Boarding Pass

"The Writer's Cramp" Winner for January 15 2005
Word Count: 1000
The Prompt: It has been a long time, but you are finally going back to see your childhood hometown. What is different? (What secret do you learn?) Who do you run into? What happens? Write a story or poem about your discoveries.

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Six-thirty-eight a.m. on a gray Friday morning. I’m standing outside the terminal after a nine-hour flight, slouching against a pillar as the rain cascades down. My hair’s dripping wet and I’m shivering like a maniac, but this charcoal gray sweater’s the only real stitch of warmth I’ve got. A ditched backpack’s on the ground while a messenger bag’s draped on my shoulder, both of which are probably just as waterlogged as I am by now. A pair of headphones are glued to my ears as usual, shielding me from the real world with a barrier of grunge-grinding guitars.

It’s been four years since boarding school ripped me from this little shit-hole of a place I called home. God knows I haven’t missed it.

There’s a flood of passengers clogging the overhang like an artery, some of them gawking at me like I’m an exhibit at a history museum. Like I give a fuck what they think. A little rain never did me any harm. Hell, it actually feels kinda good after sweating myself dry in that fucking sardine can they called a “Boeing.” It’s almost protecting me in a way, shielding me from those red necks herding themselves together like cattle. Their faces are all plastered with the same dopey expression, beady little eyes gazing out at the eighteen year old punk who just has to be different. I shift my stance and crank the volume as loud as it goes, hoping to drown out their stares with an angst-ridden chorus.

A sharp wind slaps me with chills, and my arms are suddenly curling up around me. It’s always so ass-fucking cold in this town, the voice in my head grumbles. I wish I had a jacket. I’ve been waiting here almost half an hour now, leaning up against this column so I can get back to the subdivision where I pissed away the majority of my life. In this town I was the outsider, the freak, the pansy of a faggot who always wound up with a black eye at the end of the day. Underage sex and slamming Irish Car Bombs were the societal staples when I went to middle school here, behaviors passed down from their alcohol-laden parents. It's why I left this town in the first place, and why I’m thrilled as a fucking corpse to be back.

The only thing that gives me comfort is the reasons why I came.

I sigh in relief as a gray sedan crawls up alongside me, the windows streaked with rainy tears. The passenger door swings open, and Kyle’s familiar grin is staring me in the face. Cerulean eyes, spiky blond hair, a scar across the left side of his face, he's almost exactly the same as I remember him being, only better. His teeth that are finally free of braces, and there’s a cool-looking stud in his cartilage I’ve never seen before. He’s shot up a little bit and filled out since the last time I saw him, but in essence he’s still the short n’ scrawny kid I’ll always remember.

“What the hell you standing in the rain for?” he asks. His voice ripples through my ear like a trumpet, a stir of old feelings parading down my spine.

“Waiting,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure what for anymore. I straighten myself out and snap up my backpack, heaving into the back of his car. I barely have enough time to close the door before a pair of arms pull me close.

“Welcome home, Tommy-boy,” he breathes into my ear.

I guess maybe its possible I've missed this place more than I thought.

He skids out of the airport like a convict on the lam, mashing the accelerator to the floor. Gunning down the main road, which is only a thirty-five mile zone, legions of buildings whip past that set my mind and mouth ablaze. The elementary school Kyle and I went to...the karate studio I took lessons at...the arcade where I always blew my money...most of the town's still sitting almost exactly the way I left it. There's been a few changes, though, according to what Kyle says. The restaurant we were booted out of when I was twelve was roasted in a grease fire, and the record shop I used to love as a kid boxed up and moved out due to some form of bankruptcy. There's a few others that grab my attention, but all in all it's still the same secluded suburb I'd been dying to get away from. I tell him I’m still glad I left, and he answers me with this puppy-dog sort of look.

“I missed you, you know.”

I decide its best to shut my mouth for the rest of the car ride back.

He screeches to a halt by his house, where I’ll be staying until my parents come home from whatever vacation they're taking. I unbuckle my seatbelt and make a motion for the door, but he grabs me by the wrist and cuts me short. His fingers interlace themselves between mine, for an instant he gazes at me with the same eyes I saw the last night we were together.

“Kyle-” I begin, but his forehead's already rubbing up against mine. His free arm wraps around my torso to bring me in, and our breathing's already going at an uneven tempo. He brushes his lips up against mine, a slow and rhythmic kiss that melts my insides away. When we part he pulls me closer, cradling my head against a jaded cotton sweatshirt.

“I love you,” he mumbles. “You have no idea how hard it's been since you've been gone.”

I close my eyes and exhale as an affectionate hand grazes through my hair. With a chuckle I encircle my arms around him, looking upward into his eyes.

“It's good to be home,” is the only thing I can say.