#wayne yt

The dizzying buzz of the doors being unlocked in cell block D of Marion Juvenile Detention Center. This was Wayne’s routine. Get up at 6 AM. Make your bed. 6:15. Out for breakfast at 6:30. Breakfast. Individual time. Lunch at 12. Therapy - sometimes, it was individual or it was group. Then group activities. Visit time - or individual time if no one came to visit you. Dinner at 6. Individual time. Bed at 8 PM. And this was Wayne’s day, each day, as it had been for the last 6 weeks. 

Wayne McCullough had a compound fracture in his right arm. He walked around with his arm in a sling, and his head down. And to Wayne? What a horrible thing to do. But being down an arm didn’t make him the invincible boy he was used to being. The cast would come off in another 2 to 4 weeks. Then he had physical therapy. And he knew his arm was gonna be really weak once it came out. The rest of the boys were okay - he stayed out of everyone’s way. He got shoulder checked on occasion, and godamn it hurt. He couldn’t do a damn thing about it. 

Each day was more arduous than the last.  

Get up at 6 AM. Make your bed. 6:15. Out for breakfast at 6:30. Breakfast. Individual time. Lunch at 12. Therapy. Group activities. Visit time, or individual time. Dinner at 6. Individual time. Bed at 8 PM. 

Every fucking day. 

⛓𓌹*♰*𓌺⛓

To say Wayne became passive would be a terrible mischaracterization of him, even with his shattered arm. Every other day, he found himself in the infirmary or in trouble for causing problems - inciting a fight, or swinging his fist despite his obvious disability to truly fight the way he knew how. Therapy was a drag as a group - he didn’t find any interest in truly listening to anyone. Stories about running away, robbing gas stations for the 98 dollars they had in their register, or beating up on some kid in school because they were scrawny - he didn’t understand how people could be such fucking assholes and this is where they were. He wasn’t sorry about all the fights he caused, or when he got his ass kicked in his sling. Someone had to show these people what life was about when they crossed Wayne’s path of destruction. He can’t say he didn’t try being passive, or try “being the bigger person” as his therapist described. 

“How are you feeling today, Wayne?” 

His eyes are settled, staring at a photo in the office of the juvenile hall’s counselor  - Terrence Brown. His counselor had dark skin, and eyes equally as dark, but warm and inviting. His hair was in long, textured locs with a fade running down his temples. He was clean cut - wearing a white polo, and khaki chinos. He had a few tattoos on his face, and some on his arms. In previous sessions, in attempts to make Wayne feel more comfortable, he told Wayne he had gone to prison. He served his time there and learned about psychology, and wanted to become a therapist for youth in the American juvenile justice system. He had been doing this for about five years now, and had a husband and two kids. His demeanor was kind, and he never raised his voice - even when Wayne heard his other fellow cellmates screaming in his office, Terrence never raised his voice. Wayne found it impressive, because he would want to break someone’s jaw so they could never utter another sound. 

“Fine.” His grey-green eyes peered forward at the man. He looks down at the blue cast on his arm. 

“I see you have more people signed your cast.” Terrence replies, and his eyes look down. They’re not signatures. They’re swear words. 

“Nobody’s signed my cast.” 

This is how their conversations went. They were short. Wayne went because he had to. Terrence kept trying because he swore to himself he would make a break in Wayne’s case. Not that he was going anywhere. 

“Did they tell you when you’d get it off?” 

“Dunno. Said it would be eh, another 6 weeks. Then I got some other healin’ stage or some shit.” He shrugs, looking down at his arm again. On the forearm portion of the cast, where no one could see it, he wrote Del’s name. The necklace was never not on his person. He wouldn’t go anywhere without it. Someone explained to him all the scientific details, about how the fracture had kinda healed, but the external callus - the new bone - was fragile, so it still needed to be protected. Then it needed to remodel, or whatever that means. 

“You’re getting close then. Dr. Trapper told me you got into a fight with Christian again. He said you really should be careful about getting into fights. I think you’d be pretty upset if you rebroke it again.” Terrence crosses his legs, and leans back in his seat. He half frowns. “I know how much it means to you that it heals properly.” 

Wayne tenses in his seat, sitting up and looks down at his white slip-on shoes. He doesn’t answer. 

“What have you been doing during your individual enrichment time?” Terrence wanted to bring up Del. He could tell.

“I been trying to read.” He answers, shrugging. Trying was the keyword. He wasn’t interested in reading. He read a little bit of a book that Del had when he rescued her from the hell of the high school she wasn’t even enrolled in. It hurt too much, and it didn’t hold his attention enough, truthfully, to continue. “Sittin’.” 

“Jesus said he did some weight training with you the other day.” Terrence acknowledged. Wayne didn’t do a lot. He was trying to encourage him. “How did that go?” 

“Fine.” It was okay. Jesus was his cellmate neighbor. He was friendly with Wayne. He was put into juvie for joyriding in his mom’s boyfriend’s Cadillac. They did do weight training. He didn’t find the importance in it enough to really remark it as an activity. 

“What else do you do?” 

“Nothin’.” 

“Are you participating in group activities?” 

Wayne looks up for a minute, before looking back down. Kind of.

“I think this week, they’re going to have someone come in and teach you guys how to do the paint pouring.” 

“We painted last week.” 

“Paint pouring is different. You lay the canvas flat, and you pour paints onto it - and it creates a pattern with the different colors. You hold it up, and the paint slides down and makes the pattern more intricate.” Wayne respected how well spoken Terrence was. He wasn’t disrespectful towards him, he was just indifferent to him as he was to everyone else that he had met. 

“Oh.” 

“Daniel said you don’t talk much in group therapy. Are you still finding it hard to get comfortable?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t wanna fuckin’ talk to those people.” 

Terrence admired that Wayne was straightforward, and blunt. He wasn’t completely disconnected from his setting. He had seen some of the crafts Wayne did, even though they came out terribly. His painting - opposed to the prompt, which was a snowy forest - was just a moon, and trees. No snow. Some stars. He still tried. He tried pottery. He just ended up making a really chunky bowl, and glazed it black. It was ugly - but he didn’t think Wayne ever tried pottery before. Having a broken arm really didn’t help either. He didn’t fault him for that. But he didn’t participate in group therapy. Anytime his coworker, Daniel, tried engaging him, Wayne told them to fuck off. 

“You have a panel hearing in another couple of months. What kind of feelings does that spark for you?” He was prodding again. 

“I dunno.” 

“You don’t know how you feel at the possibility of getting your sentence reduced?” 

“I don’t know that.” 

“What?” 

“If my sentence is getting reduced. They say I’m not doing what I’m supposed to.” 

“And what are you supposed to be doing?” 

Wayne looks at the pictures of Terrence’s family on the shelves behind him. He looked happy. His kids looked young. His hair was more grown out, and a proper fade in the picture. His husband’s skin was lighter than his. He thinks that maybe once he said his husband was mixed, because he was talking about celebrating Lunar New Year with his in-laws. 

“This shit.” 

“What’s ‘this shit’ entail?” 

“Fuckin’ therapy. Participatin’. Bein’ a good person, or whatever.” His thick Massachusetts accent shines when he stresses the word ‘whatever’. 

“So, you know what is part of your program plan to be able to work on in order to appeal to the little court panel. What’s stopping you from doing that? I know we have this conversation a lot.” By that, he means he has brought it up at some point in the session at least three or four times a week. 

“I don’t fuckin’ wanna do it. S’stupid.” Wayne leans back in his seat, looking down at the navy blue jumpsuit he was wearing. “But.” 

Oh, Terrence was making progress. 

“But?” 

“I know I gotta.” For her. He glances at the clock. He had another 35 minutes left. Christ. 

“Why?” Terrence is pushing it. Wayne feels his jaw tighten. 

“For her.” 

Del. 

The last time he saw her, his head was cloudy as was his vision, and one of her brothers was carrying her out of the smashed golden Trans Am. The echoes ring in his head, and subconsciously called out to her in the adrenaline crash he was experiencing. He peeled himself off of the leather seat and collapsed when he opened the car door. Bobby, Carl and Teddy threw him around as if he were a ragdoll. He reaches up and touches the scar on the side of his nostril where Bobby cut him with a knife. The time that passed while he laid on the hot, to cool asphalt with his arm by his side, and the other arm in front of him, clutching the thin golden chain with three letters in cursive on it. 

Del. His free hand tightens into a fist. 

“I know we talked about who her is, but you haven’t told me her name. It must be very painful for you to think about what happened. It sounds like she was really special to you.” 

“She is.” Wayne’s tone is curt as he answers. “Not was. Is.” 

Terrence purses his lip. He hopes his lack of an answer encourages Wayne to continue, but he doesn’t. “What’s her name?” 

“Del.” 

“Del. Is it short for something?” 

“It is. But I don’t call her that. Only her dad and brothers.” 

Terrence knew what happened, he had a copy of the police report and court disposition at his disposal. He only kept them for reference with his clients. He told Wayne that, and that he didn’t know what happened and he wanted to hear it from Wayne, and not people that were involved. Because no one else knew what was going on in his head. Only Wayne. And that it wasn’t fair to Wayne to make assumptions about why he was here, or what he was like. This brought little comfort to Wayne, nor did it change his thoughts about therapy. 

“So, her name is Del. Do we want to talk about what happened?” 

It was a long story. “No.” 

“Do you want to talk about Del?” 

Wayne wanted to. It was all he wanted to do. But he couldn’t, because it was fueling a fire that was going to be difficult to put out. He was trying to be passive. He tried to listen to Torrence. But it was becoming increasingly obvious to everyone, Torrence included, that Wayne McCullough was a hellfire that could burn forever. He wants to say no. His mouth betrays his thoughts. 

“Okay. Share as much, or as little as you want, Wayne. This is your hour.” 

She was all he could think about. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see her behind them. Her shoulder length brown hair, the way she pushes her bangs to the side of her face and her hair in a ponytail. She was pretty. He thought she was especially pretty with her hair down and when she slept. He thinks about back at the hotel. He had gotten up in the middle of the night to pee, but the moon crept through the curtains and shone on Del. He did eventually go pee, but he was lost in how peaceful and delicate she looked. The gold hoops in her ears, the way her necklace was so important to her. He spits out the brief monologue she recited to him when they first agreed to date. 

“She doesn’t like flowers. She doesn’t want a Valentine on Valentine’s day. She doesn’t like that romance shit.” 

His eyes sting. Wayne did not have the comfort, or luxury of crying, he thinks. The last time he shed tears was by accident, back at the pizza shop and he ate a handful of chili pepper flakes. He swallows. His spit feels like concrete down his throat. He looks up at the ceiling, away from Torrence. He can see in his peripheral vision that he leans in to listen to him. 

“She’s really pretty.” 

“I bet she is.” Torrence affirms. 

“She likes to read.” 

Silence, while Wayne is stuck with his thoughts. 

“What else does she like to do?” 

“I dunno.” He didn’t know her before the cookies incident, or outside of their road trip together. She liked to read. She went to a stranger’s funeral. She made her dad a drink while he was in the hospital. She was all he had now. “She’s smart. She’s gonna be mayor someday. She’s nice.” Torrence wasn’t complaining. This was as much as Wayne had talked about anything since being here, and his medication for his pain hadn’t been adjusted yet - so he was really, really loopy. He wanted to know her better when he came back. He connected the dots a few weeks ago, that when he was lost in thinking about her face, the glint on her necklace when she wrecked havoc in the gym during the blood drive. 

The way she looked with the crimson fluid splattered all over her face, soaked in her heather grey shirt while everyone screamed in absolute terror. 

He wondered if she thought about him as much as he did. 

“What does it look like to you, when you are released from your detention here?” 

Wayne wants to shrug, but remains motionless. He actually isn’t sure. His dad is gone, has been gone for some time now. So was his house. He didn’t really have anything. Nobody came to visit, or wrote to him. The only people who probably really knew where he was, were Sheriff Gellar and Jay. But, they hadn’t written. Well. Why would they? 

“I dunno.” 

“Can we talk about that, and tomorrow we can talk about what a plan might look like for you?” 

“Okay.” Wayne glances at the clock. 15 minutes left. 

“So, Wayne McCullough gets released.” Terrance shifts in his seat, clicking his pen to write. He never wrote notes. So, this must be important. “Who would you call to come get you?” 

“Nobody.” 

“Nobody?” 

“I dun’ have anyone’s number.” 

Terrence chews on the skin on the inside of his cheek. “I can look into getting you some bus passes, or a Greyhound ticket back home?” 

“Okay.” 

“Does that sound like something that might be helpful to you?” 

“Yeah.” Wayne had never ridden a bus like that before. Or one, at all. He mostly walked, or people had picked him up for rides. 

“Okay. So you get out, and we have your bus passes back to…Brockton, or the closest station there, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay. Closest station to Brockton. You…told me your dad passed away, and you burned your house down.” Terrence takes a minute to think to remember, but his voice passes no judgement. “And that your mom is still here, around Ocala. Why don’t you want to stay with her?” 

“I thought we were talking about what me gettin’ released looks like.” Wayne’s face grows stony, sharp. No more feelings stuff.

His counselor takes a minute to adjust himself. “You’re right. So, you go back to Massachusetts. Who are you going to stay with?” 

Wayne thinks. Even though Principal Cole came down with Orlando to come get him, he wouldn’t stay with him. Too weird. He didn’t know anyone else. And Orlando was like his best friend, kind of. He thinks he remembers Orlando saying something about his grandma having mad dementia, and she doesn’t really remember anything. Orlando just pays the bills and gets what he needs to. Wayne could stay there. 

“Orlando.” 

“Who’s Orlando?” 

“My friend.” 

“Okay, that’s good. You’d stay with Orlando. Then what? Go back to school?” 

“Get Del back.” 

“I think she would be very happy to see you, Wayne. Is there anything else?” 

“I dunno. Work.” 

“No school? You’re 17 now, right?” His birthday had passed since he was here. He didn’t get to know when Del’s birthday was. He couldn’t even celebrate

“Yeah.” 

“You’d be a junior this coming school year. That’s just in a few weeks now, huh?” 

“I don’t care about school.” 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each second passing. Wayne’s eyes trail the minute hand of the clock. 

“Would you go get your GED once you got settled, maybe?” 

“Maybe. Dunno.” 

4 minutes left. Wrap up. 

“Well, I think this is a good start, Wayne. When I see you tomorrow, we’ll talk more about the plan, or something else if you don’t feel up to it, okay?” 

Wayne was a sitting pile of dry, dry wood surrounded by dead grass. He had appeased the endless thoughts in his head by trying to distract himself with fights, weight training or attempting to read or paint. But nothing held his attention. Nothing like her. He was a sitting pile of lumber, and Terrence had poured gasoline all over him, and now had lit a match. 

The immeasurable amount of boredom Wayne felt could not be accurately captured with words. The bus left the station at 9:15 PM, and he was still exhausted. He fell asleep with his face pressed up against the window. He woke up to the man next to him - who would eventually introduce himself as Lucas, an attorney who handled dead people’s things - telling him that they were moving buses. He pointed to the transfer locations on his own ticket, and gestured for Wayne to do the same. They were in Orlando now. It had only been an hour. Wayne wiped the drool off of his face, and got off the bus with the well dressed stranger beside him. 

“Where’s the bus?” 

“Our transfer time is about 3 hours and 45 minutes.” Lucas looked down at his watch. “We’ll be leaving closer to 1:45 or 2.” 

“In the morning?” 

“Yes.” 

“What’dya do during those?” Wayne looks around as other people get off of the bus. Most people seemed to funnel inside of the bus station to wait or nap, and others began to walk in other directions to cars. He imagined the people inside were their families, and reuniting with them again. This was some people’s last stop. 

“I usually eat.” He shrugs. “Do you wish to join me?” 

Wayne shrugged back. “Okay.” 

Lucas flagged a taxi, and they caught a ride to the nearest Denny’s. The trip there was quiet, and they didn’t really talk. As they passed through the night, Wayne watched passing streetlights and thought about the motorcycle drive with Del. When they got to Denny’s, they wordlessly exited and went inside to be seated. They got a booth after a minute, as the popular breakfast chain wasn’t exactly the busiest at this time of night. They sat across from one another, and the waitress brought them some water to drink before they ordered. Lucas sipped some of his water, and looked at the teenage boy sitting across from him. 

“So, you’re from Boston? You have a pretty thick New England accent.” 

“Brockton,” Wayne corrects him, and looks down at his hands. “You deal with dead people’s things?” 

“I’m an estate attorney, yes. I help them decide where their stuff will go when they pass.” Wayne’s eyes go from looking at the maroon red table, up to Lucas’s face. He was a middle aged man, maybe mid 40s. His combover was kind of ugly, but it would probably look worse if the guy was balding or had a receding hairline. Wayne thinks of his dad. 

“Like a car?” 

“That certainly can be something that gets put in a will. I’ve seen all kinds of things get willed to people.” He scrunches his nose, talking between another sip of water. He ordered coffee, which Wayne could not understand how anyone could drink the putrid brown liquid. It tasted like dirt. The waitress finally comes by, with a small white mug filled with the deep brown coffee and takes their orders. Wayne didn’t even look at the menu. Lucas ordered a Grand Slam, and Wayne ordered the same thing. Frankly, he had no fucking idea what a Grand Slam was, but he was starving. 

“What’s the weirdest?” 

“Huh-” Lucas tubs his temple, and rests the pads of his fingers on the ivory white mug in front of him. Dell likes coffee. “Weirdest…This lady had a big collection of these statues that looked like animal balloon dogs. She willed them to her kids.” 

“What’d they do with them?” 

“Sold ‘em. They said they were ugly and useless. They made a small fortune.” 

“Why’d they do that? Isn’t that all they had?” 

“She gave them other things too. But they sold everything, except a few rings.” 

Wayne would’ve done anything to still have something of his dad’s. He left behind the jacket. He burned their house down. He looks down at the four leaf clover pin he found. “What made you do it? The lawyer thing.” 

“My dad died. My brother was an asshole and took all his stuff. He didn’t even tell me when he died. So, I wanted other people to know someone cared about what happens afterwards.” 

“You goin’ to someone’s funeral?” 

“Yeah. Small family I met a long time ago. I organized their will when the grandad got diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer.” 

“Do you always go to the funerals, or whatever?” 

“Sometimes. Have you been to a funeral before, Wayne?” Lucas asks, folding a sausage and piece of bacon between a piece of sourdough toast. Wayne shook his head. 

He’s lost in thought, of coming back to a room where his father, Wayne McCullough Sr., stopped breathing. He marched out to the backyard and to the rickety shed, and packed his backpack. With fireworks, former rent money, the postcard, and an unrelenting rage. He walked around his house with gasoline jugs, emptying them on his creaking, splintering wooden floors. He stood at his front door, lighting the pool of flammable liquid with a metal lighter. Dropped off a final ‘fuck you’ to the landlord. He had heard of viking wakes, a send off with a body on fire. His dad would’ve liked that. He thinks of an arm around Del at some stranger’s funeral. 

“Once.” 

Wayne sniffled and bit into his pancakes. He had gotten to try a lot of foods between juvie, Del and now being back out in the world. Pancakes were like waffles but thinner, and with no ridges. He liked the meat. (However, the bologna in juvie made him want to gag.) Lucas looked at Wayne like he was a scared dog, doing what he could. He knew Wayne’s ticket wasn’t valid. He saw it when he pointed out some of the similar stops - well, that and the ticket Wayne had was from Boston to Ocala. He hoped the boy had some sort of trust - but Wayne didn’t strike him as passive about problems and issues. He saw the callouses on Wayne’s hands and knuckles, and the punch drunk gaze that Wayne held after constantly fighting. He reminded Lucas of himself, but he grew to be reserved and fought with words instead of his hands. 

“I know your ticket is from the day before last.”

Wayne’s fork clinked against the plate and he looked at Lucas.

“How?” 

“Your ticket says from Boston to Ocala. It also says travel time is forty something hours. The route we are taking is closer to thirty or thirty-six. It’s less if we stop and no one is waiting for the bus.” 

“You gonna tattle on me?” 

“No.” Wayne swallows his food, watching Lucas finish his toast, taking a final bite and talking with his mouth full and finishes his sentence. “You seem like you’re going through something, and I want to know you’re getting there safe. I know I’m just some middle aged white guy with you at a Denny’s in the middle of the night in Orlando, Florida. But I want to know you’ll be okay. Obviously you are, you’ve made it this far on your own, I guess. 

Wayne looks down at his own plate, and soaks his final bite of pancake in a pool of sticky maple syrup. He reaches to dig money out of his pocket. Lucas holds his hand up. 

“I’m payin’ for my share.” 

“Put your money away. I said I’m gonna make sure you get to where you’re going safe, and fed.” Lucas talked like Wayne’s dad did. He looked absolutely nothing like him, but talked like he did. He wondered if Lucas had a son. He wanted to ask, but maybe not in the middle of the night at Denny’s. 

⛓𓌹*♰*𓌺⛓

The pair got back to the bus station, and embarked onto the vehicle. Lucas was right - hours passed, with brief stops that some people got on or off at - and the bus continued on its way. They both slept through the night and into the day as time grew into the morning and early afternoon. 

As the sun rose high in the sky, it heated up the glass. It burned Wayne's cheek - he inhaled and opened his eyes to the bus coming to a squeaking halt. Squinting, he makes out the big blue letters on the building they parked in front of. 

ATLANTA BUS STATION

Lucas grunts and pinches the bridge of his nose while passengers begin to disembark. Wayne observed a similar pattern to last night’s. People scattering, but now in the daytime. He saw families holding up their ‘WELCOME HOME’ signs, squeaking and jumping into each other’s arms. It was louder than it was at 1:30 in the morning in Orlando, Florida. Wayne grimaced at the volume - and he and his middle aged companion he acquired got off the bus, trudging to the next destination. Wayne looks at the time on the big sign next to the driveway into the station. It was 9:43. 

“Our next transfer is in two hours. You hungry?” 

Wayne nods. Lucas points to a diner across the street. It looked busy, but they crossed the street anyway. They got their food to go, and sat on the benches in front of the bus station, next to the front doors. In the two times Lucas has eaten with Wayne, Wayne has wolfed down his food at an alarming pace. Honestly, Wayne did not understand how people sat down for meals. Or how people didn’t just eat as fast as possible. Lucas wipes some thousand island dressing off of his lip with a napkin, watching Wayne’s frenzied rummaging in the paper bag for the rest of the fries. 

“You eat like someone’s chasing you. Slow down, you’re gonna choke and croak.” 

Wayne shoves the last fry from the crinkled white bag into his mouth. He decides to ask what he was going to ask last night. 

“You got any kids?” 

Lucas swallows and looks pensive, as if he’s considering not answering Wayne’s question. He looks at the busy bus lot, and answers before taking a bite. 

“I did.” 

Wayne looked at him, confused. 

“What? Did? What happened?” 

“He got hit by a car.” 

Wayne’s gut panged with a feeling he had in fleeting moments. Terrence’s brief descriptions of his long distance relationship with his husband for two years before they got married. He felt the ache he got thinking and yearning for Del, and how much he missed her. He thought, at least for Terrence, he and his husband could call and visit each other. He couldn’t even have that. This pain made him think about his dad. People lost people every day - relatives, friends and family - strangers got buried. But he lost his dad and he wanted to watch the people who wronged him burn. Maybe not even stopping there. The whole world should go too. The hole Wayne Sr. left behind was always in the back of his mind. Lucas’s son didn’t even have the moments Wayne had when his dad was bedridden. The moments of sitting and talking, moments of wordlessly exchanging silence that was somehow mutual understanding of how much they loved each other. Father and son. 

It feels hard to swallow. 

“How?” 

“He was in the yard helping his mom pull weeds while she was at work. The guy was trying to off himself and swerved into the yard and the house.” 

Wayne looked down. “I’m sorry.” 

“He was your age. You remind me of him. He wasn’t the talking type, but he would just go do things on a whim with a drive of a bull. He was going to be valedictorian.” He talked between chewing, swallowing his food. Wayne didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing at all. The rest of the time of the transfer passed by painfully slow. Lucas asked if Wayne wanted to read some of the documents from his briefcase. Wayne got to read about the family that he was going to visit. The granddad had died, and was willing all his money to his grandchildren, split three ways. His home and properties went to his daughter and son. He couldn’t help but to send an unknown wish into the universe that they didn’t fight over his things - money, or property. And that the funeral was nice, like that other guy’s. 

⛓𓌹*♰*𓌺⛓

They boarded the next bus, and Lucas pointed out the next one was in D.C. 13 hours, 7 stops. Lucas and Wayne got off to pee every few stops, and the bus’s population thinned out as people got off the route. They arrived in D.C. at 10:30 P.M., then waited 45 minutes for the next bus. It was a short transfer. They had small talk in between about Wayne in school, and about the best and worst places Lucas had gotten to eat doing this job over the years. They talked about his son’s funeral - who Wayne came to know, his son’s name was Dallas. Wayne’s gut twisted into knot after knot every stop closer to Boston. 

To Del. 

Another 9 hours and some sleep later, they arrived in Boston, Massachusetts. Wayne fought to get up as fast as he could, yanking on Lucas’s suit jacket and arm and dragging him behind him, stumbling down the stairs of the bus and through the open door. Lucas was amazed at the sheer force and strength he yanked him at. The minute Wayne’s shoes hit the pavement, he looked around frantically, trying to see where he was. 

“You good, kid?” Lucas’s eyebrows knit with worry, he grabs Wayne’s shoulder. 

“I gotta go.” He answers, panting heavily. Adrenaline was hitting him like a shot straight through his ribcage and directly into his heart to course through his veins. He tries to walk away, and the man pulls him back. 

“Hey. You’re goin’ to Brockton. Don’t try walking there, that’s fuckin’ dumb.” He grabs the boy’s other shoulder, and makes him face the long line of taxis and ride share cars next to the bus station’s gates. “Taxi. You should have enough money to get there.” Lucas dug into his pocket, and pulled out another 30$ and shoved it into Wayne’s hands. 

“Eat, please.” 

Wayne just gave him a small nod, and looked up at the man. His mouth felt dry, and like he didn’t know what he could say to really thank a stranger he spent 30 something hours with that fed him, and lied for him to get on each bus. He looked down at the money, and back up at him. 

“You sound like you were a good dad.” 

Wayne stared at him for another second, before turning and walking away. He swings open a door to a car, and throws himself inside. 

“Brockton.” 

“Where in Brockton?” 

Wayne regurgitated his former home address to the driver, who only gave a weary look before he put the car in drive and slowly left the parking lot. Wayne looked through the window to Lucas, who was crying. He was wiping his eyes, and getting into the car. He didn’t make eye contact with him or look at him, but he waved anyway. 

The driver dropped Wayne off at the destroyed, charred remains of his childhood home. He forked over the 50$ he had, and the man left. He couldn’t go Del’s. Bobby would fucking kill him. He dragged his feet, navigating his way to Orlando’s house. He would’ve told the taxi driver to just go straight there, but he had no idea what the address really was. He just knew how to get there from his house, or school. And he couldn’t go to school. The walk was 15 minutes away, adjacent to his high school. 

Wayne marched up Orlando’s driveway to his front door and rang the doorbell. The door creaked open with hesitance, and an older black woman answered the door. 

“Hi…” She starts, peeking her head out. “Hi baby, what can I do for you?” 

“Where’s Orlando?” He asked, looking around the house. The woman raised her eyebrow. She leaned back to look at something. 

“Who are you?” 

“I’m uh, a friend from sch-work.” His grandma’s memory was horrible. She thought Orlando was a grown man with a 40 hour a week job.

“Hm. He’s at work right now, but he should be home by 2. He’s off by 1:30.” She smiles. “Are you off today?” 

“Yeah. What day is it?” 

“Thursday.” 

Yeah. Orlando wasn’t at work. He was at school. He might actually have a job, but who knows? Wayne hadn’t seen him in so long. 

“Do you wanna come in and wait for him, honey? You look like you’re starvin’.” 

“Yes please.” 

Orlando’s grandma welcomed him into the house and poured him some lemonade and iced tea, and she offered him some leftover lemon pepper chicken from the night before. Wayne didn’t bother warming it up, and just ate it cold. It was 1 o’clock now. He went up to Orlando’s room to wait for him to get home. Pictures on the wall were of who Wayne assumed was Orlando’s mom and dad, and baby Orlando. Then there were other baby pictures of a little girl. The wallpaper was floral and cream colored, and was adorned with shelves of little knick-knacks. It looked similar to how it was when Wayne left - tiddy mags under the mattress, comics all over the desk. He even had a pair of nunchucks. He sat on the edge of the bed, and looked at the door. 

30 minutes passed, and he could hear the front door unlocking. Following it was people talking, and Orlando’s grandma planting a big wet kiss on his head or cheek. Following that, it sounded like she was hollering to him that he had a visitor while he began to twist the door handle. When she mentioned he had a visitor, the twist paused. Wayne stood up. Slowly, the handle continued to turn as far as it could go and was slowly opened with caution. Orlando stood in the doorway, and his eyes widened in surprise. 

“Wayne?! Man, what the fuck?!” He ran up to his long time, no see friend and pulled him into a tight hug. “I fucking missed you! Where the fuck they hold you? Guantanamo Bay? Alcatraz?” 

Before Wayne had a chance to speak, Orlando pushed Wayne to an arms length away by his shoulders - his face twisted in disgust. 

Delilah Luccetti wakes up at 6 AM, and she does not have words to express how tired she is. Since she had gotten picked up by her dad, and her twin brothers, she feels like she has not known peace since the car accident. Since the moments before the crash with Wayne. 6 weeks - two months - had passed since then. She spent three days in the hospital, just to “make sure she was okay”, according to her father. Each day with Bobby spent chiding her about how fucking stupid it was to run off with him. His nose, or lack thereof, had kind of healed. It looked horrible. He reminded her it was something that her mom would’ve done. She felt herself seethe, but she was utterly defeated by now. No fight left in her, she succumbed to being home. She had broken a couple of ribs. But she was fine. There was just a pain in her chest. 

And his name was Wayne. 

⛓𓌹*♰*𓌺⛓

She gets up, and slams her hand down on the alarm clock. So much has changed in the last couple of months. Mainly, was her role amongst her dad and brothers. Bobby, Carl and Teddy had picked up work at a construction company. Bobby even got promoted to lead foreman. Her two brothers were dumb as rocks though, but worked underneath their father. She struggled to keep up with school, even though she still maintained straight A’s. It took all of her internal strength to keep the grades up, despite living in this hellhole. She had been given the role of her mother, with none of the respect. She was stuck cleaning, cooking, and taking care of the house. It looked better from the outside. They patched up the holes in the wall, cleaned up the yard. Neighbors even asked them for help, or brought them things now. Cookies, the occasional casserole that made Del gag. Green beans were fucking disgusting. Repainted the inside and redid parts of the house. Bobby swore he would sell the house the minute it was done, because he was tired of living in a, “shitfuck neighborhood”, and going on about how he and his children deserved more. It made her roll her eyes. What did they deserve? Is this who they were now? 

She had become very withdrawn at school. Her best friend was no longer her best friend. People spoke to her more often, after they heard about the insane tale of the time she had away from Brockton when she came back for junior year, but she didn’t reciprocate the energy. It felt like she was hit by a bus every time she woke up. Like the force of the car accident lived in her body, in her bones. She had run for president again, and won. It felt like people listened to her, but she just stayed outside of everyone’s reach in terms of being close. It was all surface level. 

In the hallways, her and Orlando had passed each other. He would smile and wave. She barely made eye contact. She ignored calls from Principal Cole. There were no repercussions for it, as there was nothing he could really do. It wasn’t like she was in any real trouble - not outside of her completely dropping out of everyone’s lives. She was invisible anyway, and had been before. No one cared who she was, except that she was the crack baby. Orlando called her blackmail. Before her summer with Wayne, she was just that. Blackmail, and crack baby. They probably made her president of the student body out of pity. But she did as she promised the year before. She still cared, but she wouldn’t let anyone see those parts of her. She was stern. Just as she was at home. Stiff. Uncomfortable. 

The school day was going by slowly, miserably slow, as she dragged herself onto her statistics class. Her feet felt like she was wearing concrete boots. A door swings open, and her eyes dart to the plaque on the door. 

MAIN OFFICE 

“Del!”

She looked up. Cole. She grimaced and kept walking. 

“Delilah! Luccetti!”

Faster. She doesn’t get very far before she feels his big, dumb sweaty hand on her shoulder. She looks up at him in disgust. “What the fuck do you want?” 

“My office, please.” His voice is firm, but he looks concerned. He gestures for her to turn around, and with little kickback, she follows his direction and she turns around, stepping into the main office - funneling herself into his office. He seemed like a different man since the summer too. He was always, or at least tried to be, as caring as he could while being able to lay down the law. Kids fighting, beating the snot out of each other. She dejectedly plops down in the chair across from the dark oak desk, looking at the nameplate on the edge of the desk. 

Principal Tom Cole.

She hears him talk briefly to the front desk lady, and her secretary. Something about being occupied for ten minutes. Then he enters the room, he sighs and sits down. 

“Would it kill you for me to get to at least see you, Del?” He sighs, rubbing his dumb, bald head. He always looked clammy and nervous. 

“Yeah, actually.” She starts dramatically scratching at her arm. “I’m fuckin’ allergic to you.” She snaps gruffly. “I didn’t wanna see you.”

“Del.” He sighs defeatedly, leaning his elbows on the desk. “I’ve been trying to see you since school started, and now it’s October.” 

“I know. You don’t leave me the fuck alone.” She muttered. Student aides, teachers, and he had tried to get her to go. She always said she would go later. She really didn’t care about his concern. She was carrying a heavy enough load without needing to take on more. “I’m doing just fine.” 

“I know you’re not.”

“How would you know?” 

“You made it to be student body president, and I barely see you. Honestly, I’m sorry - you look fuckin’ miserable, Del.”  

Del turns her head away. Tears pricked at her eyes. Bobby wouldn’t let her cry about her mom when she passed. He sure as fuck wouldn’t let her cry over Wayne. It stung - the tears in her eyes - and the salt in the wound of the situation. It hurt when she swallowed. She pulls the cuff of her black sweatshirt over her palm, and holds her face - jaw tight. 

“I know you miss him.” 

“More than missing him.” Her voice is hoarse in response. Her eyes were glassy and the teardrops rolled down her cheeks in rebellion to her silent demand to make herself stop. She was struggling to not start hyperventilating crying. She kept inhaling with no exhale. She covers her mouth, and she can’t stop crying. Principal Cole watches her break into a sob. His face turns into a pained expression as he watches this 16 year old girl cry in front of his desk. She leans forward in her seat, covering her face with the sleeves of the jacket. 

“I’m sorry, Del.” 

She doesn’t answer him. Not at first. It felt like her ribs were being crushed, broken like she had in the accident. But it hurt more. Her heart felt like it was beating so hard, or hurt so much like it had been bruised. “I can’t fuckin’ stand it. I don’t know where the fuck he is.” 

“He’s in Oc-” 

“Where the fuck in Ocala? Juvie? With his fuckin’ piece of shit mom?” She hit the edge of his desk with her fists, the little trinkets toppling over. “Where, Principal Cole? When the fuck does he come home?” Her sad demeanor was exchanged with a seething, angry exterior as she stared holes in his bald head. 

“I don’t know that answer.” He admits. He isn’t scared. He’s just sad for her. 

“I can’t fucking take it. Even if he is in juvie, I can’t go see him. I can’t leave my fuckin’ house except for my godamn community service, work and school. I feel like fuckin’ Rapunzel in her fuckin’ tower and my dad is Mother Gothel.” Her breath shudders as she speaks, slowly blowing air out of her mouth - trying to stabilize herself. “Y’know? Fuckin’ 16 years old and I’m chained to the post of my shithole house with my moron brothers and my dad.” 

Principal Cole winces at her lashing out. 

“Is this what you fuckin’ wanted?” She sniffles, snatching a tissue out of the Kleenex box off of his desk. She wipes her eyes and blows her nose. 

“I wanted to tell you that I’m here for you. I know - I know you might not want to talk to me - but I care about you. You’re one of my students. Wayne is - was - is one of my students too.” He looks at her, and she can feel he cares, but part of her wants to push him away like she has with everyone else. Her best friend, Orlando - everyone. She preferred to be withdrawn now. Less problems, less hassle with her family and interpersonally.

 She wanted to stay home from school every day. Not with Bobby calling in randomly to see what class she was in, or calling her up to the office to talk to her over the phone. It was humiliating. It was grueling to take the hall pass just to go talk on the phone and say, “yes dad, I’m in gym” or “yes dad, I was at lunch”. To go home, do the metric fuckton of homework she was assigned and the duties she signed up for being student body president. Then cooking dinner, making their lunches for their work day. Laundry, tidying up. She resented that the washer didn’t make a little song when it was finished. Not to mention the community service and truancy watch she had to deal with under the watchful eyes of Sheriff Gellar and Jay. Jay would just talk to Del about what soup places he recently reviewed while she picked up garbage off of the streets. Sheriff Gellar would muse about second chances when she met with him for truancy checks. He would talk about that out there somewhere, this was Wayne’s second chance. His second chance was juvie, going straight and being put on an honest path. It drove her crazy when he said - or anyone for that matter - “I know it must be hard”.

No. No one knew how hard it really was. 

She worked on weekends, waiting at her beloved pizza spot - cleaning tables, taking orders. All transportation done by Carl, Teddy and Bobby. It was that, or she had to call them the minute she got anywhere. It was smothering, asphyxiating how tight of a grasp the Luccetti men had on Del. 

⛓𓌹*♰*𓌺⛓

Time continued to pass. 6 weeks became 12. 18. The old year had passed by, and Brockton rang in the new one. Spring came, unforgiving - and April was now. Her faith in Wayne was wavering, fading even. She didn’t know if she was ever going to see him again. 

All she could do was wait and see. Wait and give Wayne a second chance. Maybe he would come back straightened out. The thought of that made her uncomfortable. What would that look like? Who was Wayne ‘straightened out’? Who was Wayne, if not her Encino Man? The boy with a hidden heart of gold like that Trans Am they so desperately tried to save. The boy who fought for justice, no matter where he left destruction in his wake. No matter if they were strangers, or people he knew - that was Wayne. Full of guts and determination. Who was Wayne if not that? The thought of the boy with the pretty dark locks and knuckle scars coming back stuffy and stiff made her stomach churn.