How to Live Hardly—Part Two

Two mornings later, I wake up to my mom calling me upstairs. I live in the basement of our house, which is nothing like people think. I’d tell someone I live in a basement, but they don’t know I mean a dang Drake & Josh style, decked out air-conditioned basement. It’s spacious, I have privacy, and I have decorative control, which means I get the privilege to not decorate at all. Against my mom’s wishes, of course.

All in all, it’s perfect for smashing chicks when I can’t get into Lo’s place. I just wish I had my own bathroom.

When I get upstairs, my mom invites me to the kitchen. The thing about being an only child is that you can be turning 18 in a matter of months and you’re still treated like a kid.

“Made you eggs,” Mom says.

“Dirty?” I ask.

“Oh, I uh, I forgot to pick it up from the store-”

“Jesus Christ, Mom.” I throw my backpack onto the table, crashing a glass of orange juice to the ground. We call scrambled eggs with black pepper ‘dirty eggs’ because I called it that as a kid when I saw the dots all over the bright yellow lumps. My mom knows it’s my favorite way to eat eggs, yet she still acts retarded like this and makes it without.

“Grayson.” She’s standing still, pleading with her eyes.

“To hell with it.” I begin gathering my things. “I’d rather eat toast.”

On the way out, I grab a piece of bread from the basket and bite into it angrily. Then the smell of booze fills the air, and I know that he’s emerged from his room.

“What in the name happened in here?” My father shouts. He’s still in his pastor get-up. His shirt is wet.

“Mom made those terrible eggs again,” I growl.

“I can’t believe you’re still picky over some dang eggs.” He rolls his eyes. “Mary, clean up your act! And then clean up this cursed floor.”

Seeing my mom get shouted at from my dad isn’t fun, even if she totally deserves it.

“I’m going to school,” I say. And as I close the front door, my forehead is tight. I can hear my father advancing towards my mother, but I don’t want to hear the blows.

***

“So, can’t you just, pretend to be sick or sum?” Brandy inquires. “It won’t work every Sunday, but you’ll give yourself a dang break at least.”

We’re on lunch break at school, and old worship music falls on us from the speakers above. All of the tables and walls are white in here, and the floor is gray, so I feel like I’m in a mental institution.

“It’s not that simple,” I whine. “They’d probably make me show up there if I had cancer. And you guys should have heard him! This week’s sermon was about purity, then he comes home and fills himself up with that stink stuff.”

“He need a intervention, bruh,” Lo says. He has finally come up for air from his lasagna. “He still hate black people? And gays? And women? Some pastor, that dude.”

“It’s not like that. He’s just a little...outdated.” I try.

“Boy, you a little outdated.” Brandy says. “Your dad’s a Klansman.”

I sigh.

“Listen, it’s whatever man,” Lo says. “My daddy don’t slap my momma, but he still ain’t much to celebrate. It’s only up from here though! We gone live it up in Orlando, then come back and graduate, then we gone get in some cheeks all summer, then you off to that big school in Lakeland, right? Fresh start, man.”

“I guess.” I stir my chicken soup, but I’m not interested. Brandy grills Lo about the use of the word ‘cheeks’ and how it displays a ‘disregard for a woman’s humanity’.

And like that, for the next few days, the cycle goes on. Home sucks, school sucks, Adam is short with me, I scream along to DNCE in my car, home sucks, school sucks, Adam is short with me, I scream along to DNCE in my car.

***

On Thursday, the day before we leave for Orlando, I’m playing video games in my room. The lights are off, and Frank Ocean oozes from the speakers. It’s Lindy’s playlist for when she needs to “chill out,” but it seems this guy pulls you all the way under instead of chilling you out. There’s no way I could ever relate to this gay stuff, but the composition is perfect. The bass massages you. The chords wrap you in a blanket. The music itself feels so present and big, that you don’t feel like you’re alone.

When I hear a knock on the door, I prepare to get angry, but I’m not sure I have the energy to follow it through.

“Come in,” I sigh.

“Hey, Gray.” My mom says.

“I’m going on a retreat with my mentor and a few other Christians at school,” I say without turning from my game. “Tomorrow.”

“I know,” Mom sits next to me. “Your father told me.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask why you stopped asking me to do things?” My mom continues.

“Because then you’d have to go to him,” I mutter.

“Gray, he’s my husb-”

“You know, you make me sick.” I shut my game off. “Why are we still here? Why are you still here?”

“How many times do we have to have this conversation?” My mom pleads.

“We’ll have this frickin’ conversation every day until you stop having to cover up your bruises with that cheap makeup!” I yell.

“So leave?” My mother says bitterly. “You’re saying I should just pack up and leave?”

“I don’t care. I don’t care about you.” I lie.

I get up and start putting clothes on to leave because I don’t want to see her face. I don’t want to see what my words do to her face, and what my father’s hands do to her face.

“I know you’re not going on a retreat, Gray.” My mom says firmly.

“Well, congratulations,” I respond. “You’re not stopping me.”

“Will you be with Adam?”

“He hates me.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“He hates me, because I’m not stupid enough to believe in your God. And that there’s a point. And that churches are the pillar of the community. But you’re stupid. Oh my goodness, Mom, you are so, so stupid.”

I slam the door to my room, the tightness in my forehead returning. As I exit the house, Adam is getting off the bus, walking towards me.

“Hey,” He says, then his smile fades. “Why do you look so angry?”

I say nothing.

“Gray,” he persists.

I still can’t speak. Somehow, on a poetic level, I’m not surprised that he’s here. I always fall from crappy situations right into Adam, this time literally. I press my hands to my temples, trying and failing to keep it together.

He wraps me in a hug, and I stand there, on my front lawn, soiling Adam’s flannel shirt with snot and tears.

“I told you not to listen to Lindy’s playlist,” Adam remarks.

“Screw you,” I sob.

***

We drive a few blocks from my house and onto the main road, heading for Dunkin Donuts. Dusk is drawing to a close, and the night comes alive in the city.

“I wish I had like a thousand bucks to just leave this place and settle down somewhere else. New York,” I wonder. “Do dirty jobs or some crap.”

“There’s actually a lot of dirty jobs that involve ‘some crap,’” he jokes.

“Is it your mission to make people smile?” I elbow him playfully.

He pauses for a second, then says wistfully, “Hmm. A thousand bucks, man.”

I look over at him in the passenger seat, and his eyes are out of the side window like Kick’s when I bought those drugs.

It’s hard to think about your best friend’s poverty. Adam isn’t one of the lazy blacks who waited on handouts or hobos on the street who drugged themselves into being homeless. Life just sort of kicked his family square in the balls, and now they are in a hole they can’t climb out of.

When I was a little younger, I would ask my mom why Lo and Brandy couldn’t just give Adam all the money he needed. She always responded by saying, “People will solve what they want to solve.” To me, it always sounded like another way of saying Lo and Brandy didn’t care about Adam. But the truth is, the issue went deeper. Lo and Brandy’s parents didn’t care about Adam’s parents. And even deeper, rich people, in general, don’t make it their job to make poor people rich too, because then that makes the originally rich people not rich. It’s like that little guy from Incredibles going, “When everyone’s super, no one will be.”

“Things are going to change for you soon, man.” I attempt.

Adam’s still trying to decide whether to chase a sociology degree at a school he got into on a full scholarship or take a promotion at the shipping company. It seems insane to me that he’s willing to stay here as much as he complains about it, but he always says he has to consider his family first. I can’t relate.

As we pull into Dunkin’s parking lot, I ask Adam to remind me of his order.

“Oh no, no, no,” he responds. “We’re going inside today, buddy. You need a break from that environment.”

“Ugh.”

“You know I’m right.”

“You’re always right.”

We get inside, order food, I pay, and then we find a booth. That’s right, we’re that couple.

“Man, check out the lips on pink shirt, brown boots.” I say in between sips of iced coffee.

“Pink shirt brown boots has a giant dudebro standing behind her, so I think I’m good.” says Adam.

“Bro, we could take him.” I humor. “I’ll get in his face while you tackle him from behind.”

“You don’t actually think your long stoner hair and sunken eyes are that intimidating, do you?” Adam laughs. “This isn’t a TV Show.”

“Ouch.”

“You know I love that hair, man.”

“Hey,” I say quietly, “can I ask you a question?”

“You just did.”

“How do you say 'love' so easily?”

Adam stops eating, and although he loves answering questions, he seems pretty caught off guard.

“Well, uh, I don’t know about easy.” He says. “I just try to love, sort of, generally. Openly.”

“Sounds like ‘easily,’” I reply. “And it’s funny because your life is the opposite of easy.”

Adam laughs. “I live hardly.”

Now we’re both laughing. “Dude, we could have a Netflix original show. ‘How to Live Hardly.’” I chuckle.

“I’m down,” Adam says, tearing into another donut. “We’ll use a lot of shots of me cutting my old shirts, so Ari can look like she bought cool Forever 21 crop-tops.”

“I’ll set up surveillance of my father buying out the entire bar, then still coming home and breaking into his wine cabinet,” I add.

“Oh, oh, oh, and then I’ll film me running a cable down to the neighbor’s house because our power went out again and giving them old bread in exchange.”

At this point, I’m clutching my stomach with laughter, and Adam can barely breathe. We feel so free, and content in this moment, that I almost mention the time Lo paid for an operation where my mom had two of her broken teeth replaced. My dad had smashed them in. It is a sobering thought. When my smile fades, so does Adam’s.

“Wanna play Guitar Hero?” I ask.

“Why not go for the real thing?” Adam challenges.

“Oh crap,” I curse. “I’m way too embarrassed to even pick up my guitar. Those days are over, man.”

Adam gasps. “What would DNCE say?”

“I’m being so serious, man.” I try. “I can’t even find it.”

“You’re lying,” he smiles. And he’s right.

When we get back to my place, it’s quiet, so my father is either asleep or out somewhere. I let Adam into the basement, turn on the lights, and watch him dive onto the blow-up bed. He uses it whenever he stays over, but it’s a little flat because it hasn’t been blown up in a while.

I pull my cherry red Les Paul from the closet and plug it into the old amplifier.

“Darn it!” Adam slaps his lap. “We forgot to stop for my acoustic.”

“No need,” I smirk, then I begin setting up mics. “You’ll sing today.”

“What?” He shoots up the bed. “Since when are we fancy?”

“That’s right. I got Lo to sign up for a Shure membership.” I say excitedly. “Equipment for days. No more screaming over the sound of this rickety old amp.”

“What do we open with?” Adam is already in front of the mic, adjusting the stand and testing into it.

We decide to skip the casualties and go straight for “Tear in My Heart” by Twenty One Pilots. The chords swallow me whole, and suddenly the time between the last time I played and now doesn’t matter. My fingers fly across the fretboard with a mind of their own, and Adam sings with passion: full, loud, and broken. The song fills the room up.

For the next hour, we go on, transitioning to Elvis, and then to Christian Rock, which Adam totally put more heart into, then onto finger-styled renditions of the Paper Kites, Mumford & Sons, and Adele.

Later on, as I’m messing around between the E and B strings, I come across a hook I really like.

“That’s really cool,” Adam says. “Da dum da doo, living hardly...” he sings.

“You did not!” I laugh.

“Bro, keep it coming!” His eyes are closed and he’s basically kissing the mic as if he’s Prince at the Super Bowl.

“Feeling the rush, living hardly. Thanking the One, living hardly. Ohhhh, here I am, living hardly.”

When we come up with chords we like, the rest of the song comes together like it’s magic.

“Are we in an episode of frickin’ Glee?” I ask.

“Don’t talk, just play,” Adam says. Then he sings it and realizes he loves it as a line in the first verse.

After a few minutes, we turn on a drum track and begin recording. Right there in my basement, we give birth to something that’s more than a song. Something that’s alive and tender, like us. Like humanity.

“Hey,” Adam says. “I’m sorry we’ve been distant.”

“It’s not your fault,” I reply, seeking to avoid this conversation.

“It’s both of our faults.” he pries. “But will you promise to make an effort? If not for me, for yourself.”

“Dude-” I begin.

“You know, you’re killing ambitious little Gray. And sober Gray. And compassionate Gray. And, you know...Gray-with-a-future Gray.”

“I get it, I get it.” For once, Adam’s parenting words do more than just annoy me. I feel watched. Heard. “I, um, I’ll come to your youth group next week.”

Adam’s eyes light up. “There we go.”

***

At 2 PM on Friday, I’m done packing my things, so I decide to scroll through social media while I wait for Lo.

I end up on the official Instagram page for Lights and Spirits, and then through tagged photos, I find Lindy’s choir director. This dude creeps me out, so I scroll away until I find a picture of Lindy. I follow it to her Instagram page and open her story. Not to my surprise, she’s talking about a link in her bio to her website.

I’ve learned one thing about the internet. In 2018, if people have fresh new content they’re showing off on the internet, they have old content too. So, I begin to search Lindy’s name in Google, along with nicknames and aliases she’s used as usernames for old Twitter accounts.

The searching is just for fun, but then I find a blog that was made in 2009. The top of the page displayed a post from last weekend.

“What the hell...” I mumble.

When I click on the latest blog entry, I can’t believe my eyes:

Wow. You. Your brown skin. The freckles thrown against it like dots of spice sitting on the surface of thick honey. I love the way you say my name, you call out to me with all your authenticity. I saw you today, and you became part of such an interesting plan. A plan to have fun. I am head over heels. You are the nectar at the center of the wonderful flower of Darewells fortune.

Excitement brews from my gut all the way up to my reddening face. You have GOT to be kidding me. I scramble for my phone, dialing frantically. My smile almost reaches my ears.

“Hello? It’s Lo, without the hell.” Lo remarks from across the phone.

“Change that stupid gimmick,” I rush out. “I have insane news.”

“Wassup?”

“Lindy wants a taste of the Snicker Bar like never before.”

“Lindy? Bro don’t play no games with me.”

“I’m not kidding! I found her blog! She’s rambling on about your skin and your freckles dude, she even said your last name.”

“Send that junk!”

I send him screenshots of the page while still on call, hungry for his reaction.

“Well kiss my toes and smack ya mama, she wants me.” Lo finally says.

“Right?! Tell me you’re gonna tap that.”

“Bruh, I don’t know...”

“Are you kidding me? Have you seen those legs? She’ll lock you in place while you do it.”

“Alright, enough of that stuff,” he laughs.

“So, you’re doing it?”

“Yeah. I’m taking a trip to Orlando and Mexico in one night.”

***

When Lo arrives for me, I stop by my mom’s study to say goodbye to her. As I’m standing by the door, I know there’s so much to say, and I’m never coherent enough to ever have an objective conversation without everything coming out. I leave her a note instead.

I put my gym bag in Lo’s backseat and get into the front, hoping to steal the aux cord. But I’m too late, and as soon as we’re back on the road, Kendrick Lamar blares from the speakers from Lo’s phone.

“Everything good with Adam?” He asks.

“Yeah, he’s driving to your place with Lindy.”

After what feels like a dozen of Kendrick Lamar’s speeches against society, we pull into the Grand Darewells Estate, Brandy’s side. Lo calls out a voice command, and Brandy’s garage door slides open, revealing not only her baby blue Cadillac, but a six-seater bus.

Now, the last thing I’d call myself is ungrateful, but from what I’ve seen from Lo and Brandy in the past, this thing is a junker. Its wheels were huge with old, outdated rims, and the windows looked like those ones you had to manually close with the little pushers. The sides were painted with yellow and blue beach designs like we were the dang Scooby Doo kids or some crap.

We get out of the car.

“I know what you thinking,” Lo defends, “But it’ll get us from Point A to Point B.”

“Noted,” I say.

“Is Lowy trashing my cute vehicle choice for the second time this week?” Brandy walks out of her garage in a yellow tank-topped jumpsuit that matches her sunglasses. Her hair is out and free, two big clouds of black curls resting on her shoulders. Following her is one of their housekeepers, dragging along two small suitcases and a handbag.

“Oh, my goodness, Brandy,” I point out. “It’s one weekend.”

“If you knew what my skin and hair routine looked like, you and all your people would collectively crap your cargo shorts.”

Lo laughs.

Just then, Lindy’s mom pulls up. The horn sounding from the car is undoubtedly Lindy herself, making an entrance as she does.

Her mom screws down the window. “I wanna say thank you so much for this, guys. Lindy needs to get out of the house.”

Adam and Lindy exit the car, both having packed light. Then Lindy goes to the trunk and pulls out another stuffed backpack. I guess I really do have it easy.

I give Adam a handshake and exchange a few sarcastic comments with Lindy, but all I can think about is her writing those entries like a ten-year-old.

We all get settled into the bus while Brandy goes back inside to say goodbye to her parents, and Adam and Lo get into an argument about whether Black Panther’s little sister can outsmart Tony Stark mechanically. Lindy pops in every now and then to degrade either party for saying something dumb, and all I can do is laugh.

When we leave the Darewells community, I’m not sure how long the ride takes. We get on the interstate and our voyage begins.

First, we all sing along to radio songs because Brandy manages to find a station with throwbacks only.

Then Adam and I play Mario Kart on our Nintendo 3DS consoles while Lo tries to convince Lindy to take the next driving shift.

When Lindy finally begins to drive, she starts practicing her stand-up comedy on us, because she says focusing completely on the road makes her anxious. I’ll be honest: Her jokes weren’t bad, they were terrible. Adam kept teasing her by saying “stick to singing.”

After a monotonous two hours, I nibble on goldfish crackers and watch a YouTube video with Brandy until I fall asleep.

About five minutes from the rental house, I wake up to the biggest storm I’ve seen in a while. It’s pouring sheets of rain and thundering every minute or so. Our surroundings are so gray that I can only see cars by their lights, and I notice that Adam is driving while Brandy tries to calm Lindy down.

“What the hell is going on?” I croak.

“Sleeping Beauty awakens,” Adam doesn’t miss a beat.

“It’s just a lil weather,” Lo says.

“Man, I thought you planned this thing to the T,” I complain, “you couldn’t just check the weather app on your phone before booking?”

“Yo, getting on me now ain’t fixing nu’n,” he defends. “Let’s just check in. We here anyway.”

He points ahead to a little booth at the center of two giant automated gates. Adam pulls over and Lo hops out, using Brandy’s umbrella. I have no idea how she knew to pack that.

“Guess he has a thing for gated communities,” Adam mutters.

“Do you have a thing for pointing out things?” Brandy retorts.

While they go back and forth, I check my phone. There’s a text from my mom, a few social media notifications, and six missed calls from “Domino’s Pizza.” It’s the cover name I use to keep Smoky’s number. Strange.

I look around at my friends, but I don’t raise the question because I don’t want to freak Lindy out any more than she already is. I climb into the passenger side.

“What’s wrong with Lindy?” I whisper to Adam.

“She hit a dog on the way here.”

“What? No way.” I begin to laugh a little.

“It’s not funny, man,” he asserts. “The weather was too bad to check the poor thing out so Lo forced her to keep driving, then Brandy started yelling at Lo for yelling at Lindy, and that just made everything worse.”

“Dang.”

“Yeah. So, Lindy had a bit of a panic attack because she thinks the dog will die there in the road.” Adam concluded.

“I know it’s established that men are terrible at explaining things, but you guys take the record,” Lindy calls from the row behind us.

“Sorry,” Adam says, his face tomato red.

Lo comes back, dangling keys in our faces with a huge smile. “Party time, yo.” He shouts.

I don’t know if it’s the storm, Lindy’s breakdown or both, but I’m starting to develop a bad feeling about this trip.

Lo directs Adam to the house, and maybe it would be beautiful in the sunlight. In the distance, there’s a resort style opening the size of a large cul de sac, with pools and umbrellas and lounge chairs everywhere. It’s on the dead end of a corner and extending from it into our direction are two rows of houses that all look structurally similar, just with different colors. When we get to our yellow house, I’m truly pissed off at the rain, because it’s total Instagram candy. There are bushels of flowers lining the walls, a perfectly trimmed lawn, a stone path from the end of the yard all the way up to the front door, and the driveway is the left of the whole setup. The house doesn’t look necessarily big, but it’s a four bedroom, so I’m not stressed about space.

“Home sweet vacation home,” Lindy deadpans.

The guys and I run into the shade lugging bags, while Brandy and Lindy stroll under the umbrella like lesbian models.

Lo lets us inside, and I catch my breath. I’ve got to admit; this place is sick. Directly in front of us is a giant living room with black leather chairs and a couch, and a huge flat screen TV. There’s a bunch of systems connected to it, no doubt up to date and intuitive. The wood flooring and beige walls compliment the curtains blowing in the windows. I look around, and two hallways extend to my left and right, probably holding more sick spots.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Lo,” I say.

“I said I’m gone have us living right, big dawg,” he laughs. “We here.”

“Living right with no power, you mean...” Adam says from behind me. He’s flicking a light switch over and over, which annoys me because he’s already made his point.

“It’s the weather,” Lindy sighs. “We’ve got to just wait it out.”

Brandy groans. “That’s wack. In no time it’s gone be dark, and we already can’t see anything with these clouds actin’ wild.”

“I’ll look for candles or matches,” Adam says. “Someone wanna come with me? There might be a killer hiding in a closet somewhere.”

“I got you, man,” I offer. I follow him into the kitchen, and Lo, Brandy and Lindy head in the opposite direction to the bedrooms.

“You know, there’s five of us and four rooms,” I say, holding my phone’s flashlight over his head while he scrambles through drawers. “We’re gonna be the ones that have to share a room, aren’t we?”

“You know it.”

“Freakin’ typical.” I chuckle. “You know, we should shove Brandy and Lo together. They’re twins for Christ’s sake.”

“They wouldn’t like that.” He warms jokingly. “The Darewells twins need their space.” He says the last line in a British voice, criticizing their privilege.

“You know, I wonder what would happen if you made a bunch of rich people live in a tiny house.” I laugh. “Didn’t take away their money, just their giant rooms, and beds. You know-”

“Okay look dude,” Adam turns around to me. “I know you say 'you know' a lot when you’re nervous, but it’s starting to make me nervous. Everything alright?”

I don’t say anything, but I think about the missed calls. The darkness helps hide whatever emotion is across my face right now.

“Dandy.” I lie.

“Good, because I think I need to talk to you about something,” Adam turns back to the cupboard. “Jackpot!”

He spins around with a box of matches, scratching one off just for the fun of it. I always found the warmth of small flames cool. It’s like an MMA fighter, but a little 10-year-old one who’s kicks hurt like heck instead of hell.

“What’s up?” I ask him.

“I think Lindy and I made a connection.” He says quietly.

Immediately I think about Lo, the blog post, and what he’s planning to do tonight.

“Y-you do?” I stammer.

“Yeah, man, we were talking before we went over to Lo’s today, and she respects me a ton for what I do at the shipping company. I showed her pictures of trucks I’ve cleared in under a day.”

I sigh. “Man, you can’t just show the hotties pictures of your job all the time. Girls liking a man in uniform is an outdated idea that’s based in fantasy porn.”

“Dude, be serious,” Adam says rolling his eyes.

“No, you be serious.” I shoot, getting a little annoyed. It sucks that Lo is probably gonna blow Lindy’s back out tonight, but Adam always drags his feet. He thinks my advice isn’t worth it, but then he’ll want my help when his way goes south. Nice guys finish last.

“Nice guys finish last,” I vocalize.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Just then, there’s a hurried knock on the front door. I look at Adam, but he seems just as confused as me. Another round of knocking.

I walk to the front door and meet Brandy looking through the peephole.

“There’s like a dozen people out there.” She says.

“What?” Lindy says, joining us at the door.

“Lo!” I shout.

“Takin’ a dump!” He calls back.

Then a voice from outside says, “We can hear you guys in there! Come on man, we’re soaking wet.”

Over the roar of rain, it almost sounds like I recognize the voice of the guy outside.

Brandy opens the door, and it’s more like 20 plus people.

There’s a tall, fratty-looking guy in the doorway, with jet black hair plastered to his face by the downpour. He’s wearing a tank top and shorts, and his entire group smells like beer. Judging by their faces and the cooler of alcohol two guys are lifting, they don’t look like they’re much older than us.

“Hey,” tall guy says.

“Blake?” Adam yells.

“Holy cow,” A smile explodes across Blake’s face.

“What’s happening here,” says an Asian girl in Blake’s group.

“You tell me,” Brandy demands, still holding onto the door.

“Our entire house is flooded.” The Asian girl responds.

Blake is wrapping Adam in a gross wet hug, and Lo finally stumbles out into the front area, looking confused.

“What can we do for you, then?” Brandy asks.

“I think they wanna stay here,” Lindy inserts.

“That would be so lovely,” giggles the Asian girl, “half of us are already drunk, and I’m pretty sure you guys came here to party too.”

“Um, uh sure, but-” Brandy fumbles.

“We ain’t seriously ‘bout to leave them out in the rain, are we?” Lo asks.

“There’s also lightning and thunder,” adds a guy from the back.

I’m aware of the conversation, but I’m more concerned about this Blake guy, and how Adam knows him. They’re laughing at some stupid joke, so I resolve that they’re old friends.

“You’re from Adam’s youth group,” I say. “That’s why you seem so familiar.”

“I don’t remember you, but yeah.” He offers.

“Great.”

“Anyways,” Adam says. “You guys can come in. There’s towels in a closet past the kitchen.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, don’t we need to take a vote?” I attempt. “Just because you know one of them that doesn’t mean all these stray dogs are cool.”

“Don’t be a prick, blondie,” Asian girl snaps.

“Chill out, Pretty.” Blake says. “Are we good?”

The entire group looks at us with pleading eyes, like starved puppies. Pathetic. Whatever. My friends have soft spots for the pathetic.

“If y’all gone help us turn up, then by all means!” Lo spreads his hands in invitation.

Blake’s friends all cheer like Vikings, and storm into the now almost completely dark house.

“What the hell just happened?” Brandy says.

A tall black guy in the group asks Adam to show him to the breaker, and in no time, the power is on. Lo begins to blare music from the living room speakers.

“What the heck?” I yell over the music.

“Apparently there was a generator all along,” Lindy laughs, and then squeals like a baby when a buff guy lifts her over his shoulder and starts roaring.

I angrily shuffle through sweaty dancers to the kitchen, and Blake and Lo have already set up three giant punch bowls. They begin pouring Vodka, Bacardi and random juices into the first two bowls, leaving the third one virgin.

“Looking out for the Christians.” Lo jokes.

“Don’t be a jerk,” I punch him on the shoulder. I scoop a cup of mixed drink into a Solo cup and down it, waiting for its magic to loosen my joints and dull the sharp corners of my mind.

“Going all the way in, huh?” Blake teases.

“Screw off,” I manage, my throat burning.

“Let’s get on the floor.” Lo says, his cup in hand.

There are no strobe lights, no real DJ, and no pills, but for the next hour, I do some of the best partying I have in months. I don’t know these guys, but they know how to live. A hot brunette gets completely naked, rips a curtain to wrap around privates, and begins belly dancing. Adam challenges every single guy who’s sober enough to arm wrestling competitions, teasing that your strength should come from your back, not your attitude. Brandy organizes the “Wobble” and has the half the house dancing while passionately screaming the lyrics incorrectly. After another cup, the haze of the alcohol finally encloses me. I’m free. I want to skinny dip in a lake. I want to French kiss the Fairy Godmother from Shrek 2. I want to go bungee jumping. I don’t know how my father could ever use this feeling to hurt someone, because all I want to feel right now is...

Then my eyes lock onto the Asian girl, catching bits of Chex Mix in her mouth thrown from a crowd of guys. I don’t remember bringing Chex Mix here, but it’s Lo’s favorite, so someone must have gotten into his bag.

I wrestle the jumbo bag of Chex Mix from the guy holding it and shove him into the crowd. He clumsily rears back up at me, but another guy holds him back and curses me.

“Not cool, man!” Someone else yells.

I shove a few bits into my mouth. “I think I know why your nickname is Pretty.”

“Really? Do tell.” She undoes her ponytail.

“Well, your eyelashes are long, but your nose looks kinda weird. You have full lips, but your teeth are uneven.” I gesture to her mouth.

“Is there a point?” She asks.

“You’re not beautiful, you’re just pretty.”

“You’re not cool, you’re just an a-hole.”

“You’re crashing my vacation though, so you’ll have to tolerate it.”

“You’re a whiny brat.”

“Your breath smells like old hamburgers.”

“Your man bun looks like rat fur.”

“Your belly button piercing is growing mushrooms.”

“Your acne looks like someone took their thumb and smudged dots of Flamin’ Hot Cheeto dust on your cheeks, then sprayed it with engine grease for a shiny finish.”

After a four second awkward stand-off, the spark finally flies. We rush into each other.

As we violently kiss, I begin to pull her croptop off. I throw it into the crowd and begin to kiss up and down her neck.

“Towel closet?” She breathes.

“Towel closet.” I say.

We waddle backwards like penguins, crashing into people and the walls. When we finally make it to the closet, Pretty pulls my bun free and starts to tug on it as she slobbers my face. A warm feeling spreads across my body.

“You a freak?” I ask.

“Keep using your lips and I’ll show you,” she says through ragged breaths. She kicks off her shoes.

I grunt like an animal, lifting her up from her butt. I slam her into the wall and begin sucking down the line of her collarbone. Then I whisper, “Speak Chinese to me.”

She stops moaning. “What?” She asks sharply.

I drop her to her feet. “Oh! I’m an idiot, I’m sorry, that’s really offensive. I meant Mandarin.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” Pretty reaches for her shoes, but I grab her hand.

“Hey, whoa, come on.” I plead.

But she yanks her hand free, which means she probably isn’t as wasted as I thought.

“Do you not know Mandarin?” I demand.

“I’m from Detroit.”

“Okay, but where are you really from?”

“You know what? Go fall off a cliff.” She storms out of the closet.

“Your loss!” I yell after her. “I’m probably the only drunk guy at this party who can get it up!”

I’m annoyed that she took an irrelevant issue so seriously, so I head back to the kitchen. I need another drink before someone else finds a way to kill my buzz.

When I walk back into the party, everyone is still going strong. Lo is no longer DJ, so of course the music has been switched to a rhythmic EDM set. I scan the room to see where he is, but I don’t find him. To no surprise, Lindy is also missing, and a smile breaks out across my face. I may not get in between tonight but my brotha definitely is! I head towards the punch cooler, when I notice that Adam is shirtless on the dance floor, trying to balance cups on his nose.

“What the heck, man?” I laugh.

Then he empties the cup into his mouth, gets on all fours and starts spitting it in an arc formation like a fountain.

“Adam!” I call.

I go up to him, no longer laughing.

“Are you drinking?” I ask.

“Nah man, this is the virgin punch!” He mumbles.

“Bull.” I say. But then he seems right. I don’t smell booze on his breath, and the cup’s remains are the color of the non-alcoholic punch.

“Just, I don’t know,” I say, confused. “Take it easy, dude.”

I head to one of the bathrooms to splash water on my face. Before I can get the door open, it bursts free in my face. Lo tumbles out in his blue underwear, clutching his clothes desperately to his chest. The door slams shut.

“What the hell just happened?” I ask him.

“Lindy!” He shouts. “That chick is crazy!”

Then I notice why he’s pressing his shirt to his chest so hard. The gray fabric is turning a velvet color.

“Are you bleeding?” I yell. The music is deafening.

“I’m tryna get in and she broke a dang flower vase on me, yo!” Lo struggles to his feet. “I don’t know what her deal is. She a crazy lil schoolgirl, don’t know what she want. And who keeps frickin’ flowers in a bathroom?”

“Man, slow down,” I say.

“No!” He roars. “I ain’t never shoulda listened to you!”

He sucks his teeth and walks towards the bedrooms, cursing.

I open the bathroom door slowly, stepping inside and turning the light on. Lindy is huddled in the bathtub. Her shirt is torn. One of her fingers are bleeding, and her eyeliner streaks all the way down her tan face to her chin. It clicks, and I feel like an idiot.

“Brandy,” I say.

“What?” She sobs.

“The freckles and chocolate skin.” I elaborate, “you aren’t in love with Lo, you’re in love with Brandy.”

“Fun.” She sniffles, “I’ve been raped and outed all in one night.”

“Okay, I don’t know about rape.” I defend.

She stares at me for a few seconds, her eyebrows drawn together. “Get out.”

“Are you seriously-”

“GET OUT!” She screams.

Lindy is acting totally crazy, but I don’t press. Instead, I leave the bathroom and go looking for Brandy. She’s probably the only one that can make Lindy feel better right now.

My head begins to pound under the weight of the music and the events of the last half hour. When I can’t find Brandy, I start to get upset. I look outside to see if I can yell at the sky, but the weather hasn’t calmed one bit. It would yell right back at me.

I walk all the way down to the end of the house, to find the bedrooms. I never got to check them out, and I could honestly use an escape from all this. When I walk into the room with Lo’s stuff, I head for the bed. I’m stopped in my tracks and my heart clenches.

“Jesus Christ,” I heave. “You scared the life out of me.”

There’s a girl sitting on the floor behind the door. She unsettles me, because she’s chewing on her hair and scratching her knee.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask.

She doesn’t respond, but I can tell something is up. Her pupils look dilated, and her knee is red and raw from her scratching it.

The girl’s face shoots upward in my direction, and she begins to sputter from her mouth. She’s forming sentences I can’t understand, and I scramble away from her in fear. I dig around in Lo’s bag, my eyes darting back and forth between his stuff and the spitting girl.

I pick up the bag and turn it over, spilling everything across the floor.

“Dang it, where is it!” I panic.

The Bull’s Eye is nowhere to be found, and the even scarier thought is that this girl doesn’t have it, but I’m sure she’s taken a hit.

I run out of the room, racing to find Lo. When I finally run into him, he’s in a large bedroom, Blake and Brandy helping him bandage his chest up.

“Brandy,” I call, bursting into the room. “Lindy needs you a little more than Lo does right now.”

“Lindy?” She asks.

I stare at Lo. “You didn’t even tell her?” I shoot at him.

“What’s going on?” Blake interrupts.

“Shut up,” me and Lo say in unison.

“What did you do?” Brandy faces Lo directly.

“Just go!” I command. “She’s in the bathroom.”

Brandy leaves, and I get in Lo’s face.

“Where are the drugs?” I ask.

Panic and confusion blossom on Lo’s face, and he says, “I never took them out.”

“Like hell you never took them out!” I yell.

“Uhh,” Blake says.

“Boy I’m being straight up!” Lo yells back. “Don’t come in my face like that.”

“Guys.” says Blake.

“There is a girl who looks like a TV commercial crack addict chilling in your room, so you’d better-”

“Nigga, you raising your voice again!” Lo shouts.

“The drugs are in the punch!” Blake shouts. “The virgin one.”

We both turn around to him. The high girl. The Chex Mix, Lo’s opened bag. Adam’s fountain trick.

“A few guys brought it to me, and said that-”

Blake can barely get the words out before I’m on him, my hands tight around his neck. Lo rushes up to us, but I elbow him across his recently bandaged chest.

“Who do you think you ARE?” I scream into Blake’s face. His cheeks are losing color fast. “We spent 300 dollars on that crap. And you dare put it into frickin PARTY PUNCH?”

Blake chokes out a few incoherent words.

“THE PUNCH THAT ADAM IS NOW DRINKING?” I continue to yell. The tension in my neck and shoulder builds up, and Blake’s face is milk white. I drop him to his knees. Before he can completely stand up, Lo rears back and plants his fist into Blake’s stomach.

I’m rushing out of the room and into the front area. To hell with this. To hell with this party, to hell with the Bull’s Eye, to hell with friendship. Lindy hates me. I hate Lo. Adam is high on this terrible strain of drugs that probably put Smoky in the hospital.

Him disappearing. The missed calls. I’m such an idiot! Adam is going to find a way to blame me, and he should.

As I enter into the front area, the music still blares, but I notice there isn’t a single sound from the crowd. They’re instead huddled in a circle. Some of them have their phones out, and others are looking away. By her hair, I can see that Brandy is on her knees on the floor, touching someone sprawled there.

When I was a kid, I always used to want the ability to tell the future, or read minds, or anything having to do with knowing things I shouldn’t. Cheating the system. But now, the feeling of ice-cold certainty before I even see the body... it’s the most terrifying condition I’ve ever experienced.

I push through the crowd, speechless. My tongue doesn’t work. Brandy has her fingers on the body’s neck and arms, checking for pulse and bawling. Lindy looks like she is screaming at someone to call 911, but I cannot hear. The sounds reach my ears, but my senses are off duty.

With blue lips, pale face, and lifeless eyes stretched wide open, Adam lays on the dance floor.

“He overdosed,” Brandy chokes.

***

“What time is it?”

“8:34 AM.”

“What is your name?”

“Grayson Bell.”

“Why are you here?”

“To make positive changes.”

“How?”

“Starting intentionally will affect me habitually.”

“And?”

“Habitual positives create lesser negatives.”

“Through?”

“The grace of God, our available and gentle father.”

I kiss my mom on the cheek and walk into Dr. Lila Green’s office.

“Grayson, this process will truly yield more promising results if you put your phone away during sessions.” Dr. Green says calmly.

“But what if this is also helping me?” I reply drily. “I’m texting the person who forced me to come here in the first place.”

Then I lift the phone to my face to record a voice message. “Hey Lindy, do you think Dr. Green’s boob job would look better if she went to a better doctor, or is she just damned by her uneven chest no matter what?” I intone.

“I understand you may use insults as your guard-”

“Adam was my guard.” I spit.

“Would you like to share on that further?” She invites.

“No.”

“Okay.” Dr. Green pulls out a different slip of paper from her stupid folder on her stupid desk. “How about we move onto something else.”

“Sure.”

“How are you doing with your replacement behaviors?”

“Well, the origami really helps.”

“Is that all?”

“Adam hates origami. It’s the only thing I can do without imagining him there, because he frickin’ loves everything else.”

“It’s good to hear that something is working for you.” She says. Then, more gently, “But remember, we are not trying to forget Adam, just create a life where-”

“Oh, God.” I sigh. “Please do something about the repetition.”

“You’d be surprised by the power of continuously affirming something to yourself and to others,” She informs.

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes.

Then Dr. Green puts her things away, and clasps her fingers in front of her. She makes direct eye contact with me.

“How are you doing with blaming yourself?” She asks it like a mother.

I say nothing, but tension builds in my throat.

“Grayson, it’s okay.” She encourages. “You think about time a lot, but there’s no set time for when one gets better. The past is a very powerful force.”

“Then why the hell am I here?” I shoot. “You’re supposed to have the answers. I know the past is powerful. There’s a degree in yours. There should be answers and closure in mine.”

“There can never be certainty when dealing with the stages of grief.”

“Four months. Four months of coming here, and I still feel like it’s all me. Like I forced it down his throat. Like I made him get on his knees while I poured the frickin drugs down his throat.”

“That feeling comes from other forces in your life that you unfairly blame yourself for, Grayson.” Dr. Green’s tone is pleading with me now, like I’m the most damaged piece of damaged goods that has ever walked into this office.

“What you are feeling has very little to do with the party.” She continues.

“Well I don’t care.” I say. “We’re here to talk about the party. To talk about Adam. That’s what I’m paying you for. I’m here for Adam, and so are you.”

Then the tears come, hot and flowing. I wipe my face with my sleeve and remember I still haven’t gotten used to the hardness of the bones. In my wrists, my face, my feet. I have lost weight everywhere, and as a result, everything hurts more than usual when I strike it against something. My body is punishing me. Life is. God is.

I think back to Guitar Hero days in my living room. And starving at lunch time so I could use the money to buy him Sour Patch Kids after school. I think about the first time Adam showed me his biceps, saying that the shipping company would get him “Dragon Ball Z ready”. I think about the time we set a rope across the basement stairs and got my terrible father tumbling down the stairs on camera, then we had to fess up when Dad landed in the hospital. I remember the look on Adam’s face when I told him that Lo and Brandy’s father loved his brewery so much, he named his twins after alcohol: Merlot wine and Brandy liquor. Finally, my mind rests on our last music session together, and the passion on his face as he wrote an original song in a matter of minutes.

“He was brave. He was accepting. He was faithful.” I cry.

Dr. Green begins writing, but I slam onto her table with both hands.

“Screw your damn reports!” I sob. “He was brave. He was accepting. He was faithful. He was talented. He was hardworking. But God, was he tortured. He had horrible influences, but he chose to influence us instead, while still fully embracing us in all our crap! That sucker. He was poor as dirt. His mom was so agoraphobic that he was the only one in the house that could get a job. He raised his sister. Hell, he raised himself. He watched me blow Lo and Brandy’s money on drugs and new mics while he gathered food stamps to buy tuna.

“He lived hardly. Holy crap, he is the poster child for living hardly. He didn’t shout it from an altar. He didn’t glamorize it in impoverished countries. He never weaponized it or used it for correction. He just lived it. He taught me how to live it, but I didn’t care. He died hardly too, that loser. A heavy, crazy, final stop. It just wasn’t his turn. I would give anything.”

“To be better?” Dr. Green asks.

“To be gone!” I yell.

“That’s not uncommon.” She says. “But we’ll have to unpack that later. I have something for you.”

I stare at her, my face still wet.

“Your mother was given this from police evidence.” She hands a disk to me. “It was in Adam’s house, along with an old tape recorder he used to burn the song.”

I take it, and a cold hand loosens its tight grip from around my heart. A broken smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

“That sucker.”

The tape has a white label with scribbled writing across its front:

How to Live Hardly (First Draft)

Adam and Gray.