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Fiction

On September 21, around three in the afternoon, Al was walking home from high school, following his everyday route: along Sinclair Street, then left and down Frederick Avenue. Unlike most teenagers, Al wasn’t listening to music. Instead, he was preoccupied with his prospects of getting into Harvard. Al was eighteen years old.

Harvard, of course, wasn’t easy to get into, but it was the only university on Al’s mind. Thinking of it consumed virtually every minute of his time. Al worked hard to get the best grades while playing basketball at school. He was a decent player, but could have been better if he actually liked the game. Money wasn’t a problem — when Al was born, his parents set up a trust fund for him. They were morticians. Doing very well, in fact.

Al wanted to go to Harvard to study finance. In four years, as a graduate, he would join an investment bank as a junior financial analyst, from where he imagined a steady climb up the career ladder until he gained enough confidence to move on. He would then quit to start a hedge fund, accelerating his way into early retirement. Al’s plan was to make enough to get out at forty and then devote his time to the bucket list he’d been postponing: travelling around the world, playing in a band, getting married. There will be plenty of time to do all that, he thought.

Girls liked Al. He was good-looking and seemed a bit mysterious. Amy, his classmate, invited him on a date, but he never went. Come to think of it, nobody ever remembered Al going on a date. He just didn’t seem to have the time. Last year, Al’s classmates went on a trip to San Francisco, but Al didn’t go. A few months ago, there was a party at Chris’s, when his parents left town, but Al didn’t come. Al’s younger sister, Mary, bought a joint once, but Al didn’t try.

Al was approaching his house when he saw Mrs. Kingsley, a retired neighbour, anxiously standing outside.

“Mrs. Kingsley, what’s going on?”

“My cat. She went up the tree and wouldn’t come down. Can you help me get her?”

“Sure, no problem.”

Al took his backpack off.

Between two properties stood an oak tree, mighty and high. Al raised his head and, squinting, saw a small cat at the very top. He grabbed a low-hanging branch and pulled himself up. Al climbed slowly. Some smaller branches squeaked under his weight. Halfway there, Al looked down and felt the vertigo starting to set in. He swallowed heavily but kept going, calling the cat’s name. Finally, the cat was almost within reach. Al extended his arm to grab her, but the branch underneath broke off, and he slipped.

You could hear a thud, followed by the scream of Mrs. Kingsley. Al was eighteen years old.