Wishful Thinking
Authors: Elle Jefferson
Wishful Thinking is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13:978-1500833343
Text copyright © 2012 L. C. Jefferson
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design: Krysa Designs
Also by Elle Jefferson
At Death It Begins (ADIB #1)
In Death’s Touch (ADIB #2)
One Summer a novella
To Jordan and Peyton, you boys make mommy so happy and I’m proud to be your mommy.
“Lower down into a squat … spread your fingers wide and bring your knees into your upper arms …” a woman’s voice said in a soothing tone from the television.
“Breathe deep … bring toes together … very good, now inhale.”
My arms started to shake and sweat broke out across my brow. How did anyone do this and make it look easy?
“As you exhale release the pose.”
There was no release. I collapsed onto my bedroom floor chest heaving. Mocked by my own TV.
“Next we’re going to do the Downward Facing Dog.”
Name alone sounded wrong.
“Walk your hands as far forward as you can … spread fingers out and bring elbows in … shift hips back, tuck toes, exhale and lift up.”
I inched up onto my elbows watching the woman on television move her assistant into this pose. I exhaled and sat back on my heel. In secret, I’d been doing yoga every morning after my runs for a little over three weeks. Already I saw its benefits. It loosened me up made me move faster. I’d shaved two-seconds off my mile and it eased the pain in my legs after running which was a big deal when you played rugby. Sure it could all be in my head too, but I didn’t think so. Even coach noticed a change. Clapped me on the shoulder after our game last Saturday and said, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but keep doing it.”
It was as close to a compliment as you got from Coach Renly.
However, I’d never admit to doing yoga to anyone, especially the guys. Shit I’d never even talk about yoga around them. Some things they didn’t understand. Benefit or not there were enough marks on my card. See in fourth grade Helen Baker called me out for having Pokémon Call of Legends cards.
She bullied everyone but she had a soft spot for me. I was scrawny, wore a retainer––which gave me a lisp––and I constantly used phrases like; infringement and habeas corpus. God even I would have picked on me. Anyway, Helen claimed my Pokémon Legends cards were out, like last year out, and the Black and White PlasmaFreeze cards were in. She then gave me an atomic wedgie. Several kids witnessed it.
Laughed.
Nicknamed me Wedgie Boy. A name which stuck for more years than I care to admit.
My cheeks still clench involuntarily every time I think about it. Since then, I’ve worked hard to keep my inner nerd in check.
I grabbed my remote to shut off the TV and rolled onto my back before flipping onto my feet. Running had become my latest hobby. Last year, my junior year, my inner alarm started waking me up hours before my actual alarm did. Instead of spending those hours staring at my bedroom walls I filled them with exercise.
After I finished stretching, I guzzled down my water bottle, picked up a fresh pair of boxers and headed to the bathroom for a shower.
Sleep had become an illusive being. A riddle my brain couldn't figure out. To be honest I wasn't interested in sleep. Tossing and turning, plagued by labored breathing, profuse sweating and fits of sheer panic upon waking were what awaited me when I did. See, there was this reoccurring theme to my dreams, headlights chasing me until they become so bright everything goes white. It freaks me out because I think it's my death I'm seeing. Although, Dr. Patterson claims dreams are never that literal. Still debating if I believe her or not.
It’s quite jarring to think you're dead and then bolt awake. I’m not one of those types who obsess over death either. Statistically speaking it’s an eventuality; we all die. It’s the how that gets me. Then again maybe it’s a sign my brain is working to hard. Three months until graduation.
Unlike Dean, my best friend, who already has his acceptance letter from MIT—and has his first, second, and third semester courses picked out and three back-up lists in the event he can’t get into those courses—I’ve got nothing. I haven’t even gone as far as to decide whether I want to further my education or be done with academic life all together.
How am I supposed to know what I want to do with the rest of my life when I don’t even know what I’m in the mood to eat for breakfast? You know what’s even worse? When I talk to my dad about it, he’s all, “Do what makes you happy.”
I have no idea what makes me happy.
Yeah, I should be glad my dad says it. Relieved he’s not forcing his own expectations on me. Thing is if I'd asked him the same question eight years ago, he’d have insisted I follow in his footsteps. He used to say when I was younger that one day we’d open a father son practice, that the Castle name would be synonymous with law and justice. “Castle Sr. & Jr., fighting for you,” or “attorneys at law,” or some other catchy slogan, but not anymore.
We don’t talk about the future much now. Not that I’m some big talker anyway, I’ve been told by more than one person I’m in my head too much. It’s hard not to be when half your life was spent under the microscope of others.
In the midst of rinsing shampoo out of my hair―which took more time than it used to since my hair hung below my ears now—my bathroom door creaked opened and I heard, “Giggity, giggity all right.” I barely had time to realize someone was in the bathroom with me before dad threw back the shower curtain.
“Junior, if you insist upon obnoxious ringtones at least keep your phone with you,” dad said tossing my phone on the toilet. Dammit. Note to self—lock the bathroom door.
I dried off and pulled on my boxers. Summertime couldn't come fast enough. I was looking far to pale. Halfway back to my room, a thought struck me and I doubled back and stood in the bathroom doorway. My attention went straight to the towel rack. I’d three-quartered folded my wet towel and hung it up like they do at hotels, but I didn't remember doing it.
Here’s the thing, my mom was a neat freak, major OCD complex, and towels not hung in proper three-quarter fashion were like the bane of her existence. Folding towels is the bane of my existence, so instead of folding them I always left them in a crumpled mess on the floor. It gave my mother something to nag me about, and nagging was about the only attention she gave. Beyond unfolded towels, bread crumbs on the counter and slouching posture, she barely noticed me.
It’s sad to have nagging be the only thing to miss about your mother. I yanked my towel off the bar and tossed it on the floor, and I may or may not have kicked it around a bit too. I hurried from the bathroom and ducked into my room as fast I could.
In my closet I pulled out my school uniform; black slacks, white button down and navy blue blazer, and tossed it on the bed. An upside to private school—uniforms. Never having to think about what to wear was priceless. I paced in my boxers for a minute unable to decide if something was bugging me or not. Why did everyday have to feel like Monday anymore?
My phone started beeping again—Summer.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey handsome,” she responded. Her voice perked me up. “You didn’t forget you’re picking me up?”
I held my phone between my shoulder and ear and started dressing, “Of course not babe.”
“You on your way yet?”
“Almost.”
“Did I leave the clicker with you yesterday?”
“Yes, yes you did,” I said, zipped, and belted my pants. I pulled on my shirt, “It’s clipped to my visor where you put it with strict instructions I wasn't to touch it.”
“Okay, baby I'll see you in a bit.” Fabric rustled on her end and I pictured her on her bed rolling over in lacy pink panties and...
“Bye handsome.”
She hung up before I could finish my fantasy. I grabbed my thickest wool jacket and gloves from the downstairs closet before heading to the kitchen. Winter in Maine was nothing to sneeze at. Yes, it was March, and technically spring, but tell that to the snow still hanging out. At the fridge I stopped to grab some orange-juice and a Danish. I shut the door with my foot and turned to leave bumping straight into my dad.
He was standing there arms crossed with that we-need-to-talk look. Those talks were always uncomfortable and by the time he finished talking he was always a deep shade of scarlet. You know the ones. They start with, “when you're a man …” or “son there comes a day …”
Our last talk was when I was ten and my mom found a skin mag under my bed when she was “tidying” up. It wasn't mine, it was Nate’s. He’d swiped it from one of his servant’s and brought it over so he, Dean and I could look at it.
Those pictures were nauseating. The women wore masks, carried whips, and were covered in all sorts of … let’s just say it’s where I learned what a golden-brown shower was. Once you learn that you can’t unlearn it no matter how hard you try.
We stomached about two pages before we tossed it under my bed afraid. We went out to play chasing those images away with a game of HORSE. I forgot about it until the day I came into my room and dad was sitting on my bed holding that same magazine in his hand. He kept rolling and unrolling it and shifting himself this way and that. My dad never stumbled or stuttered more in his life. When he was done we were both beet red.
Most of our conversations these days weren’t more than grunts or guttural sounds made in passing. So what did he want to talk about now?
“Things getting pretty serious with you and Summer?” dad asked shifting on his feet.
“Why?”
Dad unfolded his arms and took a deep breath, “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you she’s a lady?”
“Your point?” That sounded snotty, but whatever.
He sighed and took another deep breath, “You guys ... see if things are serious, well ... just be careful, she’s a good kid.”
“Yeah, dad, okay.”
“All right, have a good day at school.” He gave me a pat on the shoulder and left. I rolled my eyes as I grabbed my messenger bag hanging on the coat rack and headed through our entryway between the kitchen and garage.