Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. Future's Path By Aimless Ramblings Copyright 2007 by Aimless Ramblings Chapter 1 "Hey Dad," Gavin calls, leaning into the garage and peering about, "you in here?" The area is so cluttered with storage bins, yard tools, and miscellaneous family possessions that neither one of his father's two cars has a prayer of fitting inside. The battered toolbox his father uses has been left standing open and waiting by the outside door which is also open, but there's no one in sight. Glancing around again nervously, Gavin steps inside, and closes the door to the house. His father has been repeatedly threatening over the past week to, in his words, "clear an entire weekend," and force both himself and Gavin to unpack the overstuffed garage. Escape is tantalizingly close, but Gavin knows he must be careful. The damned garage couldn't possibly have anything important inside it; otherwise, they would've needed it before now. Still, if the paternal unit was dead set on inflicting a weekend of toil and slavery on him, there'd be no way of avoiding it. Edging around the two towering piles of storage bins that bracket his bicycle on either side, Gavin begins trying to wedge it free. He frowns. He hasn't taken the bike out for a long ride since arriving here, but he wouldn't have left it crammed in-between two piles of crap either. Dad must've been looking for something this morning. The handlebars and front tire are twisted to the side, but when he pulls at the back tire, the rear stack of bins tips alarmingly towards his head. 'Shit!' He hastily lets go of the bike, and throws up a hand to brace the teetering pile of bins. 'That's all I need,' he thinks, 'crushed to death in a garage in Podunk, USA.' Gavin and his father had moved to the small community outside of Austin, TX--improbably named Pflugerville--two weeks ago, just after his successful escape from ninth grade. His father had managed an escape of sorts as well just before the move; his divorce was made final on May 10. Given the events of the past few months, his parent's breakup hadn't surprised Gavin all that much, but the move itself had come as a total shock. Both his parents had gone a little crazy during the divorce, but his father's relentless insistence that he and Gavin move far away from any possible contact with his mother struck him as way over the top. Of course, if he'd been married to someone for sixteen years, and then had caught his wife playing around with another guy, he'd have probably gotten pissed too. But, pissed enough to drag himself and his kid to a place called Pflugerville? The wavering pile of bins steadies, and Gavin decides on a course of decisive action. The longer he stands here screwing around, the likelier it is that his dad will appear and press gang him into some unwanted chore. Continuing to brace the bins with his right hand, he reaches forward with his left, grabs the back tire, and quickly yanks it free. 'Just as easy as that.' Smiling, he straightens up, and pulls the bike towards him. The handlebars pivot to the left, and snag the music stand which is leaning against the bins in front. He lunges forward, and his fingers actually catch and hold the music stand for a moment. Then he overbalances, and the stand, its accompanying load of books and papers, the bike, and Gavin all fall to the floor. Pain lances up his right arm, and Gavin grits his teeth, trying not to yell. One of the bike peddles is poking into his stomach, and he'd really like to look at his arm and see whether he's managed to break it, but everything's a little fuzzy and he decides not to move. There's a moment of silence; then he hears panting, toenails clicking along the garage floor, and suddenly a wet tongue is licking his face. "Hey, Mac," he croaks, looking up at the concerned German shepherd, "do dogs go to Heaven, or are we both still stuck in this hell hole?" Mac whines and gives Gavin's exposed cheek another lick. Feeling a little bit better, Gavin gives the injured arm an experimental tug. The pain doesn't get much worse, and feels more like a pulled muscle than a broken bone. He turns his head to look, and sure enough the arm appears to be intact. It's trapped underneath one of the handlebars though, so he won't be able to move it until he's off the bike. "Gavin?" It's his father's voice, with that parental overtone which means, "What did you just destroy?" Mac's ears prick up. "Yeah boy," Gavin growls, pushing with his feet until he rolls over and off of the bike, "that's the alpha dog." Then louder, "Hey, dad." He reaches with his left arm, gives the bike a shove, and tries to sit up. The garage spins around him, and he slumps back towards the floor. Perhaps moving hadn't been such a smoking hot idea after all. "You all right? What was that noise?" What to say? "I, uh, thought maybe I'd clean up a little bit." "Uh-huh." There's a long pause. Then, "I think that's probably a job for two people working together, son." The garage has stopped whirling about, and he again tries to sit up. He succeeds, and begins massaging his injured arm. Looking over at Mac, he mutters, "When he's right, he's right." "Is anything broken?" his father inquires. Gavin peers out the open garage door, wondering why his father hasn't shown up by now. His voice is a little faint, as though he's standing off to the side, or maybe working on one of the cars? All the wheels of both cars are firmly on the ground however, and neither vehicle has a pair of legs sticking out from under it. 'Weird!' "No sir," he answers, struggling to his feet. "Not unless you count old school books anyway." One of the music stand's legs appears to have been bent back upon itself. "H'm, a music stand?" "You wanna maybe take a survey and get back to me on that?" The voice is unexpectedly mellow. 'What the hell?' Careful not to move too fast, he walks outside, and begins scanning the front yard for missing paternal units. A few kids, ages from five to about eight, are dribbling a basketball and making mostly ineffective shots at a hoop a couple houses down. Compared to the constant city noises he's grown up with, the neighborhood is eerily quiet. The only background sounds are humming air conditioner compressors, and the distant growl of a lawn mower. It is Mac who finally clues him in. The shepherd trots out behind him, sits down facing the house, and stares up at the roof in puzzlement. Turning around, Gavin looks up, and beholds the home's patriarch, face up and sprawled out on the roof. "Good morning," his father says, "or should I say afternoon?" "I'm a teenager, its summer... What are you doing up there?" "Remember the hail storm that blew through here the night after we moved in?" "Sure." "I'm inspecting our property for damage." "I see," Gavin answers, beginning to smile. "Aren't you, um, facing the wrong way?" His father flips over, and gives him a mock glare. "You certainly do ask a ..." Then his gaze becomes concerned. "Gavin, you're bleeding." "What?" "Your forehead." Gavin raises a hand, begins searching, and finds a small cut above his left eyebrow. Not that serious. "What were you doing in the garage anyway?" his father demands. "Trying to get my bike out," he mumbles, one hand applying steady pressure to his head. His father starts to laugh, and flips back over on to his back. "I should've known," he chuckles. "Well, go put a band-aid on before you bleed all over your shirt. The warden's on vacation, and you can ride your bike for the rest of the day if you want. We'll worry about the garage some other weekend, okay?" "Okay," he answers, fingers still plastered to his forehead. "Hey Gav?" his father says softly as he's walking inside. "I'm sorry for what happened. There weren't any good choices." Gavin stands very still. "Can we talk about it later?" he asks. "Any time you want," his father answers. --- "You don't look well," Elena's mother tells her, staring at her critically from the bedroom doorway. Elena is lying flat on her back in bed, staring at the ceiling, and unsuccessfully trying to relax. None of the meditation texts she's so diligently studied have mentioned strategies for dealing with overwrought parents though. "Well enough to beat the pants off you, Bob, and the rug rats in last night's Scrabble game," she replies tartly. "Elena!" "What? You appear out of nowhere, tell me I look like sh... I don't look well, and expect warmth and sunshine?" Her mother steps into the bedroom, closes the door, and Elena realizes she's probably gone too far. Christine Bradburn is slow to anger, but burns as bright as the noonday sun when provoked. Surprisingly though, her mother does not begin a long tirade on the impertinence of her child. Instead, she sits on the edge of Elena's bed, and touches her gently on the arm. "Let's start over. I'm worried about you. I know you're not getting enough sleep because you have huge circles under your eyes, and I want to help. What's wrong?" 'The kinder gentler Christine,' Elena thinks spitefully. Not for the first time, she wonders how different her life would have been had her mother always been this supportive. Would it have changed anything? "Elena?" The problem is, her Mom's right. The mirror she looks into every morning is no liar, and, at fourteen, she's not allowed to use the makeup she'd need to hide the problem from her family. Not that she could hide it for long anyway. The dreams she's been having every night, about the boy she's never once met in real life, are growing longer and more detailed. Of course, all that accumulating data has one advantage; it makes it easier to plan. Studying her mother's concerned face staring down at her, she has to admit to herself that no, even had her mother been more understanding when Elena began frantically insisting that she had foreseen her father's death, it probably wouldn't have changed all that much. Lessened a bit of the terror she had felt after Dad's death perhaps, but no one could have really helped her learn what she needed to know back then. And anyway, if she had been less scared, if she had talked more about what was going on, she'd probably be in a padded cell right now. Her mother sighs and stands up. So, time to demonstrate what she's learned. "Mom." She sits up, and puts on her most contrite expression as her mother turns back towards the bed. "I'm sorry." Christine's hazel eyes regard her coolly. "I know I haven't been all that pleasant to be around lately." The eyes warm somewhat, but there's still a ways to go before full forgiveness is attained. "Well, at least you're not shutting me out anymore." The same hand which had touched her arm earlier now stretches forward and rests against her forehead. "You don't feel hot." "No, I don't think it's that," she agrees, and slowly turns her head away from her mother's outstretched hand. The wrong thing to do, but she doesn't want to be touched right now. She quickly searches her mind for a mundane explanation which will both reassure & satisfy her mother's concern. "There's a new fantasy series that I'm really getting into, and I've probably been staying up too late reading." Not the most original excuse ever, but it's certainly something she's done before. "Christine?" Her stepfather's voice interrupts her mother's uncertain gaze. For a moment, Elena thinks her mother will say something else, but there's a nock on her bedroom door, and it opens. Bob Carson, the afore-mentioned stepfather, pokes his head inside the room, spies her mother, and smiles. "Ah, there you are. We're going to be late for the movie if we don't leave right now." "All right, I'm coming," Christine responds. She immediately turns the statement into a lie by asking Elena, "Are you sure you don't want to come with us? We could catch a later show if ..." "No Mom, I'll be okay here," Elena quickly reassures her. "Like I said, I just need some sleep. Go have fun." "You don't know what you're missing," Bob says, turning his smile in her direction. "Two little girls, a Disney movie, a bucket of popcorn, and you refereeing snatched handfuls in the middle." "Which leaves you where?" she asks, unable to keep from smiling back. "At the Home Depot next door of course." "No thanks." After they leave, Elena wanders restlessly through the house. She's not in the mood to go anywhere, but doesn't want to stay inside all day either. She pulls on a bathing suit, fixes herself a sandwich, picks up a book, and eventually ends up in the front yard, curled up in the hammock. That all too familiar sensation of "something about to happen" is on her, and, from long experience, she knows that events cannot be rushed. Manipulated maybe, but very carefully. --- Gavin's bored. He had gotten a band-aid, made sure that there weren't any other bloody spots, grabbed his bike, put Mac on a leash, and set out to explore the neighborhood. The first stop on his itinerary had been the swimming pool. It was a blisteringly hot summer day--the type of day which often leads to incredible opportunities for viewing scantily clad young girls. Unfortunately, there weren't any young girls, scantily clad or otherwise, at the neighborhood pool. What he had found was a sign which proclaimed, "Closed for maintenance." The pool had been drained, and there was no maintenance crew in sight. The second stop on that afternoon's itinerary had been the lake which was located immediately behind the subdivision. His father had mentioned something about walking trails, and he figured where there was water and places to walk, there should be girls. The only problem now was finding a way down to the damned thing. He thought he'd been heading in the right direction, but he and Mac must've taken a wrong turn at some point, and were now thoroughly lost. Lost, tired, and sweaty. Gavin decides to turn right on the next street, and is totally unprepared for what awaits him. The house on the corner is a two story, made of brick, and is quite a bit larger than the one he and his father live in. The roof looks steep, and would probably be an uninviting destination to home owners inspecting for hail damage. He sees two trees in the front yard, and there's a hammock hanging in-between them. 'Hey now!' The girl in the hammock has bright red hair, and is wearing a pink bathing suit which he is pleased to note leaves very little to the imagination. She's holding a book, but is clearly aware of him, smiling at him over the top of its pages. He slows, racking his brain for an excuse to talk to her. 'Instructions you dumb shit. You're lost, remember?' Mac suddenly barks, and Gavin is caught completely off-guard when the shepherd unexpectedly lunges towards the opposite side of the street. The dog's leash is ripped from his hand, and, still staring at the girl, he swerves out of control. The bike veers first right, and then back to the left. Peddling franticly, he bounces off the curb, careens around a trash can which materializes in his path, and catches a fleeting glimpse of Mac, in hot pursuit of a fat tabby cat. Gavin begins braking, slowly getting the bike under control. The house next to the one on the corner possesses a lush green lawn, most likely the result of frequent watering. It is being watered right now in fact, as is a sizable section of the street past the curb. Still moving far too fast, the bike's tires lose traction, and after a brief slalom, Gavin ends in a heap on the pavement. Dazed, he lies still, and hears running footsteps. 'This is all so familiar.' "Are you all right?" The red-haired girl is leaning over him. "Can you give me directions to the lake?"