Drone Command

SIX

He smelled lilacs in her hair.

Troy held his sister tightly, breathed in the cloying smell of the cheap shampoo. Marichelle’s favorite. She was two years older than Troy and almost as tall. Best friends.

Troy let go. “Call me when you get there.”

“Soon as we get to Grandma’s. I’ll call every Sunday, I promise.” Marichelle was teary eyed and snotty. Dark hair and eyes like their dad.

Troy nodded. “Be careful out there, okay? Any guy messes with you, I’m gonna kill him.”

She shook her head. “You can’t protect me if you’re not there, tough guy.”

Her words stung. They were supposed to.

Thirteen-year-old Troy Pearce was just under six feet tall and a hundred and forty pounds, mostly sinew, with a rebellious lick of jet-black hair falling over his clear blue eyes. The sturdy rough-hewn cabin behind him was small but tidy. His grandfather’s, on his dad’s side. Troy had never met him. His dad said if you knew the cabin, you knew him.

Marichelle started to say something, but stopped. She wanted to beg Troy to come with them again, but it was no use. They had already fought about it last night.

He had to stay. Dad needed him.

She had to go. Mom couldn’t take it anymore.

And that was that.

Troy glanced over at his mom leaning against a faded yellow Datsun two-door squatting in the dirt driveway. No hubcaps. A long way to California in a beater car like that. His mother was dark and pretty, with his same blue eyes, but tired. Her arms were crossed, a natural pose. She’d been on defense a long time.

He caught her eye. She smiled. More tears. She wiped her face with her hand and fell into the car.

He remembered her promise. “We’ll come back when he sobers up,” she said.

Troy knew she meant it. Didn’t mean much, though. His dad had his demons.

The Datsun fired up.

“I gotta go,” Marichelle said.

“Send me a picture of your surfboard when you get one.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, sniffling. “Take care of Dad, okay?”

“I will.”

“Take care of yourself, too.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He smiled. “I’ll make another one, too.”

“What?”

“I ain’t ever having kids, I swear.”

Marichelle laughed, wiping her eyes. “Me neither.” She kissed him on the cheek one last time, then scampered to the Datsun. “Bye.”

Troy watched the yellow car disappear through the trees in a cloud of dust, heading for the distant highway. His heart sank.

He headed for the cabin, his feet heavy as lead. Pushed his way through the door. Saw his dad passed out at the kitchen table, his forehead perched in a plate of spaghetti, an empty bottle of Jack by his elbow. Another crumpled foreclosure notice on the floor.

“Didn’t even say good-bye, asshole,” Troy whispered, as he lifted up his dad’s head and gently set it on the table. He snagged up the empty bottle and tossed it in the trash.

The hell of it was, he’d always wanted to go to California.