Lost, p.11
Lost, page 11
“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” the boy went on before Lysander had a chance to say anything. “I’m Ethan Masters.”
“I know. We’ve been classmates long enough. I’m Lysander Maverick, in case you didn’t know.” Masters definitely knew, but the dig felt warranted. “Can I help you with something?”
“Nope.” Masters shrugged casually, looking bored. “Just wanted to say you have a nice car.”
He waited for the other shoe to drop — for Masters to spit on his shoes, or tell him that only faggots drove BMWs. But nothing came.
“Well, thanks,” Lysander replied, forcing a smile onto his face. “I guess I’ll see you around, Masters.”
He didn’t know what response he had expected to gain from this, but it hadn’t been for his classmate to give him a polite nod of farewell.
Lysander relaxed, almost ashamed of himself. There had been no need to worry after all. Ethan Masters had only wanted to be polite, but his mind had jumped to the worst conclusions. Since when was he the kind of guy who didn’t give people a second chance? He felt terrible about it.
At least, he did until the boy’s foot came out into his path and a well-placed knock to the shoulder sent him tumbling to the ground.
Lysander was no stranger to tripping. Being a runner it happened more often than not, but having somebody deliberately push him was not something that he was accustomed to.
He landed hard, his hands not reacting quickly enough to completely break the fall. He held back a shout as his left wrist gave a particularly painful jolt, taking instead to narrowing his eyes at the boy who now towered over him. Several people had stopped to stare.
“Better watch your step, Maverick. Ground’s a lot shakier in California.”
Lysander got to his feet, brushing dirt and grass from his clothes as he went. A couple of people snickered; many of the bystanders watched him eagerly, no doubt waiting for his counter-strike. He tested out his injured wrist gingerly, making sure the damage wasn’t too bad, before he decided what his next move would be. His first instinct was to hit Ethan Masters, just as he had hit Jeffery Hallon. There was no doubt in his mind that Masters deserved it, and yet...
Dakota would not have approved.
“Thanks for the heads up,” he said instead, rolling his shoulders to release the sudden tension. “I’ll see you in class.”
Masters looked irritated as Lysander passed him and made his way up towards the main building. He didn’t look back as he walked, but he maintained a state of alertness just in case Masters decided that they weren’t done. The bystanders, many looking disappointed, departed the scene once they realised there would be no fight.
“Coward,” a senior boy muttered as he pushed past Lysander.
Lysander ignored him. He made a beeline for the closest bathroom, where he promptly set his backpack down and turned on the tap. It took only a moment to make sure the water was suitably cold before he put his now aching wrist under it and let out a sigh of relief. Ice would have been better, but cold water would do in a pinch.
He counted himself lucky that all he’d gotten out of the surprise meeting was a potentially sprained wrist. He wondered briefly why Masters hadn’t pursued the attack any further, especially when he had looked so thrilled to have an audience. Maybe he was smart enough not to start a fight with so many witnesses around? Or maybe he was too afraid to start something with Lysander when he didn’t have his friends around to back him up. That seemed far more likely.
Masters was already in his seat when Lysander walked into his science class, talking quietly with his friend, but neither he nor Lysander acknowledged the other. Lysander simply made his way over and took his usual spot beside Jack, who showed no signs of knowing that anything had passed that morning. He smiled in greeting. It was a look that faded to one of amusement as he examined his friend.
“Why are you covered in grass?”
Lysander looked down at himself. Sure enough, several blades of grass still clung to his shirt and his jeans, somehow having evaded his thorough brush down of himself.
“I had a minor run-in with Masters this morning,” he explained, nodding over at the boy in question as he set about cleaning himself off again. “No big deal.”
“You got into a fight?”
“Not exactly.”
The look on Jack’s face was one of doubt, but he didn’t push the matter any further.
“Sorry,” he said instead. “I didn’t mean to land you on his hit list.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. You hit Hallon because of me.”
“Maybe. But you never asked me to do it. I did it because I wanted to.”
And because it was the right thing to do, he inwardly added. The school might have been doing a decent job of filtering out physical violence, but they still had a long way to go when it came to bullying. He imagined Dakota would have something to say about that when she finally got there. Maybe she and Eliza Beth could team up and start some sort of campaign against it. Anything that he could do to help put a stop to it in the meantime was a good cause as far as he was concerned.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Zack didn’t usually hear his phone ringing over the sounds of the band practising. It was only since he’d learned he was a father that he’d become super-attuned to his ringtone, a stereophonic version of This Is Halloween. He was forever conscious of the fact that Maria could call with news of Dakota, or that Lysander could call if there was an emergency. So when he heard it start to ring just before midday, he dropped everything and left the garage to answer it — leaving behind him a disgruntled bassist and a chuckling guitarist.
“Mr. Bennett? James Randall here. Do you have a moment?”
Zack pulled the door shut behind him, dulling the sound of still-drumming Aaron, and retreated further into Pat’s empty house. James Randall. The name struck a chord within him, but he couldn’t place where he knew it from.
“Sure,” he replied without hesitation, his mind still reeling. “How can I help you, Mr. Randall?”
“I’m afraid it’s about your son, Lysander.”
James Randall, Zack suddenly recalled with startling clarity, was the principal of the high school. He was kicking himself internally for not having picked up on this straight away — these were the sorts of things he should have committed to memory, right?
“Is he okay?” he asked quickly. “He’s not hurt, is he?”
“A little bruised, but nothing fatal.” Before Zack had a chance to ask anything more about the nature of his son’s condition, James Randall said, “He got himself into a fight.”
Zack’s heart sank.
“A fight?” he repeated. Maybe he’d misheard. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. And I’m sorry to say this isn’t the first time.”
Of all the things that his son could have inherited from him, Zack had hoped that a knack for getting into trouble wouldn’t be one of them. But it seemed he was out of luck. He ran a hand through his dark hair, unsure of what to say. Was he supposed to apologise on behalf of his kid? Promise that the boy would be disciplined appropriately?
James Randall must have sensed his unease.
“You understand, I’m sure, that Lysander’s actions cannot be ignored. He and the other boys involved have been suspended for the rest of the week. And should this happen again, further punishment will be required.”
Suspended. Well, it could have been worse.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry about this, Mr. Randall. I’ll be sure to have words with him.”
“I’m sure you will.” There was a moment in which the principal was silent, but then he said, “The last time this happened I expressed my concerns to Mr. Maverick that he might be acting out because of his mother’s death. I offered him the services of our school counsellor, but he declined. Obviously you would know him better than most. I was wondering if you felt it would be necessary.”
The question threw him off. Lysander rarely mentioned his mother and, as much as he was ashamed to admit it, Zack never gave much thought to the woman either. Besides the one time that Lysander had broken down in front of him, Zack never got the impression that her death was affecting his son any more than it would have affected any other child. Sure, the boy missed her, kept her photograph on his bedroom nightstand and probably thought about her all the time. But he had never acted out because of it.
Until now, it seemed.
Then again, it could also have something to do with his sister not being back yet. Zack hadn’t bothered to tell the school about her, so James Randall wouldn’t have made the connection. Maybe he should have told them.
“I’ll talk to him about it,” he said, “and get back to you if I think he needs to speak with someone.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bennett.”
“Not a problem. Is he still with you?”
“He is.”
“Could you tell him I’ll be there to pick him up in ten minutes?”
“I can. You have a good day.”
“You too, sir.”
Zack’s mind buzzed with what he’d been told, but he didn’t have time to stand around and think about it. He returned to the rest of his band long enough to tell them he was stepping out for a while, then got into his car and headed toward the high school.
He found Lysander sitting on the front steps of the main building, conversing easily with a blond boy. Both teens quickly shut their mouths and looked up at Zack with identical guilty expressions as he approached, telling him two things: they were friends, and they were in this together.
“Hi, Dad.”
Lysander sounded uncertain — even moreso than the day they’d first met. Zack hated that. Hated that Lysander had found it easier to talk to him as a stranger than now, when he was in trouble. Didn’t that mean he was doing something wrong? What else had his son not been talking to him about? He’d thought he’d been doing well, but maybe he’d been deluding himself.
More unsettling was that he didn’t know how to handle this situation. What would his mother have done?
She’d have yelled and grounded him, he was certain. Maybe whacked him with a wooden spoon. That had always been the way with her. Probably because his fights had been a regular occurrence, every other week at minimum. Her yelling hadn’t made him want to stop, either. It had only made him angrier, fuelling all that teen angst he didn’t have a place to channel until he found music.
He wanted to do better. For his son to do better.
“Lysander.” He slipped his sunglasses off. “You wanna tell me what happened?”
“Got into a fight,” the boy replied shortly. “Didn’t Randall tell you?”
“I was hoping to hear your version of things.”
Lysander stared up at him. Defiant.
“Some guys were being dicks,” he said eventually, adding a shrug for good measure. “One of them tripped Jack, so I shoved him. And things kind of...escalated.”
“It’s my fault, sir,” the friend spoke up. Jack, he assumed. “It’s me those idiots have an issue with. Lysander only got dragged into this because he was defending me.”
“Jack. It’s not your fault.”
“It is. None of this would be happening if not for me.”
“I’m sure I would have hit Hallon eventually for one reason or another.”
Jack snorted, the doubt written all over his face.
“Does somebody want to tell me what’s going on?” Zack asked, looking between the pair of them. His eyes settled on Lysander. “Hallon?”
“He’s a guy in our class,” Lysander said. Then, after a moment of silence, he added, “I punched him in the face a while back.”
Zack took his time processing that. I punched him in the face. He’d gone from thinking of his son as a peaceful entity who didn’t get into fights to discovering that he did after all. And more than that, had even perhaps been the start of one.
“You just went up and punched him in the face. For no reason?”
“No!” Lysander looked righteously angry at this. “He called Jack a faggot. And he and his idiot friends have been bullying him since high school started. I’d say that’s a damn good reason!”
The pieces in Zack’s mind slid into place. At the word “faggot”, Jack looked down at his shoes. Lysander stared at Zack defiantly, daring him to disagree. His hands balled into fists where they sat.
“You’re right,” Zack said instead. “It is a good reason.”
Both boys looked surprised. Lysander stared at him, still tense, as if he was waiting for Zack to say “Just kidding!” and ground him for the rest of his life. Jack, on the other hand, visibly relaxed, a small smile creeping onto his face. Poor kid. How often was he made to feel ashamed of himself over this? Zack smiled at him reassuringly.
“Are your parents coming to pick you up?”
“No, sir. My mom’s at work. She won’t be home until after six.”
“You wanna come with us for a while? I can drop you home later.” Zack nodded at his son before adding, “Lysander’s gonna need somebody to keep him company while I finish up some work.”
“Sure,” Jack agreed after a nod from Lysander. “Sounds like fun.”
“And,” he added, “you can call me Zack. ‘Sir’ makes me feel old.”
Ten minutes later he was parking his car a few houses down from Pat’s place. Even from this distance, with the windows closed and his own stereo filling the car with background noise, he could hear the rest of his band hard at work. Lysander and Jack shared a look.
“And adults think teenagers are bad,” Lysander mused.
Chuckling, Zack beckoned for the two boys to follow him. All three climbed out of the car and, after double-checking that the doors were locked, Zack led them down to Pat’s garage. He didn’t bother knocking before he pulled the roller door up, knowing that his friends wouldn’t hear him no matter how much he banged on the metal. The sudden invasion of sunlight was enough to make them stop, though.
“Christ, Zee!” Chris cried, hands flying up to shield his eyes from the light. “How ‘bout a little warning next time?!”
Beside Zack, Lysander chuckled. Jack stood with his mouth agape.
“Well, well.” Brendan smirked when he caught sight of them, his eyes lingering on Lysander. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school, kid?”
“Yeah.” Lysander absently rubbed at the back of his neck. He looked embarrassed when he added, “I kinda got suspended.”
“Suspended?” Brendan repeated, eyebrows raising. “For what?”
“Fighting.”
“Well, you’re definitely Zack’s kid. Who’s your friend?”
“Jack Avery,” Lysander replied, shooting his friend a quick look. “Jack, these are…my uncles.”
Jack picked his jaw up off the floor. “I thought garage bands were something only teenagers did.”
The guys laughed.
Jack looked nervous, but not in the fan sort of way. Zack couldn’t help feeling sorry for the kid. If what Lysander had said was true (and Zack didn’t doubt him for a second) then Jack had been dealing with bullies for a long time. Probably even longer than he was willing to admit. And here he was now, standing in a garage filled with a group of strange, intimidating men. Zack wanted to kick himself for not realising that this would make the kid uncomfortable. Maybe he should have driven them back to his own house instead.
“They won’t bite,” he said. When Jack turned to him he added, “They’re good guys. You have my word. This is Needless Desires.”
Jack furrowed his brow. “Who?”
Chris snorted. “Did he seriously just say that?”
Being the closest, Brendan was the first to offer his hand to the teenager. There was only a brief moment of hesitation before Jack shook it.
“Brendan Harmon,” the guitarist introduced himself. “That’s Aaron, Pat and Shorty.”
“Chris,” the bassist amended automatically. He gave Brendan the finger.
“You boys make yourselves at home,” Pat said from his place by the computer. “The kitchen’s right through there. Fridge is fully stocked, so help yourselves.”
“Thanks.” Lysander hitched his bag up higher onto his shoulder. “We’ll let you guys get back to work.”
“Sorry for any trouble we’ve caused,” Jack added, the apology mostly directed Zack’s way. “We didn’t mean to interrupt your…work?”
“No trouble,” he said. “But no more fights, all right?” To Lysander he added, “Even if it is for a good cause.”
“No promises, Dad.”
And with those parting words Lysander and Jack made their way into the kitchen, leaving Zack with his four chuckling friends.
“No promises,” Brendan repeated with a grin. “You’re gonna have your hands full with that one, man.”
“You just wait until Melody’s a teenager.”
“Girl’s an angel. There won’t be any fighting from her.”
Pat shook his head, but there was a knowing smile on his lips as he turned his attention back to the computer. Zack returned to his seat and reclaimed his guitar, knowing that Pat would be eager to catch him up on what he’d missed. He himself was eager to get on with the rest of their session.
“We were going to try recording the demo,” the older man told him. “We’ve practised it enough, and the others agreed that it sounds ready. Whatcha think?”
They didn’t need to ask him twice. “Let’s get this baby recorded.”
They played well into the afternoon, tracking for hours until each of them was satisfied with how the composition was sounding. Hearing the completed demo played back, Zack felt a familiar spark of excitement. The album was coming along great. The fans were going to love this song. He knew it; they all knew it. He could see his own excitement reflected in his band mates’ eyes.
They packed away their gear with smiles on their faces.
Leaving Pat to finish up on the computer, Zack followed the rest of his band into the kitchen. He found Chris and Aaron exactly where he knew he would — at the fridge and pantry respectively, one looking for alcohol and the other looking for some sort of sugary treat. Brendan had sat himself down at the table, across from Lysander and Jack who were poured over what could only be…
