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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter One
A lean-figured fellow sat at a desk across from the window, October sunshine spilling across his shoulders to warm him and the woodgrain of the desk alike. He had one elbow up on a stack of books, and his head rested on his hand as he idly read from the book open before him. He was penned-in by further stacks of books from all over the library: history, biography, cooking, no less than three volumes on art, and even a pocket guide to fishing. Beside the book he was reading were several unopened spiral-bound notebooks.
“Back again, are ye, Buddy?” came an age-cracked but sweet voice to draw his attention away from reading. He pressed his finger against the passage he was on, and turned to the person who’d spoken. It was Brenda, one of the elderly librarians. Not wanting to be rude, he promptly pressed the STOP button on the tape player beside him. Well, that, and he didn’t want to miss his favorite track on the Mozart recording.
He looked up at her expectantly, wordlessly wondering what she’d said.
“I asked if you were back at it, but, obviously…” Her voice trailed off with a fond chuckle as she gestured to the desk he’d completely overtaken—yet again. It seemed to Brenda that he’d staked a claim to that very desk since his first day at the university.
Buddy glanced back around at the desk and his assorted mess of books and paper before looking back at her. He gave a small shrug and a smile. He never took her comments to heart; she meant no harm.
“Any luck then?” she asked, to which his only response was a popping-clicking noise and a shake of his head.
“No, not yet.” He let out a long, beleaguered sigh at the sight of his brand new, unopened, unused notebooks. Those damn notebooks. “I still have no ideas on what to write. Honestly, I’ve never felt less creative or productive,” he admitted.
“Don’t give up,” Brenda said. “You’re creative; it’ll come to you.” Her tone was reassuring and kind, but he could tell by the way she lingered that she had more that she wanted to say. It seemed balanced on the tip of her tongue.
After a moment, Buddy decided to pull the figurative trigger. “Was there something else?”
If he’d at all sounded rude in asking, Brenda either hadn’t or didn’t want to notice. “Well…” She did hesitate, though, considering and weighing her words in her mind before she dared to voice them. “You’ve been here every night since you got here—every weekend, too.”
“Bri, you obviously have something to say, so let’s stop beating around the bush, hmm?” It might’ve sounded irritable coming from anyone else, though his tone still wasn’t unkind. He liked that she worried; she felt like the grandmother he’d never had. “I respect you a great deal, so, please, just be plain and say it.”
“There’s more to schooling than just studying and grades. You know that, don’t you?” She gestured to the warm light from the window. “You should be out there, having fun, getting silly with your mates. Not just sitting in this dusty old library with me.”
Regardless of her good intentions, her words did sting a bit. Maybe “sting” was too harsh; it was nice to be thought of and worried about. He’d never had that before. And he had asked her to speak plainly…
“Now, Bri,” he replied, “don’t you know that you’re my girl?” He flashed her his most dazzling smile, and was pleased when she giggled and went a little pink out of embarrassment.
“Oh, now, you stop that! Making an old lady blush, you stinker…” She swatted his shoulder good-naturedly, drawing a snicker from him. “You know exactly what you’re doing, young man, and don’t you think for one minute that I don’t know it too!” She gave him a pleasant little smile. “And you know what I mean about all this…” Again, those unused notebooks.
“Yeah…” Of course he knew what she meant. “But you know me, Brenda. I don’t really have any friends.”
“Oi, then what am I? Thanks a lot!” she teased, laughing quietly when he groaned.
“Besides you, of course, Bri.”
Her smile softened. “I know that you have it rough, but you’re a lovely person, Buddy, and other people will come to realize that. But for them to see that, you’ve got to try a little. Put yourself out there.”
Everything that she said came from a genuine and heartfelt place; it made it hard for him to be truly hurt by her words.
“Okay, yeah. I mean, yeah, you’re right. You are. I know you are. But, frankly, I wouldn’t even know where to start.” He looked at the carpet, considering its gray-purple texture and the way the sunlight played across it. He briefly had the desire to be a cat and curl up for a nap in the sunlight. A blink chased the desire away as quickly as it had come, and he looked back up at Brenda. “I’m hopeless about this stuff. Really, I am. You’d think I’d be better just from copying what I read or watch on the telly, but, no. Hopeless.”
Brenda chuckled and waved her hands, as if to pooh-pooh his claims, and stepped up properly to the desk. She plucked his pen from the desktop, opened the top notebook, and jotted down a name and phone number at the top of the first page before he could protest. She babbled away animatedly while she wrote, oblivious to the distress she’d caused by writing in the previously unused notebook. Buddy silently chewed the inside of his cheek and held his thumb firmly against his palm as he registered that she was telling him about her grandson.
“He’s attending a get-together with some of his friends, and some fellow students from some group. Some movie or computer thing.” She scrunched up her nose a little. “I really don’t understand those things, but the clubs are popular.” She set the pen aside and looked down at him. “Do you know anything about computers?” She sounded earnestly curious to hear his answer.
“No, not really,” he admitted with a slight shrug. “My knowledge ends at making doodles in MS Paint.”
Back at Buddy’s small flat, he sat at his little folding table in the corner of his kitchenette, bouncing his leg and chewing on his cheek anxiously. His hand rested on the open notebook, but his eyes were on the telephone on the opposite side of the flat. He’d been sitting like this, a whole room between him and the phone, for nearly an hour, and seemed unable to shake himself out of it. Nervousness had settled into his bones, and had left him virtually paralyzed.
He kept looking back to the notebook, reading the telephone number for the billionth time—the one for Brenda’s grandson, Alexander Agutter. He knew that there wasn’t a logical reason to be anxious over making a phone call, but knowing that didn’t seem to help his nerves.
Come on, pull yourself together… It’s not like you haven’t made phone calls before, so get a fucking grip!
He took a deep breath to try to steady himself, then stood and crossed to the phone. Or, well, to stand nearer to it. He’d read the number enough times that he was confident he had it memorized, so he picked up the receiver and started turning the rotary dial. By the time he’d put in the last number and the phone began to ring, his heart was in his throat and his stomach was in knots.
Ring, ring... Ring, Ring…
Every ring was shrill against his ear, and churned up the unease in his stomach. He’d never been particularly comfortable with phone calls. He had no idea why.
Relax. Breathe. Don’t be an idiot, he thought as he cradled his elbow in his hand, as if to help his other hand hold the phone to his ear.
Ring, ring... Ring, Ring…
He began unspooling the tangled coiled phone cord, holding the phone firmly between his shoulder and his ear. It stretched and bounced, but for every few inches he managed to pull free, the tangle only seemed to get worse.
Ring, ring... Ring, Ring…
He wrapped the cord around his wrist twice, and managed to yank the tangle loose. The cord fell, thick and heavy, to the floor. It tugged a little on the receiver and he had to promptly grab its base to keep it in place against his ear.
He rocked from foot to foot, side to side, while the phone rang. Maybe, he thought, he should just hang up—
“Hello?”
Buddy’s heart jumped behind his ribs at the voice cutting into the repeated ringing. He tried to force his own voice despite the twisting in his stomach.
“Uh, hi, hello, yes, this is Buddy Adams. From Philosophy 101. With Mr. Bernard.” He chewed his thumbnail a little, hoping that he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt. He unconsciously moved away from the sofa and coffee table where the phone sat and back into the kitchenette, cord stretching and trailing along behind him.
“Yeah, uh-huh, whatcha want?”
“Right, um, your, uh, grandma gave me your number. I wasn’t sure if she’d mentioned, I mean, uh—”
“Ah.”
That made Buddy pause. Ah? What was that supposed to mean? His brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but the other voice cut him off.
“It’s not some idiotic D&D club, or whatever. Whatever she led you to believe, that’s not what it is. She’s completely stupid, and I’m done explaining.”
Buddy stammered a little, taken aback by Alex's sudden change in tone. It was incredibly rude, but he wasn’t sure if it was worth it to try to explain the mix-up or if he should just tell him to get bent and treat his grandmother better. How dare he talk about Brenda that way, one of the sweetest women Buddy had ever met?
“I just really wanted to clear things up,” he finally said, “in case you felt pressured into anything.” He smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead. Yes, of course! Say it like that, so he pins you for a fag, you fucking dumbass! This shit is why you deserve all this crap! This was not how he’d hoped or planned for this phone call to go. He paused near the fridge, chewing the inside of his cheek. He still wasn't sure about this whole party business... It really wasn't his thing at all.
“I really don’t give a shit one way or the other,” Alex said, not even trying to hide how annoyed he was. “If you want to come, then come. It’s open house, but do not bring more than two people.”
Oh. That genuinely took Buddy by surprise. Sure, it wasn’t the warmest of invitations, but it still was one. His gaze roamed across the magnets, shopping lists, and take-out menus stuck to the front of his refrigerator, his eyes coming to pause momentarily over a postcard he'd received from a penpal at the end of spring. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “No problem, can do.”
“And don’t tell Brenda.”
When the line went dead, Buddy moved away from the fridge and back into the living room, where he hung up the phone with a shaky hand. He was practically vibrating with anxiety, adrenaline still coursing through his veins despite the fact that the scariest chore was done.
He suddenly let out a breath. “What are you doing? A party? Are you insane?” he muttered to himself as he moved back across the flat. He had every intention of returning to his studying, but, halfway to the table, he paused and sucked his teeth as he considered the piles of books and papers. There was no way he’d be able to sit still—not this wound-up. So, instead of trying, he headed for his front door, grabbed his blue jacket, and headed out. A short walk—that was what he needed. Then he’d be right as rain.
His idea of a walk was a stroll around the block, smoking whatever cheap cigarettes he happened to have on hand, and doing his best not to cave to worse cravings. But, try as he might, his mind continued to wander to the loose floor board beneath his bed, and the vices he’d squirrelled away there. He’d been doing his best over the last few days in particular to resist; this wasn’t the time to let himself fall back into bad habits—not with how well he’d been doing in school.
When he’d made his way around the entire block, cigarette burned down to the butt, he was finally feeling less like he was going to vibrate out of his own skin. Even so, when he stood outside his building, looking up at his window and taking one last drag from his cigarette, he knew he’d be no good for studying. Still, he put the butt out on the sole of his shoe, and headed back into the building. Might as well do his best to relax before the party. Better than continuing to wander and burning out every cigarette in the pack.
Once back inside, Buddy shed his coat and went down the hallway that went back into his bedroom. He flicked on the light before crossing over to the alcove that housed his bed, where he knelt down and pulled the rug out from the bed to expose the wooden floorboards. After leaning down and squeezing partway under the bed, he worked one of the floorboards up with his nails and scooted it aside. From beneath the floor, he pulled his little box of goodies.
He wiggled his way out from under the bed and, still on the floor, stretched his legs out before him and set the box on his lap. It was a second- or third-hand used cigar box that Guy had given him years ago. He’d since slapped band and company logo stickers all over its worn exterior by contrast, the inside lining remained relatively pristine, with only a little bit of color damage and piling in one corner.
Opening the box, Buddy took stock of what he had. He pulled a thick cigarette case from the box and opened it. A strong wave of marijuana smell wafted from the case as he counted the remaining six fat pre-rolled joints. He closed the case and returned it to the box before pulling out a breath mint tin and giving it a shake. There was a slight rattle from within. He popped it open to find a few slips of acid, and several ecstasy tablets. He'd been out of cocaine for a while, but not so long that he'd considered seeking out any heroin to make up for it.
Then he stopped and let out a sigh as he set everything down, and took a moment to ponder his life. This wasn't where he wanted to be, but it seemed to be where he always ended up. Even despite getting back into school, and getting out of the hospital and finishing his physical therapy, he couldn't seem to shake the seedier aspects of his life.
He remembered when he'd first gotten out of the hospital shortly after the new year. He’d been so ready to start over, to have a whole new life. He'd felt so grateful to be alive, to be free of the hospital. It was as if he'd truly been given a second chance to get his shit together and make something of his life.
But then he'd gotten home. And he'd found Guy's “Congrats on gettin' outta the hospital” gift: a shoe box full of new “treats” for his favorite piece of ass. Buddy was ashamed to admit how hard he’d cried—or how quickly he had succumbed to temptation.
"Joints now," he said, pushing the memories and sour feelings to the back of his mind. He had a party to prepare for, and anxiety to cope with. "Ecstasy later."
He pulled the oversized cigarette case from the box, and climbed onto his bed. He'd smoke a few joints to calm down, and then use the molly closer to the time of the party. He was determined to be social that night. He needed all the help he could get
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