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Sean sends his parents a postcard. Having a wonderful time. Glad you're not here. He realizes they might be able to find him if they look at the postmark. But he doesn't think they'll bother. Probably, they haven't even noticed he's left. They're too busy with their own shit.
He couldn't stand being at home. His parents never fought, didn't yell at him or anything. They just didn't speak. For days. For weeks. Since Patrick drowned, it was as if they had gone underwater too. Sometimes, the only way to know they'd surfaced was when dirty cups showed up in the kitchen sink. His father's cup with a few swallows of milky coffee left in the bottom. His mother's cup with a crescent of lipstick mashed on the rim.
Ten days ago, he walked all the way downtown. On the way, he stopped at an ATM. Took money out of his father's account until the machine said he couldn't have any more.
The ticket was one-way to Miami, but he got off the bus in Lakeland. The name "Lakeland" sounded nice. Lakeland. Land of lakes. Flat, cool spaces full of blue sky and soft clouds. He's only found one lake so far--right in the middle of town. A cast concrete wall runs around it. Steps descend to the water's edge. There's a sign--"No swimming." Always a cop car lurking around in case someone decides to ignore the sign.
***
In his head, Sean sometimes still sees Patrick. He's crouching at the bottom of the pool, in the deep end down where the drain is. His baggy board shorts look like half-inflated balloons. Everyone thought he was playing one of his games.
Patrick liked to fool people. Shock them, scare them. Then he'd joke about what he'd done, who he'd humiliated. Sean, three years younger, was his favorite victim. He stuffed Sean's sneaker toes with raw chicken livers. Tied him to a tree with Barney the Dinosaur underpants. Smeared brown streaks down the back of his jeans. His brother's big guffaws lurched down the hallways at school. "Skid marks! Look, little bro's got skid marks! Can't wipe his own ass."
At school, there were all kinds of memorials and tributes. His brother was on the football team, the track team, student council. Even though he was dead, they voted him honorary class president. In the hallway, senior girls grabbed Sean, sobbed on his shoulder. A group of students raised enough money for a scholarship annuity. The Patrick Fleming Memorial Award.
The guidance counselor made a point to tell Sean he shouldn't try for it. It wouldn't look right. Sean loved to swim, loved how water combed through his hair and cooled his skin. The way sound was swallowed up. The clean, weightless way it made him feel. After the accident, his parents had the pool filled in with cement. The back yard became one long stretch of pavement, glaring bone-white in the afternoon sun.
In Lakeland, Sean is hanging out in a quiet part of town, mostly populated by retirees. The streets are bumpered with big cars, the kind with trunks the size of pool tables. These are older cars, made before electric locks got popular. To secure the door, you have to push the button down by hand. Every evening, Sean wanders down the sidewalk, looking for a door someone forgot to lock--a button popped up like when a turkey's finished cooking. These big-ass cars have roomy back seats.
When he finds an unlocked door, he crawls in, stretches out, sleeps all night, his Dollar Store alarm clock set to go off in six hours. It doesn't matter what the time really is. After dark, it will always be at least six or seven hours until someone will want to drive their car. Old people never drive at night.
Inside the cars, little cardboard trees dangle from every rearview mirror, but the tang of mothballs and mustiness is stronger than fake pine. Funny backpack things hang behind the front seats, loaded with mashed boxes of Kleenex and stumpy folding umbrellas and those damp cloths sealed up in packets--wet-naps, they call them. Lots of maps--always folded up like new. Seatcovers made of wooden beads. Heated vinyl back rests that plug into the cigarette lighter.
These people drop a lot of change. Sean isn't a thief, doesn't go poking around looking for stuff to take. But if he spots loose change under the carpet or behind the seats, he figures it qualifies as lost. So he finds it. Even after buying lunch and dinner, some days he ends up having more money than he started out with.
Florida is the best. Sean could never get away with sleeping in people's cars up in Illinois. He'd freeze to death. Or get arrested. In Lakeland, he has a steady income and an infinite number of places to crash. If his parents don't decide to notice that postmark and come looking for him, he guesses he can go on living like this for years.
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