Dear Rachel Maddow
Page 17
Date:
February 22
Subject:
The hits just keep on coming
Dear Rachel Maddow,
I didn’t even make it to class today. I had plans to ask Michaela to the movies as soon as she got to the blue room for peer tutoring. Instead, I was pulled into Maynard’s House of Pain and Suffering before the first bell. My mom and Fart Weasel sat in the chairs in front of his desk. I sat, stunned.
“Brynn, I imagine you know why I called your parents in.”
“Parent,” I corrected him. “And the man married to her.”
“Stop with your mouth, young lady,” said Fart Wesel. The smell of awful rose off of him like skunk spray. “You see what we deal with,” he said to Mr. Maynard.
Mr. Maynard looked curiously from them to me. “Yes, well, Brynn, I’ve invited them in today to talk about the accusation of libel and harassment that has been leveled against you.”
“What?” I asked, surprised out of my stupor. “By whom?”
“By Adam Graff … and family,” said Mr. Maynard tiredly.
“Oh my Sp … God, Mr. Maynard, honestly. He accused me of harassing him? Are you kidding? After that thing in the hallway? And I’m the one in here again?”
“More pictures of Mr. Graff went out last night. And they were sent from your school e-mail account. Again. And Mr. Graff has alleged that you might have put up the posters about yourself.” Mr. Maynard looked pained listing the accusations against me.
“My … what? My e-mail?” I said. “I have barely used that. Ever. I sure as hell didn’t send anything about Adam. Despite what almost everyone might think, I’m not that stupid. If you told me about it once, why would I do it again from my own account?” Holy fucks why didn’t I change my fucking password on Tuesday?
Probably because I never actually send e-mail from my school account.
“Well, we are investigating that. You were making such improvements in your academics, so I thought I should involve your parents. To help keep you on the right track.”
“Oh, Mr. Maynard. You think my ‘parents’ give a shit?” I said, slumping back in my chair.
“You will not use language like that in front of a teacher!” Fart Weasel bellowed.
“Sir, I’m actually an administrator…” Mr. Maynard interrupted, but no one could compete with Fart when he got going.
“You chose to disrespect your mother and I one too many times with this. You are exactly like your brother. Exactly. Only, on my watch that shit isn’t going to fly. You are coming home with us and you will stay there. You can go to school and that is it. If you so much as try to set a toe outside our place in that time, I will call the police and have you arrested, do you understand?”
“Why do you care? Is it just because the school called you in? Listen…”
The Fart was not finished. “You will stop talking. You are always talking. Just stop. You are coming with us even if you refuse to be helped.” The vein on the back of his neck was bulging, he was trying so hard not to completely lose his shit in front of the principal.
Mr. Maynard, for his part, looked as though he completely regretted having called them. “Brynn,” he said gently. “Perhaps some time at home to think about—”
“Thank you,” said my mom. “That is enough. Please let us know if you need anything for the investigation. We are going to take her home to address these things as a family.” Wow. She could speak. Who knew? She got up and grabbed my arm. She pushed me out the door. Fart Weasel followed too closely behind. Mom shoved me in their car. It smelled like cat litter.
“I can’t believe you put me through that,” she said. “After your brother…”
“How did you think you’d get away with fucking with that boy? What? Did he fuck you and leave you? Couldn’t just leave it alone? We have to live in this town, too, you know.”
This was the best he could do. Turning this back around to be about him. Anger flared up in my stomach, but as I stared out the car window, I felt cool and numb and removed from the whole thing. It was like I was watching a movie from the far back of the theater.
“I didn’t do it, you know,” I said mostly to Mom. “I have no idea who is doing what with those pictures.”
“How did you know they were pictures?” she said. “If you didn’t do it?”
“Well, like Mr. Maynard said a minute ago…”
“Enough. You’ve said enough. Just shut up,” said Fart Weasel. Recalling the last time he got this angry, I shut up.
Mom forced me into the house. I wished I could escape back to Erin and Leigh’s.
“Can I go to work?” I asked.
Fart Wesel snorted. “Like you have a real job.”
“I do! And I’m scheduled tomorrow.”
“No, you aren’t. You probably just want to shoot up like your shithead brother.”
“No, I have a job.…”
“Then where’s the fucking money?” he said. “You owe us rent, you owe us for food. Just shut your mouth.”
I shut it.
I hid in my room. I huddled next to my bed and tried to stop shaking. I texted Erin and gave her the brief rundown. She said she understood and that she and Leigh were there if I needed anything.
“I’ve been accused of harassing Adam. Have been captured by Mom and her husband. Am trapped,” I texted to Michaela.
“What? Oh, Brynn. Can you get out?”
“Can’t. Only allowed to leave for school.”
“I’m so sorry, baby.”
It helped a little that she called me baby. No one had ever done that before. But it was only like two seconds later that my mom barged in the room and demanded my phone. I deleted Michaela’s whole text thread before she forced me to give it to her. I was too scared of Mom finding out about the whole gay thing on top of everything else that I didn’t have energy left to miss all of Michaela’s words.
All I could think to do was get out my laptop and write to you, Rachel. Mom tried to take that, too.
“Homework,” I said.
“You get it for an hour each night.”
The assholes changed the Wi-Fi password, so I couldn’t even try to contact anyone that way.
I could hear her and Fart Weasel arguing about me. He wanted to throw me out so they could call the cops. She wanted to make him dinner. Finally she won. Later, after they were both asleep, I crept to the kitchen. There wasn’t anything left in the refrigerator except ketchup.
It was a sad, ironic cafeteria reminder of what could bring a person to win or lose.
Sincerely,
Brynn
Folder:
Inbox
To:
Brynnieh0401@gmail.com
From:
Mail Delivery Subsystem
Date:
February 24
Subject:
Dad
Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently
BarRodWireGuy62@gmail.com
Technical details of permanent failure:
Google tried to deliver your message, but it was rejected by the server for the recipient domain gmail.com
by gmail-smtp-in.l.google.com. [2a00:1490:400c:c0b::1b].
The error that the other server returned was:
550-5.1.1 The e-mail account that you tried to reach does not exist. Please try
550-5.1.1 double-checking the recipient’s e-mail address for typos or
550-5.1.1 unnecessary spaces. Learn more at
550 5.1.1 https://support.google.com/mail/answer/6596 x67vy900421wma.125-gsmtp
——Original message——
Dear Dad,
This seems like it might be you. I did some deep web searching to find this.
Listen, Dad, I’m in trouble. Mom and the guy she married are awful. And I never did anything to you, did I? What did I ever do wrong that made you not want to talk to me?
I’m not like Nicholas, Dad. I never was. And even if I tur
ned out exactly like him, shouldn’t you love me anyway? Isn’t that a dad’s job?
Please just write and let me know if you are out there.
Sincerely,
Brynn
Folder:
Sent
To:
SteerlerRay62@smrrttmail.com
From:
Brynnieh0401@gmail.com
Date:
February 24
Subject:
Please
Dear Dad,
It’s Brynn. I have tried to contact you several other ways, but they have not worked.
Are you out there, Dad? Are you?
I don’t suppose you’d want a cute, almost eighteen-year-old crashing on your couch for a few months, would you? You don’t even need to feed me. I’ll get a job. I’ll pay rent.
Why don’t you want me? Why does no one want me?
Your daughter,
Brynn
Folder:
Drafts
To:
Rachel@msnbc.com
From:
Brynnieh0401@gmail.com
Date:
February 25
Subject:
Boom
Dear Rachel Maddow,
Heard on your podcast at the library (since there is no watching of the television now) that North Korea didn’t detonate a hydrogen bomb even though they said they did. But they set off something, and that means that they are getting closer to the kind of bomb that can blow an island off the map. Super.
Speaking of things blowing up, or maybe just blowing, that is my life right now. Erin e-mailed that she and Leigh conspired to break me out of here, but then that would technically be kidnapping. Plus, I was late getting out from school today because Mr. Grimm kept me to give me a pep talk. Fart Weasel actually called the police and had them waiting for me when I got home. The officer must have been one of his buddies, because there is no way I could be considered a missing person if I was gone for an extra forty-five minutes. Learned that one from Nick’s early days of using. Still, the officer put on a good show.
“You wouldn’t like prison,” he said. “You’re too old for juvie. Women offenders would have a good time with you.” He looked me up and down.
“Yes, sir,” I said. Those were the only words that felt safe. I was only seventeen. I wasn’t too old for juvie. Thanks to the big bro for teaching me that, too.
“Your daddy tells me you’ve been talking real big. Like you don’t owe them anything, like you can make it on your own. Where you going to live, girl? Who is going to take care of you? You ain’t seen anything. You have no idea. Next time I come by, you are coming with me to the station, you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “May I go to my room to do homework?” I asked.
Fart Weasel snorted. “Homework. Sure.” But he didn’t care enough to argue.
I left before he could say anything else. I curled into a ball on Nick’s old sleeping bag.
The fact is that I’m eighteen in less than a month. Three weeks and five days to be exact. My birthday falls on April 1. April Fools’ Day! Appropriate because my life is a joke. When is your birthday, Rachel? I never thought to look it up. Maybe I’ll send you a card.
I know the assholes that are keeping me here think they are proving something to me by exerting their legal authority. That I have no hope for a future without … what? Them? No. Fart Weasel barely finished high school himself, and even though Mom went to nursing school, it’s not like she’s frolicking through a meadow of hot dicks and dollar bills on the daily. Maybe they just want to prove that I have no hope for a future, period. And I am beginning to agree.
At least I could see Michaela at school. That was my one saving grace.
“When we are both eighteen, we’ll get our own apartment,” she said.
“We will eat pizza every night,” I said.
“We can stay up as late as we want,” she said.
“Doing whatever we want,” I added.
She blushed. “Yes, please,” she said.
But I admit that seemed so far away. How could I go to school and work enough to be on my own? And would Michaela really leave her gram?
I look at it like you would, Rachel. Look at the facts. Explain the story. Stay in it for the long sell, if you must, but compile the narrative with the available information and present the truth. So here it is: I can think. I can write the things I think. But they don’t matter outside my head. That’s why I type them to you and never send them. Because they aren’t worth much. And even if I weren’t shit at school, where would words get me? Definitely not Princeton or Penn or some place where People Who Will One Day Matter go. And there are even people better at selling underwear. So what is the point of trying? What is the point of anything?
The next to last time I saw Nick, he was coming down from a high. He stumbled into the house, and Fart Weasel laid into him. Really let him have it. Didn’t hit him, but unleashed a torrent of such unkindness that it scared me. Nick just laughed. Told him to fuck off. Fart Weasel just left the house mumbling about shitheads when it was over.
“How’d you do that?” I asked.
Nick shook his head. “When you realize nothing matters, Brynn, then you’re truly free.”
“Don’t I at least matter to you?” I had asked.
“Oh, Brynnie” was all he said. He wrapped his arms around my head before he staggered outside and got in his car. I couldn’t stop him.
At the time, I just chalked it up to his Zen and the Art of Fucking Up shtick, but now I see what he meant. When you realize that there is nothing left to care about, no one can hurt you.
There’s my story, Rachel. Not so long a sell, really. Did I get any of that wrong? Did I miss anything? You always ask your expert guests that. Now I hand it back to you.
I hope North Korea doesn’t bomb some place off the map. There are babies and dogs and daisies in places that all deserve to see the sun. That their lives could go up in a giant booming mushroom cloud sucks. But there’s nothing I can do about it.
Sincerely,
Brynn
Folder:
Sent
To:
SteerlerRay62@smrrttmail.com
From:
Brynnieh0401@gmail.com
Date:
February 28
Subject:
Well, fuck you too
Dear Dad,
You could have written to me.
You didn’t have to contact Mom. That was actually pretty shitty. You couldn’t even ask her to hand her cell to me?
It made things worse. It’s not like I even asked for money or anything.
Don’t worry. I’ll leave you alone from now on, asshole.
Brynn
Folder:
Drafts
To:
Rachel@msnbc.com
From:
Brynnieh0401@gmail.com
Date:
March 1
Subject:
Seriously?
Dear Rachel Maddow,
I looked it up. You and I have the same birthday. Seriously? I checked several sources. Would not have called that one. I think this pretty much disproves astrology 100 percent.
Sincerely,
Brynn
Folder:
Drafts
To:
Rachel@msnbc.com
From:
Brynnieh0401@gmail.com
Date:
March 3
Subject:
Low
Dear Rachel Maddow,
Fart Weasel slapped me again. This time my mom wanted me to wash the dishes, and I said I would if I could have my phone back or at least go back to work.
“Do the fucking dishes,” Fart Weasel said.
“Maybe we can negotiate,” I said, my heart rising a little. “I could agree to do more around the house if—”
He got up and slapped me.
“Negotiate. Shut the fuck up. Do the dishes.”
My face
stung. I blinked back the tears the force of the strike had caused. I looked at Mom. The bags under her eyes looked darker than even yesterday. Her face pleaded with me.
“Just do them,” she mouthed.
I couldn’t even sigh. Breathing made the pain worse. I did the dishes.
It didn’t leave a mark, so at least I didn’t have to talk about it at school. I’d basically stopped speaking anyway. There just wasn’t any point. Michaela tried daily to cheer me up, but I still felt numb.
“I’m sorry,” was the only thing I could think to say to her.
“Please don’t be sorry,” she repeated. She looked as lost as I was.
The blue room tried to break the wall of numb.
“Brynn, have you seen Justin’s stickers? He made them on his computer. Goth zombies! Hysterical! We are going to pass them out on the down low.” That was Bianca.
“Brynn, you haven’t turned in any work for last week yet. None. You were getting extra credit for the political campaign, but now that there isn’t much to that…” That was Mr. Grimm.
“Are you okay? You don’t look so good,” Lacey said.
“Brynn, maybe your parents will let you come over to my place.” That was Sarah. “They always liked me.” I shrugged. But she was right. Mom gave me a two-hour reprieve to Sarah’s house, mostly because I think she was sick of me being there.