I crash into my mother at the bottom, and she falls on her butt.
“What the fuck, Bull? Jesus Christ!” she yells at me.
I don’t help her up. I’m completely freaked out. I stand there, my knees shaking, looking over my shoulder at the stairs. The porch is empty; the Mexican dad is gone. My legs are frozen. I look down at her and the stupidest thought comes to me: I wish she was the kind of mom that I could talk to. The kind of mom that would protect me.
She grunts. I watch her roll over on all fours and grab her lit cigarette that landed a foot away. She sways as she stands. She’s shitfaced.
I try to walk past her, but she grabs my arm.
“Don’t you look where you’re going? Why’re you rushing around? Where are you going?” she shouts at me, then drags on her cigarette, blowing her smoke at me.
I look at her, with her smudged black eyeliner and greasy hair, and I feel my stomach twist inside.
“I feel sorry for you,” I whisper. I am immediately pissed at myself for not shouting those words in her face, that I pussied out and whispered them.
She squints and says, “What did you say, you little shit?”
There’s the courage. There it is. It surges through me and I say nice and loud, “I said, ‘I feel sorry for you.’”
My mom sways and reaches out for me to steady herself on. I take a step back. She goes down again.
I’m not sure how long this courage will last, so I look down at her and say, “You could’ve been different. You didn’t even try. You’re just like him.”
Mom pulls herself up using the railing this time, and I’m quietly amazed that her cigarette stayed in her mouth the entire time. Her hand reaches up, grabs the cigarette from her mouth, and throws it at me. It hits me in the chest.
“Don’t you tell me . . . don’t you tell me tha shit. I gave up everythin’ for you,” she slurs. Then she screams, “Everything! Everything! Everything!” She continues yelling that one annoying word as she stomps past me and up the stairs.
My body comes back alive. I jump off the porch and run around back. I unlock my bike quick, because I don’t know who might come flying out looking for me. I don’t think I’ve ever unlocked those three locks faster.
Riding my bike always clears my head. And my head is full of more shit than a stopped-up toilet right now. Sometimes my bike takes me places I never expect to go, like it just leads me. Cars and houses go by me in a blur and when I look up, I’m in front of school. I sit for a minute and try to think of where I’m going to sleep, because there’s no way I’m going back to my apartment—not tonight, anyway.
And it’s weird. You know how your brain jumps from one thing to another sometimes? Like a whole bunch of random thoughts that connect real fast? Well, I decide that I’m ditching the last day of school. Then I realize that Dad’s postcard is in my locker. So I lock my bike and go inside to get it. And while I’m walking through the halls, I tell myself that I’m never coming back to this school, that I’m running away, which sounds girly, so I change it to: I’m going to find my father. I look into my locker and smirk. The postcard is the only thing in here that even matters to me. I grab it and then slam my locker shut.
I’m not sure how I’m going to get to the beach, because I can’t ride my bike that far, and then I think I could take the bus there. I look down at my postcard and I wonder if they’d let me bring my bike on the bus. I know I have enough money saved to get me to Ocean City. Which makes me think of the cemetery. So that’s where I head next.
And that’s where the gun is too.
Victor
JAZZER IS ASLEEP ON MY BED. IT’S THE FIRST TIME SHE wasn’t waiting for me at the window. I ask her what’s wrong, and she makes that little squeaky sound, yawns, and goes back to sleep. I tell myself that she’s just tired, but my heart knows better.
The phone rings. It’s my dad. He wants to know why I made Mom so upset. He tells me I owe her an apology before they leave tomorrow.
“You’re leaving tomorrow? It’s my last day of school.”
He tells me that my mother changed the flights last week so she could spend two more days in Paris, shopping. He reminds me how much my mother loves to shop and how she is going to need those extra two days of shopping to relax from all the stress I’ve put her through.
“What time do you leave?” I ask, completely ignoring his stupid logic.
“Noon. Your mother is flying Nana up from Florida. She’ll be there when you get home from school.”
“What? Nana? Dad, I’m sixteen. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“After the scene you caused today, sir, you most certainly need an adult in the house. And you’re punished. Remember? We want to make sure you are preparing for school next year. Your mother has made a specific list of assignments she’d like you to accomplish while we’re gone.”
“God, Nana? I’ll end up babysitting her. And Mom made a list? Seriously?”
Dad tells me I better drop the attitude, that my mother worked very hard on that list, and I had better thank her before she gets on that plane. And then he tells me I’m ungrateful.
I don’t say anything.
“Victor, do not get your mother upset again. She’ll have a stroke. And then what would we do?”
I know what I’d do, but I stay quiet.
“I’m meeting your mother for dinner. She needs to calm down with a good meal. Don’t wait up. We may meet up with another couple. We’ll see you in the morning. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Dad.”
I can’t believe my nana will be here tomorrow. I haven’t seen her in a long time. I also can’t believe my mother is dragging her seventy-eight-year-old mother from her beachside condo, making her get on a plane, and flying all the way up here just to watch me. All because my parents don’t want to take me with them to Europe as punishment for getting a 2060 on my SAT, which is probably better than any kid in my high school.
It’s stupid. My mother is stupid. And selfish. She is a stupid, selfish, empty woman.
I clench my jaw tight and then look over at Jazzer. She’s all curled up and looks so peaceful on my bed. Not selfish or stupid. Just peaceful.
Bull
THERE’S ANOTHER BROWN LUNCH BAG SITTING UP against the tree in my spot. No one is in the cemetery again. But I walk around this time, just to be sure.
This time there’s a bottle of water, a granola bar, a bag of Cheetos, and a pear. The water isn’t cold, so I figure the bag’s been here awhile. Same note in the same handwriting:
Enjoy!
Then I do as it says and I enjoy every bite. It’s the first thing I’ve eaten all day, and it all tastes so good. Even the warm bottle of water goes down nicely.
I uncover my box and remove my $376.54, shoving it into my two front pockets. I also retrieve the contents of the old brown shopping bag and tuck the gun into the front of my jeans. I tell myself I’m stupid for not grabbing my backpack or something, but then I stop beating myself up for that. I couldn’t have grabbed anything. Not under those circumstances.
I check my back pocket and am somehow relieved that the postcard is still there. I exhale loudly because I really do need a backpack—and my books. I forgot my secret stash of books under the sofa. I have to go back. I won’t go in if Uncle Sammy is still there. But I have to take them with me.
I bike back to my neighborhood. I have to shift the gun a few times while I pedal because it feels like it’s going to fall out, but I still make good time. For a faster getaway I don’t lock my bike, I hide it in the alley behind my street. My mother’s car is gone, which means my uncle either took it or Mother of the Year is out driving drunk.
I travel ninjalike from bush to bush along the side of the house, and that’s when I see my uncle up the street, yelling at some fat guy. He doesn’t see me. I’m glad neither of them are in the apartment. It’ll just be Pop, and he’ll probably be passed out on the kitchen table by now. I can sneak in, grab my backpack and books, and be o
utta there before Pop even grunts.
As soon as I open the door, he’s on me. Pop’s drunk, so I’m faster. I duck a punch, and he falls forward onto his hands and knees. I’m across the room like an arrow and he comes at me again. Pop lands a punch in my gut, a good one. I keel over, and he lets me fall on top of the piles of stuff from the closet.
“You really are a dumbass. You’re a stupid dumbass!” he hollers to me. “I swear, if I had Sammy’s gun, I’d shoot you myself. Then I’d be rid of you.”
I shift just a little bit, so the shoe on the pile will stop stabbing me in the back.
This sets him off. My pop puts his foot on me to hold me down. “Don’t you move, you worthless pile of shit. Don’t you move.”
Something in me snaps.
Oh, I move.
I push his foot off of me, jump up, and reach into the front of my jeans for the gun. I want him to feel fear. I point the gun at him. “Why do you have so much hate in your heart?”
“Because I don’t got a heart. That’s why. You killed my heart when you came along. You killed my heart.”
Then I do the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I start crying.
“Go on, why don’t you pull the trigger? Kill me too, like you killed my Bonnee.”
More blubbering from me.
“You know why you won’t? Because you’re a worthless boo-hooing pussy.” Pop knocks me down with a left hook to my jaw.
I close my eyes and squeeze the trigger.
Victor
MY PARENTS ARE ALREADY GONE WHEN I WAKE UP, though it’s only a quarter of seven. They’ve left me a note on the kitchen counter.
Victor,
We wanted to get lattes before our long drive to the airport and didn’t want to wake you. I’m sure you understand.
The car service will drop Nana off between 8–8:30 this morning. So she’ll be here when you get home from school. See to it that Jasmine stays out of her bedroom; you know she’s allergic.
Attached is the list of things I expect you to accomplish while we’re away. I’ve made a drug counseling appointment for you, for when we get back. We’ll call you when we land in Paris. See you in two weeks.
Mom
No “Dear Victor” or “Love Mom.” I can’t believe they didn’t even say good-bye to me. Not even good-bye.
I don’t want to go to school. I don’t care that it’s the last day of my sophomore year. I don’t care about anything right now. I feel sick to my stomach, like I might really throw up. I can’t believe they left me a note, like I’m the housekeeper.
I walk into the foyer and scream at the top of my lungs, “I’M THEIR SON! THEIR SOOOOOOONNN!” I’m screaming at no one. I expect Jazzer to peek her little head through the slats of the railing to find out why I’m yelling. I don’t see her.
I plop down on the steps, and my head falls into my hands. I yell a few more times. It feels good to yell, cleansing in a weird way, and my heart returns to a regular beat.
I stretch out on the steps and call, “Jazzer, girl, come down here.”
I left her sleeping on my pillow, so she’s got to be up there. She always comes when I call. But I still don’t see her. Maybe my yelling frightened her. Maybe I shut my door.
I hop up and take the stairs two at a time, because based on how my day has gone so far, well, let’s just say I have a really bad feeling.
My door is wide open. And Jazzer’s curled up on my pillow. I am at her side in two strides. Her eyes are open. Oh, thank God, she’s okay. I reach down to scoop her up and my hand registers that something isn’t right. She’s stiff. And cold. And not breathing. Her little body is stuck in a curled-up sleeping position. But her eyes are wide open.
Jazzer’s dead.
I carefully put her back on my bed and completely fall apart. Like, unglued. I start throwing whatever I can get my hands on. My alarm clock takes flight. My books and all of the decorative crap my mother put on my dresser go flying. The brass bee (who puts that in their teenage son’s room, anyway?) leaves a decent hole in the wall. Dad’ll love that.
I keep looking at Jazzer, expecting her to be scared by my insane behavior. But she is so still. That makes me go for the contents of my drawers. It feels good to throw things and grunt and cry. I decide that throwing the brass bee the was most satisfying because it was heavy. So I scan my room for anything that has some weight to it and grab the cordless phone.
“No one has ever called me on this thing any”—I throw the phone as hard as I can—“WAY!” It shatters into a lot of pieces against the wall, and I feel good.
Next, I go for my bedside lamp. I pick it up and am happy that my mother likes expensive things, because it’s solid brass. Out comes the plug, and I wind up and throw it with every bit of strength I have. It, too, leaves a hole in the drywall. Way bigger than the bee’s.
I look around my room again. Every surface is empty. I’ve thrown everything there is to throw. That’s when I start to sob. I mean loud sobs. I fall to my knees and just go for it.
After my face is covered in pathetic weakness and the sounds I make deteriorate into whimpers, I know I have nothing left. My arm shakes as I slowly lift it to check my watch. I have cried for an hour. School started a long time ago. And it hits me again: the fact that no one will give a damn that I’m not there today. No one will even notice.
I suddenly have a purpose. I get up and walk to my parents’ bathroom. The timing couldn’t be better, I tell myself. I hope she hasn’t packed what I’m looking for.
I open my mother’s medicine cabinet and nod. I scan the shelves and reach for the bottle I want. My hand doesn’t tremble when I reach for it. It is as steady as a rock. I give the bottle a shake. Freshly refilled.
“Yes!”
I leave the bottle in the bathroom, go back, and close my bedroom door. I cross the hall and walk back into my parents’ bathroom. I close that door too. I want Jazzer as far away as possible from what I’m about to do. But I laugh, because she’ll know. We are about to see each other. I read once that animals can talk in heaven. If Jazzer can talk, then I’m about to get a real talking-to.
Back in my parents’ bathroom, I pop five pills in my mouth and swallow them down with lukewarm tap water.
Five more.
Five more.
Five more.
I refill the bathroom cup and take five more. I walk back to my room. Lying next to Jazzer seems like a great place to die. She was the only one who ever really loved me, so it seems right.
I sit on the edge of my bed. My stomach grumbles, and I squish the ultraplush carpet under my feet. It’s so soft. I look up to check the time on my alarm clock, but it’s in pieces. I look at my watch.
7:53.
My nana will be here soon. I feel guilty that she’ll be the one to find me, but at this point, there’s nothing I can do. I curl up next to Jazzer. I’m so tired from crying.
I’ve done it. I’ve really done it. I’ve re . . .
Bull
I WAKE UP IN A HOSPITAL ROOM, WITH THE CURTAIN pulled around my bed. I’m alone. Various beeps and lots of people talking make it impossible for me to go back to sleep. I wonder if my grandfather is alive. We struggled with the gun, I remember that. But he must’ve knocked me out. I don’t remember anything past that punch.
Know this: I’d never loaded the gun, never checked to see if the gun was loaded, never even thought that the gun could be loaded. I never went back a step to think about, say, someone’s uncle putting a loaded gun into a brown paper bag and leaving it in a closet. No, I never thought about that.
I slide my bottom jaw from left to right. Yeah, Pop knocked me out. I’ve gotta go to the bathroom. I sit up, and that’s when I see that I’m all wired up. I still have to go to the bathroom, though, wires or no wires. I go to move my legs, and volcano-hot pain rips through my right thigh.
“What the . . . ?” I yell out. I rip off the blankets, and I’m staring at bandages from just below my knee all the way up to my groin. I t
ry to move again. Bad idea.
“Owwww! What the . . . ?!”
The curtain flies open.
“Easy there, killer. Easy,” says a nurse. She’s totally hot. Tall and skinny with long brown hair, perfect teeth, and enormous blue eyes.
It dawns on me that I have no shirt on and appear to be wearing a diaper. My eyes bulge, and I pull the blanket over me.
“I’ve seen it all, trust me. And I do mean all.”
This doesn’t help me feel any better. I pull the blanket to cover more of my bare chest.
“Oh, no, no. I didn’t see all of you. I mean I’ve seen—” She cuts herself off and sticks out her hand. “Let’s try this again, okay? Hello, William. I’m Ellie.”
We shake. No one has called me William since kindergarten, but I like how it sounds.
“Hey. Where’s my mom?”
This question seems to make Ellie uncomfortable, because she drops her eyes and starts rustling with the papers on her clipboard.
“Ellie, has my grandfather been here?” I figure asking about him in a roundabout way is smarter than flat-out asking her if I killed him.
“Yes, he has. He brought you in here, actually. But I haven’t seen him since.”
“And my mom? She been here?”
Ellie squeezes her lips together and tells me that my mom has been here, but she had to be physically removed because she was drunk. And loud.
Great. Just great.
I ask her where I am, and she tells me I’m in the ER recovering from surgery on my thigh to repair damage from the bullet. And waiting for my official bed to open up. I ask her what happened to me. She seems confused by this question and asks gently, “You don’t remember trying to kill yourself ?”
I take a second and keep my mouth shut. I want to see if she’ll keep talking, because somebody told Ellie a lie, and it wasn’t me.
Cracked Page 6
