Missing Red Solo

"Get off the chair."

Larry's voice sounded like it was coming through a broken drive-thru speaker. It scraped against the inside of his dry throat, vibrating with a harsh, raspy friction that made him want to cough. He didn't cough. Coughing would require moving his chest, and moving his chest would inevitably shift his head, and his head currently felt like a pressurized tank of dirty water.

He blinked against the harsh, yellow morning light bleeding through the cheap plastic blinds. The slats were thick with winter dust, illuminated now by the violent arrival of spring. The sun was aggressive. It cut across the carpet in sharp, hot strips. Outside, a bird shrieked. It wasn't a pleasant song. It was a rhythmic, piercing alarm that drilled directly into the space behind Larry's left eye.

There was a dog on his gaming chair.

Larry stared at it. The dog stared back. It was a wire-haired terrier mix of some sort, mostly brown, with patches of stiff white fur around its snout that made it look like a disgruntled old man. It smelled strongly of wet dirt, old Fritos, and something sharp, like copper. It sat perfectly still on the black faux-leather seat, its dark eyes locked onto Larry's face.

"Seriously," Larry whispered. "Get down."

The dog did not move. It just breathed, a low, wet whistling sound coming from its nose.

Larry tried to swallow. There was no saliva in his mouth. His tongue felt like a dry sponge. He shifted his weight on the mattress, intending to sit up and physically remove the animal, but as his body moved, a wave of nausea rolled up from his stomach. His head throbbed in perfect time with his racing heartbeat.

He ran his dry tongue over his lips. Then, out of pure, thoughtless habit, he ran his tongue over his teeth.

He stopped.

His eyes widened slightly in the bright room. He pulled his tongue back, then pushed it forward again.

Gap.

His tongue slipped into a slick, fleshy crater on the upper right side of his mouth. The canine was gone. Where there should have been a solid, familiar point of bone, there was only a tender, swollen nub of gum tissue. He pressed his tongue against the raw edge of the socket. A sharp, stinging pain shot up into his sinus cavity. He tasted the distinct, metallic flavor of old blood.

"No," Larry mumbled. The word came out soft, whistling through the new hole in his smile.

He threw off the blanket. He was fully dressed in his clothes from yesterday. Jeans, a black t-shirt, and one single white sock. He touched his face. The skin around his mouth felt tight and crusty.

He forced himself to stand. The room titled drastically to the left. He grabbed the edge of the drywall near his bedroom door to steady himself. The dog watched him, its head tilting slightly, as if judging his complete lack of motor skills.

Larry dragged his feet down the short hallway to the bathroom. He flipped the light switch. The fluorescent bulb flickered twice before buzzing to life, casting a sickly, pale glow over the small, windowless room. He leaned over the sink, gripped the cold porcelain edges, and looked in the mirror.

He looked terrible. His dark hair was matted to his forehead with dried sweat. There was a faint, purple bruise forming on his left cheekbone. And his mouth. The right corner of his lips was smeared with a dried, brown crust.

He opened his mouth and pulled his upper lip back with a trembling index finger.

It was a bloody mess. The gum was torn and inflamed, a deep, dark red against the white of his remaining teeth. The canine was entirely missing, pulled clean from the root.

"What happened to me," he said to his reflection.

He turned on the faucet. The pipes groaned before spitting out a stream of cold water. He cupped his hands, filled them, and splashed his face. The water stung the raw skin around his mouth. He took another handful and rinsed his mouth, spitting a pink, watery mixture into the white basin. He did this three times until the water ran clear.

He needed his phone. He needed Jackson.

He walked back to his bedroom. The dog was still on the chair. It let out a soft whine as Larry began tearing through the messy bed sheets. No phone. He checked the floor. He kicked aside a pile of dirty laundry. Nothing.

He patted the pockets of his jeans. Hard plastic.

He pulled the phone out. The glass screen protector was shattered, a spiderweb of deep cracks originating from the top right corner. He pressed the power button. The screen illuminated, glaringly bright, hurting his eyes.

He had four notifications.

Three were from a group chat he didn't recognize. The name of the chat was just: "The Incident."

He tapped the notification. The messaging app opened. The chat included four numbers. He recognized two of them. Sarah and Jackson.

The messages were from Sarah.

Sarah: "Is he alive."

Sarah: "I'm not talking to him."

Sarah: "Someone else deal with this."

Larry frowned. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He typed: "Deal with what? What happened?"

He hit send. The text appeared in a green bubble. Not blue. Green.

He waited. One minute passed. Then two. The status beneath his message switched from "Sending" to "Not Delivered." A small red exclamation point appeared next to the bubble.

"Service is bad," Larry muttered to himself.

He backed out of the group chat and opened his direct thread with Jackson. His last text to Jackson was from 8:00 PM last night. It read: "Meet by the bleachers."

He typed a new message. "Where are you. Wake up. I lost a tooth."

He hit send. Green bubble. "Not Delivered."

Larry's stomach dropped. The nausea returned, but this time it wasn't the hangover. It was a cold, sinking knot of genuine panic. He opened Instagram. He searched for Jackson's profile.

User Not Found.

He checked Snapchat. Jackson's name was gone from his friends list.

He went back to the messaging app. He tried to call Jackson's number. It rang exactly one half of a second before kicking straight to a generic voicemail.

He was blocked.

Jackson, who had been his best friend since the fourth grade, who had sat with him through three different math tutors, who had helped him bury his childhood cat in the backyard, had completely wiped him from his digital existence overnight.

"What did I do," Larry said out loud.

He dropped the phone onto the mattress. The dog barked. A single, sharp yip that echoed in the small room. Larry jumped, his head throbbing violently in protest.

"Shut up," Larry said, clutching his temples.

He needed to find them. He needed to go to Jackson's house or Sarah's house and force them to explain why his face was smashed in and why he was suddenly an outcast.

He looked down at his feet. One bare foot, one sock. He needed his shoes.

He walked over to his closet. His favorite pair of black sneakers were sitting on the floor, but they were covered in a fine layer of dust. He picked up his gray jacket from the floor. As he grabbed it, a small, square object slipped out of the side pocket and fluttered to the carpet.

Larry picked it up.

It was a polaroid photograph. The image was grainy, washed out by the bright flash of the camera. The background was pitch black, suggesting it was taken outdoors at night. In the center of the frame was Larry. His eyes were wide, reflecting the flash like a deer in headlights. His mouth was open, mid-shout, and all his teeth were intact. He was holding something in his right hand, gripping it tightly. It was a long, black metal pole with a heavy base.

It looked like a weapon.

Larry's breath hitched. He stared at the object in the photo. It was a microphone stand. Why was he holding a microphone stand in the dark?

He shoved the photo back into his pocket. He found his shoes under the desk, slipped them on, and grabbed his jacket. He didn't bother with the zipper. He just needed to get out of the house.

He opened his bedroom door. The dog immediately hopped off the gaming chair and trotted out into the hallway, its nails clicking rhythmically against the laminate flooring.

"You aren't coming with me," Larry said.

The dog ignored him, heading straight for the front door and sitting patiently on the welcome mat.

Larry didn't have the energy to fight an animal. He opened the front door. The dog darted out, immediately stopping to sniff a patch of dead grass near the porch steps.

Larry stepped outside.

The physical reality of the spring morning hit him like a solid object. The air was warm and heavy, thick with moisture and the overwhelming scent of wet earth and blooming flowers. The neighborhood was quiet, save for the incessant screaming of the birds and the distant, dull roar of a lawnmower.

Everything was covered in yellow. A thick layer of pollen dusted the hoods of the cars parked on the street. It coated the mailboxes. It drifted through the air like toxic snow.

Larry sneezed. The force of it rattled his skull and sent a fresh spike of pain through his empty tooth socket. He tasted copper again. He spat onto the driveway. The saliva was pink.

He started walking down the sidewalk, heading toward the main road that led to the high school. He figured if he couldn't find Jackson at home, he might be at the track field. Jackson ran track on Saturday mornings. It was a pathetic, desperate guess, but it was all he had.

The dog followed him, keeping a distance of about ten feet.

"Beautiful day, Larry!"

Larry froze. He turned his head slowly.

Mrs. Gable, his next-door neighbor, was standing in her front yard. She was holding a bright green garden hose, watering a row of aggressive-looking pink azalea bushes. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and a terrifyingly cheerful smile.

"Yeah," Larry said, keeping his lips pressed tightly together. He didn't want to open his mouth. He didn't want her to see the gap.

"Spring is really making up for lost time, isn't it?" she called out, adjusting her grip on the hose. "The pollen is just awful, though. My husband can barely breathe."

"Mmhmm," Larry hummed, giving a stiff nod. He took a step backward.

"Did you have fun last night?" she asked.

Larry stopped. His heart hammered against his ribs. "What?"

"Last night," she repeated. "I heard you come in real late. You were making an awful racket by the trash cans. Banging around. Sounded like you were having quite the argument with yourself."

Larry's mind raced. The trash cans. He looked toward his house. The plastic bins at the end of the driveway were knocked over, their lids resting in the gutter.

"Raccoon," Larry said. His voice cracked.

"Pardon?"

"A raccoon," Larry repeated, forcing the words through his clenched jaw. "Chased it away."

"Oh, well, good for you!" Mrs. Gable smiled, returning her attention to the azaleas. "Tell your mother I said hello."

Larry turned and walked away fast. His legs felt heavy, like he was moving through wet cement. He needed to get away from the house. He needed to figure out what the hell he had done.

He reached the corner of his street and stopped. Lying on the concrete, right next to a storm drain, was another white square.

He walked over and picked it up.

It was another polaroid. This one was taken indoors. The lighting was harsh and fluorescent. The background showed a set of bleachers and a wooden gym floor. Larry was in the center of the frame again. He was standing on a folding table. He was pointing an aggressive finger directly at the camera. His face was twisted into a scowl.

He looked angry. Unhinged.

He flipped the photo over. Nothing was written on the back. He put it in his pocket with the other one.

He kept walking. The sun beat down on his neck. Sweat began to gather at his hairline, mixing with the yellow pollen in the air. His throat was entirely completely dry. Every time he breathed through his nose, he felt the sharp sting of the pollen irritating his sinuses. Every time he breathed through his mouth, the air whistled through the gap in his teeth.

He passed the local gas station. He passed the strip mall. He approached the intersection right before the high school.

Stapled to the wooden utility pole at the corner was a third polaroid.

Larry stopped. The dog stopped behind him, panting heavily.

Larry stepped up to the pole. The staple was driven deep into the wood, right through the top border of the photo. He had to pull hard to tear it free.

This photo was different. It wasn't just him.

It was him, and Principal Frens.

Principal Frens was a tall, severely bald man who always wore gray suits and spoke in a monotone voice that made people actively avoid eye contact with him. In the photo, Frens was standing in the center of the school gym. He looked furious. His face was red, his mouth a tight line.

Larry was standing directly in front of him. Larry was holding the microphone from the first picture. He was holding it right up to the principal's face.

Larry stared at the image. The dread in his stomach hardened into a cold, heavy rock.

Did he assault the principal? Did he hit him with the microphone stand? Is that why he was blocked? Was he expelled? Was there a police warrant out for him right now?

"Oh my god," Larry whispered.

He stuffed the photo into his pocket and broke into a jog. The motion made his head scream in agony, but he didn't stop. He crossed the street and headed toward the school campus.

The high school was a sprawling complex of red brick and flat roofs. It sat in the middle of a massive, empty parking lot. To the right of the main building was the track field.

Larry jogged toward the field. He could see a few figures running laps in the distance. He strained his eyes, squinting against the bright sun. He didn't see Jackson.

He stopped, gasping for breath. The dog trotted up next to him and sat down, completely unfazed by the run.

Larry looked at the main school building. The front doors would be locked. It was Saturday. But the side door near the boiler room, the one the janitorial staff used to take out the cafeteria trash, was famously broken.

He walked toward the side of the building. The heat radiating off the asphalt parking lot was intense. The air smelled of hot tar and cut grass.

He reached the heavy metal door. It was propped open with a large, crumbling red brick.

Larry grabbed the handle, pulled the door open a little wider, and slipped inside. He let the door close slowly, ensuring it rested against the brick so it wouldn't lock behind him. The dog squeezed in right before the door shut.

The hallway was dark and cool. The air inside smelled deeply of industrial floor wax and old, dusty paper. The silence of the school was unsettling. It was a space meant for noise, for lockers slamming and shoes squeaking. Now, it was just a concrete tunnel.

Larry walked down the hall, his sneakers making soft scuffing sounds against the linoleum. He headed toward the central stairwell. The basement of the school housed the boiler room, old storage closets, and the theater department's prop rooms. It was a place students only went if they were skipping class or hiding.

He reached the top of the stairs. He stopped and listened.

Voices.

They were coming from below. Faint, echoing up the concrete shaft.

Larry gripped the handrail. The metal was cold. He began to descend. Each step required focus. He felt weak, his legs shaking slightly with the effort of holding his own weight.

He reached the bottom landing. The basement hallway was dimly lit by a few caged light bulbs spaced far apart on the ceiling.

The voices were louder here. They were coming from the old prop room at the end of the hall. The door was slightly ajar. A wedge of yellow light spilled out onto the dark floor.

Larry crept toward the door. He held his breath.

"I'm not fixing it," a voice said. It was Jackson.

"You have to," a second voice replied. Sarah. "You brought him."

"I didn't tell him to do it. I told him to stay by the bleachers and drink his water. He's the one who decided to make a speech."

"It wasn't a speech, Jackson. It was a hate crime against music."

Larry stood outside the door. He leaned closer to the gap.

"He ruined the entire lock-in," Sarah said, her voice tight with frustration. "I was talking to Evan. I was finally talking to Evan, and then suddenly the music cuts out and your idiot best friend is screaming into a microphone."

"I know," Jackson said defensively. "I blocked him. I'm not dealing with him today."

Larry pushed the door open.

The old hinges let out a loud, whining creak.

Jackson and Sarah spun around. They were sitting on two dusty plastic chairs in the middle of a room crammed with fake trees, old wooden swords, and racks of ridiculous costumes.

Jackson was a tall kid with messy blonde hair and a permanent look of mild exhaustion. Sarah was shorter, wearing an oversized hoodie and an expression of pure, concentrated judgment.

They stared at Larry. Larry stood in the doorway. The dog squeezed past his legs and walked into the room, immediately sniffing a pile of fake velvet curtains.

"You're alive," Jackson said. His tone was entirely flat.

"Why am I blocked," Larry asked. His voice was still a harsh rasp.

Sarah crossed her arms. "Are you joking?"

"I'm not joking," Larry said. He stepped fully into the room. "I woke up. I don't remember anything. I'm bleeding. My tooth is gone. Why am I blocked."

Jackson sighed heavily. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "You don't remember anything."

"Nothing."

"You don't remember the lock-in?"

"I remember sitting behind the bleachers. I remember the water bottle."

"The vodka," Sarah corrected, rolling her eyes.

"Right. The vodka. Then nothing."

Jackson looked at Sarah. Sarah shook her head.

"Tell me what I did," Larry demanded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the three polaroids. He threw them onto the floor between them. They scattered on the dusty concrete. "I found these. Did I hit him? Did I hit Frens?"

Jackson looked down at the photos. He let out a short, miserable laugh. "Hit him? No. You didn't hit him."

"Then what?"

"You challenged him to a rap battle," Sarah said.

The words hung in the dusty air of the prop room.

Larry blinked. He looked at Sarah. He looked at Jackson. He waited for the punchline.

"A what?" Larry whispered.

"A rap battle," Jackson repeated, rubbing his face with both hands. "The DJ was playing music. You walked out from behind the bleachers. You grabbed a microphone stand from the AV cart. You walked to the center of the gym, climbed onto the scorer's table, and started screaming that Principal Frens was a coward and wouldn't face you on the mic."

Larry stared at them. His brain felt like it was shutting down. It was refusing to process the information. "That's a lie."

"It's not a lie," Sarah said. "There are about two hundred videos of it on Snapchat right now. Which you would see, if you weren't blocked by everyone in the junior class."

Larry looked down at the polaroids on the floor. The one of him on the table. The one of him pointing the mic at Frens.

"I challenged him to a rap battle," Larry said slowly.

"Yes."

"Did he... did he rap?"

"No, Larry," Jackson snapped. "He's a fifty-year-old man who wears gray suits. He unplugged the speaker and told you to go to his office."

"Then what happened?" Larry asked. He touched his mouth. "Who hit me?"

Jackson looked at the ceiling. "Nobody hit you, man."

"My tooth is gone. My face is bruised."

"Because you tried to drop the mic," Sarah said, her voice dripping with pity. "You tried to do a cool mic drop. But it wasn't a wireless mic. It was plugged into an amp. You threw the mic down, turned around to walk away, your foot caught the thick black cord, and you face-planted directly into the metal bleachers."

Silence filled the room.

Larry stood completely still. The panic that had been driving him all morning, the terrifying, cinematic dread that he had committed a terrible crime, evaporated. It was replaced instantly by a crushing, suffocating wave of embarrassment. It was so heavy he actually felt his knees buckle slightly.

He didn't fight someone. He didn't commit a crime. He was just an idiot.

"I tripped," Larry said.

"You tripped," Jackson confirmed. "You hit the bleacher, your tooth popped out of your head like a piece of popcorn, and you passed out."

"Who brought me home?"

"I did," Jackson said. "Me and Frens. We carried you to his car. We drove you home. Your mom wasn't there. We put you in bed. Then I went home and blocked you because I couldn't look at my phone without seeing videos of you screaming about how Frens had 'no flow'."

Larry closed his eyes. The headache pulsed wildly.

"Where is the tooth," Larry asked quietly.

Jackson reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small, white object and tossed it.

Larry caught it. It was his canine. The root was long and yellow. It felt heavy in his palm.

"I found it on the gym floor," Jackson said. "You owe me."

Larry stared at the tooth. "I'm never coming back to school."

"Probably a good idea," Sarah agreed.

Larry looked at the dog. The dog was busy chewing on the corner of a fake foam sword. "Whose dog is that?" Larry asked.

Jackson frowned. "What dog?"

"The dog," Larry pointed. "It woke me up. It was in my room."

Jackson and Sarah looked at the terrier.

"I have no idea," Jackson said. "It wasn't in your room when we dropped you off."

Larry sighed. His entire body ached. The adrenaline was gone, leaving him hollow and exhausted. He just wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted to lie in the dark and wait for Monday, and then maybe Tuesday, and then maybe fake his own death and move to a different state.

"I'm going home," Larry said.

He put the tooth in his jacket pocket. He turned around and walked out of the prop room. The dog dropped the foam sword and followed him out into the dark hallway.

Jackson and Sarah didn't follow. They let him go.

Larry climbed the stairs slowly. The air in the stairwell felt heavier than before. He reached the main floor and walked down the long, empty corridor toward the side door. The brick was still there, holding the heavy metal open to the bright, pollen-filled afternoon.

He stepped outside. The sun was blinding. He squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

He reached into his jacket pocket, seeking the small comfort of the hard, smooth tooth he had just recovered. His fingers brushed against the polaroids he had shoved back in. He felt the tooth.

And then he felt something else.

Something heavy. Something cold and metallic that definitely hadn't been in his jacket when he put it on this morning.

Larry stopped walking. He stood in the middle of the empty parking lot, the heat radiating through the soles of his shoes.

He pulled his hand out of his pocket.

Resting in his palm was a heavy set of keys attached to a black plastic fob. The fob had a silver logo on it.

It was a Honda key.

Larry didn't drive a Honda. His mom didn't drive a Honda.

Principal Frens drove a Honda.

Larry stared at the keys. The dog sat down next to his leg and let out a low, soft growl. The rap battle explained the missing tooth, but it didn't explain the heavy set of Honda car keys sitting at the bottom of his jacket pocket.