Don't You Remember Read online

  Don’t You Remember

  Don’t You Remember

  Lana Davison

  Copyright © 2010 Lana Davison

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1477583181

  ISBN-13: 978-1477583181

  DEDICATION

  To Andy, Josh & Jamie thanks for believing in me.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1985

  Ever had that feeling of entrapment, as though you're in prison? The only way out would require a lot of luck – something I am sadly lacking; at least, that's what it feels like.

  My name is Jennifer Redman (everyone calls me Jen) and I live in a town called Rushton. I am 5 feet, 5 inches tall, sporty and fairly skinny, with green eyes and long, straight brown hair. I’ve just turned sixteen; too young to leave this hellhole but old enough to know this is not how I want my life to be. Every morning I get up and check my mother and father are not dead from their drunken, alcohol infused night. It wouldn’t bother me if they were; they are not good parents and have no goals or ambitions other than to get drunk and fight with each other – something I don’t understand. What I do understand is that I am my parents’ saving grace. They get housed and money from the government because of me, but I see little of it. When they are too plastered to get off their backsides to purchase alcohol and cigarettes, they ask me to do it for them. Bill Shafter, the owner of the local liquor store, is happy to turn a blind eye to the fact that I am under-age, as long as I hand over the money. There was no sixteenth birthday party for me – I’m the girl who has never had a party; who has never even had a friend over to play. I remind myself that someday I will have lots of parties, whenever I want them, and know that I will appreciate them much more than others.

  Our house is run down and in dire need of updating and repair. We live in a community where there are plenty of low-lives, bums and people who are just lost; those who believe that life has done them wrong and have just given up; people like my parents. I don’t know what happened to them, they have been low-lives for as long as I can remember.

  My life consists of getting up, going to school and avoiding going home until absolutely necessary. I spend three afternoons a week in the library because I can use the library and reference books for free – especially important considering our lack of money. On Tuesdays and Fridays I work in a music store in town, earning a little cash and one music lesson a week. Mr Branner, the store’s owner is very good to me and tells me I have musical talent.

  My best friend is Johnny. We’ve grown up together, under similar circumstances; we are both only children and Johnny’s mum, her boyfriend, my mum and dad are all big drinkers, often drinking together. Our friendship began about ten years ago when Johnny and his mum moved in next door. His mum became a firm drinking buddy to my folks and Johnny and I were often left together to fend for ourselves. We kept each other company as we tried to make sense of a world where our parents always put themselves first and us, second. Even in those early days we talked about how we would, one day, escape and make something of our lives, each spurring the other on with our hopes and dreams for a better life. Johnny had the knack of making me feel everything was going to be all right.

  Johnny is eighteen, tall and fit looking, with brown hair and piercing blue eyes. He is also clever, talented and has the gift of being good at everything he turns his hand to. He taught himself the guitar, can sing, draw, play football and his grades are impressive at school. Johnny works at The Boxer, a boxing club and gym for aspiring boxing wannabes as the name suggests. He is able to hold his own against anyone. Johnny’s dreams of escape are shortly to become a reality.

  My friendship with Johnny has given me freedom from abuse, the kind that comes from nasty bullies who think it’s funny to make someone feel miserable and dejected about their life or circumstances. Johnny made sure I was never picked on since the first incident which happened back in fifth grade, when I wanted to join the school soccer team. Despite being a girl, I had real skill and, in fact, was easily better than most of the boys who thought they were talented players, delusional boys who were full of themselves. They did not want a girl in their team and decided to force me out of the team by following me home after school. They started hurling cruel and hurtful words, such as, “Loser. You’re a nobody going nowhere. Get off our team. If you don’t we will tell everyone where you live, we’ll tell everyone you come from Loserville.”

  I tried to ignore the taunts and soldiered on, determined to show them I was not bothered by their brutish display.

  Johnny, in his first year of high school, approached the bullies from the other direction, meeting them head on. The boys couldn’t see Johnny coming towards them at first and had no idea what they were walking into, when Johnny pulled the leader from the pack – a well-known tormentor called Marshall Hipcop.

  Johnny grabbed Marshall by the neck collar and asked: “Do you think you’re clever? Do you think you’re smart making fun of someone else? A girl for that matter. Do you like to pick on girls because bullying a boy is harder?”

  Johnny waited for an answer but Marshall couldn’t speak, afraid to say the wrong thing.

  “You’re a coward and the loser with a capital L”, Johnny said, leaning his face close to Marshall’s. “You OK, Jen?” he asked, turning his head to face me.

  I told him everything was fine but my eyes told a different story.

  “Right. Go and apologize to her, and make her believe you’re really sorry,” Johnny said, holding Marshall’s forearm with force. “Don’t be shy, and tell your cronies to apologize, too.”

  “Sorry, Jen, we were just mucking around. We didn’t really mean it,” Marshall said, trying to lighten the mood by shrugging his shoulders and attempting his best fake smile.

  “You did mean it,” I disagreed but then acknowledged his apology by saying, “So you’re not going to give me a hard time for being on the team?”

  “No, we won’t. We promise,” Marshall confessed on behalf of himself and his followers. He looked to Johnny for approval.

  “Don’t look at me,” Johnny said pointing towards me. “Look at her. Jen’s the one you’ve got to convince.”

  “We promise not to give you a hard time again.” Marshall repeated, looking from Johnny back to me with pathetic, pleading eyes.

  “You’d better not,” Johnny said, raising his manly voice. “If I hear of you bothering Jen ever again, I’ll hunt you down and break your arms and legs. Now go and pick on someone who cares.”

  Johnny was twelve at the time but looked fourteen in height and build. He had saved the day and came to cheer me on at soccer matches to make sure the bullies kept their word. Nobody ever picked on me again and I was proud to be associated with him. Johnny became my rock.

  Johnny is the kid that everyone wants to be friends with. He isn’t afraid of anyone or anything, at least on the outside. I know Johnny is good looking, but I never noticed him for his looks, I noticed him because he was kind to me and was someone I could talk to. I felt I could tell him anything, no matter how dumb and ridiculous my stories or questions were. He is what I would describe as a gifted guitarist and writes the best songs, too. I sing along sometimes, while he plays his guitar, usually in the bedroom of whichever house was vacated by our parents. We were just two kids trying to make the best of what we had. We were prepared to work hard to have a better life, despite our lousy upbringing.

  Johnny is now eighteen and says he will be leaving as soon as school is out. He intends to move from state to state doing gigs and trying to get himself known on the music circuit.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Carl, do you want me to unpack this box?” I shouted out from the shop front to Carl Branner, my boss and owner of the music store
, who was in the back storeroom doing paperwork.

  “Yes, unpack it Jen, and can you put those music books on the rack, too?”

  “OK,” I shouted back and then busied myself unpacking the box.

  The shop is on Russell Street and situated in the town of Rushton. Our town is pretty small; we only have two long streets with shops, restaurants and bars. There are two schools in Rushton; a primary school and a secondary school on the very outskirts of town, meaning most people drive, ride or catch a bus to school. Almost everyone knows everyone in Rushton, or at the very least, if you don’t know someone then you will definitely know someone in common. Rushton is closely connected to the next town southwards called Clister. All the kids from Clister come to Rushton to be schooled. The Clister kids give Rushton a bad wrap; often saying it’s a town full of troublemakers – definitely an exaggeration. Clister is smaller than Rushton but both are known as industrial towns; almost everyone works for a factory or in the mining industry. My father works as a miner from time to time. He’s on the books as a casual employee; the coal miners use him if they are desperate.

  From the shop front window, I notice it is a beautiful clear day with a perfect blue sky. I can see what’s happening on the street. I can see Mrs Kilts, from the knitting shop, standing outside her store talking to the window cleaner with a cup of tea clasped in her hand. A group of teenagers are waiting by the bus stop; they look like sixth formers from my school, their faces familiar but not their names. They are getting ready to catch the next bus out of town towards Clister.

  I can see the bar down the road starting to fill up with punters, and a lady walking past my store pushing a grocery trolley talking to two small kids sitting at the front. I can easily see into the diner across the way with a pool table and a sweet stand with a load of kids seated inside; there are not many places to hang out in this town.

  A yellow bus makes its way down the street ready to drop off the seniors from Rushton Secondary School. The school bus drives to and from Rushton and Clister three times in the afternoon; it’s first in, first to get a seat. Sometimes kids have to wait for the following bus to get a seat. I don’t care which bus I catch, except for on Tuesdays and Fridays when I make sure I’m on the first bus from school into town as I have a responsibility to Mr Branner and the store.

  I could see Johnny walking down the street in his usual blue jeans, plain white t-shirt with his Ray-Ban sunglasses on. I’m not sure if he was on the bus, walked or drove into town in his metallic blue 1973 Trans-Am; the one he saved up for all his life and bought at an auction and fixed up. I smiled and was about to walk outside and wave hello to him, when a girl I recognized from school, also a senior, ran up behind Johnny and put her hands over his eyes and whispered in his ear. He said something funny and the girl giggled. She repositioned herself in front of him to meet his face and kissed him on the lips.

  I am quite taken back, even slightly bothered by this display of affection. Was it a tinge of jealousy? It’s not like I haven’t seen Johnny with girls before. I had never considered Johnny as attractive in that way, but these feelings made me wonder if I’d got it all wrong. I literally felt upset and slightly offended that he had a new girlfriend. But then, he is eighteen and has had other girlfriends before – most of them I got on with, they treated me like his kid sister – but not now, not today. I didn’t like what I saw.

  Unsure of what to do, I decided to stay inside the shop and watch them from the window. The girl is laughing, as she puts her arms around the middle of his body and they walked down Russell Street as if they were King and Queen at the prom – they were both attractive enough. The girl wore her long blonde hair loose, with a perfect carefree wave and a big Farrah Fawcett smile. How could he not like her? More importantly, how could he not have mentioned her to me? I spent at least two hours talking to him last night, and also the night before, plus I saw him almost every day last week. He never once mentioned his girlfriend.

  I thought more of Johnny’s future while absentmindedly carrying on with my work. Only eight more months and he would be finished with school and on the road, trying his luck as a musician rocking the bars in larger towns and cities. He had no set plan but recently got a decent injection of cash from a car sale, a car he bought at auction and never drove; just bought at an unbelievable bargain price and then sold it for double the amount. One thing is for sure, if anyone can make it out of this town, it would be resourceful Johnny.

  I glanced again at his girlfriend, being as discrete as possible by hiding behind a music stand. I felt a little silly, a bit like a stalker, but I was just being nosey. As I do this, I noted the differences between us: her ample bust, big smile, big blonde, perfect hair, how much luckier could she be? And now, she’s got my Johnny.

  When I finished my evaluation I walked back to the counter and calculated the afternoon and evening takings and ring up $70. I’m due half of that for my hours worked today, but will also pay back $10 for my singing lesson which is kind of important to me, in case I decide I want to be a singer. Mr Branner is such a great teacher; he once worked as an opera singing coach in Chicago. He had to leave, but he left that job when his mother became ill, forcing him to return to Rushton where she lived. Just before his mum passed away, he met a lovely lady with two children, whose ex-husband had her and their two children by a thread, threatening to take her to court if she tried to leave Rushton town with the kids. It was agreed that as soon as her youngest child turned eighteen she would leave Rushton with Branner. It was the best they could make of a bad situation. Like me, forced to stay in Rushton until I’m eighteen in order to finish my secondary education.

  After my singing lesson I walked to the Boxer, where Johnny worked. Opening the double doors I saw him boxing with some sweaty guy I didn’t know. He was wearing sports shorts and a white fitted cotton tank, which showed off his rounded shoulder and arm muscles. His muscles are bigger and his body more taut than I recalled. I looked him up and down appraisingly and, realizing what I had just done, turned red with embarrassment and hoped he hadn’t seen me.

  “Johnny,” I called out with a raised voice given the noise level of the room. I waved at the same time to get his attention.

  He looked over in my direction, smiled, then turned back to the guy he was boxing with. “Hang on, mate, I won’t be a minute,” he said and jogged over to me. ”What’s up Jen? Everything all right?”

  “Yes, just wondered if you wanted to walk home with me? Or are you driving?”

  “Nope, I walked today. If you can wait half an hour, I will walk home with you,” he said puffing from his exertions.

  “I can wait,” I said and turned to sit on one of the two plastic chairs stationed next to the counter. I collected my book from my school bag and began to read.

  The gym is situated in a large space similar to a modern warehouse but no money has been spent on the interior. It’s a functional gym, with a small customer service counter and a rack of shelves to sell amino acids, powders, tinned potions and pills that promise the physique of a body builder.

  From the customer services area I could see the gym and the equipment easily, there are two standard size boxing rings and lots of different size boxing bags randomly dotted around the joint, plus some skipping ropes, free weights and bench presses. It was full of sweaty men working out.

  I’ve never given Johnny the slightest notion that I’m attracted to him; I wouldn’t know how to do that. My parents never taught me to open up with my feelings; they haven’t shown me any affection for years. It’s like I’m not even there, as if they never had me. Days go by where we don’t even see or speak to each other.

  Still sitting in the chair waiting for Johnny I began to twirl my long brown hair for no reason. I’m wearing blue fitted jeans with a navy blue camisole tank top and an opened flannelette shirt with a pair of tatty converse trainers, but they look acceptable, worn to death, loved much and very lived in. I should think about saving up for a new pair.
/>   I have the greatest desire to run sometimes, run somewhere, anywhere. I tell Johnny how much I want to run because he knows the feeling too. We’ve talked about what will happen when we leave here and whatever our plans are, they generally consist of never coming back. Johnny will make it as a big rock star and perhaps I’ll be a singer. If not a singer, then I’ll go to college and get a degree and really be something, maybe a lawyer or journalist.

  “You all right, kiddo?” Johnny asked as he walked over to me. He had changed into his jeans and t-shirt and was ready to leave.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I say unconvincingly.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “No.” I usually tell him everything, but how can I tell him I saw him with a girl today and had discovered I might have feelings for him? Best to keep those feelings to myself in case he doesn’t feel the same way. But what if he does? I look down at my thin self and think there is no way he would find me attractive, especially compared to the blonde he was with today.

  “Come on, kiddo, let’s go,” he said putting his arm around my shoulders loosely as he casually waved bye to his boxer friends.

  We walked down Russell Street with Johnny’s arm sitting comfortably around my shoulders. I liked the way it made me feel, and wanted to return the gesture by putting my arm around his waist but wasn’t sure how he’d react.

  “Johnny. When I was working at Branner’s today I saw you walking down Russell Street.”

  “Oh yeah, why didn’t you come and say hello?” he asked, squeezing one of my shoulders playfully.

  “I don’t know, I thought about it but then you seemed to be preoccupied with some blonde girl,” I confided, fishing for further information.

  “Samantha Bison,” he said, giving her a name.