Chapter Text
The thing is, Tyler can’t actually drive.
It’s not that he’s never driven. His dad let him drive one of the trucks on his grandfather’s farm a couple years back, and even though the thing was huge and lumbering it had been pretty simple. Go, stop, left, right. It’s easy.
(It’s not. There’s way more to driving than anybody ever tells you, it’s crazy. It’s 2006, and they still don’t have self-driving cars?)
The car was automatic anyway, so it shouldn’t have been that hard. But it didn’t help that Hilt was whooping and yelling right in his ear, and that he was shaking so much that even his eyes were vibrating, and by the time the cops caught on he was panicking. One second he was riding the edge of the lane, trying to avoid side mirrors and haphazardly parked cars, and the next he was accelerating right into a brick wall.
He’s pretty sure he managed to brake before impact, but the whole ordeal’s been fuzzy since he hit his head on the steering wheel. The cops didn’t even give him ice or anything, just shoved him into a cell with some mid-fifties soak and wished him luck. He’s pretty sure they didn’t mean it.
It’s six hours before he sees anyone except his cellmate and a passed-out guard with a Maximum Fitness magazine strewn across his face. A younger cop, the one he’s pretty sure pulled him out of the car, takes him by the arm and practically drags him from the cell. Tyler may have swung a little when the car door first opened and all those hands were grabbing and snatching, but between the two of them Tyler’s the only one sporting some gnarly bruises— this guy needs to chill out.
“Hey, aren’t I supposed to get a phone call?”
The cop grumbles under his breath. Tyler should make a joke about donuts, but he’s not sure that he could come up with something original. It must be the head injury— he’s out of wits.
It’s half-bright outside with that distinct brink-of-dawn sun, which isn’t new to Tyler. This isn’t his first sleepless night. The cop leads him away from the cells, into another room. It’s square, nothing but a table and two chairs. Tyler looks at the far wall, hoping for a two-way mirror, but it’s a boring, grey concrete.
In one of the chairs is a middle aged man, a stack of files laid out on the table like he’d organised them for show. He looks ruffled, probably missing sleep, but his suit is well-tailored— unironed, but not too long or short at the sleeves and ankles. Looks like money.
The man rises from his chair to greet them, staying awkwardly half-crouched when he sees Tyler’s cuffed hands. “Bill Dun, public defender.”
Tyler’s let go for twenty seconds before he’s cuffed to the table and he can hardly move. He hopes this guy can’t tell how much his wrists are hurting.
“Still no phone call?”
Bill’s lip twitches. “Who’re you planning on calling?”
Tyler scowls, not answering. Screw this guy, and his tailored suit, and that cop who couldn’t think of anything better to do with his life than dig his nails into Tyler’s arm.
“I’m here to help you, Tyler,” says Bill. He opens one of the files, and Tyler spots his own school photo in the corner, not looking much better than his mugshot.
“Where’s Hilt?”
Bill doesn’t look up. “Your cousin’s already twenty, and he’s got a decent list of priors. He’s looking at three to five years. You, though—” he flips a page— “This is your first arrest. Your grades aren’t great, but look at this.”
He flips the file for Tyler to see, and beneath all the Ds and Fs and Tyler has demonstrated behavioural issues is a report card from 2004, all the way from Christian Worthington in Columbus.
Tyler eyes it disinterestedly. “What is this, a parent-teacher conference? I think we’re missing the parents.”
Bill taps the report card with his pen. “That’s As and Bs across the board, and a pretty impressive basketball career. You still thinking about going to college?”
God, Tyler is sick of guys like this. “College? What, so I can pay off my loans until I’m eighty-five, still working at Burger King?”
“You’re a real optimist, huh?” Bill says, grinning like he’s in on some inside joke.
“Bite me.”
Bill sighs, smile falling. “Tyler, you’re not going to be sixteen forever. You keep going down this path, it’s not leading to juvie.” He taps the file with his stupid fountain pen. “You’re looking at real prison time, real consequences. You can kiss your future goodbye.”
Tyler scoffs, leaning forward as far as he can to scratch his head with cuffed hands. “What future?”
“One not in prison,” Bill sighs. “I get it, alright? I didn’t come from money either. I had to struggle to get where I am. But this attitude isn’t going to land you anywhere except back here. You’re lucky this time, they’ll let you off with some community service, maybe a fine. Take the chance to do better.”
“Did you just agree to defend me so you could lecture some down-on-his-luck kid?” Tyler sneers. “Get over yourself, man.”
Bill doesn’t seem fazed. “What happened? Why don’t you get back into basketball, start going to classes? You’ve got a real shot to get out of here.”
There’s a whole stack of papers right in front of them that could answer that question. Tyler doesn’t know if Bill’s too lazy to read them or if this is some kind of therapy technique, but he’s not giving in either way. If there’s one thing you learn in Chino, it’s to not trust guys in suits.
“I don’t want a McMansion, and I’m not trying to get out of Chino.”
“Everybody’s trying to get out of Chino.”
“I’m just trying to survive,” snaps Tyler. “If this is where I have to do it, who gives a shit?”
“You’re from Columbus,” says Bill. “Don’t screw yourself over by making your whole identity about being something you’re not.”
“Fuck you.”
Bill looks like he might be at his limit with Tyler’s bullshit, expression souring. Tyler tenses, looking away, wondering how much he can piss Bill off before he starts swinging. It wouldn’t be fair with his hands cuffed, but when is it ever fair?
“This is your court date,” Bill finally says, sliding a piece of paper over the school files. “Don’t miss it.” He stands to leave, and Tyler almost sighs in relief before Bill is rifling in his pockets, placing a card on top of the paper. “And this is my number. Call me if you need anything, alright? Anything. You seem like a good kid.”
Tyler kind of wants to bare his teeth and scare him away, but there’s this weird kind of softness to Bill’s voice that keeps him settled. He cranes his neck to watch Bill walk all the way down the hall and out to freedom, where he’s probably got a Porsche waiting in the parking lot and a hot wife waiting with a fresh pot of coffee at home.
Tyler wouldn’t mind a redbull. He fiddles with the card for a second, repeating Bill’s number over in his head. A good kid. Who’s he kidding?
The door clangs open and he stuffs the card in his hoodie’s kangaroo pocket like it’s a secret, glaring at the cop coming to undo his cuffs. He’s still a little rough. Tyler clenches his fists to keep his hands still.
“Bail’s posted,” the cop says boredly. “Get your shit and go.”
It’s anticlimactic, in the end. Tyler gets back his house keys, a rubber band and the ring he usually wears around his thumb. They’re all stuffed in this sad plastic baggie, sagging and way too big for its contents. He could throw it on the end of a stick and run away, start a new life.
But it’s a nice day outside. Bright enough that he has to squint. He’s not actually sure what time it is, but it seems later than he thought. His mom’s probably pissed.
And fucking Bill is still here.
“What, you’re waiting for me? Kinda creepy.”
Bill turns, hands in his pockets. “Figured I’d see you out. Your mom coming?”
“Should be,” Tyler shrugs.
Her scratched up Nissan comes crashing into the curb a second later, and Tyler swings halfway between embarrassment and amusement as Bill flinches back. It disappears pretty quickly when he sees who’s driving.
“What the fuck have you done now?” His face is beet red. Looks like it’s about to pop. “What’s your mother gonna think of this? What did she do to deserve a kid like you? Get in the goddamn car, Tyler, or I swear to God—!”
“I’m going,” Tyler snaps.
Nicolas doesn’t appreciate the attitude. Tyler’s heard it plenty of times, enough to tune it out. Somewhere during the rant he usually shuts himself in his room, turns his music up as loud as it goes. Locks the door. Knows it doesn’t always hold.
He gets in the car anyway, avoiding eye contact with Bill. The door slams shut with finality and Nicolas scuffs him on the back of the head.
“Are you fucking stupid?” he hisses. “Next time, I’m leaving you to rot in there, just like your useless cousin.”
It’s better to stay silent when he gets like this. It’s the only solid ground between talking back and sucking up, and apparently neither will make Tyler a man.
Nicolas is about to peel off when Bill knocks on Tyler’s window, smiling in a way that makes it look more like a grimace. Tyler just stares at him for a second, struck, until Nicolas scuffs him again and calls him an idiot. Right, yeah. Roll down the window. That’s probably what that means.
It only goes down halfway, but Bill doesn’t seem to mind. “I’m Bill Dun, Tyler’s attorney. You’re his father?”
“Step-father,” Nicolas spits.
Tyler nearly scoffs. Bites it back, looks at the sun cutting through the glass instead. If step-father means Mom’s shitty boyfriend of six months then sure, fine. Father of the year.
Bill nods unsurely. “Alright. Look, my office will contact Tyler with his court date in case he forgets it. He can’t miss it. And Tyler—” something in his voice forces Tyler to look up, to meet his eyes. “Don’t forget to call.”
He taps the window, and just like that he’s gone. Nicolas’ grip on the steering wheel is so tight that his knuckles are white. He’s practically vibrating with rage.
What is he so mad for, anyway? He didn’t have to pay bail, Tyler’s pretty sure Bill did it. Most of the time, it’s like he just wants the excuse. Tyler’s not his kid, and Tyler does what he’s told— which is mostly just pissing off when Nicolas tells him to. If anyone has the right to be mad, it’s Tyler. He’s not the one leeching off of a single mother’s welfare cheques.
They’re home in ten minutes. Tyler lurches out of the car the second it’s in park, not looking to get dragged out by his collar. Fumbling with the plastic baggie to get his keys, he’s through the door in a second and making a beeline for his room.
Nicolas catches him by the hood, and Tyler’s brain has enough time to register no air, ow, shit before he’s stumbling back into the kitchen counter. His mom rounds the corner in a second, face flush, still in her pyjamas.
“What’s going on?”
“Your kid got himself arrested,” Nicolas sneers. “What did I tell you about him, huh? Nothing but trouble—”
“Arrested? What? How—”
“—now he’s got cops sniffing around the house, around our business—”
“—must be some kind of mistake, Tyler wouldn’t—”
“—gonna end up just like—”
“—would you, sweetie? You didn’t mean—”
“—and I want him out!”
Nicolas emphasises his last point with a sharp smack against the cupboard, right by Tyler’s head, whose ears stop ringing long enough for him to realise that Nicolas is yelling at him now, not about him. His eyes focus on Nicolas’ lip curling in rage, spit flying from his mouth like a feral dog.
“Get your shit and go! How many times do I have to say it? Out!”
Tyler’s mouth feels dry. “What?”
Nicolas rolls his eyes. “Look, Kelly, he’s fucking high! I told you, he’s doing nothing but eating our food, wasting our energy, and getting into shit! He’s dragging you down!”
She looks conflicted, tears welling in eyes that are already reddened and sleep-heavy. “No, Tyler’s not…”
Tyler doesn’t know why he’s waiting for her to fight for him, but he stares at her like he’s waiting for her to save him. She wouldn’t. Never has.
“You think I’m the one dragging her down?” He snaps, getting into Nicolas’ face with the bravado usually reserved for the assholes at school. “What are you doing, huh? You think you can kick me out of this house? It isn’t even yours!”
Nicolas’ hands are on his collar in an instant. “What’d I tell you would happen if you took that tone with me again, huh?”
“Nicolas!” Kelly shrieks.
“What’d I say would happen?”
Tyler shoves him off, using the momentum to escape from where he was cornered. “Fuck off, man.”
And really, he should’ve seen the punch coming. But it still manages to catch him off guard when Nicolas’ fist connects with his eye. Tyler’s swinging back before the pain even registers, finding a sick kind of satisfaction with the sting of his knuckles against Nicolas’ jaw.
Tyler can’t win a fight against a guy with four inches and twenty years on him, but really, who gives a shit? May as well get a few licks in while he can.
“Stop, stop!”
Kelly shoves her way between them, missing Nicolas’ fist by hardly an inch. Tyler’s breathing heavily as he staggers away from them, reaching up to feel his eye and hissing as the skin burns.
“Tyler,” she sighs. “Just go.”
At first, he’s not sure that he heard her right. Because there’s no way, no way, that she’s choosing this dirtbag over her own son. But she looks weirdly calm, resigned, and Tyler knows that she means it.
“Mom,” he says, voice unbearably small— because somehow this hurts more than the punch did, more than the crash.
“Get your shit,” Nicolas growls, “and go.”
Tyler doesn’t have to be told again. He storms to his room, heart almost beating out of his chest, like it has been for the last— what, twelve hours? Two years?
No amount of panting and self-soothing will ever make the ache go away. This is something that he knows. So he shoves what he can into his school bag, hands trembling; stuffs his walkman into his pocket and his headphones around his neck. Bill’s card flutters to the ground, face-up, and it’s so surreal that he can’t help but laugh. The tiny, printed phone number seems to be laughing back, so he snatches the card from the floor and tears it in two.
Maybe he read it too many times, because the number stays ringing in his head with its own little melody, like a commercial.
Nicolas is sitting on the couch when Tyler comes out of his room. His mom is next to him, rubbing his back and whispering lowly. She looks at Tyler. Nicolas looks at his feet.
“Mom,” he begs, one last time.
She shakes her head.
Tyler tries not to think of her as he leaves.
She got married young and pregnant younger. He vaguely remembers her once telling him she wanted to be a teacher when she grew up, but it couldn’t work out since she dropped out of school. Couldn’t get her GED because she was too busy with kids, couldn’t go to Tyler’s basketball games because she was too busy with work.
Every couple nights, she downs a bottle of $2 wine and grabs Tyler’s face while she tells him her biggest, darkest secrets. Nothing's ever her fault. Her parents kicked her out.
Funny how things have a way of coming around.
Tyler stares at the pay phone for a while too long.
It’s almost dark. Peak hour. Old ladies and businessmen keep brushing past him, giving him weird looks, sometimes gesturing to the phone and then deciding it’s not worth it. Tyler flips between watching them pass and punching any number he can think of into the keypad, gnawing his fingernails to their quicks the whole time.
By the time the sun sets his nails are bloody, stinging. He’s been hung up on, what, eight times now? He says it’s fine every time. No worries, man, no worries— then he slams the phone down and chews, gnaws, bites.
He wonders if his dad has changed his number.
Tyler shakes his head before he can get stuck in that thought. With the moon has come the chill that sets in even in summer, and he’s not looking to be stuck here all night. When he finally dials again it feels like defeat.
“Bill Dun speaking.”
“Hey,” says Tyler. “I— you know how you said I could call?”
“Tyler?” Bill’s tone changes; picks up like he’s interested.
Tyler just has to pray he’s not a creep. “Yeah. Look, I… I can’t stay at home tonight. Do you mind if I…?”
“You need somewhere to stay?” Bill asks. “Yeah, kid, of course. Where are you?”
“The payphone near Denny’s. Central Ave.”
“I know it. I’ll come get you, alright?”
“Alright,” says Tyler, hoping his voice doesn’t sound quite as small as he thinks it does.
The other end clicks and just like that, he has somewhere to go. Where would a court-appointed defence attorney even live? They make good money, right— but Bill’s court appointed, does that mean he’s one of the shitty ones?
He watches through the window at Denny’s to keep entertained while he’s waiting. There’s not a lot going on. A girl from his school is waitressing inside, and he’s pretty sure he remembers her serving him coffee at 3:00am not too long ago. Maybe he should’ve just roughed it and slept in a booth.
But it’s too late to back out now, and it would be a dick move to make Bill drive out here just to be gone when he arrives. Might be funny, though. He could disappear behind a moving bus and never appear again. Miss his court date, miss the rest of high school. Wash up in the creek with a white lighter in his pocket.
The idea makes his fingers twitch, itching for a cigarette. He should probably wait— doesn’t want to end up wasting half a smoke when Bill gets here. See, he’s already curbing his vices. Bill will make a promising young man of him eventually.
A black BMW pulls up to the curb, unblemished and clean. Tyler nearly whistles at it, biting his tongue as Bill climbs out to greet him.
“Hey, dude. You doing okay?”
Tyler doesn’t like that Bill tries talking like a teenager, but he’s counting his blessings. “I’m fine.”
Bill nods unsurely. “That’s a mean shiner you’ve got there. Didn’t see that before.”
“It’s fine,” Tyler bites. “Am I…?”
“Oh, going home with me?” Bill asks. “Yeah, of course. Something up with your folks?”
“Kicked out,” says Tyler, with the straightest face he can manage. “It’s fine, I just need to wait it out. I won’t stick around.”
“Don’t worry about it, kid.” Bill looks way too soft. If he’s out here too long he’ll get eaten alive. “You can stay the weekend. I’ll get you back in time for school.”
It’s the last week before summer. Tyler was going to skip anyway.
“Yeah,” he nods. “Thanks.”
It sounds stunted when he says it, but Bill doesn’t seem to mind. He gestures for Tyler to climb into the car and follows suit. The radio’s playing something old, maybe seventies. Way too much cowbell.
They don’t talk. Tyler’s glad. Apartment buildings and cracked roads roll into big, green lawns and tennis courts, and he recognises Newport from the retirement village commercials. The houses start to get so big that it’s intimidating, and by the time they’re pulling into the driveway of Bill’s house Tyler is half-sure that he’s dreamt this entire ordeal.
They have stairs leading up to the door. Tyler pinches his wrist as he follows Bill, just to make sure.
He must have a maid or something, maybe a whole team of them, because the house is spotless. Like, almost sparkling. Bill slides his shoes off at the door and, maybe to test him or something, Tyler keeps his on. Watches his scuffed converses hit the floorboards and imagines them leaving a trail of evidence behind.
“Is it alright if you stay here for a second?” Bill asks.
“Sure,” Tyler shrugs.
He’s surprised Bill’s willing to leave him on his own. There’s some nice stuff just in this hallway— Tyler could make his escape with a couple vases and pawn them for a few hundred bucks.
Not that he would. But if Bill’s willing to let the kid he just bailed out of prison into his house, he has to have considered the possibility.
He catches glimpses of Bill’s conversation with a woman, probably his wife. She doesn’t sound happy, and Tyler’s trying not to think of his mom as his nails fly back to his teeth, tearing the skin of his cuticles.
Something about bringing a criminal into the house, protecting your family, hiding my valuables floats down the hall. Whatever, Tyler thinks. So he steels his expression, curls his reddened fingers into his fists and follows the high ceilings into the kitchen.
“—just not comfortable—”
Bill’s wife cuts herself off mid-rant as Tyler rounds the corner, turning to stare at him with a slack, gaping expression. He bites his tongue, suddenly nervous— not being nearly as much of an asshole as she probably deserves.
“Tyler!” Exclaims Bill, smiling awkwardly. “This— this is Laura, my wife.”
She nods politely, but he can see her jaw working. “We’ll set you up in the poolhouse, Tyler. Please let us know if you need anything.”
Someone scoffs, and Tyler finally drags his eyes away from her to see a kid leaning on the counter, a squashed Capri-Sun hanging by its straw in his mouth. Dyed hair, piercings poked all over his face, shirt worn and baggy. He doesn’t look a bit like the kind of guy to live somewhere with a poolhouse.
Bill clears his throat. “Tyler, this is my son. Josh, why don’t you show Tyler around?”
“Sure,” says Josh, a little too cheerily. He goes to throw the Capri-Sun away and misses, awkwardly scrambling to put it in the garbage. Tyler pretends not to notice.
They don’t go to the poolhouse, and instead Tyler is forced up about a half-mile of stairs. Josh is rambling the whole time about something or another, but Tyler couldn’t repeat a thing if he was quizzed. He’s trying not to look like he’s panting when Josh opens a door, beckoning him inside.
Josh’s room looks like something out of an MTV montage, all dark and crowded with posters and pins. In one corner of the room is a skateboard that’s seen better days and an easel with a blank canvas, and in the other is a drumset. Josh is perfectly in place standing in the middle of it, the red of his hair the exact same shade as the grenade in the American Idiot poster behind him.
Tyler shifts on his feet, suddenly wishing he took his shoes off. “You drum?”
“My room’s soundproofed, so Mom and Dad don’t care about the noise,” Josh shrugs, kicking a stray flannel under his bed. “You’re staying in the poolhouse? That’s cool. I tried to convince Mom to let me move in there, but she wouldn’t let me.”
“Guess so,” says Tyler. “You’re still in school?”
“We’re the same age,” replies Josh. “Dad already told me. I guess he thought we’d have something in common.”
There’s an awkward silence for a while. Tyler doesn’t have anything to say. He’s mostly thinking about the shoe-string belt digging into his hips and the bruise relentlessly throbbing right under his eye, and about the fact that he still hasn’t been offered ice. Californians aren’t the most gracious hosts, apparently.
“You play any instruments?” Josh asks after a while.
“I play air guitar in the shower,” says Tyler.
He doesn’t really mean it as a joke, but Josh laughs anyway. “Yeah, I drum on my steering wheel. What kind of music do you like?”
Whatever he can bum from Hilt, usually. He burns Tyler a new CD every once in a while, and they’re usually unlabelled. But it’s probably weird to admit he doesn’t know the name of his favourite song.
“I dunno,” he settles with. “Whatever.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Josh says, nodding like Tyler hasn’t given him some fakeout answer. “I’ve got Dad’s old record player and a walkman if you ever wanna listen to anything. And I’ve got some Biggie if that’s what you're into.”
Tyler’s not sure what about him screams Biggie, but if he had to guess it’s that he’s being stereotyped based on the basketball shorts sagging past his knees. They’re Hilt’s hand-me-downs, and pretty impractical to play in, but since Tyler grew out of his old clothes he’s kind of run out of options.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says in the same tone that Josh did, with half as much of the genuinity. He’s not trying to be an asshole, really. That’s just how he talks.
They stare each other down for a while, both bouncing their gazes around to avoid eye contact. It’s weird. Josh is weird. Tyler’s pretty sure he’s a little taller, but Josh has got some muscle on him. He’s probably got a home gym or some other rich-people shit like that— private trainer, physical therapist. Looking like that, he’s probably getting into fights at school. But Tyler could take him.
Maybe he should stop sizing up his lawyer’s kid. Be nice. “So, you’ve got all of this to yourself?”
Josh shrugs, looking around. “I guess, yeah. No one to share it with.”
“No siblings?”
He doesn’t know why he’s playing 21 questions. Josh isn’t even asking anything back, so it feels more like an interrogation. Maybe he’s just trying to keep from running his mouth.
“Nah,” says Josh. “You?”
“Three,” says Tyler.
Josh looks at him weirdly. Tyler doesn’t appreciate it. “So where are they?”
Something itches under Tyler’s skin. “With my dad. What’s it matter anyway?”
Josh’s nose scrunches up, lip curling before he smooths out his expression. “Just asking.”
For some reason, Tyler’s pissed off. He’s probably hungry. Probably tired. Probably itching to crawl out of his skin and leave it behind.
“I need a cigarette,” he decides.
“Mom and Dad don’t like smoking,” says Josh.
Tyler gives him a once-over. Decides he doesn’t like his lip piercing. “Fuck them, then. Whatever."
Probably looking for a fight.
Probably should figure out self control.