Basements and Backbeats
The garage smelled like oil, mildew, and stale energy drinks—a trifecta of teenage ambition. Caleb sat behind his drum kit, the sticks resting loosely in his hands, tapping a soft rhythm against his knee as he waited for Dryan to finish retuning his bass. Eli, their lead guitarist and unofficial frontman, was noodling around on his amp, trying to nail a riff that had been eluding him for days.
“Dude, it’s just four notes,” Caleb muttered, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Eli shot him a glare, his shaggy blond hair falling into his eyes. “Yeah, four notes played perfectly. Not that you’d understand, Mr. Hit-Stuff-Real-Loud.”
Caleb rolled his eyes but didn’t take the bait, moving his mouth as if he had a piece of gum. He didn’t need to; Ryan was already jumping in.
“Eli, you’ve been ‘perfecting’ that riff for, like, two weeks. Either play it or don’t, man.”
“Y’all are real supportive bandmates, you know that?” Eli grumbled, but he started playing something close enough to the riff to pass.
Caleb leaned back slightly, spinning a stick between his fingers. The drums were where he felt most comfortable, hidden but essential. He didn’t need the spotlight—that was Eli’s territory, complete with dramatic hair flips and smoldering glances at an audience that rarely existed. Ryan was somewhere in between: solid, dependable, but not much for words unless the music demanded it, and even then it was usually growls and gutturals.
The song was coming together, a messy mix of grunge and alt-rock, when the garage door creaked open. Harsh sunlight poured in, cutting through the dim space like a knife.
“Elanai, please, can you idiots not do this somewhere else?” a voice barked.
All three of them froze. It was Mr. Clary, Ryan’s stepdad, a short, jittery man with a perpetual scowl and a smoker’s rasp that made every word sound like a threat. He stood there in grease-stained jeans and a flannel shirt, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.
Ryan sighed heavily, his bass drooping in his hands. “We’re almost done.”
“Almost done?” Clary snorted. “You’ve been banging away like a bunch of monkeys with power tools for hours. Some of us work for a livin’, Ryan.”
“Yeah, real hard,” Caleb muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Unfortunately, Clary heard him. His sharp eyes zeroed in on Caleb, who didn’t flinch under the scrutiny. Caleb was a scrawny kid, with a line of tattoos covering an arm, currently exposed under his sleeveless hoodie that featured a popular cartoon character flipping the bird.
“What’d you just say, smartass?” Clary growled, stepping further into the garage.
Caleb set his drumsticks down carefully on the snare, standing up with a deliberate slowness. He wasn’t tall—barely an inch over average—but he had a way of carrying himself that made him seem larger. His voice was calm, even disinterested, as he spoke.
“I said, real hard. Like sitting on your ass watching TV while your wife brings in the real paycheck.”
Eli and Ryan’s jaws dropped simultaneously, their eyes darting between Caleb and Clary like they were watching a car crash unfold. Clary’s face turned an impressive shade of red, his cigarette quivering between his lips.
“You little—”
“Hey,” Caleb cut him off, his tone sharper now. “We’re just a couple of kids playing music in a garage. Maybe go back to whatever you were doing and let us keep doing that, huh?”
For a moment, Clary looked ready to explode. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his cigarette falling to the floor. But instead of throwing a punch—or even another insult—he let out a disgusted grunt and turned on his heel.
“Worthless punks,” he muttered as he stomped back toward the house, slamming the door behind him.
The garage was silent for a few seconds, save for the faint hum of Eli’s amp. Then Ryan let out a low whistle.
“Dude,” he said, his voice a mix of awe and terror. “You are so lucky he didn’t swing at you.”
Caleb shrugged, already sitting back down behind his kit. “Yeah, well, he’s not worth the effort. Let’s play.”
Eli was grinning now, shaking his head as he picked up his guitar again. “You know, I keep saying you’re the quiet one, but every time you open your mouth, you prove me wrong.”
Ryan laughed as he adjusted his bass strap. “Seriously, man. Clary’s probably seething in the kitchen right now, trying to figure out if he can call the cops on you for emotional damage.”
Caleb allowed himself a faint smile, continuing to motion his tongue and mouth as if he was chewing gum, a habit he picked up from watching some of his favorite action stars chew on toothpicks, tapping his sticks together. “Good. Means he’s leaving us alone. One more run-through?”
They launched back into the song, the tension evaporating as music filled the garage again. For a few moments, it was just them and the sound, a chaotic harmony that somehow worked. Caleb didn’t need to say much after that. His drumsticks did the talking, pounding out a rhythm that felt like defiance made audible.
The garage reverberated with sound, each beat and strum echoing in a perfect, chaotic symphony. Eli leaned into his mic, his voice raw but melodic, cutting through the driving rhythm. Ryan’s bass thumped like a steady pulse beneath it all, grounding the chaos as Caleb’s drumming surged with primal energy.
Eli’s lyrics were dark, almost pleading, the kind of poetry only teenagers with too much angst and a love for horror movies could dream up. But in this moment, they felt right.
“Pull back the veil, let me see,
The fragile light that shelters me.
Invite me in, don’t turn away,
I’ll keep the night long at bay.”
The words poured out with a mix of longing and menace, Eli’s voice crackling with emotion. Ryan’s bassline surged forward, a pulsing heartbeat that underpinned the entire song. Caleb matched the rhythm perfectly, his sticks a blur as he pounded out a steady, driving beat that built like a storm rolling in.
Eli stepped closer to the mic, his voice rising as he hit the chorus.
“Under your roof, behind your door,
I’ll ask for nothing, but offer more.
Take my hand, don’t be afraid,
This sanctuary’s where we’ll stay.”
Caleb leaned into the drums, his kicks reverberating in sharp bursts as his snare cracked like thunder. Eli’s guitar riff climbed higher, adding an eerie, almost hypnotic edge to the sound. Ryan dropped to a lower groove, his bass vibrating the walls of the garage.
The bridge slowed, creating a haunting contrast. Eli strummed a melancholic melody, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
“I promise no harm, I’ll whisper no lies,
Just a place to rest my weary eyes.
The cold outside, it cuts me deep,
But in your warmth, I’d dare to sleep.”
The garage grew still, the quiet moment hanging in the air like mist before the final chorus exploded with renewed vigor. Caleb’s sticks danced across the kit, his cymbals crashing with perfect timing as Ryan’s bass roared back in, a deep growl that sent shivers up their spines.
Eli’s voice soared, stronger and more desperate now.
“Let me in! Don’t make me plead!
Inside your heart’s where I will feed.
Keep me warm, your fire bright—
Just one taste of your beautiful light.”
Caleb slammed the final beat with all the force he could muster, his cymbals ringing out in a triumphant crescendo. Eli hit the last chord, letting it hang in the air, the hum of the amp fading into silence. Ryan looked up from his bass, his brow glistening with sweat, a rare grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
For a moment, none of them said anything, the echoes of their music lingering like ghosts in the air. Caleb twirled a drumstick in his fingers, letting it clatter onto the floor as he leaned back in his seat.
“Well,” Eli said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “That didn’t suck.”
Ryan snorted. “High praise, coming from you.”
Caleb cracked a faint grin, picking up his dropped stick. “If Clary didn’t come back to yell at us, I’d call it a win.”
Eli glanced toward the house, half expecting the garage door to fly open again. When it didn’t, he nodded. “Guess even he knows a banger when he hears one.”
“Or he’s too busy plotting my demise,” Caleb said dryly.
Ryan laughed, slinging his bass over his shoulder. “Either way, worth it.”
The sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the garage in the orange glow of twilight. As the amps cooled and the instruments were set aside, the three of them lingered for a moment, soaking in the fleeting magic of their shared sound. For Caleb, it was one of the rare times the world made sense—a moment of harmony in an otherwise dissonant life.
The walk to Caleb’s house was a mix of laughter, groans, and bad jokes, the trio navigating the cracked sidewalks and looming tree roots of their neighborhood. Ryan kicked at a loose chunk of concrete, sending it skittering into the gutter. Eli pulled his hoodie tighter as the evening chill set in, his breath puffing faintly in the air.
“Hey, check it out,” Ryan said, crouching near the curb and picking up something shiny. He held it up to the light, revealing a bent and rusty needle. “Think I just found our new drummer.”
Eli recoiled. “Dude, put that down! That’s disgusting.”
Ryan grinned wickedly, pretending to cock his arm back. “Relax, Eli, it’s just tetanus. Builds character.” He mimicked throwing it in Eli’s direction, prompting a yelp and a theatrical dodge.
“God, you’re such a child,” Eli muttered, scowling.
Ryan chuckled and lobbed the needle back into the gutter, brushing his hands against his jeans.
Caleb, walking a few steps ahead, smirked faintly but said nothing. The sidewalks were a patchwork of neglect, tree roots breaking through the concrete like the earth was trying to reclaim the space. A dog barked in the distance, followed by the shrill shout of someone yelling at it to shut up.
As they turned the corner to Caleb’s house, Eli gestured toward a faded “For Rent” sign taped haphazardly to a light post. “Think Clary’s finally gonna boot you guys out, Ryan?”
Ryan snorted. “If he does, you’re letting me crash at your place. I’ll even teach your mom how to play bass.”
“Yeah, she’d love that,” Eli said dryly.
Caleb’s house loomed ahead—a squat, two-story relic of the neighborhood’s better days, its peeling paint and sagging porch a testament to years of neglect. The lawn was a patchy mix of weeds and dirt, and the mailbox leaned precariously to one side. Caleb led the way up the creaking porch steps, fishing a key out of his pocket.
“Welcome to paradise,” he said, pushing the door open.
The inside wasn’t much better. The faint smell of old carpet and stale beer lingered in the air, and the living room was cluttered with empty cans, pizza boxes, and the remnants of some long-forgotten project. Caleb didn’t pause, heading straight for the basement door, encounted in the kitchen, and flicking on the light.
The basement was more personal, though not much tidier. It doubled as Caleb’s bedroom and a storage space for his aunt’s forgotten junk. Mismatched furniture was scattered around—a sagging couch patched with duct tape, a scratched coffee table so warped it wobbled if you looked at it too hard, and a chair that looked like it had been salvaged from a junkyard. Posters of bands like Tran$quility and ReHibilytate shared wall space with faded pinups of girls in bikinis, their edges curling with age. A hitter bag hung from an exposed beam, swaying slightly as they passed it. Dirty clothes and empty water bottles were piled in one corner, a testament to Caleb’s loose interpretation of “clean.”
Ryan flopped onto the loveseat, his long legs sprawled out, accidentally kicking over a half-full water bottle. It rolled across the floor, narrowly missing a pile of tangled cords and cables. Kicking an old pair of sneakers onto the floor. “Man, this place really captures your aesthetic. Like, ‘hobo-chic.’”
“Pretty sure that’s the point,” Caleb shot back, setting his drumsticks down on the coffee table and plucking a battered acoustic guitar from its stand. The instrument looked like it had seen better days—scratched and scuffed, with a couple of mismatched strings—but it still played, and that was all Caleb cared about.
Eli perched on the edge of the weight bench, fiddling with his phone. “You ever think about, like, cleaning this place?” he asked, gesturing at the mess.
Caleb strummed a few chords, not looking up. “Why bother? It’s just gonna get messy again.”
“Wow, that’s some next-level laziness,” Eli said with a laugh. “Even for you.”
“Yeah, well, it’s my mess,” Caleb replied, his tone flat but not unfriendly. “I like it this way.”
Ryan leaned back, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “You would, wouldn’t you? Bet you even know where everything is in here.”
“More or less,” Caleb said, plucking out a melody that was just slightly off-key. “Don’t touch the pile near the couch, though. That’s my clean clothes.”
Ryan snorted. “Clean, huh? Sure smells like it.”
Caleb gave him a withering look but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he continued strumming, the notes filling the room with a low, melancholy sound. It was a tune he’d been working on for weeks, though he wasn’t sure what it was yet. Music was like that for him—messy, chaotic, and unpolished, but somehow comforting.
Eli set his phone aside, turning his attention back to Ryan. “Okay, so serious question: what do you think our sound actually is?”
Ryan groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Not this again.”
“Yes, this again,” Eli said, jabbing a finger at him. “We’re all over the place, man. Grunge, alt-rock, punk—you can’t just throw it all together and call it a sound.”
“Why not?” Ryan shot back. “That’s literally what music is—throwing stuff together until it sounds good.”
“Yeah, but you need a direction. A vibe,” Eli argued. “Otherwise, we’re just… noise.”
“Well, I like noise,” Ryan said, crossing his arms. “Noise is cool. Noise is punk.”
Caleb glanced up from his guitar, his expression unreadable. “If we’re punk, we’re the least punk band I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you!” Eli said, throwing his hands in the air. “Finally, someone gets it.”
Ryan scowled. “You guys are such buzzkills. Noise can be punk. Look at Child’s Sound.”
“Child’s Sound was noise with purpose,” Eli countered. “We’re just… noise.”
Caleb let the argument roll on, content to strum in the background. This was how it always went—Eli and Ryan butting heads over the band’s nonexistent future while Caleb stayed on the sidelines. He didn’t mind, though. The band wasn’t about success for him. It was about escape.
Eventually, the argument fizzled out, as it always did, and the three of them lapsed into a companionable silence. Eli wandered over to the hitter bag, giving it a half-hearted punch that sent it swaying lazily. Ryan started flipping through a dog-eared stack of old comic books that Caleb kept on the coffee table.
“You know, for a guy who claims to hate clutter, you sure keep a lot of junk around,” Ryan said, holding up a particularly battered issue of V-Gentiles.
“Not junk,” Caleb corrected, plucking at his guitar. “Artifacts.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Artifacts of what? Your tragic backstory?”
Caleb smirked faintly. “Something like that.”
Eli dropped onto the couch next to Ryan, grabbing one of the comics. “Man, I forgot how much I loved these as a kid. My dad used to get me a new one every week. Before he, you know…” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged awkwardly.
Ryan clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, at least he bought you cool stuff. My stepdad wouldn’t even spring for a pack of gum if it wasn’t on sale.”
“Yeah, Clary’s a real gem,” Caleb muttered, plucking out a discordant note.
Eli shifted, trying to lighten the mood. “So, anyway, college. You guys got any plans?”
Ryan shrugged. “Probably community college for a couple years, then transfer. My mom keeps sending me brochures for law schools, though. Like I’m gonna be a lawyer or something.”
Eli snorted. “Yeah, I can totally see that. ‘Ryan Miller, Attorney at Noise.’”
Ryan grinned. “Damn right.”
Eli turned to Caleb. “What about you? Any plans?”
Caleb hesitated, his fingers stilling on the guitar strings. He shrugged, his face carefully neutral. “Not really.”
The answer hung in the air, heavy and uncomfortable. Ryan and Eli exchanged a glance but didn’t press the issue. They knew Caleb well enough to know when to back off.
Ryan stretched, breaking the tension with a yawn. “Man, I’m starving. You guys wanna hit up that taco place?”
Eli nodded, already standing and brushing off his jeans. Caleb set the guitar aside, following them up the stairs. As they left the basement, he glanced back at the cluttered space. It wasn’t much, but it was his. And for now, that was enough.
There She Is
The morning air was heavy with smog and the faint stench of gasoline, a cocktail of scents that screamed Deyor. Caleb tugged his hoodie tighter against the chill as he stepped out of his house, a faint crackling beat already pulsing in his earbuds. The distorted guitar riff of Alwayslong by Moo Mightiers coursed through him, his fingers unconsciously tapping the rhythm against the single strap of his worn-out, once sky-blue, backpack.
The streets were alive, but not in the way a city should be. A group of thugs crouched near an old sedan, its passenger window smashed in, as they sifted through the glovebox. One of them glanced up, locking eyes with Caleb for a moment, his smirk a thinly veiled warning. Caleb looked away, keeping his pace steady. {Don’t engage. Don’t look back.}
A block further, a pair of women in tight dresses and heels that seemed designed to torture more than walk stood near a fire hydrant, chatting loudly between drags of their cigarettes. One of them let out a raspy laugh that echoed down the street, catching the attention of a passing car. Its windows rolled down just enough for muffled voices to exchange something Caleb didn’t want to hear.
The sidewalks themselves were broken and uneven, hills split some slabs and weeds grew between others. Caleb hopped over a particularly jagged piece of concrete, sidestepping a broken beer bottle that sparkled faintly in the morning sun. His music shifted to Signs of Trains, Joyce… Joy Fades by Kinda Old, the lyrics a perfect backdrop to the chaos around him.
The school loomed ahead, a gray monolith of graffiti-stained walls and chain-link fences. Kids of every shape and size streamed in, some loitering near the entrance in groups, others rushing to avoid the warning bell. Caleb pulled his earbuds out as he approached the gates, the din of chatter and occasional shouting swallowing the music.
Inside, the scene wasn’t much better. The hallways were a cacophony of slamming lockers, shouted insults, and sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. Teachers were scarce, their voices drowned out by the tide of hormonal chaos. Caleb wove through the crowd, his steps practiced and deliberate, his head low enough to avoid drawing attention but not so low as to look weak.
Then he saw her.
Phoenix stood by her locker, her dyed red hair catching the fluorescent light like it was aflame. She was leaning against the metal door, her black eyeliner sharp enough to cut and her band tee—some obscure metalcore group—hanging loose over ripped jeans. Her look was effortless, her aura a mix of quiet confidence and rebellion that made Caleb’s stomach twist in knots.
She laughed at something her friend said, the sound melodic against the harsh backdrop of the hallway noise. Caleb’s eyes lingered a second too long, and she glanced up, her hazel eyes meeting his. He froze, his heart pounding in his chest as if the drums he played were suddenly lodged inside him. She didn’t hold the gaze for long, turning back to her conversation, but that brief connection was enough to make him feel like he was floating.
“Watch it, dumbass!” a deep voice barked, snapping Caleb back to reality.
He collided with a broad shoulder and stumbled, nearly dropping his backpack. The guy he’d bumped into was massive, a head taller and built like a freight train. His letterman jacket marked him as one of the football players, his expression a cocktail of annoyance and smugness.
“Sorry,” Caleb muttered, stepping aside.
“Sorry?” the guy sneered, his voice dripping with condescension. “You better be, you little stick figure.”
A few kids nearby chuckled, and Caleb felt his face heat up. He tried to step past the guy, but a beefy hand shot out, shoving him backward.
“What’s the rush, huh?” the football player said, grinning now. “You too scared to hang around? Or are you just trying to get back to your little boyfriend over there?”
More laughter followed, louder this time. Caleb clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. His mind raced, every instinct screaming at him to walk away, to not escalate things.
But something inside him snapped.
The punch came before he fully realized what he was doing. His fist connected with the guy’s jaw in a blur of motion, the impact sending a shockwave through his arm. The hallway erupted into chaos as the football player stumbled back, his expression twisting from smugness to shock.
Then his head twisted further. Farther than it should have.
There was a sickening crack, and blood sprayed in an arc as the guy’s neck snapped cleanly. His head lolled to the side, dangling grotesquely as his body crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
The hallway fell silent, the air heavy with the coppery scent of blood. For a moment, no one moved. Then the screams started.
Kids scattered in every direction, some running for the nearest teacher, others pulling out their phones to record the scene. Caleb stood frozen, his hand still clenched into a fist, his knuckles stained with crimson. His breath came in shallow gasps, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.
“What the hell, man?” someone shouted, their voice high-pitched with fear.
“He killed him!” another voice cried.
Caleb’s eyes darted around the hallway, his pulse hammering in his ears. The faces staring back at him were a mix of shock, fear, and awe. Someone near the edge of the crowd started clapping—a slow, deliberate rhythm that quickly gained momentum. Within seconds, the hallway erupted into cheers, kids chanting his name like he was some kind of hero.
The sound faded.
The blood was gone.
The jock’s head was still firmly in place, and Caleb’s fist hung limply at his side, unthrown. The world snapped back into focus, the sharp fluorescent lights above casting their usual harsh glare. The hallway was alive again with chatter, laughter, and the occasional locker slamming shut.
Caleb blinked, disoriented. The jock was still standing in front of him, a smug grin plastered across his face. His two cronies stood behind him, chuckling as if they’d already won.
“You hear me, twig?” the jock sneered, jabbing a finger at Caleb’s chest. “Don’t let it happen again, or you’ll regret it.”
Caleb swallowed hard, his teeth clenched tightly. His knuckles itched to make his daydream real, but he stayed rooted, forcing himself to nod. The jock scoffed, bumping Caleb’s shoulder hard as he turned to leave, his lackeys following like hyenas.
“That’s what I thought,” the jock called over his shoulder. “Stick to your little drum kit, loser.”
The laughter faded as the group disappeared down the hallway. Caleb exhaled slowly, the tension draining from his body. He wiped his palms on his hoodie, only then realizing they were slick with sweat. The adrenaline lingered, making his limbs feel jittery.
“You good, man?”
Caleb turned to see DeShawn leaning against his locker, one eyebrow raised. DeShawn was a lanky kid with dark skin, sharp cheekbones, and a perpetual smirk that made him look like he knew something you didn’t. He wasn’t in the band, but he and Caleb shared enough classes to have struck up an easy friendship.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Caleb muttered, shaking his head like he could clear the fog from it.
DeShawn’s smirk widened as he crossed his arms. “Didn’t look fine. What’d Grant say to you this time?”
“Same shit as always,” Caleb replied, leaning against the locker next to DeShawn’s. “Something about me being a ‘twig’ and not getting in his way.”
DeShawn let out a low whistle. “Man, one of these days, that dude’s gonna get what’s coming to him. Wish I could be there to see it.”
Caleb’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Yeah, well, you might not have to wait long.”
DeShawn laughed, shaking his head. “You’re crazy. Dude’s twice your size.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s twice as smart.”
That got a louder laugh out of DeShawn, and he gave Caleb a playful shove. “Keep that energy, man. It’s gonna come in handy one day.”
The bell rang, its sharp trill cutting through the noise of the hallway. DeShawn grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder. “See you in history?”
“Yeah, see you there,” Caleb replied, watching as DeShawn disappeared into the torrent of students.
Caleb took a deep breath, adjusting the strap of his backpack. He glanced down the hallway one last time, half-expecting to see Grant waiting for him, but it was empty save for a few stragglers. He shook his head again, forcing himself to move.
As he headed to his first class, the remnants of his daydream lingered in the back of his mind. He could still feel the phantom weight of his punch, the imagined cheers echoing faintly in his ears. For a fleeting moment, he let himself wish it had been real.
Caleb trudged into his first-period history class, the lights buzzing faintly overhead, one bulb strangely green, a prank from earlier in the year that was never corrected. The room smelled faintly of old paper and burnt coffee, a sign that Mr. Greaves had already gone through his morning cup—or three. The teacher sat slouched at his desk, his tie slightly loosened and his eyes glued to his phone. He didn’t look up as Caleb entered, not even when the door creaked on its hinges.
The classroom itself was a mess of mismatched desks, chipped posters about historical figures, and a whiteboard that still bore half-erased notes from yesterday’s lesson. Caleb slid into his usual seat near the back, his bag hitting the floor with a dull thud. Around him, the chaos of a typical high school morning unfolded.
Students milled about in small clusters, laughing, arguing, and exchanging whispered gossip. A kid near the front was trying to stack as many textbooks as possible on his desk before they toppled over, while another doodled on the desk with a permanent marker. A pair of girls sat near the window, half-heartedly flipping through their textbooks while giggling at something on their phones.
“Yo, Stanis,” a voice called from behind him.
Caleb turned to see Marcus, a scarily toned kid with a mop of curly hair and a perpetual smirk, leaning over his desk. Marcus wasn’t in Caleb’s band but shared enough of his sarcastic outlook on life to be an occasional ally in classes like these.
“What’s up?” Caleb asked, leaning back in his chair.
Marcus grinned, tossing a crumpled paper ball toward Caleb, who caught it effortlessly. “Heard you almost decked Grant in the hallway earlier. Thought you weren’t into drama.”
Caleb shrugged, unwrapping the paper ball and seeing a poorly drawn caricature of Grant with steam coming out of his ears. He snorted. “Didn’t hit him. Just… considered it.”
“Yeah, well, everyone’s talking like you knocked his teeth out or something,” Marcus said, propping his chin on his hand. “Dude’s got a fragile ego. You probably bruised it just by looking at him.”
Before Caleb could respond, a loud crash echoed from the front of the room. The tower of textbooks had finally collapsed, scattering across the floor. The kid responsible sat back in his chair, arms crossed like he was proud of himself.
“Mr. Greaves!” someone shouted. “Your students are out of control!”
Greaves didn’t even glance up from his phone. “Read page seventy-three in your textbooks,” he mumbled. “There’s a quiz Friday.”
“Cool, so we’re teaching ourselves again,” Marcus muttered, rolling his eyes. “Budget cuts really brought out the best in public education, huh?”
Caleb chuckled, pulling his notebook out of his bag. The pages were filled with half-hearted notes, doodles of drum kits, and the occasional lyric idea. He flipped to a blank page and started sketching, letting Marcus’s rambling fade into the background.
Across the room, two kids were arguing about something Caleb couldn’t make out. The girl by the window tossed a paper airplane at them, hitting one square in the face. It didn’t take long for a small-scale paper war to break out, with wadded-up homework flying through the air like snowballs.
“Think they’ll actually do anything about this?” Marcus asked, nodding toward Greaves.
“Nah,” Caleb replied without looking up. “Greaves gave up on us like three semesters ago. We’re on our own.”
Marcus laughed, leaning back in his chair and balancing on two legs. “Man, you’re probably right. Bet he’s scrolling through job listings right now.”
The chaos continued to escalate, with more students joining the impromptu paper fight. Someone turned on a speaker, blasting a pop song that clashed horribly with the ambient noise of the classroom. Caleb smirked as one of the wads of paper landed on Greaves’s desk. The teacher sighed heavily, finally setting his phone down.
“All right, that’s enough,” Greaves said, his tone flat and unconvincing. “If you don’t want to read, then at least keep it down.”
Predictably, no one listened.
Marcus turned back to Caleb, grinning. “So, about the band. You guys gonna hit it big or what?”
Caleb shrugged, keeping his eyes on his sketch. “Doubt it. Eli’s too obsessed with his ‘perfect sound,’ and Ryan’s got one foot out the door already. Probably just a phase for them.”
“But not for you?” Marcus asked, raising an eyebrow.
Caleb paused, his pencil hovering over the page. “Nah,” he said quietly. “Music’s… different for me. Don’t know how to explain it.”
Marcus didn’t push the subject, instead launching into a story about his weekend that involved a prank gone wrong and a very angry neighbor. Caleb half-listened, nodding in the right places while adding shading to his sketch.
The bell rang suddenly, cutting through the noise like a gunshot. The students began filing out of the classroom, their chatter spilling into the hallway. Caleb gathered his things, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Later, Stanis,” Marcus said, giving him a mock salute as he headed toward his next class.
“Yeah, later,” Caleb replied, stepping into the crowded hallway.
The cafeteria was a symphony of chaos. Metal trays clattered against tables, voices overlapped in a cacophony of gossip and laughter, and the smell of reheated pasta and grease permeated the air. Caleb slid his tray onto an empty section of a scratched-up table, settling into his usual spot near the corner of the room, away from the louder clusters of students.
He unwrapped the plastic fork from a flimsy napkin, stabbing half-heartedly at the sad pile of mac and cheese on his tray. The cheese had congealed into an unappealing blob, but hunger overruled disgust, and he took a bite. It tasted vaguely of cardboard.
Across the room, his eyes landed on her. Phoenix. She sat with her usual group—three or four girls with multicolored hair and varying degrees of eyeliner artistry, along with a couple of guys in band tees that Caleb recognized. They were laughing about something, the kind of laugh that carried through the noise of the cafeteria like its own melody.
Phoenix had her hair pinned to one side with black and white clips, streaks of pink peeking through like hidden embers. She wore a spiked choker and a hoodie with the sleeves cut off, showcasing bracelets stacked halfway up her arm. Caleb noticed her boots—chunky, combat-style—resting lazily on the seat of an empty chair. She was scribbling something in a notebook, pausing occasionally to show it to the girl next to her.
Caleb forced himself to look away, fixing his attention back on his tray. But his resolve didn’t last long. His eyes darted back to her, drawn like a moth to a flame. She leaned her head back, laughing at something one of her friends said, and Caleb felt his chest tighten. He didn’t know what it was about her—maybe it was the easy confidence she seemed to radiate, or maybe it was just the fact that she looked like someone who wouldn’t care about fitting in. Whatever it was, it had him hooked.
“You’re staring, bro.”
Caleb jolted slightly, his fork clattering onto his tray. He turned to see DeShawn dropping his own tray on the table and plopping into the seat across from him. DeShawn was taller and broader than Caleb, with a quick wit and a perpetual grin that made him one of the few people Caleb genuinely liked.
“I wasn’t staring,” Caleb muttered, though his cheeks felt warm.
DeShawn chuckled, tearing open a packet of ketchup and squirting it onto his fries. “Yeah, okay. You’re just doing intense visual research on the ceiling over there.”
Caleb didn’t respond, stabbing his mac and cheese again. DeShawn leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Look, man, I’m just saying, if you’re gonna crush on Phoenix Monroe, you might wanna work on that whole ‘brooding in the corner’ vibe.”
“I’m not brooding,” Caleb shot back. “And I’m not crushing.”
“Sure, sure,” DeShawn said, popping a fry into his mouth. “That’s why you’re practically burning holes in the back of her head with your eyes.”
Caleb groaned, slouching lower in his seat. “Can you not?”
DeShawn grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Relax, man. I’m just messing with you. But seriously, you should talk to her sometime. She’s cool. I had econ with her last semester.”
Caleb raised an eyebrow. “You talked to her?”
“Yeah,” DeShawn said, shrugging. “She’s not as scary as she looks. A little intense, sure, but in a good way.”
Caleb filed that information away, though he didn’t admit it out loud. Instead, he changed the subject. “What are you even doing here? Don’t you usually sit with the basketball guys?”
“Eh, they’re boring today,” DeShawn said, waving a fry dismissively. “Figured I’d come hang out with my favorite misanthrope.”
“Lucky me,” Caleb said dryly.
DeShawn grinned, but his attention shifted momentarily to another corner of the cafeteria. “Heads up. Looks like Grant and his merry band of jackasses are here.”
Caleb followed DeShawn’s gaze, spotting Grant and his crew settling at a table near the center of the room. They were loud and obnoxious as usual, their laughter carrying over the din of the cafeteria like an unwelcome spotlight. Grant caught sight of Caleb, his face twisting into a sneer.
“Great,” Caleb muttered, focusing back on his tray. “Just what I needed.”
DeShawn chuckled. “Dude’s still salty. You should’ve hit him. Would’ve made for a way better story.”
“Yeah, because getting suspended is exactly what I need right now,” Caleb said, rolling his eyes.
Grant’s group didn’t approach, but Caleb could feel their glares from across the room. Every now and then, Grant leaned over to whisper something to his friends, and they’d erupt into laughter. Caleb tried to ignore it, but his grip on his fork tightened.
“Don’t let him get to you,” DeShawn said, his tone unusually serious. “He’s just a blowhard. All bark, no bite.”
Caleb exhaled slowly, letting the tension in his shoulders ease. “Yeah. Whatever.”
DeShawn nodded, returning to his fries. “Anyway, back to Phoenix. You gonna make a move, or are we just gonna sit here and keep watching your slow descent into stalker territory?”
Caleb gave him a look, but there was no heat behind it. “I’m not making a move. She doesn’t even know I exist.”
“Dude, you’re a drummer in a band. You’ve got a better shot than half these clowns.”
“Pretty sure she’s not into ‘clowns,’ either,” Caleb said, smirking faintly.
DeShawn laughed, shaking his head. “Fair point. But seriously, man, think about it. Life’s too short to be a coward.”
Caleb didn’t respond, his gaze flickering back to Phoenix for a brief moment. She was still laughing, her head tilted back, the red streaks in her hair catching the light. She didn’t look like someone who’d ever worry about taking chances.
Maybe DeShawn was right. Maybe it was time he stopped playing it safe. But for now, he just poked at his mac and cheese, letting the thought simmer in the back of his mind.
Rules of the Court
The gymnasium buzzed with restless energy as the students gathered around the volleyball net. The faint smell of sweat and worn sneakers clung to the air, mingling with the sharp squeak of soles on polished floors. Caleb stood off to the side, bouncing a volleyball against the ground rhythmically. His earbuds had been yanked out earlier by the coach, who barked something about “school rules,” leaving Caleb without his usual soundtrack to drown out the chaos around him.
“Alright, listen up!” Coach Davidson, a middle-aged man with the posture of someone perpetually annoyed, blew his whistle. “We’re playing volleyball today. Two teams, best of three sets. No whining, no slacking, and definitely no trying to use the ball as a weapon.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the students, though Caleb didn’t crack a smile. He glanced across the court, his eyes locking onto Grant. The jock was joking around with his buddies, laughing louder than necessary and flexing his shoulders like he was auditioning for a protein powder commercial. Over the past three days, since he bumped into Grant, Caleb felt angrier and angrier each time he saw him, bubbling but holding the anger, edging his emotions.
Of course Grant had to be on the opposing team.
“Caleb, you’re over there,” the coach called, pointing to one side of the net. Caleb shuffled into position, keeping his head down as he moved to his team’s side. A couple of classmates muttered greetings, but he didn’t respond, focusing instead on bouncing the ball against the floor one last time before handing it off to the server.
The game started off tame enough, the ball arching over the net in a lazy rhythm as both teams warmed up. Caleb hung back near the edge of the court, watching the action unfold with practiced disinterest. He wasn’t terrible at volleyball, but it wasn’t exactly his passion. Still, he couldn’t help but notice how Grant seemed to dominate the court, spiking the ball with a smug grin every chance he got.
“Yo, Caleb! Heads up!”
The shout snapped him out of his thoughts just in time for the ball to come hurtling toward him. He dove forward, slapping it back up with his forearm. It wasn’t graceful, but it worked, and his team managed to volley it back over the net.
“Nice save,” one of his teammates muttered. Caleb gave a faint nod, wiping his palms on his gym shorts. His heart was beating faster now, the familiar rush of competition starting to stir in his chest.
On the next play, Grant jumped to spike the ball, his face twisted in concentration. Caleb saw his opening and moved quickly, managing to block the spike and send the ball careening back onto Grant’s side of the court. It landed with a satisfying thud.
The gym erupted in scattered cheers and groans, and Caleb felt a flicker of satisfaction. He didn’t look at Grant, but he could feel the other boy’s glare like a spotlight.
“Lucky shot,” Grant muttered loud enough for Caleb to hear. Caleb smirked, letting the comment roll off his shoulders.
The game grew more intense as it went on. Caleb found himself diving for saves, leaping for blocks, and even spiking the ball once or twice. He wasn’t playing to win; he was playing to vent. Every hit was an outlet for the frustration simmering beneath the surface—his irritation at Grant, his lingering anger from the day-to-day events, and the ever-present undercurrent of dissatisfaction he felt with his life.
Grant, for his part, seemed to take Caleb’s sudden enthusiasm as a personal challenge. The two boys found themselves in a silent duel, each trying to outplay the other. Caleb could feel the unspoken hostility thickening the air every time they squared off at the net.
On one particularly aggressive play, Grant sent the ball rocketing toward Caleb with enough force to make the net tremble. Caleb barely managed to dive in time, his arms stinging as he bumped the ball back into play.
“Little scrappy, aren’t you?” Grant sneered as Caleb scrambled to his feet.
“Yeah,” Caleb shot back, his voice low and even. “Guess I have to be when I’m playing against a Neanderthal.”
A few of the nearby players stifled laughs, but the tension was palpable. Grant’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the ball. He didn’t respond, instead serving the ball with enough force to send it soaring over everyone’s heads and out of bounds.
“Nice aim,” Caleb muttered under his breath, loud enough for Grant to hear. The other boy’s glare burned hotter, but Coach Davidson’s whistle cut through the moment before things could escalate further.
“Out of bounds!” the coach called. “Grant, watch your power. Caleb, stay focused.”
The game continued, but the atmosphere was electric, each play feeling like a fuse about to ignite. Caleb’s teammates started whispering among themselves, glancing nervously between him and Grant. Even Coach Davidson seemed to pick up on the tension, keeping a closer eye on the court than usual.
By the final point, Caleb’s shirt was damp with sweat, his hair clinging to his forehead. The ball came sailing toward him, a high, slow volley that gave him plenty of time to position himself. He jumped, his arms swinging forward with all the force he could muster.
The ball rocketed over the net, slamming into the ground just inches away from Grant’s feet. The gym exploded into cheers and groans, the game finally over.
Caleb landed hard, his legs aching from the impact. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath as his teammates patted him on the back and muttered congratulations. Across the court, Grant picked up the ball, his face unreadable.
“Nice game,” Grant said finally, though the words were laced with sarcasm. He tossed the ball to the side, turning to rejoin his group of friends.
Caleb didn’t respond, his expression neutral as he walked off the court. His heart was still racing, his mind buzzing with the adrenaline of the game. But as he reached the bleachers and grabbed his water bottle, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d won more than just a match.
For now, at least, he’d held his ground.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting the city in a gritty, golden haze as Caleb walked home, his earbuds blasting a familiar track. The music wrapped around him like armor, a shield against the chaotic buzz of the city streets. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets, his fingers brushing against loose strings as he replayed the day in his mind.
Volleyball. Grant’s face when Caleb had outplayed him. The satisfying thud of the ball hitting the floor just out of reach. Caleb smirked to himself, his pace quickening as he let the rush of that moment wash over him again. It wasn’t often that he felt like he’d won something. Not verbally, not physically, not socially. Today had been different. He’d held his ground, and he’d done it his way.
Tomorrow, he thought, biting his lower lip in a rare moment of nervous excitement. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to her.
Phoenix. The name alone made his stomach flutter in a way he wasn’t used to. He’d been watching her for weeks—months, really—but always from a distance. She was different, a kind of cool that didn’t feel forced, unlike most of the kids at school. Maybe it was her smile, or the streak of dyed red hair that fell perfectly over one eye, or the way she laughed with her friends like she actually meant it. Caleb wasn’t sure. All he knew was that tomorrow, Friday, he’d work up the nerve to say something. Anything.
As he turned the corner onto his street, the usual sights greeted him: cracked sidewalks, trees with exposed roots that seemed to claw their way out of the ground, and the ever-present graffiti that decorated the sides of buildings like the city’s unofficial wallpaper. A group of kids darted across the street ahead of him, their laughter echoing off the brick walls. A man leaned against a light pole, smoking a cigarette with the weariness of someone who’d been doing it for decades.
Caleb barely noticed any of it. He was too busy daydreaming about what he’d say to Phoenix. {Hey, Phoenix. Dumb start. Uh, what’s your number? No, idiot, too forward. Maybe just ask her about her favorite bands? Yeah, that could work. Casual, but not too casual.}
He was so lost in thought that he almost missed the commotion up ahead.
A small crowd had gathered near the corner, their murmured voices cutting through the steady hum of the city. Caleb slowed his pace, one earbud dangling loose as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Two cops stood near a crumbling building, their patrol car parked haphazardly at the curb. They were hassling a street performer, an older guy with dreadlocks and a beaten-up guitar slung over his shoulder.
“Sir, I’m not gonna tell you again,” one of the officers said, his hand resting on the butt of his unextended baton. “This is private property. You can’t set up here.”
The man held his hands up in a placating gesture, his voice calm but firm. “I’m not causin’ no trouble, officer. Just playin’ a few tunes, tryin’ to make a little scratch.”
“You’ve been warned before,” the other cop interjected, stepping closer. He was younger, his face twisted in a mix of annoyance and disdain. “Either you pack up, or we’ll do it for you.”
The crowd murmured louder, a few people shouting things like, “Leave him alone!” and “He’s not hurtin’ nobody!” Caleb lingered on the edge of the group, his pulse quickening. He wasn’t sure why he felt the sudden urge to stay. Maybe it was the performer’s calm defiance, or the way the cops seemed to tower over him like they had something to prove.
“Mane, y’all ain’t gotta do this,” the performer said, his voice steady. “I ain’t botherin’ a soul.”
“You’re bothering me,” the younger cop shot back. “Move it!”
He reached for the guitar, and the performer stepped back, his expression tightening. “Don’t touch my stuff, mane, now!”
The tension was palpable, the kind that made your skin prickle and your breath catch. Caleb’s fingers curled into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He wasn’t the type to jump into situations like this, but something about the scene stirred a restless energy in him.
“Hey, what’s the problem?” a voice called out from the crowd. It was an older woman, her arms crossed as she stared down the officers. “He’s just playin’ music.”
“Ma’am, step back,” the younger cop barked, his hand now resting on his holstered gun. The crowd reacted instantly, a ripple of unease passing through them.
Caleb’s stomach knoted. His earbuds hung limp around his neck, forgotten as he watched the scene unfold. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, the unspoken tension that seemed to hang in the air like a storm about to break.
Finally, the older cop raised a hand, signaling his partner to back off. “Alright, alright,” he said, his voice gruff. “You’ve got ten minutes to pack up and move on. After that, we’re writing you up.”
The street performer nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Tsk. This why ain’t nobody stand y’all asses, mane,” he said, his tone carried absolute annoyance, bordering hate.
The cops lingered for a moment longer, their presence heavy and oppressive, before finally retreating to their patrol car. The crowd began to disperse, their murmurs fading into the background as the city resumed its usual rhythm.
Caleb stood there for a moment, his heart still racing. He glanced at the street performer, who was now strumming his guitar softly, the notes carrying a melancholy weight. Something about the man’s quiet resilience struck a chord in Caleb, a reminder of the way the city seemed to crush everything in its path yet never quite break it entirely.
He turned and kept walking, his earbuds back in place, but the scene lingered in his mind. This was Deyor, he thought, the city that never gave anyone a break. And yet, somehow, people kept going. They kept fighting, kept playing, kept surviving.
{Tomorrow,} he thought again, his resolve hardening, thinking about how bad the scene could have wound up. {Tomorrow, I’ll talk to her.}