"Ehm... where are we going? Our flight leaves tonight. We should prepare your bags."

"We are preparing my bags. If I have to come with you lunatics, I need something to survive."

The road was clear at that time of day, that kind of neighborhood came to life at night, when law enforcement had bigger concerns than a bunch of losers blasting music. At that moment, there were only a group of half-naked kids playing in the middle of the street, like in the thirties.

The guy looked at them with huge eyes. He looked at everything with huge eyes, as if he had never seen a dead rat by the roadside before.

"Are you with me, dude? We're almost there."

"I told you, my name is Jeremiah. You can call me Jeremy if you want. But I would be grateful if you didn’t call me Jerry, I hate it."

"You would be grateful... do you think I'm the Queen of England or you speak like this with everyone?"

He looked at me anxiously. "No... I speak like this with everyone. By the way... about the way you express yourself... I feel obligated to warn you that our mother might not appreciate it."

The fact that he called her our mother stopped me from responding as I would have liked. Like that if she didn't like how I spoke, she could kiss my ass.

"I'll try to keep that in mind." Those eight months were going to be very long.

Finally, we reached the store. There was already quite a line, starving souls like me hoping to survive another month by hooking up the television.

Jeremy eyed all the tank top men and low-cut women. I pulled him forward, pushing through the sea of clutter the store was invaded by, and reached the pickup counter.

"I need to take my guitar." I pulled out the receipt that was always stuck to me and handed it to the woman covered in piercings and tattoos.

She glanced at the paper with little interest. "It's a hundred and fifty dollars."

"It's your big moment, Jeremy."

He fumbled with the pockets of his pants nervously. He came out with a nice leather wallet, thin, elegant. And an even thinner, even more elegant credit card.

Behind the counter, I saw my beloved, safe and sound. It was a modest electric guitar, but it had always been the most precious thing I owned, ever since I was ten, ever since that backstabber of a breadwinner gave it to me.

My guitar was the princess of our band. Simon was on drums and Phil on bass. We hadn't figured out yet which of the three of us sucked less at singing. It was probably me, which wasn't good news.

I walked out of there with a slightly lighter heart. Yes, Dad messed up. Maybe he destroyed some poor lady's sanity, but he was still my father. That dear idiot who taught me my first chords.

"Do you know how to play it?" Jeremy had his eyes glued to the guitar I held in my arms.

"No... I shove it up my ass and then ride it like a pony."

His eyes tripled in size.

"What's wrong? I said I'd talk like a princess in front of your mom. Not all the time."

Jeremy cleared his throat and didn't answer.

...

Back home, I dragged myself to my room where I opened the creaky doors of my closet. The sight of my wrinkled clothes wasn't flattering.

"You don't need to pack much. You have plenty of clothes at home."

I raised an eyebrow at the tick that kept sticking to me.

He shrugged, muttering, "Mom buys everything double."

"Meaning there's a closet in Vancouver with my name on it?"

"Well... yeah."

"And do I have a jacket like that one?"

Jeremy glanced down as if he had forgotten he was wearing a jacket worth its weight in gold.

I didn't wait for him to answer. I pulled out my hoodies and rolled them one by one into my old football bag.

"Keep your faggot clothes. My jeans are just fine."

I heard him hold his breath and turned to see if he intended to say something. His lowered eyes and tight-lipped mouth seemed to indicate otherwise.

"I'll go... I'll wait for you there."

And finally, the tick detached. I closed the door behind him and collapsed into bed with my phone already in hand.

I called Phil, because Simon was probably still asleep.

"Hey, jerk, guess what!"

"You finally managed to stick your dick up your ass and achieved enlightenment?"

"No, but I'm getting close. It's something else."

"You found out your dad is even more of a douchebag than you thought?"

I let out a sigh. I didn't like hearing that worried tone from Phil. I didn't like that we were talking about something serious. We were seventeen, fuck buddies and drinking buddies. Seriousness shouldn't be part of our relationship.

"I'll spend the year in Canada. I'm going there until I turn eighteen, and then we'll see. I thought we could do that tour thing afterward, travel around America with the guitar on our backs. What do you say?"

Phil didn't bother pretending to listen to my bullshit. "Did you meet them?"

"Yeah, they're as nice as two fingers up the ass. Can't wait to come back here."

"Well, maybe you don't dislike them so much, then. You just have to get used to them a bit. When are you leaving?"

"Tonight."

"Tonight?!"

"Sorry to bail on you now that we've started hitting the bars. I have to do this. My dad... really screwed up. I have to find a way to fix it."

"Okay. Just don't come back with a hockey obsession. And call Simon, he's awake. He's probably a mess, poor guy, he only had you left to screw."

"He needs to find new people to screw. Actually, you know what? I won't waste these eight months. I'll find myself a nice Canadian hunk, and when I come back, I'll introduce him to you guys and make you drool like a couple of sluts."

I hung up and prepared to go through the same act with Simon. I couldn't muster the same enthusiasm the second time. The weight of those two days was starting to weigh on me, like a vise on my chest crushing my ribs.

After that call, I remained slumped in bed, staring into nothingness, until a slow knock invaded my thoughts.

"We should go." My brother whispered.

...

I descended the stairs of the building with the bag on one shoulder and the guitar on the other, Jeremy trailing behind like a guard dog. What? Did he think I would turn around and run away? Again?

I thought we would walk to the airport. I hoped so. But at the base of the building there was a car waiting. The kind of car that in that neighborhood would be vandalized or stolen within minutes if it didn't leave quickly.

I know nothing about cars, but I recognize the I'm-rich-and-I-show-off trend when I see it, and that was exactly the spirit of that thing.

I didn't even have time to step out of the gate before the doors swung open. From one side came the spaghetti guy, from the other the crying woman.

She wasn't crying now, which was good, but she didn't look happy either, or in any other vaguely positive emotional state.

"I called you five times, Jeremiah."

Jeremy hunched his shoulders. "I thought it would be better if Drake stayed on his own a bit longer," he muttered quietly.

The woman's ravenous eyes fell on me and instantly softened.

"Drake," she said as if to taste how the name felt on her tongue. Bitter and stale, judging by her expression. "Would you prefer us to call you Thomas?"

"No. Why the fuck would I want..." I felt a pinch on my arm. I shot a murderous glance at the culprit who kept their gaze firmly fixed on the ground. "I mean, I'm Drake."

The woman sighed, rubbing her hands together. "I'm Stephanie, I'm your..."

"And I suppose you're not a stripper."

Her eyes widened in the same way Jeremy's did. It was funny to see.

"Pardon?"

"My father told me... it doesn't matter."

Stephanie cleared her throat. "I'm a judge."

The spaghetti-armed guy leaned forward, extending a long, thin hand. "I'm Kevin. I'm immensely pleased to finally meet you."

I looked at the hand he was offering with a raised eyebrow. "And exactly who would you be?"

"I'm..." He hesitated for a moment, slightly embarrassed. "I'm your mother's husband. I've been part of this family since Jeremy was five years old. Since you both were five. I'm his father." He concluded, raising his chin in a barely perceptible challenge, daring anyone to question who he was.

"Alright, fine. I'm Drake. Do we need to catch a plane or what?"

They didn't argue with me, but they didn't seem happy about how I had cut off the conversation.

I opened the car and stuffed my duffel bag and guitar into the back seats before getting in myself. My clone slipped in beside me, closing the door with a long sigh.

Soon, the other two got back in the car.

"Do you play the guitar?" Stephanie asked me with a timid, almost trembling smile.

"No, it just looks cool if I carry it around."

I heard a groan of pain from the passenger seat beside me. He couldn't complain. I hadn't been vulgar at all.

Stephanie stared at me as if she had never heard a joke in her life. Apparently, no one dared to mock the judge.

"Yes, I can play it." I relented. Her eyes, confused and perplexed, were really annoying.

"What else do you like to do?"

"Mum... leave him alone..."

"Have you two already started conspiring against me?"

"Steph, I think it's best to let the kid get used to us a bit before bombarding him." The man at the wheel said.

So the journey to the airport passed in silence. I was grateful. Although, between the woman's fleeting glances in the rearview mirror and her anxious questions, I don't know which was worse.