A Shot of Clarity - Part 1

A Shot of Clarity - Part One
by pluginmatty

There’s a golden child in every family, the shining sun around which all of the smaller and lesser planets orbit. They're usually talented, charming, attractive, athletic; sometimes they're even intelligent, and all-too-often aware of their God-given advantage as they wrap their none-the-wiser parents around their little finger and establish a life-long pattern of supremacy.

In this particular family, the golden child was a boy named Jake Monroe.

Tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed and smooth-skinned, he looks like a model from one of those Abercrombie and Fitch catalogues that people keep folded up and stashed away under their mattress.

Probably smells like a Lynx advertisement, as well.

“Rise and shine,” his mother calls, poking her head through the bedroom door and rousing him from slumber. Even though he's the first to leave, he's always the last of his siblings to be woken.

Not that he needs the beauty sleep, anyway.

"I'm up," he sleepily grumbles, rolling over and scratching himself on the stomach as he pushes himself out of bed and makes his way toward the en-suite bathroom. No shared bathrooms in the Monroe household.

Stopping in front of the wall-mounted mirror, he takes a moment to examine his own reflection, admiring the regal image that stares back at him. Bulging pectorals, well-proportioned arms, a dusting of well-maintained chest hair. He's probably never carried an ounce of puppy fat in his life.

Certainly never had a zit.

And as he continues to admire his dreamy reflection, all he can see is a promising future.

"Looking good," he says to himself, turning on the taps and adjusting the water temperature as he begins to climb into the shower. Once inside, he washes his hair, loofahs his back, uses his shower-proof razor. Then, once he's finished, he towels himself dry, slipping on a pair of workout shorts and a muscle shirt before striding toward the kitchen and readying himself for the pancakes that his mother probably cooks him every morning.

"Hi honey," she says when he arrives, smiling as she sips on another diet shake. She probably asks him about his upcoming day, smiling as if the answers are pleasing, nodding as if they're an indication of his true intentions. And then, when he's done, she dutifully collects his plate from the breakfast bar, rinsing it off and stacking the dishwasher, wishing she had the unbelievable genetics that allow her son to eat whatever he wants without consequence.

Returning to the bedroom, he does a quick check of his hair in the mirror, selecting a trendy ensemble to match the letterman jacket hanging in his closet. Then, leaving the clothes laid across his unmade bed, he begins his routine morning workout, counting the push-ups and crunches under his breath as he continues to work toward his image-based goals.

"Seventeen... eighteen... nineteen..."

"Don't be late, honey!" His mother's voice drifts down the hall, barely registering in his mind as he continues to work toward the goal.

"Sixty-two... sixty-three... sixty-four..."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks about the practice his coach has scheduled for the afternoon, and the sizeable dent it's put in his after-school plans.

"Eighty-four... eighty-five... eighty-six..."

Another part of his mind gives passing thought to the History test that he hasn't studied for, an issue he doesn't plan to rectify before his second period class.

"Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred."

And just like that, his workout is complete.

Climbing back to his feet, he freshens himself up and hastily dons the outfit laid across his bed, doing another check in the mirror before grabbing his car keys and backpack and making a beeline toward the front door.

"Don't be late, honey!" his mother calls again, a somewhat redundant gesture as he appears and does a final check of his hair. Then, in a leftover remnant from a time when her children actually listened, "Have a good day at school!"

"Bye, mom," he says as a reflex, pulling the front door closed as he makes his way down the path and across the manicured lawn. Pushing a button to open the garage door, he spies a latest-model European roadster, a gift from his dad and the shining chariot that symbolises his everyday ride to school. Pushing another button to unlock the car door, he pulls on the handle and slides across the leather upholstery, making himself comfortable in the driver's seat before pushing yet another button to fire the engine.

How long you been asleep at the wheel?
Out of control, gathering up speed...

The sound system pumps out the latest next-big-thing band, playing a tune that will no doubt become popular three months down the track. He barely registers the lead singer's words though, as he reverses out of the garage and into the driveway proper. Taking a perfectly straight path toward the opened front gate, he uses his rear-view mirror for little more than vanity purposes, putting the car into first gear and laying another two strips of rubber upon the otherwise-spotless suburban tarmac.

Take another turn on the merry-go-round.
Your numbers all come up,
Now you're king of the town...

Taking the shortest possible route to school, he pulls into the crowded student parking lot, parking the car in his unofficially-assigned parking space. Then, after checking his hair in the mirror one last time, he opens the whisper-quiet car door and steps out into the suddenly-brighter morning sunshine.

“Hey man!” he says to his probable best friend, holding his hand out for a casual fist bump. The friend is most likely a wide receiver, or someone of equal importance.

"Hey Jake!" another voice calls, trying to sound casual in the presence of its hero. They've probably been waiting in the same spot for the past 15 minutes.

"Hey..." Jake calls back, with a wave that would look awkward on anyone else. If he knows who the person is, he's giving off no indication. "How's it goin'?"

"Good, thanks!" And just like that, somebody's had their day made.

"Hey, baby," comes a syrupy voice from somewhere behind him, eliciting a more positive reaction as he turns toward its source. Sweeping his girlfriend into a hug, he plants a quick kiss on her lips, making her the instant envy of all girls within a 20-metre radius.

"Heyyyyyy Soph," he whispers into her hair, dropping an octave from the rich, smooth, baritone that his classmates would usually hear. "I missed you, baby."

"I missed you, too," she murmurs back, wrapping her arms around his neck as he initiates another lengthier, more passionate kiss. Through a combination of busy parents, empty houses, clever deception and teenage hormones, they've had a lot of chances to practice, lately.

"Are you guys coming?" an impatient voice eventually interrupts, coughing in a none-too-subtle manner. At some point, the first bell has sounded for Homeroom.

"In a sec," Jake tells his friend, leaning in for one last kiss. "I actually need to stop at the bathroom on the way."

"Gee, thanks," Sophie giggles, an expression of mock disgust on her face as she swats him playfully on the arm. "I really, really needed to know that."

"My pleasure," Jake says, worming his way out of it with a disarming grin. "Mikey's right, though. We should probably get moving."

"Don't call me Mikey," Jake's best friend grumbles, giving his other arm a much-less-playful thump. "Not even my Grandma gets to call me that."

"Whatever," Jake says, still grinning. "I think you secretly like it, anyways."

"Just like you secretly like it in the ass?" Mikey says, ignoring the look of genuine disgust that now decorates Jake's girlfriend's face.

"Oh, you're so gonna pay for that," Jake says, making a jab step in Mike's direction and laughing as he scurries six feet backwards.

"Can we go now?" Sophie asks, still pouting a bit after Mike's 'in the ass' comment.

"Sure thing," Jake says, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as they all start to move toward the main school building. After about 100-feet of silent walking, he turns to his girlfriend and says, "I'll see you in a bit, ok?"

"Ok," she responds, still a bit pouty, even now. Then, with a quick parting kiss, he runs off in the direction of the nearest toilet block.

Upon arrival, he finds the door locked.

"Hmm, that's weird," he mumbles to himself, trying the door handle more vigorously without success, the physical exertion only increasing his need for bladder relief. "Toilets are usually open by now."

Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he jogs off in the opposite direction, wondering if there's some sort of problem with the janitorial staff.

There, of course, isn't.

He's not to know that, though.

But it’s probably nothing to worry about.