Musk

The wind was crisp with the smell of fresh cut grass.

Evander Rexford arrived to school with his bag slung over one shoulder and his sunglasses pushed up his bent nose. He pushed his way against the crowd, one hand gripping the bag's straps and the other tucked into his back pocket, thumb out. Some students glanced at him, taking in the profanity on his shirt, the holes in his jeans, and mud on his boots with varying levels of disgust. Others dropped their voices and ducked their heads. Still others didn't even acknowledge him. One freshmen nearly knocked the sunglasses off his face by swinging his hands wide to emphasize a point.

Rex twisted away from them, slamming open a heavy metal door and pushing his sunglasses up into his dark hair. The locker room was filled with freshmen boys with first period P.E. Rex had avoided participating in ninth grade with a collection of false doctor's notes and forged signatures. Walking through the sweat-crusted air and seeing the boys with their skinny limbs or plump midsections, he remembered why.

The air was heavier as he reached the football lockers. Often, the smell was so strong that it overflowed into the gym like water out of a clogged toilet. It reminded him of his mother crashed on the worn leather couch, an orange-tipped cigarette propped between her fingers and wrinkled ones still stuck beneath her bra straps. It reminded him of pushing open the trailer’s broken door to find his sister choking on the sharp sting of chemicals as she tried to scrub out vices and memories-best-forgotten.

That morning, Yvonne had smelled like what the bottle said was cherry blossom. They debated if that was what cherry blossom would smell like, but before they could come to an agreement, their mother dropped a bottle of whiskey.

The equipment room was suppose to be locked, but Rex yanked the handle down and the door swung open. The lights clicked on, casting a sturdy light over the shelves of helmets, footballs, and other things he couldn't name. Between them, painted to match the wall, was a ladder.

Rex hiked up the bag and placed his foot on the bottom rung. His sunglasses somersaulted to the floor as he shoved against the latch.

He breathed out slowly as he walked across the roof to lean over the edge as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes stolen from his mother's lingerie drawer. Below him, some students started to gather; others shrugged and walked off. One blond boy he knew had a black eye that went with his own bent nose tilted his head back and yelled, “Hey, white trash! Thinking about jumping?”

“Now, that's a thought,” Rex said as he flicked the cigarette butt to the side. He reached into his bag, wrapping his fingers around the handle of the pistol his father had used a two years before to escape the growing pile of bills and late fees.

He placed his finger on the trigger...