Separation Anxiety

"Clash"

Chapter 1- "Clash"

                 He sees his brother, Kobe standing on the corner by the liquor store. He calls to him, or he tries to but no sound comes from his lips. His throat is dry, his face sweaty but he's not hot. He's nervous, scared even. He shouldn't be here. His brother shouldn't be there. A man approaches Kobe, shakes his hand in some weird way he's never seen before. The man is dressed in a long coat and has a hat that covers his face. The man takes something from Kobe. He doesn't like it. He pulls out a knife and Kobe's hands fly in the air. The man lunges and there is a flash. The man disappears; all that is left is Kobe in a pool of dark red liquid, eyes wide in terror, mouth open slightly, completely still.

                Isaiah wakes in a cold sweat, gasping for air. "It was only a dream," he tells himself. It was so real. He throws the covers back and swings his legs to the bedside where his feet meet the cool ground. He walks down the dark, narrow hallway wishing he could afford air conditioning. The air is thick and his tee shirt sticks to his sweat-dampened skin. He hears the snores and angry curses as he walks to the kitchen. He is not surprised to find his mother passed out across the table, beer in one hand, dying cigarette in the other. He plucks the cigarette from her fingers and extinguishes it in the ash tray. His mother stirs and looks up at him.

                "Dammnit, Isaiah! I wasn't done wit it yet!" she yells at him.

                "You looked done. You was sleep," he replies, peering into the cabinets for a midnight snack. Empty.

                "I just closed my eyes for a second." Isaiah is too exhausted to deal with his mother's irrational thought process.

                "Go to bed, Shaina." He tells her, his back turned to her. The rickety old wooden chair screeches as it scrapes the linoleum floor. She stands and moves to his side, squaring up to him, demanding his attention. He glances over at her.

                "I'm still your mother," she says and then turns and staggers off to the back room to pass out on the mattress, slamming the door behind her. Isaiah opens the fridge to find nothing. Bare shelves except for a few beers and a nearly empty bottle of vodka.

                He sighs, grabs a semi-clean cup from the sink and fills it with the tap. As he drinks, he listens to the noise outside. A few screams, police sirens, some guys cussing. Quietest it's been in weeks. Even with the closest his neighborhood gets to silence, Isaiah's not getting back to sleep. He plops down on the couch and clicks on the TV and PlayStation 2 his brother got him--stole for him-- last Christmas. He plays Grand Theft Auto, not bothering to do the missions, but instead stealing cars and shooting innocents. He believes somehow doing it in a video game keeps him from doing it in real life. Maybe that's why his brother got him the game in the first place.

                At 6am, he decides that he should get ready for school. It's a long walk. He throws on some baggy shorts and swaps his white tee for another one. He wishes he owned a polo shirt like you see those white boys on TV wear. He knows he'll never be able to get one. On the way to school he stops at the corner store and buys a quarter juice and a Slim Jim. There goes his lunch money. As he walks, Isaiah recalls his first week of high school two years ago. He remembers it like it was yesterday. His first class was algebra. Isaiah hates algebra. The other kids made fun of him for taking it. The other kids made fun of him for being able to read on grade level. He didn't think that was a bad thing.

                There's a girl in his class. She's the smartest girl he's ever seen. She answers all of the teacher's questions right. The other four kids in the class call her "teacher's pet," but she doesn't seem to care. She's pretty too. She looks like a white girl, but she speaks Spanish, especially when boys whistle at her in the hallway. She talks fast, in either language, when she gets mad.