Cut Off by Jamie Bastedo

Author:Jamie Bastedo
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: JUV039020, JUV039000, JUV036000
ISBN: 978-1-55244-400-9
Publisher: Red Deer Press
Published: 2015-05-12T04:00:00+00:00

CONCUSSION

I felt much better when I woke up. Must’ve been the drugs. Until I realized I’d pissed myself in my sleep.

I wanted to fly out of bed but could barely lift my head. When I tried, my skull filled with red-hot lava. I lay there, grinding my teeth, until Brent finally came back.

“This will never do,” he said, sniffing and grinning at me in a way that made me want to strangle him. His bulging biceps and bulldog neck told me I’d be no match at the best of times. I let him roll me around and mop me all over like some diaper brat. Talk about humiliating! He changed my sheets, then politely told me to get my shit together because some visitors were coming.

“Let’s brighten things up a bit, shall we?” he said, yanking the window blinds open.

The sudden light filled my eyes with slivers of glass. “Aagh!”

“Oh, sorry about that.”

Instead of closing the blinds, Brent dug in his pocket for sunglasses. They had rainbow arms stamped with the word Pride. “Try these,” he said, carefully slipping them on my head.

“So … like … where is my ph-ph-phone?” I asked, once I calmed down.

“RCMP took it.”

“The cops … s-s-stole my … iPhone?” My mouth seemed light-years from my brain. My words stretched out like in a lousy Skype connection.

“Just part of their investigation.”

“What inves-s-s … tigation?” My brain was getting softer, like it was melting.

Brent put a hand on my shoulder.

I shrugged it off.

“Easy, Indio. You gotta keep a cool head.” He glanced out the window. “It might help them figure out what happened out there.”

Lava spread from my brain to my neck. “I can tell them … whatever!”

The lava hit my stomach.

I didn’t have a clue what happened out there.

Brent ducked out.

I checked to see if my fingers were working. I saw the sheet stirring where they must be. I struggled to bring both hands in front of my face. I could barely feel my fingers but they were moving, all ten of them.

My guitar fingers.

I fretted a soundless arpeggio. I plucked imaginary strings. This triggered a gush of cozy feelings about playing guitar. Joy, escape, friendship.

Then, memories of Dad breathing fire down my back, turning what I’d loved most into torture.

I tossed my invisible guitar across the room.

I checked to see if my brain was working.

I closed my eyes. Tried to think.

Who am I?

Indio McCracken. Aka Ian at school. Sixteen years old. Former caged guitarist, now teen blogger.

Good start. And my family?

My mother, Gabriela Canché, from the Mayan highlands of Guatemala. Shopaholic. Family peacemaker. My sister, Sofia, 12 years old. Family princess. Uncle Faustus. Pushing 90. My biggest fan.

So far, so good.

My father …

Come on, Indio, you can do this …

My father … Edgar McCracken, born in Scotland, grew up in Canada. Gold miner. Guitar zero. Family dictator.

Great. Brain seemed to be firing. So, what did happen out there?

Humongous rainstorm ... hailstones … hydroplaning …

I heard the squeak of a wheelchair and opened my eyes. Uncle Faustus’s smile blew me away.

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