Twenty-Seven years ago…
Melek wrinkled his nose at the lingering cloud of musk cologne. Upbeat pop music droned in the background, and the shopper’s indistinct conversations buzzed in his ears as he pondered.
He meticulously thumbed through the rack of tipped polo shirts, toiling over which color would go perfectly with a pair of baby blue active shorts.
Melek looked over his shoulder and met Octavio’s smiling gaze, who was folding clothes nearby. Of all the adults Melek had interacted with since his father’s death, Octavio was the only one who looked at him without an ounce of pity. Or perhaps he was just better at hiding it.
Either way, when anything of note happened in Lanwick, Michigan, it spread like wildfire. And there were few stories more tantalizing to gossipers than the tale of a widowed father dying of an overdose, leaving behind his gawky son to face the world alone.
He wasn’t actually alone, but the truth was a troublesome thing, always getting in the way of a good story. Melek’s aunt was technically his legal guardian, and she unfortunately shared his father’s addictive personality, with alcohol being her demon of choice.
At least it wasn’t meth.
Melek turned his attention back to the rack. He whittled it down to two choices: white and lavender. A neutral color would be the solid choice, creating an overall soothing color scheme. Yet Lavender was a pastel color, baby blue’s natural compliment.
He grabbed the white shirt by its hanger and held it against the pair of shorts.
Perfect.
Octavio appeared behind him. He was short and stocky with tattoos covering his arms and legs. With his excessive number of piercings and accessories, Melek presumed air travel to be hell on earth. “Looks great,” he said. “Not really mannequin worthy, but I see the beauty in its simplicity.”
Melek smiled nervously. Octavio’s encouragement was the main reason why his store was at the end of his rotation. He would spend hours in the mall, going from clothing store to clothing store, composing a new outfit per location. Though he primarily did this on weekends, there were days when he’d ditch his classes and run to the town’s only shopping mall.
Summer break was on the horizon, which meant the burden of feigning interest in anything school related was almost over.
While constructing his outfits, he’d receive the occasional concerned glance or seething glare from shoppers and store employees, but his father’s death acted as a shield from criticism. Nobody wanted to be known as the person who hurt that poor orphan boy’s feelings.
Shoes and accessories were next, but Octavio cut off his path. “It’s 2:25, by the way,” he said while pointing at his watch.
Shit, Melek thought. He snatched his backpack tucked away in Octavio’s stockroom. A sea of yuppies parted as he sped toward the store’s exit. He skillfully maneuvered through the maze of shoddily built kiosks, pausing momentarily to let a group of elderly speed walkers pass. The smell of freshly baked pretzels called to him as he shot out of the mall.
The postal worker delivered their mail every day at 2:30 sharp. Which meant Melek had five minutes to make the ten minute trek from Lanwick Mall to his home, forcing him to break into a full sprint. His backpack jostled violently, and every other step produced a splash since a sudden downpour had just hit the entire town.
The floor squeaked underfoot as he darted across the lobby toward the cluster of mailboxes. Using the key he copied behind his aunt’s back, he opened the box and shuffled through the envelopes for anything sent from his school. A benefit of having an alcoholic guardian was their proclivity for ignoring their responsibilities. Consistently checking the mail was near the bottom of her ‘responsible adult checklist’. Still, he didn’t want to take any chances, so he made sure to check the mail as soon as possible.
He allowed himself to catch his breath as he stuffed the envelopes back into the box. Maybe his school wised up and accepted the futility of mailing out progress reports.
Melek squeaked his way toward his apartment, bracing himself along the way. His aunt’s mood fluctuated between pleasant and prickly on a sometimes hourly basis. Which version Melek got was a dice roll.
His aunt sat in her loveseat, enthralled by her newest reality show obsession. Her ashen colored hair was in a tight bun, and she wore her oversized nightgown pajamas. She turned and presented a warm smile. Melek’s shoulders loosened. Fate had provided him with a good roll.
“How was work?” Melek asked, kicking off his soaked sneakers.
She grinned. “Horrible. But I can’t complain.” Her half finished bottle of red Moscato sat on the end table.
Melek loved his aunt, but it was strictly out of necessity. The prospect of living with a guardian that he loathed was something he refused to accept. Even as he watched his father’s spirit buckle under the heavy weight of addiction, he couldn’t bring himself to hate him. Parents love their kids and vice versa. That’s how it’s supposed to be.
His aunt’s inconsistency spilled into almost every aspect of her life, including her peculiar style of parenting, oscillating between involved and detached.
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She took a swig of wine straight from the bottle. “Pizza’s in the kitchen,” she said, returning her focus to the TV program.
Another good roll.
His aunt Sharon constantly reneged on her previously established rules, but there was one tenet that she refused to fold on: “stay the hell away from that Robby boy.” That was easy enough. Melek caught glimpses of him every once in a while, but it’s not like they hung around the same people. Well, that would actually require Melek to have friends in the first place, but that detail wasn’t important.
He was a man shrouded in mystery, and the few things said about him were predominantly negative. That wasn’t even the worst of it. Robby had the fashion sense of a blind schizophrenic, donning a horribly arranged outfit each time Melek saw him.
Melek took off his clothes and ran to the bathroom, shooting a glare at his overstuffed hamper.
Wearing only his boxer briefs, he stomped toward his aunt. “I thought it was laundry day?”
She shook her half empty bottle. “I really needed my medicine today. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
Melek successfully stifled an angry retort, choosing instead to ask, “What am I going to wear for school tomorrow?”
His aunt waved a dismissive hand with her eyes glued to the women fist fighting on the TV. “Just spray a little Febreze on it. You’ll be fine.”
***
As Melek faced an onslaught of insults from his classmates, his aunt’s words echoed in his mind. It didn’t take long for the generous amount of Febreze to wear off. By the time he reached second period, his classmates had already pounced on him like he was a gazelle at a watering hole.
He endured each venomous remark, periodically sniffing his clothes throughout the day, as if he’d magically no longer smell like stale sweat with a hint of sweet peony.
On his walk home, a persistent group of pests tailed him. A trio of wealthy triplets who made it their life’s mission to be as insufferable as possible. They had a recent growth spurt, causing them to shoot up to Six-foot-two at the age of fifteen, making them eight inches taller and one year older than Melek.
Once they honed in on a target, they refused to let up until they either got bored, or a teacher stepped in, with the former being significantly more common.
“Fight back, you bum!” John, the eldest triplet, said. His bright purple hair came down to his wide shoulders. A few weeks ago, each triplet dyed their hair a deep purple color. It was ultimately for Melek’s benefit, since taking them seriously became increasingly more difficult.
Melek took a deep breath, placing one foot ahead of the other. Nothing infuriated the triplets more than being ignored, and it gave Melek a slight pleasure knowing that his feigned indifference was getting to them.
“Maybe he finally took after his dad,” Jim, the youngest triplet, said. “He sure smells like a meth addict.”
Jake, the middle triplet, who hadn’t spoken a word since they began their assault, said, “I heard his aunt’s a drunk, so she probably spent their laundry money on a bottle. I’m not gonna lie, I feel kind of bad for him.”
Melek spun around and shot Jake with an icy glare. His guess being correct wasn’t what arose Melek’s ire, it was the earnestness in his voice. Jake genuinely felt bad for him, and that was unforgivable. Melek could take the verbal jabs—his father had done a good job of preparing him for that—but he refused to accept anyone’s pity.
Seeing red, Melek lunged forward and aimed a punch at Jake’s face. John stepped in, grabbing Melek by his shirt collar and effortlessly tossing him aside. Jim landed a kick to his back before lifting him off the ground. He raised a fist. Melek closed his eyes and prepared for the worst.
“Lay off him,” said an unfamiliar voice. “That’s my little bro.”
Jim immediately let Melek go. A man wearing a black gambler hat swaggered toward them. His golden star belt buckle clashed against his pair of denim jeans, which were several sizes too big.
“We didn’t know you had a brother, Robby,” John mumbled, his eyes downcast.
Robby grinned, showcasing his crooked teeth. “Yep. We have different moms.” His eyes moved upward as he rubbed his chin. “Now that I’m thinking about it, we have different dads, too.”
“So… you’re not related?” John said, still avoiding eye contact.
Robby aimed his smile at John, but his eyes communicated malice. “You callin’ me a liar?”
“Um, no. I didn’t—”
“Melek,” Robby said. “Walk with me.” He turned and started in the opposite direction.
Melek leapt at the opportunity to escape the triplets, grinning at them as he hurried alongside his cosplaying savior.
Stay away from that Robby boy, he thought as he adjusted his backpack, attempting to match Robby’s bizarre gait. He walked with a rhythmic limp, his chest puffing out like a cowboy boot wearing peacock. There was a fluidity to his movements that exuded an air of unwavering confidence, and he held a permanent smile, as if in a perpetual state of recalling a funny joke someone had told him.
Robby stopped on a dime. “You stink.”
Melek gave his clothes a quick look over. “Yeah, my aunt wasn’t able to do my laundry.”
“I’m not talking about your clothes.” Robby eyed him up and down. “Your energy is what stinks. Let’s start with your walk—”
“Like you’re one to talk,” Melek blurted. He dropped his head, embarrassed at his snarky remark. But before he could utter an apology, Robby burst into laughter.
“You think I walk funny? Be honest.”
Melek responded with a sheepish nod.
Robby arched his back and proceeded to inch forward with his head low. “This is you. You’re a slave and you don’t even know it.”
So Robby prevented Melek from receiving a physical beating just to hand him a verbal one? “What do you mean?”
Robby straightened his back and smoothly transitioned into his ‘normal’ walk. “When I walk, I bear my soul to the world. You walk with a caved-in chest, as if you’re ashamed of yours—a slave to other people’s perceptions.”
How do I even respond to that? Melek thought. He never put much thought into how he walked, and this stranger somehow extrapolated a lot from something so innocuous. “Uh… I’m sorry?”
“What the hell are you apologizing for? I saw you stand up to those guys. Did you leave your backbone behind?”
What’s his problem? “Thanks for helping me back there, but I better head home before my aunt gets mad.”
“Wait.” Robby removed his hat and ran his fingers through his messy, jet black hair. “All I’m saying is, you’re too gifted to have so little confidence.”
“First you know my name even though we’ve never met, then you say that?”
Robby put his hat back on while flashing a crooked smile. “I’ve seen you around the mall, making outfits in different stores. You’re amazing at it. I’ve even borrowed a few of your ideas.”
Octavio was the only person who had ever delivered praise with such sincerity. Melek averted his gaze. “Thank you.”
“What got you into fashion? More importantly, why don’t you take your own advice?”
“My dad used to make me set out his clothes for work. At first I hated it, but then I started mixing and matching stuff. It was like a game.”
Robby’s face darkened for no more than a second. Seeing a flash of sadness on a smiling face was a strange sight. “I heard about your dad. I’m sorry, man.”
Melek couldn’t mask his anger. He had heard that exact phrase more times than he could count. “It’s okay,” he seethed.
“You don’t sound okay.”
“It’s just… I’m tired of hearing that. People keep saying sorry like they’re the ones who killed him or something.”
“I don’t think that’s what they mean but, I understand. You didn’t answer my second question, by the way.”
They had just passed Melek’s favorite Chinese restaurant, several blocks from where he stood up to the triplets. He was so captivated by Robby’s disarming personality that he blindly followed him. This was the guy his aunt warned him to steer clear of?
She was probably worried sick over his whereabouts. Or she was in a drunken stupor, consuming trashy daytime television. Either way, he didn’t want to risk it. “Sorry but I should go—”
Robby raised a hand. “I have a proposition for you.”
Melek sighed. “What is it?”
“To make my point, I need to show you something. I live a couple minutes away. It’ll be worth it.”
Melek responded with a look of abject horror.
“Get your mind out the gutter. I’m not a creep.”
That’s exactly what a creep would say, Melek thought.
“Listen, I know I have a pretty bad reputation, but be honest, do I seem like a monster to you?”
Removing one’s preconceived notions wasn’t easy, and Robby didn’t exude an ounce of hostility. Melek had to be honest. “You don’t seem like a bad person.”
Robby beamed more than usual. “That means a lot. I made some mistakes in the past. I mean, who hasn’t? But unfortunately, first impressions rarely fade. It’s not all bad, though. People usually leave me be, which can be a blessing at times.”
“What kind of mistakes?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m proud of the person that I’ve become. How about this: I’m gonna head home. If you wanna go to your aunt instead, that’s fine. I won’t bother you again. I promise.”
Melek paused. Robby kept his pace, limp and all, as if he couldn’t care less about Melek’s decision. It’s not every day that the local boogeyman turns out to be a pretty cool guy. And Melek would be lying to himself if he wasn’t curious about this proposition of his.
“Wait up,” Melek said, rushing toward Robby. What does my aunt know anyway?