Chapter 3: I DRINK EXPIRED ORANGE JUICE
"Before we get back to our scheduled episode, I suppose it's time for a short play," The figure on the stage said. "You don't mind, do you?"
"I do," The boy said. "Where am I?"
He looked around. They were in this fancy theater-looking place, but something about it felt off. Offly liminal. The drabby curtains looked a bit too familiar.
"Oh poor, poor ____," The figure said, pulling a dandelion out of a hat. "It wouldn't be fun if I told you so soon."
The figure waved its hand, snapping the dandelion's neck. "Even if you do mind, your mind is quite small. So deary me, I hope you can act."
A sign dropped down from above, gently swaying from a rope.
The boy stared at it, bewildered.
The sign read: "PRELUDE:", which meant the beginning –
In this case, the beginning of a play.
"Ah, yes, I do love plays." The figure said, drawing the boy's attention up again. "I suppose it's because I'm a narrator. Now take a seat will you?"
The figure—narrator?—walked under the "PRELUDE" sign. A bunch of "clanging" and "banging" could be heard.
PRELUDE:
"Wait, the stage is not set yet."
PRELUDE AGAIN:
As the curtains parted, a lone figure emerged at center stage, drenched and disheveled. The backdrop was eerily convincing—a city street drowned in a downpour, lit by an occasional flicker of lightning. But this stage was indoors, right?
So how could it rain?
Before the boy could even think about that, he noticed the air around him twisting and turning into words. Words in the air? It was like a story, and somehow, he could read the lines:
"The story's lines began weaving themselves into the fabric of a play. Over the stage, the narrator's deep voice began to boom."
NARRATOR:
"The scene is set on a dark and dreary, rainy night."
The boy watched as the figure walked closer to the front of the stage. The rain began to grow louder with each and every step…
NARRATOR:
"But you don't remember, do you?"
The cold feeling of rain.
Suddenly, the boy found himself standing on the stage. He felt the rain glistening on his cheeks and the drops pooling on his eyelashes.
What? He wanted to shout, but the words didn't come out.
The rain from above soaked through his clothes down to the nape of his neck. He tried to move but his body didn't obey. It was like he had turned into an actor. Yes, an actor in a larger play.
THE BOY:
"Even when I close my eyes, the image still appears."
The words slipped from his lips, words he didn't mean to speak.
He squirmed again, trying to move his legs.
The rain pounded against the nearby windows, creating a steady rhythm that followed the thumping in his chest. He looked down at his hands, shivering. Behind him, rippling puddles clutched shoes in its embrace, as socks with holes strayed and the river of rain carried them away…
The taste of pennies in his mouth—like metal gutted through a hole—it wouldn't stop bleeding into dirt.
Please… a voice cried.
But how could he turn around? How could he…?
NARRATOR:
"How could you?"
| ACT 1: RAIN
An ordinary apartment.
The boy glanced around. He was no longer at the theater. He looked down at his clothes, which were dry.
There was a slightly warm smell here, like stepping into a friend's house. On the apartment walls, hung a circle clock. The clock's hands began to move, suddenly and randomly, out of place and out of time—from 12:31—8:07—et cetera.
On the table, the boy noticed one of those vintage record players with those little bronze horns. The record began to play, but it sounded a bit broken–a bit sad.
Record Player: "Y–you–"
A broken record.
Record Player: "You were never me…ant to."
Behind it, the clock began to spin again, this time more frantically.
Record Player: "They were waiting for you. You had parents who loved you. A kind, but stern sister. She taps the couch, waiting for you… today.
Rain: …
8:07 A.M: …
12:31 P.M: The heart tries to beat on the coffee table. Ba-bump.
9:26 A.M: When she flips your blanket open, her eyebrow raises.
8:17 A.M: It was like that every morning. Without fail.
8:07 A.M: A croissant.
9:35 A.M: Your sister runs outside, but the rain is too heavy. She falls, scraping her knee on the concrete.
Rain: …
9:36 A.M: It drowns out her calls for your name. Your name doesn't stand out in the rain. It never did. Time. and time again. Time and time. again. Time and time. again. Again. Time.
Time and time again…
11:00 A.M: Four months, five days, seven hours, and thirteen minutes when you finally showed up again."
The broken record plays one final line:
"6:13 P.M: You were never meant to…" |
—His eyes snapped open.
An angry teacher's face greeted him.
11:37 A.M: Half of him wanted to fall asleep again—
"HOW DARE YOU SLEEP IN MY CLASS?" The teacher screamed.
—But the other half wanted to plug his ears.
"Do you have ANYTHING to say for yourself?" She snapped.
Steven wanted to say that the bell had only rang a couple minutes ago. And plus, it was the last day of school. Only Mrs. Phalla would care that a student was sleeping on the last day of school.
Mrs. Phalla? She was this snarky middle-school math teacher from the burning depths of Forest Hills. For some reason, she hated Steven's guts. One time, she handed out six "extra-credit" quizzes as a nice gesture for the students. Except, Steven had accidentally flipped over the quiz-sheet while passing one out to the student behind him.
So, of course, Mrs. Phalla gave a zero to Steven for every single question. That wouldn't have been so bad, except when other students did the same, she smiled sweetly, and said, "now, sweetie, don't do it again."
Besides him, a girl snickered. "See, I told you to pay attention in class."
That was Ashley Lang.
Ashley was part of this girl-only math club that Mrs. Phalla created, even though she wasn't really that good at math. But, she was good at one thing: sucking up to the teachers and getting everyone else in trouble.
Steven knew right away that Ashley was the one that told Mrs. Phalla that he was sleeping. Guess the propped textbook was a bit too obvious, huh.
He looked back at Mrs. Phalla.
"I'm waiting…" Mrs. Phalla tapped her feet.
"I'm sorry." Steven said, in what he hoped was a sincere tone.
"This is the problem with you boys. Always playing video games. How many times have I caught you sleeping in class?"
Steven curled his fingers. If only she knew. He had to juggle so many jobs just to help pay his rent. With all that work, finding time to sleep was next to impossible.
Yeah, he knew if he said anything, Mrs. Phalla would interrupt. It didn't matter what he said. She was the type of teacher to believe that his parents didn't attend 'parent teacher conferences' because he didn't tell them…
And not because Steven had no clue where his parents were or if they even existed.
"Detention!" Mrs. Phalla screeched.
So after class, Steven was sitting in detention. Mrs. Phalla was sitting there, too. She impatiently tapped her fingers on her desk, before realizing she also had something to do.
"Detention is over," Mrs. Phalla snapped as the day ended. "Gosh, I hope you act better next year, in highschool."
That's it.
"I respect teachers," Steven said.
Mrs. Phalla scoffed like a little kid. "Uh-huh."
"And I wanted to thank you for being my teacher this year. For teaching us. Because, I think you wanted to make a positive difference in kids' lives, right?"
Steven continued, "But honestly, I think I'd like you better if you weren't a teacher. Cause you really aren't that good at your job."
He walked out, without even trying to hear Mrs. Phalla out.
Steven slapped his face. It was the last day of school. Couldn't he have just walked out earlier? He sighed as he walked down to his apartment.
The apartment building was an average-looking brick-structure in Queens. As he walked up the stairs to his floor, he was greeted by his neighbor Mrs. Harris, fumbling with the groceries.
Mrs. Harris was this nice, old African lady. She didn't have any grandkids or anyone to take care of her. She had an old portrait of this Asian man on her desk, who Steven knew was her husband. One time, curiosity got the better of him and he asked about the picture.
Mrs. Harris gave him the saddest smile he had ever seen on her face. So Steven didn't bring it up again.
"Here," Steven said, picking up a stray apple.
"Thank you, honey." Mrs. Harris said, "oof!"
Steven knew Mrs. Harris probably was a real looker back in the day. She had this sweet charm in her voice and this elegance to her that one couldn't easily replicate.
"Here, I got it." Steven said, taking the bags of groceries from her.
"Are you sure it isn't too much?" The older woman asked, worried.
"No," Steven said, bringing the bags in.
"Oh, you know," Mrs. Harris said, as they got settled down. She poured him a cup of orange juice, which Steven didn't have the heart to tell her was expired.
"Mm… yum." Steven said.
"Y'know, when I'm gone." Mrs. Harris said. "I wanna leave my apartment to you."
Her words hung a bit heavy in the air.
Steven drank his cup. "What do you mean?"
"You're like a grandson to me. And I know how hard you've been working to keep that lease on your apartment."
"No, I mean, what do you mean… when you're gone?" Steven said. "You still look super young."
"Aw, honey," Mrs. Harris smiled, "Always such a sweet talker!"
She sighed, her fingers fiddling on the tablecloth. "I went to the doctor recently. They say I got this little ol' lump growing in me. Apparently, I don't got much time now."
Steven felt his stomach drop. "What do you mean?"
"Six months," She said so simply, like it was easy. "They say I have six months to live."
Six months.
"N-no, but there's these… pills now, right?" Steven said, his voice a bit rushed. "That can get rid of cancer? I'm sure we can scrap some money together and-"
"I don't want you doing that," Mrs. Harris said, "I want to leave my money to you so you can get into a nice college. And when I leave, I don't want you to be working those jobs. I want you to focus on your education."
"But-"
"No but's," Mrs. Harris said, her voice firm. Her warm brown eyes were getting wet. "Come on, can't you do that for me?"
There it was. That look in her eyes that said nothing Steven said or did would change her mind. Dang it, why'd she have to be so stubborn about this type of stuff?
"Alright." Steven muttered, looking at his expired orange juice.
Mrs. Harris went up to organize her groceries again. "Aww… no. Hey, would you mind being a dear, and run down to the supermarket to get me some onions? Completely slipped my mind. Those darn things." Her voice was strangely cheerful.
"Okay."
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