon lets out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. And. Starts over.
| . | . | |
|
♥ ♥ ♥ | |||