by Jenn Cooksey
Ladder
Tree
Carabineer and Rope
Jillian (Note to self; get Jillian’s number)
Zip Line
Grappling Hook
Lock Picking Kit (See note to self re: Jillian)
Batman Utility Belt
Thorny Rose Covered Trellis ✓ (Fuck.)
That’s my mental list of ways I could get up to Melissa’s second story bedroom window at…what time is it? Yeah, 1:39 in the morning. Of course, had I just listened to my gut when it started telling me something was up days ago, I wouldn’t be in this ridiculous situation right now, feeling like a character in fucking Rapunzel. Well, minus the chick with really long hair dangling it out the window.
Rapunzel’s Golden Locks
When I finally gave in and let my brain translate what my gut was telling me, I decided to take immediate action. No way in Hell am I gonna let that dipshit quarterback get with my girl. Actually, I’m not one hundred percent on it being her knob ex, but it’s someone and it doesn’t matter anyway, Melissa’s my girl, end of fucking story. Yeah, I know. I broke up with her, blah blah blah. I don’t give a shit. She’s mine.
I got out of bed, got dressed, made sure I had everything as I was walking out the front door, and when I went to turn my phone on, I discovered it was dead. Not fucking helpful. Anytime I’ve gone to her place in the middle of the night, I’ve sent her a text so she can let me in. So, that being the basis of my strategy in talking to her tonight, I went back inside, plugged my phone in and waited while it charged for about a half an hour. Then, I repeated my exit, locked up my house, got on my bike and drove to Melissa’s. I sat on my bike and sent her the text and then waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Fuck!
I got off my bike, double checked the driveway to make sure her car was there and then pulled out my phone and dialed her number. It went straight to voicemail. Which unfortunately means her phone is either off or like mine was, dead. Yeah I know there’s the possibility she ignored my text and programmed my number to go straight to voicemail, but, let’s not go there just yet, alright? Thanks.
So, that’s how I found myself goin’ over the possible ways for me to get up to her room without actually breaking a window or something to get into her house. Which wouldn’t exactly endear me to her parents and they already don’t like me very much as it is. Shocker, right? But whatever, they can bite me. And I know if Jillian were here she’d probably call me an amateur and get me inside in under two seconds flat, but she’s not. I really should get that chick’s number though. For the future. Just in case. You know, sorta like a living Breaking and Entering for Dummies book. In my phone I can name her my Criminal Guru…
Anyway, there’s no ladder around, I’m fresh out of rope, the closest tree is about fifteen feet away, and the only Batman utility belt I own is from a Halloween costume I wore when I was seven. And it’s at home in the attic. And it’s vinyl. So, that leaves this rose covered trellis that goes right up to her window.
As I said. Fuck.
I tugged on it to see if it was anchored to the house and looked up. That’s an awfully mighty high place to fall from if the goddamned thing detaches or breaks under my weight. Then I put a foot on it and bounced a little to test its sturdiness. Okay, so I’m about one sixty-five…maybe one-seventy after Jaden’s Superbowl party and eating all that fuckin’ food everyone showed up with…the trellis can probably hold…what? Two hundred pounds maybe? The roses weigh…fuck! Those thorns are sharp! But what are they? Eh, give or take twenty pounds…carry the two… Aw who am I kidding, I got no clue what kinda weight this fucker will bear…I’m just makin’ shit up…
Well, what the fuck, here goes nothin’!
As I started climbing, getting scraped and scratched by the fucking rose thorns, I made another mental note for the future; that is if I don’t fall and break my retarded neck. Wear a goddamned jacket and gloves.
But hey, if fuckin’ Romeo can do it in goddamned tights, I can do it jeans, right?
Humph. Romeo and Juliet… What was it Tristan said that night about who he thought Pete made out with on New Year’s? Something about Romeo and Juliet and we can be like them? Oh yeah, and the last night of sadness… It sorta sounded familiar but, I couldn’t place it…
The trellis creaked.
Fuck!
Well, if I die doin’ this it’ll certainly be the last night of sadness for me! Okay, deep breath…just take your time, dickhead, and don’t look down…
OW! SHIT! Fuckin’ thorns…
Humming Poison’s song “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” to myself, I finally made it to the top. I steadied myself with one hand and raised the other to rap on the window, paused when I saw the blood dripping out of my knuckle and then I stuck it in my mouth. I can just see it…I use my bloody knuckles to rap on the window and smear blood all over it. Melissa, still groggy from being asleep, comes to see what’s goin’ on and all she sees is a gory mess and then screams before fainting from being scared out of her fucking mind, thinking there’s a serial killer after her…
I sucked the blood off my hand, raised it again to give the window a little ratta-tap-tap and stopped just short.
Wait. This is her room, isn’t it?
FUCK!
Myth busting with Johnny Walker, King George V, and, uh…my mom ~ Tristan
I’ve been completely, one hundred percent sober for almost a month. That’s kind of a long time to be dry. I mean you get a coin or some such thing for that accomplishment in AA. But, I won’t be adding to my pocket change because it’s time for me to get wet again. Really wet. And if it wasn’t the middle of the night, you bet your sweet ass I’d be taking Pete up on his previous offer of medical grade weed too.
Ignoring my mom who’d looked up from where she was camped out on the floor in front of the entertainment center surrounded by a pile of home videos, I marched into the kitchen, threw open the fridge and rifled through it. I wrapped my hand around the neck of a Dos Equis and then stopped. Nope, the most interesting man in the world might drink it but a 4.7 percent alcohol content just ain’t gonna cut it for me tonight. Then I started opening and slamming cupboards and drawers looking for the key to the liquor cabinet. Finding it, I went into the library and stood in front of the repository that houses a plethora of alcoholic vices ranging anywhere from twenty to seventy-five percent alcohol for me to choose from. Oh, wait! I see Everclear! One hundred ninety proof...now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!
My mom wandered in and stood there, just watching me tap the key in the palm of my hand as I stared through the beveled glass, debating.
“Tristan dear, what are you doing?” She finally asked, sounding mildly amused.
“I’m thinking about the best way to go about getting drunk, Mom, what are you doing?”
“Oh, well, I’m suffering from jetlag, and I have to say, it’s times like these when I resent your father’s ability to sleep whenever he feels like it, regardless of the time zone he’s in, but ah…even though my internal clock is off, I’m fairly certain it’s Thursday, or, very early Friday morning, so I’m just wondering, should you be getting drunk on a school night?”
“Ah yes, it is indeed very early Friday morning, however, it is not a school night as we have tomorrow off due to the fucking winter formal. So, that being the case, I’m gonna get incredibly blitzed so I can pass out and remain that way for the duration of today and tonight, care to join me?”
I didn’t turn to look at her, but I could feel her eyes on me, studying me as I stuck the key in the lock and opened the cabinet. “Oh why not, I’ll take a Johnny Walker Blue. In fact, why don’t you break open the King George…”
“Oookey dokey…comin’ right up. Oh, you might wanna keep me away from water incase I try t—well, just don’t let me get near the pool…there’s a pair of handcuffs in the bus if you need ‘em…” I told her and grabbed the special edition bottle of scotch and
two glasses. I can’t believe I’m gonna get bombed with my mom in the middle of a Thursday night off of a five hundred dollar bottle of booze…
As I poured, my mom sat down in one of the wing chairs and asked, “Are we celebrating something or are we just drinking?”
I set the bottle down, handed my mom her glass, and then sitting in the opposite chair I answered, “Well, Mom, I think you’re just drinking, however, I am celebrating and capping off the second worst night of my entire life. Cheers!”
I clinked glasses with my mom and raised mine to my mouth and stopped. It wasn’t the aromatic blend of smokiness and sweet fruit invading my senses that prevented me from drinking a drop, it was the color. The decadent dark amber swirling around in my glass caught my eyes and held them. It wasn’t a dead-on match without the green, but, it still reminded me of Camie’s eyes and how they cried tonight.
My mom had taken a drink and was swirling her glass around, considering me over the rim of it. Still holding the etched crystal in my hands, I closed my eyes and sat forward, resting my elbows on my knees and blowing out a breath before whispering, “I—I think it’s really over.”
“Hmm… I’m very sorry to hear that,” she murmured and I nodded, feeling a single tear escape one of my eyes, “I know what you were hoping for, dear…”
I looked at her then and as she took a sip of her scotch I asked, “You do?”
She nodded and this time took a healthier swallow. “Mmhm. You wanted to love her your whole life…you wanted the fairytale.”
“How did you know that?”
“Tristan dear, I’m your mother. I knew from the day you were born you wanted to give your whole heart to someone and give it to them forever.”
“Humph…you should’ve told me not to bother.”
“Why do you say that?” She questioned. Then she drained her glass and refilled it.
“Because true love is a myth, Mom, like unicorns…it’s not real.”
“Mmm, Amalthea. Now that’s an excellent example of how someone perceives reality…”
“Mom, she’s a horse. She’s no more a unicorn than Neptune is a Pegasus…the horn is a fake.”
“True, but, it’s real to her, isn’t it?”
“So, are you saying you believe in true love?”
My mom sighed and looked at her scotch as she rolled it around the glass. “I think that like many things, true love is in the eye of the beholder…it’s what you perceive to be real or not.”
“So you think if someone believes it exists, they can live the fairytale?”
By the way, this is fast becoming a surreal experience. It’s a little reminiscent of my Beauty and the Beast conversation with Pete, but I actually never thought I’d be having a deep and serious conversation with my mom about unicorns, fairytales and true love…wow. What a trip. And I’m sober…just, wow.
“No.”
And there bursts my bubble. “Excuse me?”
“Well, I take that back, but Tristan, there’s a caveat in living it out…it’s more of what you perceive to be the fairytale, do you understand?”
“Uh-uh,” I answered, shaking my head.
“Alright, how can I explain what I mean…” She asked herself and sipped on her drink, “Okay, you’ve seen the classics and you’ve read them as well so you know they’re all filled with strife and tragedy, and yes, they most often end with evil being conquered and the characters living out the fairytale together in peace and harmony, however you won’t ever get to read or see what it takes to make it to the ultimate end of happily ever after, because quite frankly, it’s not very romantic and the fairytale would lose its profound idealism. But even with my believing that to be so, honestly dear, I thought you and Camie you would make it, I really did.”
“Why?”
“Mmm, I don’t know exactly…a feeling I guess, but, I know you two had something real…something not many people find in their lives, and I know you’ve loved her for quite some time. I don’t know, maybe because you’re my son I thought if anyone could pull it off, it would be you. Or, maybe I just got caught up in this story,” she said and sort of chuckled to herself and shook her head as she took another small sip.
“What’s funny?” I asked, waffling in between wanting to laugh with my mom, who I think might be a lightweight, and wanting to be irritated that she’s finding anything humorous about my fairytale love affair with Camie that’s basically ended in tragedy with no chance at happily ever after.
“That you, my son, have somehow managed to become the consummate hopeless romantic and I just can’t believe it’s been almost sixteen years… It’s remarkable really, don’t you think?”
Yep. Definitely a lightweight.
“Uh hey, yoo-hoo, Mom?” I asked, waving and calling her attention to me, “Yeah, hi…I’m almost eighteen, nooot sixteen…”
The look she bent on me was one of amusement mixed with interest and puzzlement. Yeah, and I have no idea how to cut my mom off. I mean, can I even do that? Huh. I guess I can always wake my dad up. He can do it. I think. Shit.
“Tristan dear, you came out of my body, I’m perfectly aware that it will have been eighteen years ago this coming Wednesday,” she told me, interpreting my comment and look all too correctly and rising from her chair without wobbling in the slightest, she walked over to one of the book cases, “What I’m speaking of is this…”
She handed me my baby book, returned to her seat, drained her glass and then reached for mine. Handing it to her and being confused about her smugly confident expression I said, “Aaand I don’t get it…”
This time her expression was predominately surprise, but I think there was a little disappointment or irritation in there. I can’t be sure…my mom’s freaking me out tonight.
“Tristan, did you not look at that? I put it in the wasteland you call a bedroom right in the middle of the pile of rubble you sleep on for you to look at days ago…”
Oh.
“Uhh…no. I didn’t. Sorry?” I didn’t even consider looking through it when I was straightening my room up the other day, which, honestly, because I got distracted still isn’t even close to being straightened up, but when I came across the book, I just brought it back down here and stuck it back on the bookshelf. I did however locate that postcard from Hawaii. The condom wrapper is still taped to the back so that’s good news. It also means it’s not in my baby book and has nothing to do with shit at the moment.
“You might consider doing it now, dear. And might I suggest you begin with your second birthday?”
I looked at her and frowned before cracking open the book. Unintentionally, I opened it up to a page that documented the case of chicken pox Jeff and I gave myself. There was a caption under a picture of the two us that read: “Chicken Pox by Proxy.” I grinned and chuckled to myself. You see, I never actually got the chicken pox. Not even when Jeff and I swapped blood. When that scheme didn’t work, he and I got artistic and drew red spots all over me and I flat out refused to go to school on the grounds that I was extremely ill and that I’d just be sent home because I was obviously too sick to be there. My parents let me skip school for a few days and when they realized I was being dead serious, they discussed it and chose to hold me back so I could stay with Jeff. But, along with the tutor they made me study with and like a sick joke or to prove a point I honestly never got, they also made me keep up my charade so I walked around for months with “pox” drawn all over me.
Looking at that, I was really tempted to flip through the whole book and reminisce about my age of innocence when everything was right and I didn’t have a care in the world, but, noticing my mom’s subtle toe-tapping reminder, I flipped my way back to my second birthday without stopping at any other point on memory lane. When I got to it, I looked over the pictures briefly and then on the following page, I came to a sudden, jerking halt.
I looked at my mom in confusion and asked, “Uh…Mom? Why is there a picture of me and Camie at the park taped to a page of
my second birthday in my baby book?”
“Which picture are you referring to?”
I went back to looking at the picture and was reminded of what true happiness is. I love this picture of us. I remember the day it was taken; it was right after we got together…we went to the park down below school with Jeff, Kate, Mike and Kristen and we were all goofing off on the playground. Kristen was snapping pictures left and right but she’d climbed up on the bars to get this really cool aerial shot of Camie and me on the tire swing.
“The one of me and Camie, Mom, on the tire sw—” I started to say but my eyes hit another picture and the written description made my mind go blank and stole my breath away so I was left barely breathing the rest of my sentence. “—holy fuck.”
That was it. That was all I could think of to say as I looked at a picture of two-year-old me holding and kissing a very tiny, one-month-old Camie on the forehead. The caption was: “TJ’s First Love – Baby Cameron.” My mind was a complete blank aside from; Oh my God…she was beautiful even then…
“It was Valentine’s Day you know…you fell in love with that precious baby girl the second you set eyes on her.”
“Bu—wh—how? Mom, explain this…”
“Well, the documentation next to the picture is rather self-explanatory, dear, but since seeing it and for the first time knowing what you’re actually seeing is relatively shocking, I won’t force you to read it and besides, there’s a little more to the story,” I looked away from my mom and back to the picture, shaking my head in utter shock, trying for the life of me to comprehend what I was seeing, “I’d taken you to lunch and then the park for Valentine’s Day…”
That’s right. I remember she used do that every year…it was our thing. My mom spent almost twenty hours in labor with me and I missed being born on February 14th by like just a matter of minutes. Jeff’s mom died the day before I was born, on Valentine’s Day, and my dad didn’t want to celebrate a day that was supposed to be about love when for him it’d become a reminder of death. So, my dad would take my mom out for cupid’s holiday the night before, but, because my mom preferred to remember Laura and what she personally went through on that day by not taking for granted her own blessing of a child, I got my mom all to myself on Valentine’s Day. Then we’d celebrate my actual birthday with family and friends the next day or the following weekend. I don’t know why we stopped doing that…
