Pretend You're Someone Else - Prologue. (Chapter One)-Regrets: Everyone Has Them

Two hours later he was draining his fifth glass of Irish beer and noticing that the room had become increasingly bright. He was hot. Sweat poured from his temples and his bangs stuck to his skin. Pointing to the elderly bartender, Peter signaled, 'Give me another.' The man obviously didn't care that Peter's license indicated that he was only 'seventeen.' He was probably only interested in the money. Peter's clothes and brand new '75 Camaro spelled out 'Rich Kid,' therefore he got whatever he asked for.

The trashy bar outside of Alpharetta held only ten people, counting himself, the bartender, and his best friend. The trauma kept replaying in his mind like a broken record he ordered beer after beer--hoping to drown it out. Drown it like a fucking rat! Ha Ha!

"Peter," Robert slurred, sliding up behind him. "Gonna take another hit in the bathroom, come with me."

Peter blinked in confusion. The walls continued to turn like a carnival ride. Pink, yellow, green, red, pink, yellow green, red. The old man slid a frosty glass across the table. Holding out a wrinkled hand he took the fifty dollars Peter absentmindedly handed him.

"We just got back like ten minutes ago."

"Yeah, but I need it! I'm fucking craving it!" Robert blinked his long eyelashes, his curly black hair swishing around his face.

"Next time, I promise."

With a little pout his friend bit his lip and shuffled off.

Downing the next glass, Peter turned to stand up from the chair when he suddenly lost his balance and fell to the floor, getting food grease on his pants.

"Damn it!" he hissed between clenched teeth.

"Need a help, dear?" A voice giggled.

In his drunken stupor Peter raised his head, and to his absolute disbelief he saw his lover, Frankie.

"Frankie?"

The voice once again giggled. "If you say so, sugar."

Sugar? Frankie would never call him, 'sugar.' Damn, he was drunk.

The room swayed. Peter's stomach churned, bile rose to his throat. Oh God! I'm gonna throw-up on Frankie! He felt his lover's hands on his arm. "Come home with me, sugar."

"What was up with Frankie calling him, 'sugar?"

Swaying back and forth he finally managed to spit out, "Why, of course, baby. We go back to your house every night. Why would this be any different?"

"Aren't ya gonna ask my name?"

"Frankie, what's your name?" For some reason he found that to be hilarious. Grasping his car key it took him ten times to insert it into the lock.

"Joy. My name is Joy Parsons."

Once they settled into the bucket seats, Peter threw back his head, slamming it into the headrest. "If my baby says so. Tonight, ya will be Joy!"

His lover's hand reached over to grasp his knee.

"Take me home, sugar."

"Will do!" Peter yanked the car into drive and flew down the road, ignoring that little voice inside of his head that told him to stop driving and start thinking clearly.

When he woke the next morning in a strange place, Peter immediately knew something was dead wrong. Further examination of the tiny, cramped room told him he hadn't slept with Frankie. His lover's bedroom held a giant king-size bed and all new electronics. This hovel boasted a mattress on the floor and a trashcan full of beer bottles and cigarettes. To his left slept a young, naked woman with badly bleached hair.

"Oh, my God!" Peter leaped from the wrinkled sheets, grabbed his pants and shirt. Jumping into them with lightning speed, he tore out from the trailer and back to his Camaro. "Robert! Oh, fuck!" He suddenly realized he had left his best friend back at the bar.

Racing down the road towards Robert's house, Peter didn't know what he was more disgusted at: leaving his best friend, or sleeping with one of the girls from last night?

"Bloody mother fucker!" He slammed his hands on the steering wheel not caring that it hurt. "Damn! Damn! Damn!"

A short time later he skidded on the gravel road, spraying bits of rock everywhere, and turned into the brick paved driveway of his friend's house. The car jolted to a stop, and the empty carport told him that Robert's parents were still out of town.

Good! Those rich, arrogant bastards don't need to be here anyway! What Peter planned on telling his friend needed to be said in private. His friend happened to be an amazing, sweet person who harbored two painful secrets. The kid's parent's didn't deserve to have such a wonderful son, since they were the cause of one of the incidents he kept hidden.

Peter jumped out of the car, tripped up the cement steps, and grabbed the door handle discovering it to be locked. This told him Robert was upset. Usually, if his parents weren't at home and neither were the maids, the door would be unlocked. He wondered what time it was. The sun hung in mid-sky, and he guessed it to be around noon. Too bad he didn't have a watch on, nor a clock in the car.

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" He repeated, kicking it with an expensive black and white platform shoe. He hoped Robert would let him borrow a new pair when they reconciled. He could feel blisters forming on his heels.

Turning towards the vintage birdcage that swung elegantly from the rafters of the front porch, Peter ran over to it. Robert's parents never approved of him, so whenever they were home the maids were given strict instructions not to allow Peter in the house.

He couldn't exactly get a key to the front door, so Robert solved this problem by placing the one and only skeleton key in the birdhouse. It would open every door in the house, including the French doors of his friend's bedroom balcony. Today there was no need in climbing the old oak tree by Robert's window, so Peter took the key and used it to unlock the front door.

Graveyard silence greeted him when he stepped into the Italian-style foyer. "Robert?" He shut the door. No answer. Cautiously he made his way up the marble staircase to his friend's room. "I'm sorry I left you. I had too much to drink and got fucked up. I swear!"

He turned to the left at the top of the stairs, and came face-to-face with his best friend. Deep, dark circles told him that Robert hadn't slept that night. In fact, he still wore the red corduroys and western shirt he had on at the bar.

"I'm so sorry!" Peter squeaked. Robert's response was to pull his fist back and land a punch straight into his face with a sickening smack. Taking a step backwards, Peter didn't know what surprised him the most: the fact that his friend just punched him, or the fact that he could actually throw a punch.

"I had to call a fucking cab!" Robert stomped his foot. "The bartender told me that you left with one of the dancers! Do you know how that made me feel?"

Peter rubbed his nose with his hand. He could feel the sticky, wet sensation of blood dripping down this face. Wow! Who knew his friend was that strong? Shaking his head, he took a good long look at Robert. The boy looked miserable. Pink-rimmed eyes told him that he had cried himself to sleep. Peter felt awful.

"I'm sorry, I really am."

Robert glared at him. Arms folded tightly across his chest, eyes narrowed in disgust. Damn! He needed to try harder.

Taking in a deep breath, Peter continued. "I had six glasses of beer in less than an hour's time, plus I took a hit of coke. I wanted to join you in the restroom, so I got up from my chair and stumbled to the ground. I heard a weird voice in front of me. I swear to God I thought I saw...Frankie." Peter cast his eyes downward onto the Oriental rug.

"Impossible," Robert gasped after a few seconds of silence. "There was no way that...Frankie could have appeared so soon."

"I know." Peter dug the toe of his heavy shoe into the rug, tracing the pattern. "That's how drunk I was. I swear to you. When I went home with the dancer I thought she, I mean..." he trailed off.

"Did you sleep with her?"

"No." Peter lied to Robert for the first time. He figured he'd never see that girl again, so it seemed safe to cover his tracks. "I still had my clothes on when I woke up, and so did she."

"Well, since you thought this young woman in question happened to be Frankie and you were too drunk to know the difference."

Peter looked up into Robert's eyes and saw him give a small smile. "I guess I can forgive you, huh?"

The boys hugged each other and Peter sighed with relief. Thank God I will never see that seducing bitch again!

***************

"What the hell do you mean, my son got you pregnant!?"

Peter watched his father's face turn bright red with rage. The man's breathing increased rapidly. His fingers clenched into fists. Joy stood by their front door, a VHS tape in her hand.

"This is proof that you, Peter Anderson, are the father." She waved the tape back and forth.

"You video taped us having sex? How?" Peter immediately clapped his hand to his mouth, realizing his mistake. Too late. The next thing he knew, his giant of a father grabbed him by the neck and smashed him up against the wall. "You stupid bastard! Goddamn worthless kid! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Still in a daze from his idiot father, he saw Joy smirk like a Cheshire. "You really are stupid, ya know that? This is the security tape from the bar. These things are new, ya know! I paid that bartender fifty bucks for it!"

"Bitch!" His father thundered at Joy. "Only I get to call my son 'stupid.'" He struck Peter, this time across the face. "That's evidence to destroy me! I'm the richest man in this pathetic little town and your drunken ass just got me into trouble. Are you happy now? I should have never had you! You've made my life miserable ever since you met that Robert kid in the eighth grade!"

"Fuck you old man!" He shot back, only to receive another smack.

"Bitch," he turned his attention back to Joy. "I demand you get an abortion!"

"Fuck no!" She retorted. "I have hard evidence to bring down one of Georgia's wealthiest families and I already have copies."

Peter gasped like a fish out of water as his dad finally released his grip from around his shoulders. He watched the scene unfold before him. Did Joy really seduce me just for money? Why did she want to bring us down? The bitch really was crazy.

"Fine!" Peter watched his dad yell at Joy, then pull out his wallet. "How much to get you out of my life forever? A thousand? Ten-thousand? A million? Fuck you, woman, there will be no white-trash spawn in my family!"

Joy's lips curled up in a Grinch-like way. She twirled her hair and shot Peter a triumphant look. "There is something I want, or I go to the newspaper and tell them I was raped by Erich Anderson's teenage kid."

"What!" Peter and his dad both yelled at the same time.

Joy smoothed out the wrinkles on her maxi dress. "I want to marry your son for the remainder of my pregnancy. Your family has quite a reputation of treating poor people like trash, therefore I want to marry your son as revenge. Let the town see that he knocked me up and was forced to marry me. When the brat is born, I'll leave, and the two of ya'll will never see me, or the kid as long as we live. I'll take it down to Florida and have my white-trash parents raise it."

"Ha!" Peter placed his hands on his hips. "Woman, you're the stupidest person on this planet. There is no way in hell that my dad will ever agree to such a ridiculous plan. Take the damn kid, I sure as hell don't want it!"

"Peter, shut up," His father smirked. "Woman, you've put me in a very dangerous position. I understand why you're such a bitch, and my reputation is more important than my son's. So, the boy will marry you, and on the retched day your evil spawn is born, you will sign the divorce papers!"

Peter felt himself sinking to the floor. What the hell? Frankie! Good God no!

"Looks like he's already excited, he can't stand!" Joy's sarcastic laugh filled the house. The room swam and Peter laid his head in his hands, fighting back the urge to cry. Only one word floating through his brain,,,Frankie.

***************

Life had to go on. That very night Peter called his lover up and they met at a local diner. Words were said and a coffee cup was thrown. Peter jumped from his chair and flew out the door before his lover could throw a powerful punch. Squeezing his eyes shut he stumbled back to the Camaro. For the first time in his life, Peter Anderson, the richest boy in school, the kid who believed he could have everything, was crying.

The wedding came and went. For further humiliation, his father posted it in the local and Atlanta newspapers. Peter's life became unbearable. Everyday he trudged to work at his father's real estate office to learn the family business. He hated it, but he had no other choice. His dad had cut him off, leaving him with nothing but a single credit card that Joy used for the fun of it. Peter had to make money, and selling houses seemed like the only choice.

May of '76 seemed to come out of nowhere. The air turned hot, kudzu grew like weeds from the pine trees. School ended and Peter knew he had to attend Robert's graduation. After the marriage, Peter had become so distraught he had dropped out of high school. He could no longer show his face around his classmates, especially to his now estranged friend. It was funny what a 'forced marriage' and a 'baby on the way' did to a friendship.

Standing at the back of the bleachers, he watched his friend accept a diploma with the words: "1776-1976 Bicentennial Graduation" stamped in gold on the blue cover. Tears formed in his eyes. He should be there standing next to Robert, not huddled at the back of the large crowd, trying desperately to be invisible.

After the principal's speech, Peter reached into his pocket for his car keys and quickly maneuvered his way through the crowd before anyone could see him. Halfway across the parking lot, he saw Robert leaning against the Camaro, a small cardboard box in his hands, and a scowl stretched across his face.

"Peter" he called out in a tight voice. "Frankie wanted you to have this." He held out the box and Peter took it with shaking hands to see that it held every single romantic letter he had written to his lover since the eighth grade.Once again, tears filled his eyes.Damn it! He couldn't cry in front of Robert. Hell no!

"Well," Robert kicked at the asphalt, then turned to glance behind him. "I'm moving to Atlanta for good. I um...really hope your marriage and baby work out."

Peter wanted desperately to say that he would be getting a divorce once the kid arrived, but couldn't. Damn his father! Because of the face that he was still seventeen, legally he still had to do what the man said.

"So, I guess this is goodbye forever, huh?" His voice choked at the end. Damn!

"Sorry, Peter. You can give me a hug though."

The boys awkwardly embraced one another. Peter felt the icy coldness behind it and tears began to fall. With a silent sob he broke apart. "I'm sorry I lied."