Fool's Gold

by Melody Carlson

  I look at the closed door at the end of the hallway. My parents’ bedroom. Mom is in there. I can hear strains of that obnoxious Jeopardy theme music coming quietly from her little TV. It’s her favorite show, and when she’s feeling good, she can get most of the answers right. But that won’t be the case tonight. She’s been in one of her “down” moods for several weeks now. No telling how long this one will last.

  As much as I hate to disturb her when she’s like this, I know this is my best chance to ask her for lunch money — for both me and Caleb. Either that or I’ll have to see if there’s anything in the kitchen that I can use to make us lunches for tomorrow. But somehow I have to make sure that Caleb does not have to borrow money from anyone at school tomorrow. I don’t know why he went and bummed lunch money from Sally today.

  Sally is our first cousin. Her family lives in a nice neighborhood a couple of miles from here, and although she may be good to loan out a buck or two, Caleb should’ve known she’d tell her dad (who is our dad’s older brother) and that Uncle Garrett would call our dad and teasingly ask why Caleb was begging money from his Sally today. That’s what ignited our dad’s fuse tonight. But in all fairness to Caleb, if it hadn’t been the lunch money, it would’ve been something else. The trash still sitting out on the street, a bike parked in the front yard, shoes left on the floor in the living room — it doesn’t take much. He went ballistic one night last week because someone had left the hose running. Turned out it was him. But he never apologized.

  His solution, after a tirade, is to leave here mad. And we all know that he goes to one of two places. He wants us to think he’s at his friend Jimmy’s, where they mess around with the restoration of an old Corvette and drink beer. But we also know that he spends a fair amount of time at The Dark Horse. It’s a sleazy-looking bar in one of the alleys downtown. He parks his pickup in the back and hangs out there until he’s forgotten whatever it was that made him so angry.

  Dysfunctional? Well, duh. But most people looking at our family from the outside are totally clueless. Including Dad’s best friend, Jimmy, and even Uncle Garrett. Despite Uncle Garrett’s flaws, I’m sure he has no idea that his younger brother has such an anger problem. Most people who know my dad think he’s the nicest guy in town. He manages Jackson’s Tire Company and always has a ready smile or a goofy joke for anyone — anyone who doesn’t live inside this house, that is. And I’m sure that everyone just looks at our family and assumes that everything’s fine and dandy. We are all so very good at keeping up appearances.

  But what am I supposed to do with all this pain? I mean, I’ve got Caleb across the hall, crying and swearing and pounding on things. I’ve got my mom holed up in her room, eyes glazed over by Xanax, I’m sure, as she sits in the little gliding rocker next to her bed and just stares at the tiny TV that sits on her bureau.

  Instead of returning to my room, I go into the bathroom that Caleb and I have to share. We do our best not to fight over it, like some of my friends do with their brothers — at least not while Dad is around. I sigh as I look into the mirror above the bathroom sink. My face, as usual, is expressionless. Although my eyes could give me away, if anyone really looked. To me they are two black holes. A constant reminder of the deep hopelessness of my life. I push a strand of straight dark hair out of my face. I’ve been growing my bangs out lately, and they’ve reached that place where they’re just in the way. Sort of like me.

  It won’t be long until I’m out of this madhouse for good. Recently I’ve been playing with the idea of graduating a year early, getting out of here when I’m only seventeen. I’ve heard it can be done.

  The question is, can I really last that long? Every single day I tell myself I’m not going to do this thing again. I’m not going to give into it one more time. And some days I actually succeed. But on other days, like today, it is impossible. The tightness inside my chest is painful right now. And I wonder if a fairly healthy sixteen-year-old can have a heart attack. Maybe that would be the answer.

  For no particular reason, other than habit, I turn on the tap water and let it just run into the sink. It’s how I usually do this thing. Maybe the sound is meant to camouflage what’s really going on in here. I don’t know. Or maybe it’s comforting to watch the water flowing. I just stand there and watch it run. I don’t wash my hands, or brush my teeth, or wash my face. I simply stand there with hands planted on either side of the sink, as I lean forward and stare at the water flowing from the faucet and going down the drain. I’m sure my dad would think this is stupid and wasteful. I’m sure if I ever got caught, I would get quite a lecture on just how much he pays for the water and electric bill every month. And normally, I do try to be frugal, but there are times like now when I really don’t care.

  I don’t know how long I stand there wasting valuable water, but finally I turn off the faucet and take in a deep breath. I wish I could stop doing this, but I still have this ache inside. Instead of diminishing, it only seems to grow — pushing and pushing against my insides until I don’t see how I can contain it anymore.

  I open the bottom drawer on my side of the bathroom cabinet. It’s where I keep my “feminine” products — a place I can be certain that my dad or brother would never go looking. And my mother, well, she would never think to go looking for anything of mine in the first place. She can hardly find her slippers in the morning.

  I take out a box of tampons and turn it over to see a sliver of silver glinting from where the cardboard overlaps on the bottom. I carefully slide out the blade and hold it between my thumb and forefinger. It’s an old-fashioned, two-sided kind of blade. I swiped one from Caleb when he first started shaving with my grandpa’s old razor set. It didn’t take my little brother very long to realize that there are better shaving instruments available, and he never seems to notice when a blade goes missing out of the little cardboard box alongside the old brass razor. Not that I’ve had to replace many blades during these past six months. As long as you wash and dry them and keep them in a safe place, they can last quite a while.

  At first I thought I would limit my cutting to my left arm. But after a few weeks, I started running out of places to cut. And that’s when I realized I’m fairly coordinated at cutting with my left hand. My right arm has a series of evenly spaced stripes to prove this. I push up the sleeve of my shirt and examine the stripes with routine interest, running my fingers over the ones that are healed and barely touching the ones that are still tender. Each one could tell a story. Okay, the stories would be pretty similar, but each scar is unique. I made my most recent one only two days ago. It’s still pretty sore.

  Already I am beginning to feel relief. I have no idea why this is. But it’s always like this. Just the security of holding the blade in my hand, just knowing that I am in control now, is almost enough. But not quite.

  I lower the blade to the pale white skin on the inside of my arm, and using a sharp corner of the blade, I quickly make about a two-inch slash. I know not to go too deep. And when I’m in control, like now, I can do it just right. And just like that, I’m done. I hardly feel the pain of the cut anymore. It’s like it doesn’t even hurt.

  I watch with familiar fascination as the blood oozes out in a clean, straight line. There is something so reassuring about seeing my bright red blood exposed like this. It’s like this sign that I’m still alive and, weird as it sounds, that someday everything will be okay. And although the euphoria that follows the cut never lasts as long as I wish it would, it’s a quick fix that mostly works.

  I press a wad of toilet paper on the wound. For the moment, this cut will absorb all my attention and emotional energy. It will block out what I am unable to deal with. And for a while, it will convince me that I will actually survive my life.

  Am I proud of my behavior? Of course not. But hey, this isn’t as bad as doing drugs, like some of my friends do. Or getting drunk, like my dad is doing right now. Or just checking out, like my mom did last year and continues to do on an off-and-on basis
.

  Even so, it’s my dirty little secret, and for the time being, it’s all I have to keep me from falling. So don’t judge me.

  about the author

  MELODY CARLSON has written dozens of books for all age groups, but she particularly enjoys writing for teens. Perhaps this is because her own teen years remain so vivid in her memory. After claiming to be an atheist at the ripe old age of twelve, she later surrendered her heart to Jesus and has been following him ever since. Her hope and prayer for all her readers is that each one would be touched by God in a special way through her stories. For more information, please visit Melody’s website at www.melodycarlson.com.

  Hollywood Nobody: April 1

  Happy April Fool’s Day! What better day to start a blog about Hollywood than today?

  Okay, I’ve been around film sets my whole life. Indie films, yeah, and that’s all I’m saying about it here for anonymity’s sake. But trust me, I’ve had my share of embarrassing moments. Like outgrowing Tom Cruise by the age of twelve—in more ways than one, with the way he’s gotten crazier than thong underwear and low-rise jeans. Thankfully that fashion disaster has run for cover.

  Underwear showing? Not a good idea.

  Fact: I don’t know of a single girl who doesn’t wish the show-it-all boxer-shorts phenomenon would go away as well. Guys, we just don’t want to see your underwear. Truthfully, we believe that there is a direct correlation between how much underwear you show and how much you’ve got upstairs, if you know what I mean.

  I’ve seen the stars at their best and at their worst. And believe me, the worst is really, really bad. Big clue: you’d look just as pretty as they do if you went to such lengths. As you might guess, some of them are really nice and some of them are total jerks, and there’s a lot of blah in-betweeners. Like real life, pretty much, only the extremes are more extreme sometimes. I mean honestly, how many people under twenty do you know who have had more than one plastic surgery?

  So you’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little hard on these folks. But if it was all sunshine and cheerleading, I doubt you’d read this blog for long, right?

  Today’s Rant: Straightening irons. We’ve had enough of them, Little Stars, okay? It was bad on Helen Hunt at the Oscars, worse on Demi, yet worse on Madonna, and it’s still ridiculous. Especially on those women who are trying to hold onto their youth like Gollum holds onto that ring. Ladies, there’s a reason for keeping your hair at or above your shoulders once you hit forty, and ever after. Think Annette Bening. Now she’s got it going on. And can’t you just see why Warren Beatty settled down for her? Love her! According to The Early Show this morning, curls are back, and Little Me ain’t going to tell why I’m so glad about that!

  Today’s Kudo: Aretha Franklin. Big, bold, beautiful, and the best. Her image is her excellence. Man, that woman can sing! She has a prayer chain too. I’m not very religious myself, but you got to respect people who back up what they say they believe. Unless it’s male Scientologists and “silent birth.” Yeah, right. Easy for them to say.

  Today’s News: I saw a young actor last summer at a Shakespeare festival in New England. Seth Haas. Seth Hot is more like it. I heard a rumor he’s reading scripts for consideration. Yes, he’s that hot. Check him out here. Tell all your friends about him. And look here on Hollywood Nobody for the first, the hottest news on this hottie. Girls, he’s only nineteen! Fair game for at least a decade-and-a-half span of ages.

  I don’t know about you, but following the antics of new teen rock star Violette Dillinger is something I’m looking forward to. Her first album, released to much hype, hit Billboard’s no. 12 spot its third week out. And don’t you love her hit single “Love Comes Knocking on My Door”? This is going to be fun. A new celeb. Uncharted territory. Will Violette, who seems grounded and talented, be like her predecessors and fall into the “great defiling show-business machine” only to be spit out as a half-naked bimbo? We’ll see, won’t we? Keep your fingers crossed that the real artist survives.

  Today’s Quote: “Being thought of as ‘a beautiful woman’ has spared me nothing in life. No heartache, no trouble. Beauty is essentially meaningless.” Halle Berry

  Later!