Hurricane Jones [boyxboy]

hurricane jones [1]

[Gabe; Pilot Jones by Frank Ocean]

word count: 1234
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I had that churning in my stomach, similar to the warning in a horror film before the first character dies. You know, the works, the omniscient music and careless mistakes that inevitably lead them to the realization that they're all about to be slaughtered.

Or maybe that churning was that of a tremor before an actual earthquake came in and tore my figurative house to smithereens.

Either way, I had woken up on August 3rd, 2013 with a hop in my step, that was the first hint I chose to ignore. Among many other things, I wasn't tired which was odd due to the fact that I almost never woke up with anything less of a headache -with the exception of Christmas and March 19th, the day the good Lord had graced my parents with my presence- but that day was somehow different. I'd awoken with a spring in my step, my eyes bright and a soft yawn escaping my lips.

Instead of getting up and smelling that godawful scent of manure from my Swedish neighbor, Sven's, encounters of fermenting his lawn, I'd smelled chocolate chip pancakes. The scent had seemingly soaked through the floors and up to coat my pillow and I welcomed it, my eyes popping open of their own accord and my body instinctively sitting up to stretch.

Swinging my legs off of the twin bed that my parents had passed down from generation to generation, I'd noticed two things: there was no crick in my neck from the rock-hard mattress and I hadn't stepped on my seven year old brother, Aaron's, stupid little toy fire truck that always found its way to my floor.

But the scariest thing that had happened that morning was the fact that my foster siblings weren't fighting. The argument that normally occurred between Sam and Rhett over the bathroom hadn't happened -either that or it wasn't loud enough to hear through my shut door. Living in a house with five other kids really was more of a pain than a pleasure. Sure I wasn't lonely with Aaron, Sam, Rhett, Vincent, and Claire but I never got time to myself. I couldn't even take a nap without being woken up within five minutes.

"Gabe, Vinny, Rhett!" My older sister, Claire, had yelled, her voice oddly melodic.

I shut my eyes, willing my body to go back to sleep for at least the next couple minutes it'd take for her to realize I wasn't getting up. However when my door had opened ahead of schedule, my eyes popped open to meet brown as they hovered above me. Claire's curly hair was big and bushy that day, the freckles that were scattered across her nose and cheeks looking even more prominent despite her darker complexion. My parents had fostered Claire from Northern Africa when she was two, that was the beginning of our family.

Let me save the long introductions and cut to the chase... The rest of us were fostered from places in the U.S. Well, everyone except Aaron who was fully mom and dad. Vincent was from Detroit, Rhett was from Texas, Sam and I were from LA.

"Gabe," Claire had chorused with a twelve year old Sam -my only biological sister- who stood by the door, smile bright. I could tell they were surprised to see I was already up.

"What?"

My tone wasn't grouchy as normal, my voice lacking it's break that I'd had since puberty, "Dad made breakfast, he said come get you," Sam had announced, popping her gum despite it being 7am.

It was already surreal, having a full on breakfast with my family instead of picking up some cheap McDonalds breakfast as Vincent, Rhett, and I had made our way to school after dropping Aaron off. It was even more surreal when there was hot water left in the shower after Rhett's hour-long 'manscaping' which most likely consisted of him handling business and leaving his remnants strewn across the shower walls. However, I didn't test that theory.

It was around 7 am when we were all seated around the breakfast table, the bus scheduled to show at 7:15 and due to Vince's car being in the shop, we'd have to ride it. I was pouring myself a glass of orange juice when mom had spoken up, the oddity of the morning suddenly making sense.

"You know how Mr. Jones' daughter recently passed?"

Of course there was gossip, my mother just couldn't stay out of other people's business to save her life.

My dad willingly participated, wiping his mouth before twirling his fork around his eggs. It was normal of everyone to have something to share about something that had nothing to do with us, "You mean the daughter that got in that car crash on I-95 around summer time?"

"Yeah. Well, she had a son." And all eyes were on mon, Claire biting her lip at the thought. We never really got new people in town, everyone always moved to our bigger neighboring city and to be honest, it was smart. No one wanted to live in the suburbs where everything was spread out and no city busses ran throughout. No one wanted to live in Evans, Georgia when Atlanta was only two and a half hours away.

My father spoke, eyes centered on my mother, her ruby red lips taking a sip of her orange juice, "Poor boy, must be taking it hard. I mean, can you imagine?"

"I wouldn't want to," she shook her head, eyes wandering over to the window beside our front door. The view clearly displayed the Jones' front lawn, cut clean and green. She cleared her throat, smoothing down her black stacks. My mother always dressed to impress and I could see when she carefully placed her orange juice on the table, trying but her best not to spill it on her blouse, "but I heard that the son was granted half the estate but apparently he didn't want the house. I guess it brought back too many memories. He's rumored to be moving around here soon."

That was when Vince spoke up, Rhett discretely checking his phone underneath the table, "How d'ya think Jones'll take it?"

She shook her head, sleek wavy black hair framing her face, "No tellin', you kids be nice to the Jones' boy. I heard he's around your age, Gabe."

I could see where it was going from there. She wanted me to befriend the kid, it was as if he were a charity case or something. Shoving my fork through my eggs, I brought it to my mouth, the eggs tasting almost as metallic-y as the utensil, Mom must've cooked with the old pan again.

Grimacing, I washed it down with orange juice, voicing my inner concerns out loud, "What am I supposed to say? I know nothing about the guy and 'hey, I heard your mom died' doesn't seem like the best foot to start off with."

I felt Claire kick me under the table, Mom giving me a stern look at my pessimistic response, "Just try. I think he's supposed to be showing up sometime this week."

Maybe August 3rd was the calm before the storm.

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a u t h o r ' s n o t e
wooooo, finally started. let's get this party going.

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