I closed my eyes and let the waves of confusion and shame wash over me. Flashes of pajama pants, fishing boats, and teddy bear nightlights assaulted me, but I pushed the images away. I imagined I could smell cheap cologne and sweat, and began to choke in reaction. Perspiration pooled under my bra, and despite the sub-freezing temperatures outside, I felt hot and flushed.
Grabbing my purse, cell phone, and paperback book, I rushed down the stairs and outside without even putting on a jacket. Cold air assaulted me the moment I stepped outside, but I couldn’t bear the thought of going back inside my house. I beat desperately on Sean’s door until he answered.
“Alex, what’s wrong?” He led me inside and scrutinized my face closely. “Did something happen?” I shook my head.
Once inside his room, he pulled me into his arms and rubbed my back. It was just like old times. We didn’t speak or move. He stroked my hair, held me against his chest, offered comfort and nothing more. He wasn’t my boyfriend or lover. Wasn’t my overly possessive, jealous fiancé. He was my friend. Just Sean. And, I loved him.
***
It was relief to get back into the routine of school. Exhilaration marked the second semester of my senior year of high school. As Chelsea constantly reminded me, it was crunch time. Time to make major decisions about my life, time to make that final ascent into adulthood. In a few short months, I would clutch my diploma—my ticket into the world of independence. I felt a dizzying sense of empowerment. I glanced at the tiny diamond ring on my finger—a symbol my life was not my own after all.
Sean allowed me to take the ring off around my parents, but he insisted I wear it to school. I believed it was his way of marking me, of keeping others from encroaching upon his territory. His possessiveness, although stifling and vaguely insulting, filled me with a sense of worth. It felt comforting to know he loved me enough to feel such jealousy. He cared about me and didn’t want to lose me. He loved me, and sometimes love makes you do crazy things.
I met up with Chelsea outside our English classroom just as Sean came down the hallway. He kissed me soundly under my friend’s disapproving glare. When she cleared her throat to break us up, he smirked at her and swaggered down the hall. I knew for a fact he’d never make it to class on time. I could see detention in his immediate future.
“Wow. I still can’t believe you and Sean are a couple,” she hissed as we took our seats. Her eyes bugged out when she noticed the ring on my finger.
“I really don’t want to talk about right now.” I took out my twenty pound textbook and feigned interest in the index. Senior Honors English, my favorite class and one I consistently pulled an ‘A’ in, was one Sean could not share. He tried to rig his schedule to coincide with mine, but my advanced studies became an obstacle. Consequently, we only had one class together and I strongly suspected my grade in History would suffer because of it. He begged me to drop my honors classes, but I told him the guidance counselor wouldn’t allow it. This was lie. I never even considered asking because I couldn’t bear to have to explain myself to her, or see the look of disappointment in her eyes.
“Look, Alex. You know I don’t want to interfere…” Chelsea stopped speaking when Mr. Chalmers entered the classroom. His old-school, no-nonsense demeanor could quiet even the noisiest classroom. In four years, I’d never known a student to challenge him by making even the slightest sound.
He droned on about the high standards in universities and his own expectations for the last semester of our high school career. “The text in front of you hits the high points of Inferno, but I encourage each and every one of you to invest in your own copy of The Divine Comedy. I think it’s borderline criminal that most textbooks exclude Paradiso and Purgatorio; they’re doing you—and Dante Alighieri—a grave disservice.” I could practically feel the repressed eye-rolling of my fellow tormented students.
“This project will be seventy percent of your final grade for this semester.” His polyester pants swished as he made his way to the chalkboard and scrawled a point chart. “Each student will specialize in a particular Canto or Circle of Hell and most of your grade will be based upon your extensive research of this section of Inferno. Now, bear in mind, this will not excuse you from familiarizing yourself with the entire work. A portion of your grade will be based on an overview. For those of you who research all three Canticas, extra credit points will be given.”
I, along with nearly everyone else in the room, flipped through the pages, and I could sense relief sweep down the aisles as each student discovered the brevity of each Canto. I glanced at the board and my heart took an immediate dive when I saw the words, “Oral Presentation—10 points.” My oral presentation skills were subpar and I figured I’d lose half a letter grade in that category alone. I made a mental note to ask Sean to take me to the mall to buy my own complete copy of The Divine Comedy. I would surely need the extra credit points to make up for those areas where I would fall short.
“Pay attention, now,” Mr. Chalmers snapped. “Close your books and take out a pen and paper. I’ll read out your names along with your assigned Cantos.” I waited patiently, and when he called my name, I wrote “Cantos VII and VIII, The Fifth Circle” in my notebook. As I closed my notebook, I felt a prickly shiver on the back of my neck and shuddered in response. Something about this assignment felt personal, prophetic.
I was so lost in my own thoughts, I almost didn’t hear the bell ring at the end of class. A war raged inside me. I briefly considered slacking on this difficult assignment—just doing the bare minimum to make a solid B—but my basic nature rebelled against the idea. I wondered why I cared so much about making honor roll when I knew deep inside I would likely do nothing spectacular with my exemplary grades. My vague and unformed plans to drift through community college certainly wouldn’t require more than 3.0 GPA.
How easy it would be to coast through this final semester, to give in to my laziness, to sail toward graduation on a wave of indifference. My parents wouldn’t notice. Sean wouldn’t care. I envisioned the look of disbelief on Chelsea’s face if I ceased to be her Honor Roll buddy, Mr. Chalmers’ disappointment, and my sister’s smug “I told you so.” I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let go of the one thing that kept my self-esteem from plummeting into the abyss of my beer-stained, white trash life.
For twelve years, I’d lived for the A plus, the “Good Job” or “Nice Work” scrawled in red at the top of each test. My self-worth hinged on each compliment, each A, each proud nod from my teachers. Honor Roll meant I was someone—someone worthy of mention, of acknowledgment, of something I couldn’t define.
My good grades provided a framework for my identity. I was Alexandra Elmwood—Honor Roll Student. Alex the Choir Nerd. Alex the quiet girl in the back of the class. Now I’d become Alexandra Elmwood, girlfriend to Sean Droste—town psycho and school laughingstock. Obviously, Honor Roll Student was the best title I had and therefore, the most difficult to relinquish.
“You ready to go, baby?” Sean pushed through the crowded hallway. A giant of a football player nudged him roughly, and Sean’s books slid from his arms to the floor. He bent to pick them up as one textbook skittered out of his reach. The sea of students ebbed and flowed around him, but it had always been that way. Sean had never been able to swim with the others. He’d always been the boy who struggled to make his way, battled the tide, fought against the forces of nature which threatened to drag him under. And, I’d always been the girl who pulled him to the surface.
Chapter 12- Sean
The world oftimes converted into chaos
(Canto XII, line 43)
There had been a time I indulged Alex’s interest in school. I found her dedication endearing. There was even a time not so long ago I’d actively encouraged her. Alex was smart, maybe even brilliant, but I’d come to realize most of her intelligence was confined to book learning. She lacked basic common sense and needed my protection.
For instance, as sharp as she normally was, she still hadn’t pick
ed on my constant ‘accidental’ failure to wear a condom. This just proved her gullibility. Of course, maybe she wanted to get pregnant, but didn’t want to bring up the subject. Either scenario was possible, but regardless, Alex clearly had issues.
I couldn’t imagine how she would ever make it in the real world without me. She startled too easily, became overwhelmed by the slightest stress, and had a difficult time making decisions. All in all, Alex was too sensitive to survive without someone to shield her from life’s cruelties. She needed me to protect her.
I tore my gaze away from my computer screen and glanced behind me where she lay sprawled across my rumpled bedspread. One strand of dark hair had escaped her loose ponytail and dangled over her pale cheek. She made a soft “whoosh” as she blew the offending tendril out of her way. She didn’t even notice I’d paused my game to stare at her. She was too involved in her book.
“Vampires?” I asked. She knew I thought those books were a waste of time.
“No. Classic literature.”
“Old shit?” That crap was a waste of time too, but at least it was for a grade. Of course, she really didn’t need to work so hard. It wasn’t like she was headed for the Ivy League, or anywhere else for that matter. I planned to marry her right out of high school and keep her home as much as I could.
“Yeah. Like seven-hundred years old. Dante. The Inferno. You guys don’t have to read this?” she asked, batting her eyes innocently. Oh, so Little Miss 3.6 GPA thought she was better than me just because she was in the Honors Class?
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?”
“You guys…what the fuck’s that about?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know, I could have been in Honors English if I wanted to.”
“I know. You’re really smart, Sean.” Alex spoke slowly just like she did when her dad was drunk and on a rampage. The way someone spoke to a man on a ledge. Or, a dude who just got out of the mental hospital. I wasn’t crazy.
“Don’t talk down to me, Alex. I’m not a lunatic…or your father. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, either. You think I’m stupid just because I’m not in your advanced classes. Well, if you think you’re too good for me, then just get the hell out of my house.” I picked up an empty soda can and threw it at the wall. When I picked up a paperback book and aimed it at her, she flinched.
“Fine.” She scooted to the end of my bed and started tossing her belongings into her backpack. “Call me later when you’re not such an asshole.” Red splotches dotted her cheeks and she refused to look at me as she slid her shoes onto her feet.
“I’m an asshole?” I blocked her path to the door and tried to force her to make eye contact.
“Yes.” Her voice shook and her chin quavered as she finally looked at me. Her mouth twisted in the way it always did when she was trying not to cry.
“Sorry, baby,” I said softly, stroking her cheek with my knuckles. “Don’t go.”
“Nice try. I’m leaving.” She tried to step around me, but I stepped back until I was pressed firmly against the door.
Our argument was cut short when my mom’s nervous voice floated down the hallway. “Alex, your dad’s here.” I moved away from the door feeling helpless. Alex trembled. I clutched her hand and she jerked it away. I followed Alex down the hall and the moment Mr. Elmwood saw me, he began shouting.
“You piece of shit son-of-a…If I find out you’re screwing my little girl, assuming you’d even know how, I’ll cut your…”
“Dad, stop it,” Alex cried. “Nothing happened. It’s okay. I’m coming home.”
“You hear me, boy?” her dad snarled. He was so drunk, he could hardly stand upright. “Keep your hands off my daughter.”
Mr. Elmwood’s beer-soaked stench wafted into my house and made me gag. When Alex was younger, she once told me she could smell him coming and tried to hide in her closet. Her resistance made it worse.
My wrath kept me immobile. My fear for Alex kept me silent. Until she was ready to leave, until she was prepared to move out of her father’s house, I couldn’t help her. I fought back tears of helplessness as she hoisted her backpack on her shoulders and followed her father out the door.
She tossed me a look of despair, and I started after her, but my mother placed a gentle hand on my arm to hold me back. “Don’t honey. It’ll just make it worse.” I watched until Alex went inside, then went into my bedroom to cry alone.
I thought about my mother’s words: “It’ll just make it worse.”
Maybe it was true. My interference wouldn’t help her unless she was willing to help herself by leaving. Perhaps it was an excuse. What was worse anyway? Was it worse to leave someone in an unbearable situation, or to take a risk and help? Which was worse: inactivity or ill-considered action?
I thought about Alex and the pain she’d endured, her broken, damaged nine-year-old body forced to grow up too soon, and every single person who refused to listen to the pleas of the troubled Droste boy.
“It’ll just make it worse,” my mother said.
That’s just an excuse people use to make themselves feel better for doing nothing.
***
All my problems began when my father left. It wasn’t really the leaving that messed me up, just the general lack of supervision. I never really felt like a child of a broken home. His absence went unnoticed for the most part because he’d never really been a part of my life. Not even when he still lived with us.
He wasn’t a drinker, a womanizer, an abuser, or a bum. He worked a lot, gave my mom his paycheck, mowed the lawn, and did everything expected of him until the day he decided he didn’t want to do it any longer. He wasn’t mean, nasty, or hateful—just gone. He sent child support payments, birthday and Christmas cards, and even visited regularly for a while.
Sam Droste wasn’t a bad man, just a bad father. I often wondered how someone could decide they didn’t want to be who they were, but as I grew older, I could understand him better. I think a lot of people find themselves stuck in a life they don’t want to be a part of, but most can’t find the courage to break free.
My father was not a coward. He left when I was six. I’d never felt angry with him for leaving. Maybe if he’d stayed, the anger would have simmered, boiled over, and molded him into the monster so many fathers became.
After he moved out, my mom left me to my own devices while she tried to pick up the threads of the duties he’d left behind. There was money to be earned, lawns to be mowed, sinks to be fixed, and while she did all these things, I entertained myself. The other boys on the block didn’t hang out with me. Their micromanaged lives left little room for idle play. In between birthday parties, football practice, and church youth group, they peered at me through the windows of their moms’ minivans as I rode my bike alone.
When I turned nine, I began to feel the sting of rejection, the hollow ache of being left behind. The other boys played football. I spent my time alone or with Alex. The other boys were wiry with thin cords of muscle beginning to develop thanks to their structured, sports-centered lives. My scrawny build stopped about three inches short of my peers. They spoke of team parties, touchdowns, and fishing trips. I talked non-stop about Sim City and Kingdom Hearts. Only Alex understood me.
Alex went to her aunt’s house for a week while I spent the hot, humid summer days sweltering at home. Our air-conditioner broke the week before, and my mom had to wait until her next paycheck to fix it. I wasn’t supposed to leave the house until she got home and I’d never disobeyed her before. Even with the windows open, the temperature inside the house crept upwards and my shirt stuck to my skin. I finally peeled off my clothes, donned my swimming suit, and used the bathtub as a swimming pool.
Lying back in the tepid water, I closed my eyes and pretended I was Shark Boy. I kicked my imaginary webbed feet and slid underneath the water to practice my breathing techniques. Swimming through the ocean waves, I set out o
n a quest to find Lava Girl, for only I had the power to save her. Of course, in my fantasy, Lava Girl possessed chestnut hair, ocean-blue eyes, and a laugh that sounded surprisingly like Alex’s melodious giggle. Opening my eyes, the illusion was shattered. Only clear water and porcelain could be seen.
A trail of water followed me to the kitchen where I rummaged through the cabinets in search of blue food coloring. Better, I thought, as I prepared to dive in. The bathtub almost looked like a real ocean, only on a much smaller scale. Bare feet slapped against the hardwood floor as I searched for flippers, and when I caught a view of the neighbor’s above-ground pool, there was little choice to be made.
Three hours passed in blue-watered splendor before the Davidsons came home and caught me. No permanent damage was done, but the expense of cleaning and refilling the pool was enough to ensure our air conditioning didn’t get fixed for at least another paycheck. I cried when my mom told me I couldn’t play outside for a month.
I shouldered the blame for the pool incident—a boy of nine clearly knows better. The fire incident was truly not my fault. People shouldn’t leave lighters just lying around. And, the thing with the pit bulls…I only let them out because I felt sorry for them. I was going to tie them to a rope and walk them, but they ran. When I chased them and they caused that car accident, it was just a byproduct of my original mistake, not a pre-meditated act of deliberate juvenile delinquency.
By my eleventh birthday, I’d been in the back of three cop cars, visited the family court judge twice, and been dubbed the “troubled Droste boy.” But none of it was my fault. According to the neighbors, I was merely a product of a broken home, the result of my father leaving. They said I was a poor, unsupervised kid.
When you’re thirteen and the same things happen, though, pity turns to scorn and you’re labeled “that little bastard who turned the Davidsons’ pool blue.” Or, “that shithead who set the Olsen’s carport on fire.” Or, “the freak who went to the mental ward.” Nobody feels sorry for you after your baby fat gives way to acne and your knobby kneed innocence fades to gangly awkwardness. Nobody feels sorry for you because people can forgive many indiscretions, but being different is unforgiveable.
The Fifth Circle Page 9
