He hadn't come home at the appointed time the night before, that is, eight o'clock. Not only was it a weekday, but Mrs. Nicholson had called earlier to say that he would not pass his semester if he did not get an outstanding English essay. So Alan lied that he was going to Mike to write the backlog with him because he had promised his friend to help with grammar, although he thought it was stupid
a simple waste of time. And my parents agreed, but made a reservation that she was to be back before eight. He still tried to argue, explaining that it would not be possible to finish the essay in such a short time, so maybe
not really pass a semester if that's what they want. But my father was adamant, told him to come back at eight and not a minute later. I don't care, he thought then as he left. I will be home at the time I come back. When he didn't show up at a quarter past eight, Mike's mother called Mike's house and, hearing his mother's voice, asked:
- Good evening, this is Laura Stiles, Alan's mom. Could I talk to him?
To which Mike's mother only managed to choke out:
- Listen?
And it turned out that Alan wasn't there at all, because even Mike left alone in the evening. Then his father grabbed his favorite peaked cap, without which he would not leave the house, jumped into a Honda and started driving around, looking for him everywhere. He suspected he had dated William Andrews, an upper-class nineteen-year-old who had a driving license and cruised the city on a Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle every day. His parents did not think very well of him. They considered him a wayward boy from a poor family, with a tendency to succumb to bad influences. One evening, Alan overheard them talking about Will's father, convincing each other that he was a rogue and a badass, but he decided they were repeating only the rumors he had heard. By pure coincidence, my father spotted them on the far edge of the parking lot behind the post office, not far from the cinema. The Mustang and Kawasaki were standing at the very curb, and the father stopped the car in front of the car and the motorcycle blocked their way. Alan guessed it was his father as soon as he saw the Honda driver getting out.
- Shit! he hissed.
And so he could talk about happiness that he didn't show up two minutes earlier when they were drinking vodka, or right after, when Vince bragged to him with his new spring-loaded knife that only had to be pressed and ... Wow! Out of nowhere, a fifteen-centimeter blade was rapidly appearing! In addition, Will held the knife in front of him, smiling slyly as if he was already up to something. He even let him laugh at him a few times in the air.
"Careful," he muttered in warning, taking the knife from him.
- It can do a lot of damage.
It was then that Richard Stiles walked over to the right-hand door of the car and swung it open until it creaked loudly.
- Hey, just take it easy, dude! Will exclaimed, quickly putting the knife away but holding a bottle of vodka in his other hand, which was just as reprehensible.
- I'm not your dude! my father growled, grabbing Alan by the sleeve and dragging him out of the car.
- God, you stink! he said, dragging him to his Honda, leaving his son's car in the care of Will. He then wanted to die on the spot. He didn't say a word and didn't even look at him as he began to tirade about how he was causing more and more trouble, and if he didn't pull himself together in time, he'd completely screw up his whole life, and he didn't have the faintest idea what he confused with his upbringing, as soon as he wanted to ensure him happiness and prosperity, and so on and so on, and despite his nervousness, he drove as if he were taking a driving test, that is, he was clinging to the speed limit and turned on the indicator well ahead of time, it was hard to believe. As soon as he turned into the front drive, he jumped out of the car without even waiting for it to be stopped for good.
He walked briskly towards the door, trying to ignore his mother, who had stood on the porch, perhaps more worried than angry, and began:
- Alan! Somewhere you ...
He passed her wordlessly and ran upstairs to his bedroom.
From below, my father called out:
- Get back here now! We need to talk!
- Over my dead body! he screamed, locking the door with a crack.
He remembered it all on his way to the university. The rest of the evening, however, loomed in his mind as if in a fog.