YAFF Muse: Hey Mister

By Cam

YAFF Muse is a new weekly blog series featuring some YA Fiction Fanatics members. In this series, we’ll post original short stories created from an image meant to inspire our Muse. Hope you enjoy! And don’t forget to check out the other *YAFFers participating in this series (links below).

Hey Mister

“Well, what do you think? I found her by the train tracks.”

I turned in a slow circle and anchored my hand on my hip. “You can’t be serious. This thing wouldn’t scare nobody away.” I clucked my tongue. “And the tracks? You might want to check the seat before you sit in it.” The train tracks were known for two things: Migrants and stop ‘n sticks—otherwise known as pit stops for those needing one last fix before they got too close to border patrol.

Eli hopped off the bench and reached for the pencil he always stashed behind his ear. He frowned.

I pointed by his feet. “There.”

He brushed some rocks away and picked up his No. 2, then scribbled on the notepad he kept in his back pocket. The little journal was worn and curved from all the time spent hugging his butt, but he didn’t seem to notice as his pencil bobbed up and down across the lined pages. He paused, then licked the graphite tip and continued jotting down whatever great stroke of genius he had this time. When he was done, he crooked his finger at me to stand next to him. “This is what I’m talking about,” he said. “All I need is a sheet of aluminum and some nails and I’ll be set. And Rex won’t be bothering you no more. None of them will be bothering you no more.”

I leaned in. And scratched my head. There was a mess of lines and angles and some sort of contraption between the handlebars that looked like a teepee. “Uh. Yeah. It’s nice. I’m sure Rex will be reeaaal scared when he sees that thing coming at him.”

Eli sighed and stuffed his notepad back in his pocket. “Forget it. I’ll just work on it mys—”

A car pulled into the Qwikee-Sip parking lot. The pieces of broken glass and gravel crunched and skipped across the pavement as the car parked in the spot closest to where we stood. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. As soon as the driver’s door opened, I smelled the smoke and heard the low twang of a country tune streaming across the speakers. The door slammed.

“Hey, Shanda. Whatcha doin’?”

I pinned my gaze to Eli’s left eye, to the still-healing outline of Rex’s class ring. If I squinted real hard, I saw the ’09 imprinted into the sandy arch of his brow. “Hey Rex. Not much. You?”

Eli bounced on his toes, his fingers playing an invisible keyboard against his thighs. To him, I mouthed, Go. Now. He shook his head. Not a big enough movement for Rex to notice, but mentally I cursed Eli for being such a stubborn little shit.

Rex’s boots ground into the rocks behind me. He was no more than four—maybe five—steps away. That meant it was already too late.

“Well, I figured I’d sit and wait for a ‘Hey Mister.’ I need some beer. Anybody been by yet?” he asked. I heard him pivot in the rocks, probably to scan the store front, then pivot back. He hocked a wad of spit over my left shoulder. It landed on the bench, just missing my school bag.

My fingers curled into my sundress. “No one’s been by yet. But it’s Friday afternoon. So only a matter of time.” I laughed. It sounded odd. Like a too-loud soprano in the church choir who sang off-key compared to everyone else. It made my ears ring.

“Good.” More gravel-crunching. More spitting. “That’s real good.”

I mouthed, Just run, I’ll distract him, to Eli, but he stood there like a Firecracker Popsicle melting all over the sidewalk, not doing anything but looking like a damn fine prize for Rex Tuskergee.

“Why don’t you take your ‘Hey Mister’ somewhere else, Rex?” Eli asked.

I groaned when I heard Rex’s boot dig into the rocks. A second later, the jagged little pebbles pelted the backs of my legs and clanged against the spokes of the bike wheels. It didn’t hurt. Probably looked worse than it felt, but Eli was all heart and no sense. He launched himself toward me. I ducked and turned just in time to see him swat at Rex’s face with his pencil. I cringed. Someone needed to teach that boy how to fight.

Rex laughed and grabbed Eli’s wrists as easy as if they were two chicken legs he’d sopped up with hot sauce and ranch, and twisted. “Boy, I will kill you.” He howled again and dropped Eli to the ground, next to his No. 2 pencil which had broken in half. Then he gave a swift kick into Eli’s belly before stepping over his writhing body. Rex held his arm out to me. “Shanda.”

I placed my hand in the crook of Rex’s elbow and stepped over Eli, who begged for me not to go. But I said, “Hush now, baby brother. I’m going to help Rex with his ‘Hey Mister’ and then we’ll work on that bike of yours. Alright?” I winked but I didn’t think Eli saw it. He was too busy cradling his hands, which jutted out from his wrist bones in weird angles.

I blinked back a tear.

And just in time, too, because a truck pulled up. A battered old thing with a rusty grille and a crooked side mirror, like it was barely holding on and needed more duct tape or tobacco cud to stick things back together. The window rolled down and a man I’d never seen before tipped his cowboy hat at me. “Miss.” He grinned and displayed an impressive lack of teeth. “You look mighty fair tonight.” He swirled his finger at me. “I like that dress you got on.” He nodded and made an indescribable, guttural noise in his throat. It made my stomach turn.

I pressed my lips into a smile and sidled up to his truck. “Hey Mister. I’m awfully thirsty tonight. Wanna buy me some beer? I’d do aannything for a six-pack…” I pressed my boobs against the side of his door, and tried to ignore the smell of Rex’s cigarette burning behind me.

© 2010 Cambria Dillon

(Author’s Note: So when I first saw this picture, I thought of The Wizard of Oz. OBVIOUSLY my story has nothing to do with The Wizard of Oz. Instead it has to do with a boy, his sister, another psycho teen (what IS it with my muse?), and the grand notion of building an aluminum teepee onto a bike as a means of self-defense. Makes perfect sense to me. )

*Don’t forget to check out other stories from YAFF Muse participants:

RM Gilbert
Min Buchanan
Rebekah Purdy
Jennifer Fischetto
Vanessa Barger