Deep whole

The wheels of the skateboard hit the cracked pavement with a rhythmic *thwack-thwack*, a sound that echoed against the brick walls of the suburban street. Luke Arrow didn't look up. He didn't need to. He knew the way to the new school by the scent of freshly cut grass and the looming sense of dread that always accompanied a fresh start.

He adjusted the hood of his oversized black sweatshirt, pulling it lower to shadow his face. It didn't do much to hide the jagged scar that ran from his temple down to his jawline—a permanent souvenir from the night his father had lost his temper and a whiskey bottle in the same motion. Underneath the baggy layers, his skin was a roadmap of similar memories, a tapestry of cigarette burns and bruises that never quite seemed to fade.

St. Jude’s High looked like every other school he’d been kicked out of. It was full of kids who lived in houses with manicured lawns and parents who actually remembered their names. Luke kicked his board up into his hand, the grip tape rough against his calloused palms, and walked toward the entrance.

The whispers started before he even hit the double doors.

"Is that a girl?" a voice whispered from a group of cheerleaders near the fountain.

"No, look at the shoulders. But the hair... and those clothes..."

Luke kept his gaze fixed on the floor. His black hair, bleached to a pale blonde at the ends, fell over his eyes. He knew he looked like a mess. He knew he looked "strange." Let them think what they wanted. If they thought he was a freak, they’d stay away. And if they stayed away, he didn't have to explain why his hands shook or why he smelled faintly of the cheap vodka he’d swigged at six in the morning to stop the tremors.

His first stop was the office. The secretary, a woman with glasses perched on the tip of her nose, looked up and visibly recoiled.

"Name?" she asked, her voice tight.

"Luke Arrow," he rasped. His voice was deeper than people expected, gravelly from a pack-a-day habit he’d started at fourteen.

She handed him a schedule and a map with two fingers, as if he were contagious. "Room 302. History. Don't be late, Mr. Arrow. We have a very strict conduct policy here."

Luke didn't answer. He just turned and walked out, his boots heavy on the linoleum.

History was a blur of names and dates he didn't care about. He sat in the very back corner, his long, athletic frame cramped in the small wooden desk. He felt the eyes on him—burning into the side of his head, tracing the scar, judging the dirt under his fingernails.

"Mr. Arrow, is it?" The teacher, a man named Mr. Harrison, stood over him. He had a look of practiced patience that Luke already hated. "I see you’ve joined us mid-semester. Why don't you stand up and tell the class a bit about yourself?"

Luke didn't move. He didn't even look up from the graffiti he was scratching into the desk with a thumbnail. "No."

The room went silent. A girl in the front row turned around, her eyes wide.

Mr. Harrison’s face reddened. "Excuse me? That is not how we speak to faculty here. Stand up."

Luke finally raised his head. His icy blue eyes were cold, devoid of the spark most seventeen-year-olds had. "I said no. Just do your job and leave me alone."

"Office. Now," Harrison snapped, pointing toward the door.

Luke grabbed his bag, stood up, and walked out. He didn't go to the office. He went to the third-floor bathroom, the one that smelled like bleach and neglect. He locked himself in the end stall, his chest heaving. The walls felt like they were closing in. The silence of the school was worse than the shouting at home. At home, there was the sound of his mother’s high-pitched laughter as she entertained whatever man had paid for her time that night. There was the sound of glass breaking and the smell of stale smoke.

Here, it was just the sound of his own heartbeat, loud and erratic.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a small silver flask. He took a long, burning swallow, closing his eyes as the liquid fire hit his throat. It didn't make the thoughts go away—the thoughts of the bridge he passed every morning, the thoughts of how easy it would be to just stop—but it dulled the edges.

He stayed there for two periods. When he finally emerged, he ran into a boy by the sinks. The boy was shorter, wearing a bright yellow hoodie and a friendly expression that felt like a physical blow.

"Hey! You're the new guy, right? I'm Leo," the boy said, reaching out a hand.

Luke stared at the hand as if it were a weapon. He pushed past him, shoulder-checking the boy into the sink.

"Whoa, okay! Just trying to be nice," Leo called out, sounding more confused than hurt. "Tough crowd."

Lunch was the worst. The cafeteria was a sea of social hierarchies Luke had no interest in navigating. He took his board and headed for the back of the bleachers, where the shadows were long. He sat on the dirt, lighting a cigarette despite the "No Smoking" signs posted every ten feet.

"You're going to get caught."

Luke didn't flinch. He looked up to see a girl standing there. She had dark skin, braided hair, and a camera hanging around her neck. She wasn't looking at him with disgust; she was looking at him with curiosity.

"So?" Luke spat, blowing a cloud of smoke in her direction.

"So, I'm Maya. I'm on the yearbook staff," she said, stepping closer. "That’s a hell of a scar. Where’d you get it?"

"Shark attack," Luke lied, his voice flat. "Go away, Maya."

"You're the guy who told Harrison to shove it, aren't you? Bold move for day one," she sat down a few feet away, ignoring his hostility. "People are talking, you know. They think you're some kind of delinquent from the city. Or a ghost."

"I'm nothing," Luke said, and he meant it. To his father, he was a punching bag. To his mother, he was an inconvenience that stayed in the basement. To the state, he was a file they’d forgotten to close when his father went to prison.

Maya looked at his hands, which were trembling slightly. "You okay? You look like you're vibrating."

"I'm fine. Leave me alone, or I’ll give you a reason to call the cops," he growled, standing up.

He spent the rest of the day in a haze. The alcohol was wearing off, replaced by the crushing weight of reality. He thought about the house he had to go back to. He thought about the pile of laundry soaking in his mother’s vomit, the empty fridge, and the man named Dwayn who had been hanging around lately, looking at Luke with eyes that made his skin crawl.

When the final bell rang, Luke was the first one out. He dropped his board and pushed off, the wind biting at his face. He didn't go home. He went to the park near the highway, a place where the grass was yellow and the playground equipment was rusted through.

He sat on top of the slide, looking out at the cars rushing by. He pulled a small plastic baggie from his pocket. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. But the darkness in his head was getting louder, screaming about how he was just like his father, how he was a waste of space, how his mother would probably be relieved if she didn't have to see his face anymore.

"Just one," he whispered to the empty park.

He was halfway through when a shadow fell over him. He jumped, nearly dropping the bag. It was Leo, the kid from the bathroom, holding a basketball.

"Man, you really like being alone, don't you?" Leo asked, though his voice lacked the cheer from earlier. He looked at the baggie, then at Luke’s eyes. "Oh. That’s... that’s what we’re doing?"

"Get lost, Leo," Luke said, his voice cracking. "I'm not in the mood."

Leo didn't leave. He sat down on the bottom of the slide. "My brother used to do that. Before he went to rehab. He said it felt like drowning, but in a good way. Until it wasn't."

Luke felt a surge of white-hot rage. "You don't know anything about me. You don't know where I come from or what I do. You think you can just sit here and be a hero? I’m a freak, remember? That’s what everyone at school says."

"I didn't say that," Leo said quietly. "I just thought you looked like you could use a friend."

"I don't have friends," Luke snapped. He shoved the baggie back into his pocket and jumped off the slide, his knees aching as he hit the ground. He grabbed his skateboard and began to roll away, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"See you tomorrow, Luke!" Leo shouted after him.

Luke didn't look back. He couldn't.

When he finally arrived at the small, dilapidated house he called home, the smell hit him before he even opened the door. It was a mix of cheap perfume, stale beer, and something metallic. The living room was dark, save for the flickering light of the television. His mother was slumped on the sofa, her hair a matted mess, a stranger’s arm draped over her shoulder.

"Luke? Is that you?" she slurred, not turning around. "Go to your room. We’re busy. And don't eat the cheese in the fridge, that’s for Dave."

Luke didn't respond. He walked past them, his footsteps heavy on the creaking floorboards. He went into his room—a closet-sized space with a mattress on the floor and a window he’d painted black.

He sat in the dark, the silence of the house more suffocating than the noise of the school. He reached for his bag, seeking the flask, the baggie, anything to make the world stop spinning.

He thought of the girl with the camera and the boy with the basketball. They were looking at him, really looking at him, and for a second, he hadn't felt like a ghost. He’d felt like a person.

And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

He lay back on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling he couldn't see. His body ached, his mind raced, and the scar on his face throbbed with the rhythm of his heart. He was seventeen, he was alone, and he was dying in a way that didn't involve a funeral.

Tomorrow, he would go back to St. Jude’s. He would sit in the back of the class. He would be rude to the teachers. He would hide in the bathroom. And maybe, just maybe, he would look Leo in the eye for more than a second.

But for tonight, he just closed his eyes and prayed for a sleep that didn't come with dreams. In the dark, Luke Arrow wasn't the weird kid, the addict, or the victim. He was just a boy, waiting for the sun to rise so he could start the fight all over again.