Still for whatever reason, I say, “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” he repeats.
“Nothing,” I mumble, “that I want to talk about.”
“Okay.” He hops off the counter and grabs my hand. “C’mon.”
“Where?” I ask, digging my heels into the tile.
“To my bedroom, where else?” he asks, shaking his head strangely.
“You’re acting weird,” I tell him, but I let him pull me along. I can’t seem to stop him.
“You’re going to call me weird when you can’t even tell me what you did last night?” He gives me a look that says, You’re the weirdo.
“You know what?” I disengage my hand from his. I think I can still make a break for it, so I say, “I don’t feel well. I have a headache. I’m going to go back to school.” I turn quickly, grab my book bag off the counter, and head for the sliding glass door. Danny follows close behind, so I move faster.
“Why are you freaking out?” His voice is monotone, slightly bored.
“I’m not freaking out.” I fumble with the lock on the sliding door. “I just have a really bad headache.”
“Headache or hangover?” His voice catches speed. “Does Marc have a hangover, too?”
The question slams into me.
“What?” I ask against my better judgment. “What are you talking about?”
“Susie.” He pushes up behind me, places his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t lie to me. Please.”
I turn to face him. He’s standing so close. Our chests are pressed against one another. I can feel every breath he takes.
“Back up,” I say slowly.
He steps backward until he is sitting on his family room couch. I wait to speak, trying to judge what I should say. He sits with his head in his hands; his foot taps impatiently against the coffee table.
“Can I ask you a question?” The shift in his tone catches me off guard. He’s back in control. “Are we…together?” He asks.
“What?” It’s a question that apparently neither of us has the answer to.
“Are we together?” he repeats. “You asked me that earlier at the canal, and I want to know what you think.” He pauses. “I really do want to know what you think.”
“I don’t know what to think,” I tell him, rapping my head against the glass door. “I don’t.”
“I don’t either.” He looks away from me. I wonder if he’ll ever really look at me again.
“Then what difference does it make?” I say quietly.
“What difference do I make?” he shoots back. “To you?”
“Danny,” I whisper his name softly. “I…I like you. A lot.” Telling him that I like him is one of the hardest things that I’ve ever had to say, but I say it anyway because I understand that I might never have the opportunity to say it again.
“But, Susie, what difference does it make if you like me, if you can’t tell me anything? Why didn’t you tell me about your mom’s memorial service?” He takes a deep breath. “Why didn’t you at least tell me about Marc?”
How could I tell him about Marc? To tell him about Marc so that he would understand, I would have to tell how most of the time I walk around like I’m carrying twenty rocks on my shoulders. How sometimes the anxiety is so bad that I just want to disappear. That until I met him, I was able to push all these feelings away, hide behind my Blockbuster card, my silly little life where nothing ever changed. How can I tell him all that? I barely understand it myself.
“I just couldn’t.” I slide down the glass door and bury my head in my knees to hide the tears.
“You should go.” He walks over to me, gives me his hand to help me up. I take it, knowing that it’s probably the last time we’ll ever touch.
“Okay.” I stand. I feel him looking at me, but I keep my head close to my body. I don’t want him to see me.
He pushes the sliding glass door open and waits for me to leave. But now I don’t want to leave; I want to stay.
“What about tutoring?” I ask, all sense of pride gone. “You have that big test on Friday.”
“I already told Mr. Murphy that I don’t need you to tutor me anymore,” he says. “But don’t worry, I’ve already found someone else to help.”
“Who?” I push the tears back and look up at him, but somehow, I already know. We both know that I already know.
“Susie—” he says.
“No, who?” I ask again. I want to hear him say it.
“Tamara. It’s Tamara.”
after i leave danny’s house, i don’t go home. i wander aim-lessly around the canal, thinking about the last few months of my life.
At the far end of the canal, fifteen houses away from Danny’s, I sit down underneath a tree. Ironically, the weather is nippy today. Still, not having the sun beat down on my head makes me feel better. The grass is soft beneath my body and I just want to curl up in a fetal position and cry…so I do.
Lying on the grass with my eyes closed, I remember what it was like to kiss Danny. And then I think about Marc. I think about how it felt to have his body over mine, how I liked it—how I wanted him to be Danny. And then I think about Danny back at his house. I think about our bodies pressed together, feeling his chest rise, feeling his breath enter his body.
And then I think about my dad and how we never talk about my mom. How she stopped existing in words the day that she died. I tried once when I was in sixth grade. I asked him if he missed her. I missed her. I think I just wanted someone to really, really understand. But all he did was sigh. He looked down at me, his eyes so weary, his head turned into the refrigerator and he sighed. I stood there waiting, my feet cold from the tile. I waited. And the waiting turned into weeks, months, and then years. I think even now, I am still waiting.
THIRTY-THREE
dad starts to wake up
that night i walk home in the dark. when i get there all the lights are on, and Leslie’s car is parked next to my father’s. I stick my key in the lock and take a deep breath. I look like crap. I’m just hoping that nobody will point it out.
The minute I open the door, all hell breaks loose. My dad is screaming. Leslie is shaking her head. Marisol is sitting at the dining room table staring at me, totally confused.
“Where have you been?” my dad asks, his voice several decibels higher than I’ve ever heard it before. “Where have you been? I nearly called the police. It’s nine o’clock!”
“Why didn’t you?” I ask. I’m so tired, more tired than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
“Where were you?” he repeats.
“C’mon, Dad, you barely notice that I’m here when I’m here. What does it matter if I’m a few hours late? I’m home. I’m alive. Deal with it.” I give him a dirty look and try to step around him, which is hard because he’s intentionally blocking my path. All I want to do is go to my bed and never leave it.
“Where are you going? We’re not done talking.” He’s furious. I don’t blame him. I just don’t care.
“I’m tired. I want to go to sleep. We’ll talk about this in the morning.” My voice is cold. Adult and cold.
“Susie,” my dad asks again, blocking my path, “where have you been? Your school called. They said you missed every class after lunch. They said this is the second time you’ve done that.”
“Move,” I tell him quietly.
“No,” he says, the heat from his breath pushing against my face. “This is my house. I asked you a question.”
“I don’t have to tell you.” I move to the right, but he grabs my arm and holds me in place.
“Yes, you do. If you want to live here you do.”
“Why are you acting like this? Why are you making this such a big deal? I want to go to sleep!” I yell.
“Why am I acting like this?” He grabs my shoulders and shakes me roughly. For the first time I notice that his eyes are redder than usual. His hair is all mussed up. “Why? Susie, don’t you know what can happen to you out there?” His voice catches
. He looks away from me.
“No, Dad, I don’t know what can happen out there. I only know what can happen in here, which,” I say, my voice spilling out of me with absolutely no control whatsoever, “is you ignoring me for the last six years and then freaking out on me because I’m a few hours late!”
“Where were you?” he repeats for the third time, but now the question is even less important to me than it was five minutes ago.
“None of your business.” I try to untangle myself from him.
“Where?” His grip hardens.
“At. The. Canal.” I practically spit each word into his face.
“Why didn’t you call me? I didn’t know where you were.” He squeezes my shoulders so hard, I yelp in pain.
“Dad, you’re hurting me.” Once again, I try to pry myself away from him, but he won’t let go. “Dad!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “You’re hurting me!”
I was shaking now, my eyes tearing up more from shock than pain. My father didn’t TOUCH ME. My father didn’t LAY HIS FINGERS ON ME.
Leslie steps forward, places her hand over my dad’s until she feels his fingers loosen. “Joe,” she says, her voice calm and in control, “she’ll tell us when she’s ready. Okay? Maybe”—Leslie takes a step back, gives us some room—“we should all sit down and talk about this.”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Leslie. I want to go to my room.”
“Susie,” Marisol says, “come on.”
“Oh shut up,” I snap at Marisol. Where was she today when I needed her? And now she thought she could just come into my house and gang up on me? I don’t think so. “What do you care? Do you know how bad school was for me today? Do you?” I take two steps closer to her, so that I’m staring down at her.
“What are you talking about?” She shakes her head at me. “Why do you always have to make things so difficult?”
“I’m not making anything difficult. Things are difficult for me because that’s just how it is. But you wouldn’t know that because you’re too busy with your head stuck up your boyfriend’s ass!”
“Susie.” This time it’s Leslie trying to calm me down. I can’t stand the way these two think they can get me to do whatever they want because that’s how it’s been for the last six years.
“Look, Leslie”—my voice drips with sarcasm—“I’m just trying to go to sleep. I’m tired. We don’t always have to talk about our feelings.”
“Susie,” Marisol says, her voice warning me, “don’t talk to my mother like that.”
“Well then, Marisol,” I say in my bored voice, “please remind her that she’s your mother and not mine.”
“Why are you being such a bitch?” Marisol hisses.
“Because,” I say rather simply, “I can.”
“You know what?” Marisol says, standing up and walking to the door, “don’t ever talk to me again. I’m tired of never having fun because of you, and always having to deal with your weird panic attacks, and always wondering if what I say is going to hurt your feelings.” Her voice rises and reaches a plateau that is unsteady and wobbly.
“Yeah”—my voice grows higher, too—“well, I’m tired of you selling me out for Coldplay tickets, and lunch with Ryan, and for you not understanding that maybe, just maybe, on the day MY MOTHER DIED, I might not want to talk to YOU!”
“Yeah”—Marisol walks dangerously close to me—“well, I’m tired of your self-imposed drama. Making out with Marc on your DEAD MOTHER’S BED? How lame can you be?”
“What?” my father says. “What?”
“How do you know?” My voice rises up over my father’s.
“Tamara told the whole school, okay?” Marisol shakes her head at me, like she’s disappointed in me. “How could you hurt Danny like that?”
But my mind is thinking about something else. “You knew and you didn’t try to find me?” Even Danny tried to find me. But my best friend left me out to dry.
Marisol looks away from me. She has nothing to say, and she can’t meet my eyes.
“Girls.” Once again Leslie takes control. “This is getting out of hand. Susie, I’m not sure what’s going on with you, and you’re right, I am not your mother. But I do love you, whether you like it or not.”
Leslie pauses to exchange a look with my father. I stare at Marisol, still trying to comprehend on how many levels she has sold me out.
“Regardless,” Leslie continues, “you had us worried. We didn’t know what happened to you. And after losing your mother…You have to understand how that might make your dad feel. In the future, please call. Okay?”
I pull my eyes away from Marisol and turn to Leslie. I stare at her through slanted eyes. I wasn’t here to take orders from her.
“Okay?” she repeats, offering me a shaky smile.
“Just shut up!” I tell her, the words ripping through my mouth like a tornado. “Just shut up with your okay bullshit! I’ll never be okay!” I point at my dad. “He’ll never be okay! We’ll never be okay!”
I stop screaming, totally worn. I look at them. I look at each one of them, but nobody seems to be able to say anything. All they can do is stare at me, unsure of what to say or do next.
“I just want to go to bed,” I mutter.
“Susie.” My dad’s voice is strained with anger. “What’s going on with you? How dare you speak to Leslie like that?” He turns his back on me, and a loud moan seems to shake his entire body. “What is going on with you?”
“You want to know what’s going on with me?” I say to his back. The back he has turned TO ME. And all I can think about is all the times I’ve tried to tell him about my life, my feelings, my thoughts, my fears, and I remember all the times that I’ve heard him say, “Maybe later,” or “When this book is done,” or “I promise it’ll be soon.” I remember all the empty promises that made me feel nonexistent, and I think how ironic it is that now—only now when we have an audience—he wants to know what’s going on with me.
“Okay…” If he wants to know the truth, I’ll give him the whole truth. “Let’s see…In the last month Danny and I have skipped school, made out in the library, and slept together on the floor of his bedroom. Marc and I have mostly just talked, but he’s been smoking a lot of pot, too. Then we got drunk, made out.” I try to stop the words, hold on to my breath because what I am about to say can never be taken back, but the words keep coming. They want to get out. “Oh, you’re going to love this one, Dad. I let him feel me up on Mom’s bed. How’s that?” I finish, a crazy person’s smile splayed across my face.
I don’t see the slap coming. I barely see Leslie jumping between us to prevent the second strike. But later in bed, I rub my jaw and stare in the mirror at the red circle that stains the right side of my face. I feel the sudden sting of it over and over again. And then, and only then, do I understand that I have gone too far.
THIRTY-FOUR
the aftermath
to be honest, i’m not really surprised when my dad grounds me for two months. It seems that’s the least that he can do to assert his parental control.
And believe me, my dad is definitely asserting his parental control. According to his written set of instructions, I am to go to school, come home, do my homework, and go to sleep. I am not to do any extracurricular activities. I am not to speak to Marc. I am, basically, only allowed to breathe. Oh, and on good days, I can smile. But not too much.
Despite my wrecked home life, high school continues. As usual, nobody speaks to me, especially Marisol. Instead, we find an amicable way to dissolve our friendship. Basically, Marisol leaves me a note asking me to remove all of my things from HER locker. Then she leaves me a combination lock for my new locker. (Isn’t that thoughtful?) And then, I carve some choice adjectives on the inside of HER locker. And our friendship, and any ties to that friendship, officially cease to exist.
As for Danny, he seems to have disappeared. I go days and days without ever seeing him. But I miss him. I miss the way his Zest smell. I miss t
he curls that fall into his eyes. I miss what had almost been and what will never be. Out of all the different parts of my life that I have chosen to no longer think about, Danny is the hardest to erase.
Oddly enough, Marc once again becomes my best friend. In the days following my breakup with Marisol and Danny, we spend a lot of school time together. Sometimes I talk. Sometimes he talks. Sometimes I listen. Sometimes he listens. Sometimes there is absolutely nothing to say, which is okay. I think we both just really don’t want to be alone.
“So your dad must be super-pissed,” Marc says, a few days after THE INCIDENT (which is how I refer to my father’s slap in the face), “to keep up with your grounding like that. My mom never remembers when she grounds me.”
We are eating lunch in a legendary OG “smoker’s spot” outside one of the stairwell doors.
“Yeah, I think he’s pretty pissed.” More than pissed. My dad is so mad at me, he’s barely looked at me for the last three days.
“Did you tell him about us?” Marc asks.
“Yep.”
“Aw, shit, you know he’s going to tell my mom.” Marc looks only slightly worried. “Not that she’ll care. Caring,” he says, “might cause her to get some wrinkles and she’s not into that. Any word on when you’ll get off the hook?”
“None. I don’t care. It’s not like I have anywhere to be after school. Nobody to see. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of a loner.”
“Nothing wrong with being a loner,” Marc says, looking at me.
“Yeah.” I pick at the edge of my pizza. “Except it gets lonely.”
“Well…” Marc pulls out a cigarette and sniffs it. He dangles it from the side of his mouth while he searches for his lighter. “I don’t know what to tell you. Smoke?” he says, when he finally gets it lit.
“You know I don’t smoke.” I push it away.
“I know. I’m hoping you’ll change your mind.” He blows the smoke in my face and smiles.
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