A Summertime Journey
1984
A Summertime Journey
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JEROME SITKO
Copyright © Jerome Sitko 2019
All rights reserved. The right of Jerome Sitko to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.
No part of this publication may be altered, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including, but not limited to, scanning, duplicating, uploading, hosting, distributing, or reselling, without the express prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of reasonable quotations in features such as reviews, interviews, and certain other non-commercial uses currently permitted by copyright law.
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, and businesses are purely products of the author’s imagination and are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, places, or events is completely coincidental.
1984: A Summertime Journey by Jerome Sitko
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY- ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
COMING SOON
I dedicate this book to my best friend and wife- Rene’e. Thank you for always believing in me, with you nothing is impossible.
CHAPTER ONE
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June, 1984
THANK GOD WE SURVIVED. How did we survive? What did we survive? I think through my confusion. I look over at my two friends, Jeremy and Joey, passed out on Jeremy’s bed with their shoes still on their feet dangling over the edge. Joey’s orange Sony Walkman headphones cemented to his ears with his sweat, and his Old Timer pocket knife firmly secured in his right hand. Both of them are haggard and filthy, even now. It’s a long, complicated story, so to truly understand, I think I need to start from the beginning.
I live in Boise, Idaho, the “City of Trees,” a quiet, small town with a low crime rate. By ten p.m., the streets are usually empty. Nestled at the base of the sparse Boise foothills sits a school, Hillside Junior High, a one-story brick building. I go to this school, and this is where my summertime journey begins.
My name is Lance Bergman. I’m a typical fourteen-year-old growing up in a boring town. I’m shy, so it’s hard for me to talk to girls. I’ve never had a real girlfriend. I don’t fit into any of the typical teenage stereotypes: jock, preppie, hoodlum, nerd. My friends and I have flirted with drinking and smoking pot, and recently we’ve been getting invited to parties. I don’t get to wear any of the “cool” clothes unless I borrow them from my friends. Most of my clothes are from Kmart or the Salvation Army. I listen to all kinds of music, but my favorites are Ozzy Osbourne, AC/DC, and Mötley Crüe.
All through the year, sitting through boring class after boring class while earning those respectable “C” grades, I dreamt about summer vacation: skateboarding, boogie boarding in the canal, sneaking out at night to meet girls, partying, and having the time of my life. My summer vacation is about to take a very dark turn, like nothing I could have imagined. Someone else has another plan for me, and “fun” is not in its vocabulary.
CHAPTER TWO
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AS SOON AS THE RRRRRRRRRRRRing sounds, there’s an uproar of anxious and excited kids kicking their chairs away and heading for the doors. The bustle of students slamming lockers and yelling at friends in the hallways drowns out the anemic objections from the teachers to leave their classrooms in an orderly fashion. I’m among them; in fact, I’m leading the pack out the south double-exit doors. My hands hit the black panic bar and the doors spring open, showing their years’ worth of dirty handprints and kick marks to the world. As soon as I feel the sun warm my face and heat my hair, I know I’m finally free, at least for a little while.
I subconsciously hook my fingers into the belt loops of my spacious Rustler jeans and give them a hearty tug to keep them from falling. I immediately survey the parking lot, looking for my best friend, Jeremy Jacobson, as I slowly jog down the slight hill of green grass peppered with dandelions toward the parking lot and then freedom—the street. It was a cat-and-mouse game; actually, I’m not the first one out the door because I’m excited summer vacation is starting—although I am excited—I’m the first one out the door because I don’t want to run into Larry.
Larry is the school hoodlum, and the rumor is this is his third and final year repeating the ninth grade. If Larry and his friends catch me, they will have fun humiliating me in front of the school. My attempt to escape is a daily occurrence, and those of us toward the bottom of the school’s pecking order play this game with Larry. Some days it’s me, and some days it’s one of the other less-fortunate kids. I believe Larry has a personal goal to beat up every seventh-grade boy before the school year ends. I make it to the parking lot and think I’m safe, so I stop and spin around to try to catch a glimpse of Jeremy among the masses pouring out of the school doors. As I turn, my lips go from a smile to a puckered Oh shit, and my heart begins racing, like my legs want to but can’t, won’t. The asphalt parking lot is suddenly a molten tar pit, and my feet sink into the hot bubbling mess, gripping me like a mouse on a glue trap.
Larry is already partway between the school and his target—me. His long, scraggly, dirty-blond hair and freckles are unmistakable. He’s wearing an Ozzy Osbourne “Bark at the Moon” tour shirt, faded 501 jeans with a tear in the left knee, and black boots. Around his neck is his signature white coral