The Real Ryan Reese

Also, what I would have entered into 'The Emerald Challenge,' but I'm out $5.99

Stinks pretty elitist if you ask me. Anyone who reads this, please @Prose for me.

______________________________________

…This is hush-hush classified information, and very important before anyone proceeds…

Handle it wisely, you have been warned by the Reese Publicity Team.

Was it any special kind of day when the event had happened? When they’d been found miles away from each other– grasping at a hand that would never hold theirs again? No. Absolutely not.

And it wasn’t rainy or horribly hot or windy or balmed gray when they were laid into the ground either.

Dad had been found face down just before the city had woken up, not really having drowned in a puddle, but it was better than what the papers in a manila envelope had said so Mason had gone with that. And Mom?

Mom had made a big mess on a highway.

The day of the funeral, when Mason and Ryan both wore itchy gray suits and almost obscene sweater vests to cover up that all they had were their school shirts, it was just a blue sky. Blue sky without a hint of cloud or even the sun save for a pinprick.

An absolute pain, to the very end. Such a stupid thing to do Mom and Dad.

Ryan’s all alone now, or what, was he supposed to take care of him?

He was eighteen and had just managed to not get booted from school much less barely graduate on schedule with his dismal grades.

And worse yet, they did do the job well. Better than he could have ever hoped to do.

Did they leave Ryan on the weekends with a babysitter only paid for Monday and Tuesday? Yes.

But Mom always eagerly cooked Ryan’s favorites to see him smile. And she always had to have pictures of Mason eating the same cute bear face pancakes.

Dad was always there when Ryan needed the sound of his strong heart to drift off, and never said no to reading an extra bedtime story.

Did they ever tell Ryan in any way what they did? No, they hadn’t come up with the right story yet, they would have lied to Ryan.

Had Mason not told him first.

“Mom and Dad take money from other people, probably put them under spells or something because they always take a lot. Sometimes they can’t afford that much and that doesn’t even cover when what they sell just plum done breaks.”

There, he’d told and it didn’t look like three year old Ryan loved them any less.

“Oh yes it's true,” Mom admitted, just like that, “What we do, well, it’s not legal and– oh just promise you’ll be better than us. That you’ll both be better than us! Do very well in school.”

She’d pinched his cheek.

“You have big, attentive eyes, did you know Mason, that means a child’s going to pay attention to every little thing. Every. Little. Thing.”

What he had, Mason wasn’t sure he could call it grief.

It wasn’t about them at all, who, hard as they had tried, were people rather than “parents.”

He’d have to say, it had to do much more with what was broken. What was dead and slipping from his fingers. No dreams. No future. No future, except Ryan.

No future, except the crooner. Whose cheeks often burned red at the nickname and stupid older brother’s smirking face.

Ryan had always adored to sing just as his parents had adored to listen. Clapping in all the right parts and playing music in the house so he would learn about rhythm and melody and rhymes.

“What now?! We can’t– we need Mom and Dad! Why would you say that?! Where are they?!”

In time, as soon as next year Ryan may not remember they’d had parents. But society had affirmed children needed adults and Mom and Dad had introduced him as “brother.” And brother he’d remained.

Obstinate, dismissive, and occasionally a horror. Not a caregiver, but he was all Ryan had left and so accepted his hug in their parents’ bed.

A hot room never failed to put Ryan to sleep so he’d blasted it on and now he was too lazy to turn it down.

His pillow was moist with tears.

Why?

Why?

What was wrong with you both?

A lawyer was in charge of them now, paid in monthly installments from an otherwise sealed account and who knows what else before then. Considerably so, given that their parents had never seen a day’s jail time for their cons. Of which the lawyer had a list.

“Hmm well alright, perhaps when you’re a bit older,” he said, “sir.”

This was too much! He was a kid! And the adult– the adult could or would do anything. Mason was scared.

Mason spent the whole night scared.

So he wouldn’t spend the morning scared.

So a little boy still buried deep down; defiant and bitter, with simplistic concepts of justice– a pretty, palatable lie to feed society– would know he belonged down at his very depths.

“It wasn’t personal.”

And snap.

When Mason beat that child dead with the shovel to bury the evidence.

Poor child. He deserved a grand, beautiful bonfire as his parents had done with 550,000 euros of counterfeit cash.

Date: 05/14, 1 yrs. later. (please excuse coffee stains)

“Come on, get your butt out from under the bridge, goblin,” Mason chided cheerily.

Ryan came out an absolute mess, he knew so and Mason’s laughter wasn’t helping.

But he’d tried! He’d really tried.

“You did good, now come on and eat. Your favorite.”

No, actually, Mason had just made eggs and put the cereal box in front of him.

Divvying both brothers up. Hey! Not polite.

Fine, if he didn’t want Ryan to see all his work stuff.

When he poured and put on milk without spilling Mason nodded approvingly again.

And Ryan smiled, even if it wasn’t nothing really, ugh brother-old man, it was confusing.

“Listen I did get permission to leave work early, I’ll be there by the time lunch gets out and you have your band right?”

The one taped to his wrist after bath time last night? Ryan raised his hand anyway to show it was still on his arm.

His brother laughed lightly.

“That’s good but hey I’ll still bring you some actual snacks.”

Bleh.

Why couldn’t they just go watch a movie? The teachers had said he didn’t have to actually be in school today.

And Ryan didn’t wanna, he wanted to sit and watch TV to catch whatever was on Mason’s “adult cartoon” channel. Couldn’t be so adult if old kids gave big brother weird looks.

If only he were still allowed to make fun of stupid Mason when he was being stupid.

“Done,” he said, shoving the plate in his brother’s face.

“Thank you, you filthy gremlin,” he chortled with an eerie, con-descend-ing smile.

“Okay hop down, spot check,” he said.

Ryan’s legs moved before Ryan did.

And his arms stretched as if big brother had swapped him out with a robot a long time ago. And hey, he absolutely would do that.

He squirmed in revenge.

Still, his shirt got straightened and dusted even if it was as white and clean as when he’d left it on his bed.

Mason, such a grown-up. Picky and blabbing all the time about nothing. Quite a do and big fuss about the tiniest dandelion duffs.

In the car, he let himself look a bit sad, or was he lying again?

“Can you sing this time? I like that better than what’s on the radio.”

But he did like it and he’d come up with something but Mason had been too busy to hear then.

“When the sun peeks, peeks peeks, and peeks the light comes too. The light comes warm and the birds chirp, chirp. The sun is saying: Hi everyone, say hi to you and you and you and all, and all who are sad!"

---------------------------------The sun says hi to all who are sad.--------------------------------------

“Can you believe that?” Mason asks his coworker at a bar. One where he often stares at the large piano.

It definitely had that smoke room, jazzy theme.

The older man put down a load of glasses to restock the back of the old place.

“Sorry,” he said, “your brother, he’s what. Eight?”

Mason simply nodded. “But he is good and he’s getting better. I mean, sure he sings as good as any kid probably but then at home there’s just something in his voice. His music teacher–”

“I think that’s something he should know,” his coworker had come beside him and nudged his shoulder. “And I do mean from you, I think it would be a little weird if I asked around.”

Why wouldn’t–?

Oh.

“Not that it isn’t a good idea to hire someone to finally play the old girl.”

Just that the only people who praised him on it were– in the ground.

Mason put his head in his hands.

“Hey, hey now none of that,” he said, and with a strong heave placed the box down on the floor. Stepping up to Mason whose head was down on the counter in his grim stupor.

“Listen to me okay,” and Mason rose to find him leaning with his arms on the counter, “you are a good brother. Say it.”

“I am a… good brother?” he repeated in more of a question than anything else.

“You’re damn right,” and Mason flinched when he had just slapped his back like some fraternity broski would… Completely out of NOWHERE!

“Listen,” he continued– okay. “You can’t be perfect, that's just the fact of life. You honestly could have chucked the kid into foster care for the state to raise and really, pretty valid.”

Mason gave his superior a withering glare at that moment.

Hands up, he acquiesced, “sorry, what I mean is man, ease up on yourself and tell the little singer now that he has the chops.”

His manager thwipped the rag off his shoulder and toward Mason, “it isn’t so hard honey.” And went off with the most smug grin, as he whistled a tune.

Mason would ask later, just how did the music teacher coax that shy disaster into singing in a red wig and equally garish red church shoes.

Matter of fact, where did she get her props? Those shoes looked store quality– good store quality.

But onto the point, which was that he lived with this shy disaster and he’d complained at length about how scary and confusing and not worth the time— or risk— it was to make friends.

And Mason stopped clapping, when he saw the grin spread across Ryan’s face. The way his eyes sparkled under the lights, how he looked up at them as if– as if a dream had come true.

And, his songs were getting better. And he was listening to his best-liked bands and Japanese idols. Or Korean. One of the two.

“Say for argument’s sake Ridley—”

“Ryan,” he corrected, “what is this about?”

“I dunno but I mean you like music right? Come on don’t think about anything else, not the future or costs whatever– what matters is that you be honest with me. Do you like this jumping around and belting out poetry stuff?”

Mason would like to say he’d been going for casualness with the whole thing.

And all the same he got the answer.

Ryan stared into his jeans, picking at where the pants had been viciously torn into “fashionable,” and then nodded. Nodded furiously and with conviction that yes– “I feel safe and go to– a different place when I do.”

“A better place.”

Then he had his work cut out for him.

The duplex had no computer and until it was a sure thing, Mason couldn’t risk Ryan having to go alone in the evening, by himself, while he hunted for an Internet signal.