The Crew

Untitled Part 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

I woke up alone in Lorenzo's room to silence and confusion. My eyes bleary and resisting the light, I could already feel the headache, and it was worse than the one I'd experienced after the escape from Community Memorial. I shucked the dirty blanket off, walking to the bathroom.

I was still in my jacket, pants and shoes. Something in my jacket pocket bulged. It was the Jack Daniels bottle, empty. I realized I had to chuck, the nauseous feeling surging its way up in one straight shot from the pit of my stomach. I snagged the toilet in time to projectile vomit, holding the edges of the bowl for support as my gag reflex jerked. It reminded me of the heroin. The motel party.

Slapping cold water over my face, I crept out of the bathroom, tip-toeing up the carpeted stairs to the living room. Empty. I opened the sliding glass doors and stepped onto the balcony, inhaling the early morning Pacific Ocean air, my eyes focused on the stunning southern California day. A few surfers were out there, wetsuits making them look like paddling seals. Some sailboats even, and a spattering of jets skis.

The light on the water made the ocean seem bluer, the only sound the gentle slap of morning waves releasing their force in playful bursts. Children were playing down the beach near their mother, their movements carefree and innocent, without inhibition, chasing each other. I stood watching for a minute, taking in the salty, fishy scent, hearing the seagulls yawping, gliding effortlessly high above, wondering what the hell was going on, where everybody was, feeling the cool wind on my hung-over face.

I stepped back into the living room. Nothing was out of order, except no one was here. I walked back downstairs, checking Lorenzo's room, Cannon's room; nothing. It was certain now—I was alone.

I went into Lorenzo's room again and looked at the clock by his bed: 10:30! Beach Fest started at noon and I was supposed to have gone with the rest of The Crew at nine so we could get loaded before anyone else arrived! Something was off here; there was no doubt about that. I tried to reconstruct the exact goings on of the previous night. I remembered drinking at D.'s place, chugging the fifth at the show.

I remembered. Cannon's arrow aimed at me before the show. My whole thought of revolution. Jumping up on stage. Holding Sarah's hand. All in front of Cannon.

Jesus.

A terrible feeling came over me; I was sure I'd puke again. But the feeling passed and I sat down at the bottom of the stairs. Was this even real, or was I experiencing some kind of alcohol-induced bad dream?

No; it was real. Tremendously real. As real as the heroin I'd mainlined. As real as Mr. Bry's words. As real as Sarah and me running away. As real as her love for me.

I was here, alone. The Crew had left me behind. Why! Why had this happened? I needed answers. But I already knew. I had the answer. I'd gone too far, shoved it in Cannon's face. The student had taught the teacher a lesson.

Was it all over?

I couldn't lose Cannon and The Crew. I couldn't lose Sarah. She and I would be leaving in three weeks anyway. San Francisco. Uncle Greg.

And that's when it hit. The revelation came to me in a flash, a mental thunderbolt. This group mentality—"The Crew," as we called it—really went against everything I was made of, everything I believed. For me individuality was key, the ability to think for one's self and base decisions not on a clique and certainly not under the tyranny of any one leader, but on my own understanding, my own experience, my own examination of life, my own existential beliefs. That had been my guiding principle, had dictated everything about me as far back as I could remember even though I hadn't been able to articulate it as a child.