The Serpent King(10)
autumnlands: Hey what’s up?
Southern_Northbrook: Nothing much just hanging out. What’s up with you?
autumnlands: Just hanging out too. Loved your theory about Norrell Bayne being the real son of Torren Winterend.
Travis bounced in his chair and typed. I wish I was the real son of Torren Winterend because he’s probably way cooler than my dad LOL.
autumnlands: Ugh I totally know what you mean. My dad acts so douchey sometimes. He’s literally on my case all the time about stupid stuff.
Southern_Northbrook: Yeah my dad was just blabbing about me going out for football when school starts tomorrow. I hate football. Compared me to my brother. I hate it when he does that.
autumnlands: My parents are always comparing me to my perfect younger sister. It’s the worst. And your school hasn’t started yet??? No fair mine started last week!!!!
Southern_Northbrook: Maybe you should move here LOL.
Travis blushed as soon as he hit “send.”
autumnlands: Ok I will but you have to promise to sit with me at lunch.
Travis felt warm all over. He was starting to compose his reply when a knock startled him. He prayed it wasn’t his father. Not that his father felt like he had to knock to go anywhere he wanted in the house. “Come in,” he called.
His mom entered, holding a brown paper bag. She closed the door behind her.
“Hey, sweetie. I was at the grocery today and I picked you up a little something as a back-to-school present.” She handed Travis the paper bag. “It’s not much.”
He opened the bag. It contained a paperback entitled The Rebel Knight. On the cover was a chiseled, grim-looking man with long, black hair; a five o’clock shadow; and a tunic open to reveal bronzed pecs. He had a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. Travis had a pretty good idea of the sort of book he was holding.
“Oh man, thanks, Mom!” he said, as convincingly as he could. “This looks awesome!”
Travis’s mom looked pleased. “I know how you like to read about knights and things like that. I thought maybe you hadn’t read that one.”
“No,” he said softly, leafing through the book. “I haven’t read this one.”
“Your dad means well,” she said.
Travis stared at the book, hefting it in his hands. “I wish he was better at meaning well.”
“Me too sometimes. Anyway. I’ll let you get back to what you were doing.” She leaned forward, hugged him, and kissed his cheek. “Have a great first day of school tomorrow. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
After she left and closed the door behind her, Travis shook his head and tossed the book on his bed. This wasn’t the first time. In fact, Travis had a respectable collection of steamy medieval romance novels under his bed. But he couldn’t bear to tell her.
Another message from autumnlands popped up. Ok I guess you won’t sit with me at lunch. Boo.
Southern_Northbrook: No no of course I’d sit with you at lunch LOL. Sorry my mom came in and I was talking to her.
autumnlands: Yay! Because I usually eat lunch alone. I don’t have very many friends at my dumb school. No one likes Bloodfall.
Southern_Northbrook: I totally know what you mean. I have two awesome friends but even they don’t get Bloodfall.
autumnlands: If we’re going to sit together at lunch I guess I better learn your real name. Mine’s Amelia.
Southern_Northbrook: I like the name Amelia. My name’s Travis.
autumnlands: Good to meet you Travis.
Southern_Northbrook: Good to meet you Amelia.
His heart beat the syllables of her name. A-mel-ia. While she was composing her reply, Travis got up, paced around quickly, picked up his staff, and twirled it around his head as best he could in the confined space of his room, watching himself in the mirror.
Dill hated going back into his house after hanging out with Lydia. It was like waking up from a euphoric dream. His house was still and suffocating when he opened the door. He set his CD on the kitchen table and considered the possibilities for dinner. They weren’t promising. He improvised a casserole with a couple of dented cans of green beans, a couple of dented cans of cream of mushroom soup, and a block of expired cheese—all freebies from his job bagging groceries and stocking shelves at Floyd’s Foods.
He threw the sad concoction in the oven, went and plugged in the air conditioner, and began playing his guitar, working on a new song that no one would ever hear. One about endings. One about people leaving you behind.
At around 8:45, Dill heard his mother clatter up the driveway in their 1992 Chevy Cavalier and come in the house. She exuded fatigue.
“How was work?”
“I’m tired. I had to turn away about twenty kids your age trying to buy beer.”
She flopped down with a soft groan in their battered recliner and rubbed her face.
“Did you take your pills for your back?” Dill asked.
“Ran out. Can’t refill until payday.”
Dill returned to the kitchen and checked on the casserole.
“Dinner’s done,” he called out to the living room.
Dill’s mother sucked in her breath and rose from the recliner, holding her mid-back, taking a moment to straighten, and grunting with pain. She entered the kitchen and sat at the table. She picked up Dill’s CD.