Hannah came down the stairs holding the garbage can. I took it from her and set it next to the disaster site.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Dad has to clean up his mess,” I said.
76.
I ate dinner at Yoda’s house. His parents had cooked turkey meat loaf and beet salad and squash. It was no wonder Yoda was the way he was.
I ate everything they put in front of me and drank three glasses of milk. Yoda and his parents talked about Case Western Reserve University and if it really was a better choice than Ohio State. Every time Mrs. Hodges asked me if I was feeling well, I did the polite thing and lied.
Yoda explained what was going on when I was in the bathroom. When I came back to the table, his mother said she thought it would be best if I stayed the night.
After dinner, we sat in the family room, and I watched his father watch the news for a while, then Yoda and I went down to his room with a box of chocolate-chip cookies. He turned the television to one of the music video channels and muted it.
“I’ve been thinking about your problem,” he said.
“You make it sound like a skin condition,” I said.
“You need another option.”
“Besides running away or beating my father to death?”
“Exactly.”
“Damn.” I put two cookies in my mouth.
“You could stay here,” he said.
“Until graduation? I don’t think so.”
“Why not? My parents like you—they think you’re a good influence.”
I snorted cookie crumbs and coughed. “Wait until they get to know me better.”
“You can’t afford an apartment.”
“I know. There’s always the army or the navy.”
“Funny,” Yoda said.
“Ha,” I said.
I stuffed more cookies in my mouth. Yoda did the same thing. We chewed our cud, watching booties and boobs and fat rappers getting out of slick cars.
“You forgot to mention that I could gut it out at home,” I said. “I do happen to live there. And who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll arrest my dad for whatever happened in Omaha.”
“It could happen,” Yoda said. “Pigs could fly out of my butt, too. You never know.”
I slept on his couch, under a pile of afghans. I passed out after midnight and slept like death until just before seven, when the sound of Yoda’s snoring nearly caused the walls to cave in.
It took a couple minutes to figure out where I was and why I was there. Once I oriented myself, I lay back down and pulled the afghans up under my chin.
I was chilled, but it felt like I had a sunburn, the kind that hurts but itches at the same time, and you can’t stop yourself from scratching even though you know it’s going to hurt worse. My hands ached, my shoulders were sore, and my stomach was killing me, either from the cookies or from everything else. There was no way to get comfortable.
The sky around the edges of the curtains was pale.
I got up and put my clothes on, folded the afghans, and scribbled a note that I put in the center of Yoda’s keyboard. I went up the stairs holding my sneakers, staying on the edges of the treads so they wouldn’t squeak. I made it out the door without a sound.
77.
It was warmer than I thought it would be, and bright enough to make me squint. I left my jacket open.
The street smelled strangely of tar, which made me worry that maybe I was hallucinating.
I turned the corner and saw that the street crew was repairing a couple of potholes that had grown large enough to swallow tires whole. The tar smelled like summer, even though everything around me looked like fall dying into winter.
I was going to walk past my house to see if it was still standing. I felt like the game-winning runner on third base, waiting for the signal to sprint home and dive headfirst—one part nervous excitement, nine parts nausea. It was finally beginning to sink in what I had done.
Mom would let me take my clothes, that was a given. The computer would be harder, but if I had to get by using the computer in the library, I could do it. At the very least I had to get my Social Security card and my passport, and I needed my textbooks, something to read, and my boots, for when it snowed.
I had been watching the sidewalk, looking for the heaves and cracks that send you landing on your face, so I didn’t look up at the house until I turned in the driveway.
He was sitting on the front steps. He was wearing the same clothes that he had come home in the night before, except he had sneakers on, and the beige comforter from his bed was wrapped around his shoulders.
The road crew’s truck beeped a high-pitched warning as it backed up. Crows roosting in the maple tree called back.
“Hello,” he said.
I watched. Listened.
“I wondered if you would come back.” He tugged on the comforter. “Wondered all night, in fact.”
“Did Mom kick you out?” I asked.
“No. She thought about it, talked about it, but she went to sleep. I couldn’t. Couldn’t sleep, I mean.”
I watched.
He shifted closer to the railing. “Will you sit next to me?”
The truck stopped backing up and beeping.
“Okay.” I sat. The concrete was a slab of ice under my butt.
“Do you want to sit on this?” he asked, offering the blanket.
“I’m fine,” I said.
We both stared straight ahead. A television would have been nice, something we could pretend to look at, but all we had was a lawn gone dormant for the winter and a street awaiting pothole repairs.
“My father beat me with his belt a couple times a week for my entire childhood,” he said. “That’s why I swore I’d never hit you or your sister. And I never did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“But it wasn’t enough.”
I picked at the edge of a popped blister. “No,” I said quietly. “It’s not.”
He rubbed his hand along his sandpaper beard stubble. “I’m sorry.”
I held my breath.
“I thought I was different than he was.”
The road crew poured hot tar and asphalt into the cracks in the road and tamped it down.
“Are they going to arrest you?” I asked.
“At work? I don’t know. I have to get a lawyer.”
“Good idea.”
The crew filled the hole at the bottom of our driveway.
“Your sister said you slept at Calvin’s last night.”
I nodded.
“That was nice of them.”
“They’re nice people. We had meat loaf.”
“Meat loaf is nice.”
“Yeah.”
When the crew moved down the road, Dad stood up. “Are you hungry?”
We both poured bowls of cereal. Dad started the coffeemaker and made toast. He put butter on his toast and mine. I added raspberry jam.
We sat down facing each other and ate in silence, except for the slurps of milk on the spoon and the crunch of toast. We took turns studying the backyard out the window and examining the grain of the wood in the kitchen table. When I was finished eating, I carried my bowl and plate to the dishwasher and put them in.
“Did you get enough?” he asked.
“I’m still kind of hungry,” I admitted.
“I could fry some eggs,” he offered.
“I can do it myself,” I said.
He sipped the last of his coffee.
“Do you want a couple?” I asked.
He blinked. “Yes, that would be nice. Sunny side up.”
“I know.”
I opened the refrigerator door and took out the egg carton. When I turned back to the stove, he was standing in front of me, his eyes wet and lost.
“I don’t want you to leave us.” His throat tightened and he clenched his teeth.
I put the egg carton on the counter.
“I don’t know what I’m sup
posed to say.” He coughed once. “I’m bad at this. I’m sorry.” He fought for control, the muscles along his jaw rippling. “I will try to do it better. Everything. I’ll try.”
I put my arms around him. He pulled me close, hugging me back. He groaned, an agonized sound from deep inside, and I worried that maybe he was having a stroke, but he didn’t let go. I did. I let myself break apart and lean all of my weight on him. He held me closer and patted my back like I was a little kid, whispering to me, until we both felt like we could stand on our own.
He wiped the tears off my face.
I did the same for him.
We ate eggs, bacon, sausage, and Pop-Tarts, and polished off the orange juice. We talked a little, but not too much.
I brought in the paper and handed him the business section. I read sports and the comics. Then we traded.
78.
Dad didn’t go down into the basement after breakfast. Progress. He fell asleep on the couch with the newspaper on his stomach.
Mom and Hannah tried to make a big deal out of me being home, but I asked them to stop, so they did. Mom took over the kitchen table to go through the real-estate listings and watch Dad out of the corner of her eye. Hannah went to Yoda’s house.
I played Tophet to empty my brain and numb everything else. Gormley grew stronger exponentially, and I scored an obscene amount of spellpoints and kills. By dinnertime, I had finally made it: Level One.
I put the game on pause long enough to inhale a stack of grilled-cheese sandwiches and tell Mom that yes, everything was fine, I just had a lot of work to do on the computer.
The confrontation with the Lord of Darkness was thirty-¥ seven minutes of mad skills and sick mayhem.
I won. I beat the game.
And then a new screen, one I had never seen before, never even heard of, popped up.
It gave me a choice. I could become the new Lord of Darkness myself, or I could take a gamble and be reincarnated.
I chose wisely.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a novel sometimes feels like riding a roller coaster.
No, that’s a lie.
Writing a novel always feels like riding a roller coaster, the kind that makes you hyperventilate, say your prayers, and regret the cheese dog you ate half an hour ago. Once they lock you in your seat, you’re sure you will plunge to a fiery, painful death. When it’s over, you sprint to get back in line, because it was the coolest thing you ever did.
The following brave souls took turns strapping themselves in next to me for this ride.
I owe them all big-time.
My friends, Deborah Heiligman, Martha Hewson, and Elizabeth Bleicher all read early drafts of the book and insisted I keep going. Special thanks to Martha for staging the semicolon intervention.
Our kids are the most patient people on the planet. Thank you, Stephanie, for reading the book before I had written the ending, and then not killing me when I admitted I didn’t know what happened next. Thank you, Meredith, for saying exactly the right thing when I needed to hear it. And thank you, Jessica and Christian, for putting up with me when I wandered the house muttering to myself.
My first husband, Greg, goes above and beyond the duties of a former spouse. Not only is he a good friend and father, but he is my secret weapon in the war against grammar mistakes. Many thanks to him for taking the time to read this, armed with a red pen.
My parents, Joyce and Frank Halse, watched the revision process of this book up close and personal and never once reminded me that I should have taken that typing class in high school. They’re sweet like that.
The best bookstore in the country, The River’s End Bookstore in Oswego, New York has a magic chair in it. Thank you, thank you, Mindy Ostrow and Bill Reilly for letting me write the opening pages of my books in that chair.
I am very fortunate to work with the talented people at Writers House. Many thanks to my agent, Amy Berkower, who makes it possible for me to ride roller coasters all year long. Genevieve Gagne-Hawes took the time to read an early draft and offered insightful and much appreciated comments. Becca Stumpf is an organizational genius, and is always cheerful and polite, despite working in New York City.
Deep bows to my editor, Sharyn November, who rode with me through all the plunges, corkscrew turns, loop-de-loops, and soaring climbs to the sky. I hope your stomach has finally settled. Thank you also to the other ab-fab folks chez Penguin Group: Doug Whiteman, Regina Hayes, Eileen Bishop Kreit, and all of the creative people whose hard work made this book possible. I am very grateful to have my books supported by a company that has both integrity and a sense of humor.
I could not have written this book without the companionship of my beloved husband, Scot. He was always there cheering from the sidelines, patting my hand, and brewing endless gallons of tea and coffee. Every time I started crumbling around the edges, he was there to sweep up the pieces and put me together again.
I don’t have enough words to thank all of the guys, including Mike, Mike, Ted, Marshall, Steve, Dan, various marching-band players (you know who you are), David, Jared, Jordan, and the hundreds of others who talked to me in their schools and wrote to tell me what their truth was. This book is in no way based on any of the stories they shared, but I hope it echoes and reflects their struggles and triumphs.
LAURIE HALSE ANDERSON is the author of the multiple award–winning, New York Times best-selling novel Speak, as well as Catalyst (an ALA Top Ten Best Book for Young Adults) and Prom (a New York Times Best Seller). She lives in northern New York with her husband and a lot of firewood.
Visit her Web site at www.writerlady.com.
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