The Closet-a Ralbert Story

Chapter 8

Saturday. The perfect day for teens to go out if they didn't on Friday, have fun, and not be nagged by teachers for homework, and parents for sleep.

It's the weekend, and the weekend is the best.

Unless you're Albert DaSilva and Elmer Kasprzak.

Albert jumped awake, eyes widening when he heard a thump and a loud "Pierdolić!" from the next room.

"Watch your mouth, Elmer!" Albert groaned as he slammed his head back onto his pillow. He heard Ralph and Fred trudging up the stairs, opening the doors as the music fled his room. "Get up!"

"¡Vamos! ¡Tenemos una casa que limpiar!"

"Nie chcę wstawać!"

"Déjame dormir..."

"My mother's coming over", Fred says, leaning on the broom he was holding. Albert shot straight up, meeting Elmer in the hallway, both somehow having their slippers on. "Yep."

"Alright, move your asses!" Ralph walked back down stairs, singing the song that was playing.

———————

Race was cleaning, too.

"What the hell are you doing?" He looked up to find his dad standing in the doorway of the bathroom, a beer in hand. Race scrunched his face at the sight.

"Cleaning your nasty ass bathroom."

His dad laughed at him, shooting back a sip of beer. "That's a woman's job."

"And a person's job is keeping their liver healthy", Race muttered loud enough for his dad to hear, going back to cleaning. "Guess you didn't get the memo."

"Watch your mouth."

"Sure."

"Anyway, I'm having a party later", his dad sniffed, taking a drink. "You can join, or whatever. Have some fun."

"Can't, not that I want to", Race answered, spraying glass cleaner on the mirror. "I have training."

"For?"

"Track and baseball", Race sighed, finally looking his father in the eye. "Season's coming up."

His dad recoiled, taking a another sip. "Since when did you do track? You can't run for shit."

"Since I made the eighth grade team in seventh grade", Race answered, starting to get a little angry. "And those medals and ribbons say shit otherwise."

His dad sized him up, humming. "Oh.

Race sighed, shaking his head. "I'm leaving."

"To go?"

"None of your fucking business", Race says sweetly, placing the cleaning supplies on the sink. He looks up at his father, who isn't even paying attention anymore.

Race walked to his room and put his shoes on, packing up a backpack and some clothes. Maybe Blink will let me stay at his place.

He sighed as he shouldered on his backpack, grabbing his phone and his charger, and placing his earbuds in their case, placing it in his pocket.

He walked out of his room and into the living room, rolling his eyes when he saw his dad manspreading on the couch. He walked over to the door, grabbed his keys, opening the door to see Busted Beauty. "Arrivederci!"

"Speak English!"

————

Running. An exhilarating feeling when your chest burns and your legs feel wobbly. You can practically taste the feeling of sore calves and pain. But Racetrack Higgins loves it. It's why he loves his name.