"Pumped up Kicks" by Foster The People
October 24th, 1995
OLIVER
I drew in a slow puff of my cigarette, expertly releasing it moments later with a casual exhale. Over time, I had mastered the art of nicotine, now capable of effortlessly blowing out smoke without a hint of a cough. A satisfying cloud drifted above my head, leisurely making its way toward the open window of my father's study, just a stone's throw away from the front porch. It was only a matter of seconds before I anticipated the inevitable: a grunt followed by a thunderous yell. A wry smile danced upon my lips as I readied myself mentally. I didn't have to wait long.
"OLIVER EDMUND BLACKWELL! ARE YOU SMOKING AGAIN!?!"
My smirk broadened as I indulged in a longer drag. Despite his vociferous protests, my father, Edmund, seemed to have lost the fervor he once held for his children. The passing of his wife had turned him into an even greater workaholic, his dedication to Salem University Hospital consuming his days and nights. He graced home with his presence only on Tuesdays, and even then, his mind remained tethered to the hospital corridors.
However, there was one thing Edmund still held sacred: the prohibition of smoking within his household. It was a rule not to be trifled with, unless one was prepared to endure a marathon of disapproving lectures. His patients knew this. His brother, a reformed smoker, knew this. My siblings knew this. And, of course, I knew this too.
Yet, fueled by the fiery rebellion of teenage angst and a desperate hunger for my father's attention—even if it came in the form of reprimand—I never missed an opportunity to push his buttons. Perhaps I even picked up the habit of smoking partly because of its repugnance to him, akin to the shock value of kicking a puppy or boiling a live kitten. "What if I am?" I challenged lazily over my shoulder. I brought my two fingers holding the thin cigarette to my lips before taking another long drag. Six months of smoking equaled six months of Edmund starting to pay attention to what his children were up to. It only took three years since his wife passed for him to start.
A low, ominous stomping reverberated as Edmund angrily stormed out of his office, his heavy footsteps echoing through the halls as he made his way toward the backdoor of our two-story home. With a forceful swing, he flung it open, his frustration palpable in the air.
"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW UNHEALTHY THOSE ARE!?" His thunderous voice boomed, reaching the sidewalk and even echoing down the street, two houses down.
His mighty yell left me unfazed. My father was not prone to aggression. Despite his towering presence, he had never resorted to physical violence against any of us when we defied him. Instead, he often bellowed in a voice that resembled a giant's, but there was never anything truly menacing about it. "Nah," I responded nonchalantly, the coolness in my tone matching the icy gaze I returned. "To be honest, I don't give a shit, either."
Edmund's glare intensified. Despite his 5'10 height, he stood two inches shorter than me. His chestnut brown hair, mirroring my own, showed signs of thinning at fifty-five, and his narrowed brown eyes, inherited from him, bore a toxic intensity. Burly in the chest, my father possessed legs that resembled twigs more than anything else. There had been a running joke when my mom was around. She used to say Dad had 'chicken legs'. It was a lame joke, but it always managed to elicit a chuckle from us.
Nowadays you couldn't joke about such a thing around good ole' dad. Not because he would become angry upon hearing his late wife's joke or become offended, but simply because he didn't pay attention to my siblings and I long enough to hear what we had to say.
"What happened to you?" Edmund muttered aloud, his weary eyes studying me with a mixture of confusion and concern. His voice had shifted, the sharp edges of his earlier anger dulled into a monotone, lifeless drone that had become all too familiar since his release from the hospital following a mental breakdown after my mother's death. It was as if Edmund could seamlessly transition from anger or concern to this somber state, resembling the vacant murmur of a mindless zombie if one were capable of speech. This sound of my father used to evoke sadness within me, but that was before. It had affected me deeply in the days when I was still a nice little boy, eager to please my parents and uphold their expectations. Those were the days when I strived to be a positive role model for my sister and brother. Yet, in the years following my dear departed mother's passing, I found myself gradually withdrawing from caring about anything.
I took another deliberate drag of my cigarette, the smoke curling between us like a silent challenge to the old man, before exhaling slowly, allowing the scent of nicotine to permeate the space between us.
"Same thing that happened to you," I retorted with a shrug, mustering as much arrogance as a seventeen-year-old could manage. My gaze bore into his, daring him to engage in our all-too-familiar dance of arguments.
Oliver does something wrong, Edmund scolds, Oliver retaliates to provoke a reaction—our routine was as predictable as the rising sun. It was a game of cat and mouse, a battle of wills with no true victors.
"Come on, Dad, play along," my mind silently urged, poised to launch verbal missiles to pique his interest. But Edmund let out a tired sigh, shaking his head in resignation. The game of psychological chicken ended before it truly began. He rubbed his mustache, contemplating how to reprimand a boy on the cusp of manhood.
"Just don't let your little brother see you," he muttered, and with that, Edmund turned away, not sparing me another glance. His hollow, lifeless tone grated on my nerves, intensifying the resentment I harbored toward him.
I watched him retreat, heard the familiar creak of his study door closing, followed by the soft click of his window and blinds shutting. Such was the severity of breaking my father's cardinal rule in the Blackwell household: no smoking. It felt as though I could commit the most egregious transgressions, and still, the old man would struggle to muster the will to care.
Edmund Blackwell hated smoking like the plague, but the man could only muster two lines of semi decent parenting before giving up?
I took another long drag before throwing my butt down and stepping it out. The intrigue and fun was suddenly gone. I sat in silence for a few long moments.
"We both know you try so hard to get him to hate you because you want him to care," a soft, feminine voice broke the silence. I turned to find my sister Evelyn standing a few feet away in the front yard, her schoolbooks hugged tightly against her chest. She watched me with a look of pity, I didn't realize she had been a witness to the exchange with our dad.
Evelyn was exactly one year younger than me. My mother had been pregnant with Evelyn when I was just three months old. This meant that for at least three full days each year, we were the same age before my birthday rolled around.
At sixteen, my sister barely reached 5'4 in height, her features a mirror of our beautiful late mother's as she grew older. Her hair, a golden blonde, framed her face, while her soft blue eyes sparkled with a familiar warmth. Freckles lightly sprinkled across her pale cheeks, emerging only in the sunlight. The resemblance between Evie and our mother was striking, though marred by the presence of her hideous horn-rimmed glasses and the perpetually tied-back ponytail she wore. The glasses had nothing to do with her eyesight; Evelyn had aced her written driver's test and road test without a hitch. She had once confided in me the reason behind her dorky fashion sense.
It was at our mother's funeral, right after we had lowered Mom's coffin into the ground, that Evelyn began wearing the glasses and tying her hair up, intentionally distancing herself from Mom's appearance. For her, dressing "like a dork" was a way to alleviate our father's pain. I couldn't help but wonder if it was also her way of coping, a shield against the constant reminder of our mother's absence whenever she looked in the mirror.
"Go stuff another book up your ass, Eves," I muttered, the words slipping out with little thought, aware of how feeble my insult sounded. It was a weak jab at my bookworm sister, and we both knew it. Fortunately, years of trading barbs had toughened Evelyn's skin, rendering her immune to my insults and pettiness.
"If you're going to insult me, at least come up with a better comeback," she retorted dryly, not bothering to glance in my direction as she double-checked her homework. "I actually pity your insults." Her response was delivered with a cool detachment, a testament to her resilience in the face of my attempts to provoke her.
I raised my head, determined to land a more cutting blow. "You're a scrawny dork who's gonna die alone without ever having had a boyfriend," I retorted, mustering a cruel smirk. "Better?"
Evelyn chuckled, unfazed by my words, her laughter carrying a hint of amusement at my attempt to wound her. "Loads better. But if all guys are as stupid as you are, I'd take my chances being alone," she fired back, her smile devoid of malice. It was clear she was only playing along, refusing to let my barbs affect her.
I rolled my eyes, feeling slightly deflated. "It's not fun to pick on you if you brush it off so easily," I grumbled, hoping for a reaction.
Evelyn snorted. "Maybe you should try being nice, then. You'd baffle me to the point I'd then take offense to anything kind you tried saying or doing," she quipped, her tone laced with sarcasm.
I suppressed a laugh as our little brother Noah came bounding out of the back door, his backpack nearly falling off from the speed of his approach. "C'mon guys, we're going to be late!" he exclaimed, his sense of urgency palpable.
"So?" I replied, nonchalant as ever, reveling in the opportunity to provoke even our punctual little brother.
Noah's pout softened my resolve slightly. "It's almost Halloween! We're making arts and crafts today. Ms. Flowers is having us make broomsticks for our witch puppets!"
Another eye roll escaped me as I ambled toward my trusty '94 Honda Accord. Evie headed for the driver's side as I tossed her my keys. Since she had just obtained her license, we had been taking turns driving to school. Normally, a guy might feel emasculated by his little sister taking the wheel, but I couldn't help but swell with pride watching Evie drive. After all, I had spent countless sunny and rainy afternoons teaching her all things automotive, from the basics to the intricacies, before guiding her through the process of getting her learner's permit and eventually her license.
"It's a bit disgusting how wrapped up these people are in witches," Evie remarked as she ensured that Noah—and I—were buckled up before herself. "It makes me miss California. No one was this crazy around Halloween."
"What's the matter, you don't believe in witchcraft and randomly hanging people you suspect of doing it?" I teased, unable to resist poking fun as she started up the car.
"I mean, the Salem witch trials weren't exactly child-friendly," Evie stated matter-of-factly, inclining her head towards Noah in the backseat.
"I have no idea what you mean," I replied, smirking as she shot me a sidelong glance. It was clear she didn't want the topic mentioned in front of our little brother. But I pressed on, knowing that Noah probably already heard about the trials from his classmates by now. I had endured the ridiculous ramblings of all things witch-related since my first day at Salem High, most of it coming from my homeroom teacher.
"Having a bunch of sham trials and prosecutions of innocent people before murdering them? That's totally child-friendly," I deadpanned, nodding with mock seriousness.
"You're such a jerk," Evie muttered, though a hint of amusement danced in her eyes.
"Yeah, but I'm your jerk," I quipped, earning a small grin from her. The rest of the car ride passed in silence, the weight of our conversation hanging in the air.
It wasn't until Evie pulled up in front of Harvey Elementary and Noah eagerly exited the car to join his classmates that she spoke again. "I wonder if there's any truth to it," she mused, watching as Noah scurried up the steps towards his friends forming a line behind their teacher. "About the people suspected of witchcraft."
"Doubtful," I replied. "I think the people in charge allowed the power trip to go to their heads, so they slaughtered anyone they didn't like and said it was because of witchcraft."
Evelyn frowned, her brow furrowing in thought. "I don't know. Doesn't it come across as strange that so many people would be all right with putting women on trial unless they had some type of proof they thought was genuine?"
I gazed at my sister, feeling a pang of nostalgia for our younger days when we were inseparable. As the 90s progressed, however, we seemed to drift apart. Evelyn gravitated toward books and studying, always thirsting for knowledge and obsessed with earning top grades, while I found myself more interested in MTV and convincing the glorious Rachel Gilmore to accompany me to the Fall Harvest Dance.
"You're overthinking it, Evie. I know you. Stop reading up on all this crap just because the idiots you go to school with deem it true," I chided, hoping to snap her out of her contemplation.
Evelyn laughed, a lightness returning to her demeanor as she seemed to realize how absurd her musings had become. "I s'pose it is silly to even talk about," she conceded, shifting the car out of park.
I slipped my sunglasses back on, sinking into my seat. "Don't you worry, Eve-er-roo. There's no such thing as the supernatural. I'd bet my life on it."
***