by Jenn Cooksey
He backhands me. It’s not hard and my face barely turns with the impact, but it’s enough to get my attention. “You will not use that tone with me, you hear me?! I will not be spoken to like that by my son in my own damned house!” His tone is suggestive of one that could’ve been used to say, “I brought you into this world. I can take you out.”
I grab the beer off the counter again and start chugging as I turn to go into my room.
“Where do you think you’re going?!” I glare at him over my shoulder to see he’s only a step behind me. “How dare you turn your back to me!”
“You really need to back off, Sir…I have had a day to end all shitty as fuck days and I can’t handle more bullshit right now without going ballistic.”
“Well, whose fault is that now, huh? It’s no wonder you had your ass beat and it’s about damned time! Saves me the trouble of doing it myself,” he growls and stands in my doorway with his hands fisted on his hips, like his son having his face punched repeatedly was just desserts for having a party without permission the night before, “With your impudent, foolhardy actions and utter lack of respect shown in the last twenty-four hours, you have brought nothing but shame to this house and my good name!”
Did he seriously just say you’ve brought shame to a HOUSE?
Jesus fucking Christ! Where does he think we live? Tara? During the 1860s?! It was a party! I hosted a stupid party, reluctantly I might add, not fall in with the wrong side during the War of Northern Aggression!
I open my mouth to retort and a light bulb goes off. He was home this morning and overheard every-little-fucking-thing said between Erica and me. He just doesn't know what we were actually talking about...he just assumes he does. “Just what, exactly, are you accusing me of here, Dad?”
“You watch your tone, ‘cause, Boy, so help me… I should wring your damned neck for doing what you did.”
I am so heated with unspoken resentment and overpowering fury, I push him when I question, “And what was that? Huh?”
“You know goddamned well what you did, and you did it my house!” He pushes back.
“I pay rent, you self-righteous son of a bitch!”
That gets me another backhanded smack across my face. This time, though, I feel it.
“You think because I make you be financially responsible for yourself that you’re entitled to do as you please?! Well I got news for ya, Boy, it don’t. Not here, not anywhere,” he angrily informs me and then pointing at my bed and the ruddy stain that’s clearly visible, he actually says exactly what he thinks of his only son. What he thinks of me… “Under my roof you preyed on that sweet girl’s emotions and stole her innocence when she was the most vulnerable. Now I wanna hear what you have to say for yourself!”
No, you really don’t…
I’m not sure if I mumble the thought aloud, but regardless, he provokes me to answer by sarcastically saying, “Speak up, sport, I can’t hear ya!”
Done. So fucking done. I’m shaking from the tippy-top of my head all the way down to my toenails, practically vibrating with barely restrained violence. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know what I’m about to say is essentially like asking to be hit, but I don’t care anymore. I'm not a frightened little boy waiting for him to come home to see the report card in my trembling hand that has a far from acceptable C- on it, and trying for the life of me to think of a way I can explain, or make it or myself go away altogether before I have to present it to him and receive my punishment. I’m an adult, it’s my life, and I don’t owe him or his mother fucking house and good name an explanation for jack shit. Not to mention that I didn’t actually do what he’s accusing me of. I made sure of that. Despite everything last night, that one thing was what I made sure I wouldn’t be guilty of.
“You wanna know what I have to say? How ‘bout fuck you. Fuck you, fuck your rules, fuck your house, and especially fuck your good name!”
His arm draws back and knowing that whether or not I move or duck, it’s gonna fucking hurt, I just stand here and wince in anticipation. Nothing happens. No earsplitting pain, no crunching of bone…nothing. I crack my eyes open just in time to see crushing regret make an appearance on his face while he says, “Get outta my house. I want you gone before I come back.”
“As you wish, Your Highness,” I say to his turning frame, bowing and waving my hand in front of me in snide, royal deference.
Out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of my mockery, so grabbing hold of me by the arm and shirt collar, he throws me backwards into my room where I land sideways on my bed. “OUT! Get. Out. Now!”
He storms out of the house and I start throwing shit into as many duffle bags and backpacks as I can find, marveling over what I refer to as my “Free Bird” moment. I’ve been planning and looking forward to this for so long; however, I never in a million years would’ve pictured it going down this way. Not that it really matters anymore. The little boy I used to be and I are both finally free. I’m getting the hell out of this house and as far away as I can get from Darth, this shit-hole town, and its entire population…
8
“The Unforgiven”
—Erica—
Throughout the day, my conscience has been sending me visual flashes of last night and with them, targeted bursts of sorrow, guilt, and electrically charged regret randomly slam into me when I least expect them to. Although I would’ve preferred to see the new summer blockbuster that just released, I don’t care for seeing movies alone and according to what Destiny told me when I texted her earlier, she got herself grounded by coming home past curfew last night. She’d be really hurt and would probably send me on a first-class guilt trip if I abandoned our new movie release ritual and saw it without her anyway, so instead, I’ve spent the entire day doing laundry, dusting, window shopping at the mall; all in an effort to keep myself occupied and distracted while I attempt the cumbersome task of forgiving myself.
Cole, God love him, was absolutely right.
Despite the urge and the justification I have to do so, I am not going to beat myself up for what didn’t happen last night. After all, he was the victim of my utter break from reality and all rational thought, so if he’s not going to make it a thing, then there’s no reason for me to.
Standing in the bed linen aisle of Walmart, I nod once decisively, physically reaffirming my decision to let it go. In that vein of thinking, I also decided earlier today that I’m done wallowing in self-pity and allowing my grief to exert control over me like it has this past week. I refuse to be anyone’s bitch…even my own.
Picking out and buying Cole new sheets even though he told me not to doesn’t count. Unintentional as it was, I still ruined his sheets. Yes, he can probably pre-treat them and get most of the blood up, but he’s kidding himself if he thinks there won’t be a stain. Blood is just one of those things that if you don’t deal with it immediately, it’ll always be there to haunt you. That’s why at almost seven o’clock tonight, I spontaneously jumped up off the couch and drove to Walmart to pick up some new sheets along with the contents of a Cinderella Care Package I decided to put together for him; including but not limited to a bucket and scrub brush, Oxy Clean, and a homemade coupon to be his laundry slave for a day.
Okay, so my care packages and coupons are a totally high school thing to do. I realize this, I do, but I just graduated and I can’t change who I am over night—no matter how much I might want to and try. Besides, it’s the thought that counts and it’s better than nothing. Plus this way, when Cole refuses my offer of cleaning up the mess I made, like I’m pretty sure he will, he’ll still end up sleeping on clean sheets at the end of the day. Now if I can only determine from memory if his bed is a full or a queen and then decide between stripes and plain old blue like he had before I landed my possessed butt on broken glass.
Maybe something to match his comforter…
I place the striped set in my cart along side the light blue ones and reach out towards the shelves again, my hand pau
sing briefly in midair before I bring it back with a sudden realization. I have no idea what Cole’s comforter actually looks like. Thinking back to this morning, though, I almost want to say it’s just plain white. Like plain plain; no duvet cover or anything. Just a white, down-filled comforter.
I have to shake myself when I begin to feel heat creeping into my cheeks from yet another unbidden memory; one that’s accompanied by phantom sensations. The warmth that spreads across my face and the tinge of weakness in my knees make me feel as though my body has abandoned the moral high ground that it should be clawing its way tooth and nail to be standing on again…that is, if it has any understanding of what remorse is. It clearly doesn’t, which is further demonstrated as I have to take a deep breath to slow my heart rate back down and brush away a vigilante tear before it falls from my eye.
Hastily I shove my emotional instability away again and the plain blue linens back onto the shelf. I look away and try to ignore the sheets that seem to be shouting my uneasy distraction to the world by standing out in stark contrast against all the patterned bedding I’d carelessly put them with. As I scoot myself the hell out of the aisle, sniffling back another tear or two, my cart crashes into someone else’s and I immediately start crying. Like, full-blown crying…runny, snotty nose and all.
“Oh my Gosh! I am so sor…ry,” the other cart driver exclaims, her voice trailing off with the last syllables of her apology. It’s too late, she’s seen what I’m not stealthy or fast enough at replacing with my happy face. “Erica? Oh, honey…”
I look up into a kind and familiar face, feeling instant relief and my embarrassment evaporating quickly once I connect the dots and put the face with her name. Missy Johnstone, my friend and lab partner from junior year.
She and I haven’t been super close friends, but she’s really sweet and we always got along. Missy is one of those seemingly quiet and innocent kinds of girls, but she only appears that way because she doesn’t let anything whatsoever take over or get in the way of what’s important to her. Over the years we were in school together, I learned what that was; working her tail off to gain entrance and a full academic scholarship to the Ivy League school of her choice, Cornell University, which she did, thanks to her close to perfect SAT scores, outstanding application essay, and not allowing herself to get caught up in any of the typical high school drama. In fact, she didn’t have an interest in finding a date and I didn’t see the point in having Holden spend all that money to come home just for a dance that he and I already went to together the year before, so Missy and I opted to have a pajama party instead of going stag to our Senior Prom. That night she told me that in her last class of the day this past year, she’d had to wear earplugs so she wouldn’t be tempted to listen in on the day’s gossip. I mean that’s some serious dedication.
She sighs. “I’m not even gonna ask how you’re holding up.”
“Yeah, I guess the crying pretty much says it all, huh?” That’s what I say to her, but…
Everything in me wants to fall apart right here in the middle of freaking Walmart. My grief over losing the love of my life, the guilt I feel for the physical betrayal I forced Cole into being a part of, my body’s insistence of reminding me what that betrayal felt like in the moment, and, so much more…all of it is screaming; throwing a maudlin temper tantrum of the highest order inside of me to be let out. But that’s not me; I’m the happy one. The fixer. I’m the one who always sees the bright side and can help everyone find their smile when life steals it away from them. I just can’t seem to find one for myself lately and I feel so…alien. Like nothing about who I am, or the person I’ve always thought of myself as is recognizable anymore; neither nor both of those people are around right now. I’m playing Hide and Seek with myself and I’m losing and winning at the same time, and it’s not right. It just feels so very wrong. I feel wrong.
As bent and broken as I am on the inside, though, I don’t want to give in. I don’t want to explore any of the reasons for why I feel this way, and I especially don’t want to let my emotions ride roughshod all over me anymore, in public in particular. I want myself back. I just don’t exactly know where to go looking for me without finding someone else I like even less than the person mirrored in the reflection of Missy’s soft eyes.
The answer of course is straight forward, if not self-depriving and probably harder than not to accomplish. Make believe. Pretending everything is normal; that I’m just fine and dandy with nothing in the least haunting me. So, here I go, I’m taking a big breath, about to suck it up for the world, and I’m sticking my head in the sand for the foreseeable future. I mean who knows, maybe my smile is buried somewhere down there and I’ll have to dig to China to find it.
“Well, that and all the cleaning supplies,” she sarcastically grimaces and gestures to my cart with a laugh, “Scrub brushes and laundry detergent say a lot sometimes. And you have new sheets…redecorating therapy?”
“Oh, no, it’s my version of an apology to Cole,” I explain.
“Cole…?” she drags his name out, her brow furrowing as she searches her memory, “Oh, Cole Hastings. Duh. I forgot about him. Don’t know how, though, he’s so cute.”
Missy’s atypical for her statement catches me off guard. “You think he’s cute?”
“Well, yeah. I mean he’s not, like, pretty-boy cute. He’s ah…I don’t know, more rugged, maybe? You know, like he’s got a real rough around the edges quality, but he’s got that great smile that smoothes out anything harsh or overly sharp, and I swear his eyes are the color of melted Hershey’s Kisses. He’s really kinda yummy.”
“Huh.” I realize that Missy’s right, but that I never really gave much thought to what it is about Cole’s looks that other girls instinctually find so attractive. “I guess I can sorta see that.”
“Can I ask you something, though? You know I don’t like to gossip or anything, and I know he’s Holden’s best friend…or, was,” she stutters, her face twisting into a wince of sorts with the correction.
“Yeah, I know…it’s okay.”
La-la-la-la…now, where did I put that shovel again?
“Sorry. Alright, lemme start over,” she half-heartedly chuckles, “It’s none of my business really, but since we’re talking about him and everything, I was just curious…is Cole gay?”
Operation Smile Excavation clearly getting off to a rough start, I feel the color drain from my face and then virtually simultaneously, as if the blood surging downward has a sudden, violent change of heart, I feel almost feverish as my eyes cloud and swim with memories and gratitude for what Cole must’ve gone through for me last night.
“Oh my gosh, Erica, not that I think Cole and Holden are…I mean, were at all,” Missy blurts out, misinterpreting my blushing for what I can only imagine is some form of stunned anger, “I just…ugh. I’ve heard all kinds of opposing rumors to the idea, but I just don’t think I’ve ever, like, seen him with a girl, you know? And since you know him really well, I thought you’d know if he is. I mean it’s cool if he is and it’s totally none of my business like I said. You know what, never mind. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”
I blink a few times and my brain finally catches up, my equilibrium and facial features evening out. “Oh, um…no, it’s okay, really. I didn’t think that’s what you meant. Honestly. The question just, um…threw me, I guess. And actually, I don’t even know. I’ve sorta thought that before too,” I tell her honestly, but I leave out one teeny-tiny detail that has recently produced some substantial doubt to that theory, which if ever proved true would only make me feel even worse. I shake myself again however, digging further towards the Far East. “I never asked him, though, because it doesn’t matter if he is or not, and Holden never said anything either, so…”
Missy blows out a relieved breath. “See? This is why I always kept my mouth shut and stayed away from idle gossip and social politics. I suck at all that stuff,” she laughs at herself, reassured that she hadn’t m
ade me question my relationship with Holden in any way or crossed some sort of invisible line, “But since I already went ahead and slaughtered the curious cat, and it’s how we started talking about Cole in the first place, do you mind me asking why you’re buying him sheets as a form of apology?”
“Oh, I um, I lost my mind a little last night after the funeral. I threw a beer bottle at his head and ended up falling on all the shards after it broke against the wall. I cut my leg amongst other parts of me, and then of course I sat on Cole’s bed and bled all over his sheets. It wasn’t my finest hour,” I admit, but instead of feeling embarrassed to the core like I was this morning, an extraterrestrial smile forms on my lips. Abridged as it was, something about saying it out loud like that seems to put the whole scene into perspective for me. So much so that I have to roll my eyes and laugh at my ridiculous self.
Missy laughs with me, like we’re two halves of one socially inept soul that can’t seem to go more than five minutes without committing some kind of faux pas. We stand here for a couple more minutes talking and sort of reminiscing about a few shared high school memories before her phone dings with a text and she rolls her eyes with a huff.
“Now my brother wants me to bring home fudge-sicles in addition to ice cream sandwiches. I swear, I’m surprised a study hasn’t been done to link tonsillectomies to juvenile diabetes. I mean he had them out over a week ago and he’s still milking it!” she tells me with a laugh and goes to give me a hug, “I better get going.”
I chuckle too and hug her back. “Hey, do you want to see a movie with me later tonight or maybe tomorrow?” I ask, thinking I should be able to see a movie whenever and with whomever I want to without being sent on a guilt trip by someone who’s supposed to be my friend. After all, maybe my smile is lurking in a dark movie theater? Yeah, I know, probably not, but it could still be worth a look.
