Freeing Carter

by Nyrae Dawn

  "So...basketball starts tomorrow?" Mrs. Z sits on my desk.

  "Yep. Senior year. Have to make it count so I can get into a good college next year." College is a good thing to throw into a conversation like this, right? Suck up a little.

  "Good grades will do that too, Mr. Shaw. You're not doing so well in my class. Missing assignments."

  My heart pounds harder. Don't do this. Please don't fucking do this. "I'll get my grade up. Extra credit. Whatever it takes."

  She sighs. "Carter, is there anything you want to tell me? I can help. If I can't, I'll find someone who can. You're a smart boy. There's nothing wrong if you don't underst--"

  My hands tighten into a fist. "It's fine. Everything's fine. I don't need help. I'll fix it. Whatever I have to do, I'll fix it." My voice sounds as tight as my fists are. I can't lose basketball. Can't.

  "You need to fix it because if you don't, I can't let you play. I know how much you love basketball and I've seen you on the court. I know how good you are, but there are more important things. One of them being your education."

  A breath finds its way from my lungs. No questions. No lies. "I know. I've been screwing around, but I won't anymore."

  She gives me a quick nod and holds a folder out to me. "It's early in the year so it shouldn't be hard for you to get on track. I shouldn't...but I'll let you make up your missed assignments. If you do that and keep track of what we're working on now, you'll be okay."

  I take the folder. No, things are never okay. Not for long.

  Chapter Two

  I let Mom cover at the shop tonight. With the way I feel about basketball and everything else, there's no way I can be there, helping little old ladies pick their favorite candle scent or a book on poetry. Sometimes I wonder if Mom wants to be there because she knows it will be easier if she's working late and not at home where it's easy to grab the vodka she keeps hidden in a box, under my old baby blankets in her closet. Is that a sign, I wonder? If there's some way I've driven her to this place in her life—where she wants to forget everything so instead of grabbing a basketball, like I do, she chooses to get lost in a bottle.

  My backpack sits under the hoop on the far end of the court. Each time I run that way, see it sitting there with the work I know I should be doing, I push harder, run harder. My cell is going crazy, ringing and beeping every two seconds. But instead of answering, I jump, letting the ball roll off my fingertips just right. It arcs in the air, hitting nothing but the bottom of the net.

  Five more minutes. Then I'll go over to Mel's to apologize, then head home to bust my ass learning Hamlet and reading books that will have no effect on my life whatsoever.

  My muscles are tight, Mrs. Z's words from today slamming into me.

  Mom's apology from last night taunts me.

  Instead of grabbing the ball, I start running lines. From one side of the court, to the free throw line, and back. Three point line and back. Half court, and then owning the other side too. By the time I'm done, my lungs ache, but in a good way. My way. Not giving a shit that I'm in the middle of a public basketball court, at a park, I collapse on the ground, one arm covering my eyes.

  The warm pavement feels good against my back, seeping through my shirt. There's a part of me that's screaming at my muscles to move, to make myself get up and do all the stuff that I don't want to do, but nothing happens.

  My phone goes off again. Mel's going to kill me. I need to talk to her. It's not her fault I was in a bad mood today. Not her fault I stayed up all night then took it out on her. In a way, she's like basketball for me. An escape. Maybe a much moodier escape, but one all the same.

  As soon as I make the decision to get up and go see her, I hear a voice. "Second time in one day I could have kicked you. You sleep a lot."

  My arm drops. Kira is standing above me, the setting sun peeking out from behind her. "I didn't fall asleep in art," I say. "That has to count for something." She'd been in my art class this afternoon too. "And I'm not sleeping now. Just resting." I stand up.

  "Yeah, you were in the zone out there."

  "Practice starts tomorrow. Just getting ready." I look around to see if anyone else is watching that I didn't know about. We're both quiet for a few seconds. I'm not sure what to say to this girl I don't know, I lift my arm to scratch my head instead of talking.

  "Is the team any good? At my old school they sucked pretty bad. It was embarrassing."

  This is something I can talk about. "We're the best. Probably take the conference this year, at least. It won't be embarrassing to cheer us on."

  She laughs, and I wonder what I said that's so funny. "I'm not the rah-rah kind of girl."

  I take a step back, my eyes darting to the ground. Words lost to me. It takes me a minute, and then I wonder what I'm doing. Why am I letting myself clam up like I've never talked to a girl before? Raising my head, my eyes find hers. "That's because you've never had me to cheer for." I wink at her, playing the game.

  "No!" she shakes her head, laughing. It's a real laugh. Not one of those fake I-want-your-attention laughs. "Don't do that. Bring back the guy who was so into the game. The one who obviously loves what he's doing and actually cares about something. Don't be a stereotypical, cocky teenage boy."

  My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again, but nothing comes out. The urge to scratch my head again comes back, but I don't let myself do it. Who is this girl? I've talked to her for a total of like 2.2 seconds my whole life, and she talks to me like we're long lost buddies or something. Am I slipping? No. Just lost step a bit. "I'm allowed to be cocky because I'm good. I can back it up. You'll see once you watch me play."

  For the millionth time my phone goes off. Mel, she's who I need to see right now. I'll get lost in her, make up for being a jerk earlier, and then get down to the folder in my backpack that I don't want to see. "That's my girlfriend. I better go. You need a ride anywhere?" The words just come out, but I regret them afterward. Mel will kick my ass if I let this girl in my car. Drama is the last thing I need.

  Luckily for me, Kira shakes her head. "Nope. It's a gorgeous day for a walk. Plus, I don't take rides from strangers." She winks and walks away, leaving me behind to wonder what just happened.

  ***

  "I'm sorry." The words jump out of my mouth the second Mel opens the door. "I was being a jerk earlier. I just...I had a really bad night, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you." This is something I don't like admitting, even to myself, but there's a piece of me screaming to break free that wants her to ask me what happened. To ask why I had a bad night so I can tell her. Actually speak the freaking words that are bottled up inside me like a shaken up coke can. Once the top is popped, I'm scared it will all burst out, spilling over and making my life sticky—more of a mess than it already is.

  But that would mean needing her. Showing her I'm not the guy she thinks I am. Not an option for me. Probably not an option for her, either, so even if she does wonder, I know I can't tell her. Even if I could do it to myself, I couldn't do it to Mom.

  She looks at her nails, studying them in mock-nonchalance. "You're right, you shouldn't have. Basketball starts soon. Cheerleading, too, and on top of it all, you work. We'll never see each other and when we do, I don't want to spend that time fighting with you."

  I step forward. My voice drops a little. "I know, baby. I said I'm sorry. Forgive me?" I wrap my arms around her neck. When she nods against my chest, I let out a heavy breath. I need this...the dose of normal Mel gives me. Or, at least, to pretend or make myself forget Mom, forget the homework.

  She lifts her face, giving me permission to kiss her. The second our lips touch it takes me away and makes me forget the sound of Mom's voice when she said she was sorry. The look on her face when I wrapped my arm around her to help her up the stairs. Behind the bloodshot eyes, I saw her—the real her that hates herself for what she does.

  Forget that I ca
n lose basketball. The only thing that means as much to me as Mom or Sara.

  Trying to push those thoughts away, I deepen the kiss. Mel's hand weaves through my hair before she pulls away, kicking the door shut behind her and leading me to her living room couch.

  An hour and a whole lot of making out later, I come up for air. "I should go," I tell her. "I have a ton of homework to do. Gotta keep my grades up for basketball." Keep them up, not pull them up, because Mel doesn't know how badly I'm flunking English.

  "No." She kisses me again. "For one second, forget basketball." Another kiss. "Homework can wait. I'm more important. Let's go upstairs."

  It's me who kisses her this time. I know I shouldn't, but I do exactly what she says.

  ***

  I don't get home until 8:45. My backpack still taunts me, whispering that I should have come home earlier. There's so much work to do in English alone that I'll never get caught up if I don't start now.

  Mom's blue Toyota sits in the driveway. She can't have been home for very long since the shop closes at eight. Still, nervous energy skitters through my veins. Adrenaline, but not the good kind that makes me feel like I can fly on the court. More like the one that overdoses me until I feel like puking. Or having a heart attack. Or both. No matter how much I know she's not an everyday drinker, or how much I know an episode like last night usually buys me some time before it happens again, I still think about it every day. Always wondering which version of Mom I'm coming home to.

  "Mom?" I push the door closed and head toward the kitchen. Luckily, it doesn’t smell like alcohol, but Chinese food. My stomach growls. I could so go for some Chinese right now. She knows it's my favorite.

  "Hey, you." Her voice is high-pitched and way over excited. "How was your day?"

  That cracked-out feeling slips away with those two sentences. This is Mom. Guilty Mom, but still Mom. "Good. How about you?" I head over to where she's standing, Chinese food on the counter in front of her. "I'm starved." When I reach my hand for the carton, she playfully smacks it away.

  "Sit down. I'll fix you a plate."

  Now this isn't normal. Mom's an equal opportunity employer. I've been carrying my weight—hell, more than my weight—ever since I can remember.

  Guilt. That's what this is. Does it make me a jerk that I'm going to sit my butt down, let her fix me a plate, and enjoy it?

  Tossing my backpack to the floor by the table, I fall into one of the red and black checkered chairs. After putting a huge plate of pork fried rice, chow Mein, and sweet and sour pork in front of me, she sits down.

  "My day was okay. We were pretty busy, which is always good."

  Mom's store is kind of a mish-mash of any and everything. She sells books, those little knickknack things that people put all over their house for no reason, some arts and crafts stuff. She paints and sells some of her stuff there, too, though she hasn't been doing it much lately.

  "Cool." I shovel a mouthful in.

  "What about you? Anything new? How's Melanie doing? I don't see her much."

  That's because I try to keep her away. Not that I can say that. For some reason, it just doesn't feel right having Mel around my mom. I'm freaked Mel will figure me out if she spends too much time with her. Plus, Sara doesn't really like Mel, which is crazy because Sara likes everyone. Not that Melanie's exactly kid-friendly, if you know what I mean.

  My shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. "She's busy. School, cheer's starting."

  We're quiet for a few minutes, but it's the good quiet. One where I don't feel darkness tingeing the corners of it. Right now, I can just chill, none of the weight trying to crumble me.

  "Speaking of cheer...I know that means basketball, too. I've been thinking; it's your senior year. I want you to enjoy it. With school, your friends, and basketball, working at the shop might be too much."

  My eyes snap up to hers. "Huh?" I've always, always worked in the shop. Not every day. Usually we split the evenings. Mom will bring Sara with her or they'll spend the evening at home and I work. It's the way things have been for a few years.

  "Carter." She grabs my hand, squeezing it tight. "You're a good kid. You work hard. You help at home. You deserve a little break. It's not fair all that you do. I just want you to be happy and enjoy your last year at home."

  She doesn't let go and I don't either. There's something in the air between us, something that kind of makes the puking feeling return because I know exactly what's she's doing. I know what she's saying, even though she's not saying it. I take care of her. Take care of a lot. What she does hurts her. Hurting me hurts her.

  I feel like someone's crushed my windpipe. "You...work hard, too. You deal with a lot. I don't mind helping."

  Lie. I'm such a freaking liar because I do mind. I hate it. Hate it all so much I feel like I'm going insane sometimes.

  "I mind. I'm going to try...try to not depend on you so much." Then she smiles and lets go of my hand. "Plus, you have to get those grades up, too." This makes me want to laugh. She doesn't know the half of it. "Do you have homework tonight?"

  Automatically, my head shakes. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome Carter the Liar to the stage. In the corner is a whole backpack full of homework he can't stop himself from lying about.

  "Good. I know it's not cool to hang out with your mom, but do you want to watch a movie or something? Your choice. I need to take advantage and spend as much time with you as I can, since it will be your last year at home."

  I'm not sure whether my smile is for my own or her benefit. "How can I pass that up?"

  Ignoring the bag sitting on the floor, I grab my plate and follow her to the living room. Even though I'm exhausted from last night, we watch two movies: a comedy and an action flick. I don't think about last night, homework, my grades, Mel, or anything else and it feels good. Everything about this night feels good. Spending time with Mom and not the helpless woman from the night before. Not taking off her shoes like we sometimes have to do for my six-year-old sister with Downs Syndrome. It's...normal.

  "It's late and you have school tomorrow. Sara gets back, too," Mom says when the last movie ends. "Why don't you go up and get ready for bed? I'll turn everything off down here."

  I run up the stairs, realizing I'm still in my sweaty clothes from earlier. After washing up a little, I throw on some clean boxers and a pair of basketball shorts. Then I remember my stupid backpack downstairs and figure I should get a little bit done, even though my eyes are scratchy and it's already after midnight.

  When I jog back downstairs, Mom jumps a little, almost running into me.

  "Oh! Carter, you scared me. I thought you were already in bed."

  "Just gotta grab something."

  "Okay, I'm heading up."

  She leans forward to kiss my cheek and I freeze as the smell of alcohol fills my nostrils. Insta-nausea hits me. My hands are tied behind my back again. Did she grab the bottle as soon as I headed upstairs? And two days in a row...this makes two days. She doesn't work this way. Not usually. Why the hell is she drinking two nights in a row?

  "Good night, Carter."

  Good? How does she expect me to have a good night? I had a good night and she took it away from me. But I don't say that. I can't.

  "Night."

  Ignoring the whisper of my English homework, I turn and go back upstairs.

  Chapter Three

  My muscles are all jumpy when I run downstairs early the next morning. I'm jonesing for basketball practice this afternoon, but I know if I don't get some kind of work done for English, Mrs. Z is going to bench me. I have to keep that from happening. What's the point, anyway? It's not like I won't make it in life if I can't fully explain the theme behind Of Mice and Men.

  "Carter! Carter!" Sara slams into me as I hit the bottom step. She wraps her pale, stick-like arms around me and buries her face in my stomach.

  "
Hey, Twig." I give her mud-brown hair a light tug. "Did you have fun?" Even though we have different dads, we have the same dark, wavy hair.

  Sara looks up at me through thick glasses, yells, "Barney!" as the music from that psycho purple dinosaur starts in the background, and then runs away. She's obsessed with the show. Gets way more excited about him than she does the rest of us. It's actually pretty cool to watch. I don't know if all kids with Down Syndrome get as giddy about things as she does, but I'm pretty sure I've never been as pumped about something as she gets with that dinosaur.

  It's my favorite thing about her: the way the house could be crumbling around us but it would still be so easy to make her smile. Not sure if that's a trait, either, or if my sister just kicks ass.

  "Morning. You're up early." Mom kisses my cheek. Bill, Sara's dad, is standing next to her.

  "I need to get to school and get some stuff done." So I don't fail English. And get kicked out of basketball.

  "Hey, Carter. Want to run out to the car with me? Sara forgot her bag and I need to run to work before I'm late." Bill wears round glasses just like Sara, only his aren't as thick. He's so different from my biological dad. At least, from what little I remember or can tell from pictures. Dad played basketball, too. He was young, but had a heart attack playing ball. Mom says he loved it like I do. All my games are for him.

  And Bill—well, he's a cool guy, but he's more of a paper-pusher than Dad was. He and Mom got along okay, but I always wonder what they had in common.

  "Yep. Right behind you." Mom hands me a Pop Tart and I push a bite into my mouth as I follow Bill out. He stops me after handing me the bag and my stomach drops. I know what's next. We go through this every few months.

  "How she's doing, Carter? Still not drinking?"

  Liar. I'm such a liar. It makes me nauseous. Guilty. "No... I told you I'd tell you if she started again. We're all good, Bill." My sister's big grin pops into my head. For the millionth time, I wonder if I'm doing and saying the right thing. But those thoughts are shoved aside when I think of Mom with Sara. Mom loves Sara—maybe more than she loves me because she doesn't drink when Sara's home. Ever. It used to kind of piss me off, but now I'm relieved. Maybe Mom knows I can deal with it. Sara couldn't.