There is nothing.
Daddy usually leaves around eight, or a little after that. But when I make it to the bottom of the stairs, I find him with the door open, briefcase packed and ready to go.
“You’re leaving already?”
He turns quickly. “Ah, yes. I have a lot of work to do today and needed to get a head start. Good morning.”
Apparently he really needs that twenty-five minutes.
“Can you wait about ten or so? I just need to find my jeans and a hoodie and—”
“Not today, Tasia, I really need to get going.”
“Okay,” I say. What might be—definitely is—happening here dawns on me. “Well, maybe I can Uber and meet you in like an hour?”
Daddy sets his briefcase down, closes the door. “It’s probably better if you … if I just go in and handle what needs handling.”
I nod.
As he picks up his briefcase to leave again, I ask the thing that’s been aching to jump off my tongue. “Are you afraid of me?”
He shakes his head, smiles that confused smile he sometimes gets when I talk about football or pop culture too long. That solidifies it for me. I don’t even need him to answer anymore. I mean, are we not built to fear the things we don’t understand?
But he does. He does answer. Haltingly, adjusting his stance, foot to foot. But it’s an answer nonetheless. “I know that everything that’s happened hasn’t been easy for you. It hasn’t been easy for any of us. But I need you to know it’s okay to take your time with it.”
Take my time?
“To process it. To take some ‘you time.’”
Me … time.
Awesome. Now I’m the one who’s confused.
He walks toward me, pulls the brown leather wallet out of his back pocket, and hands me a fifty. “Spend the day with yourself, just live like it never happened,” he says. “Could be good for you. Get out of your room, away from what’s in that box. For now you could do nothing and that would be okay. Might help you untangle some of whatever it is you’re feeling if you just slow down.”
I know that the box is enemy number one for both Mamma and Daddy. I know this. Whatever it is you’re feeling. It’s this part that really gets me. He doesn’t know what I’m feeling and he’s not interested in trying to figure it out, either. This is the equivalent of “Get lost and figure it out yourself.”
I stare at the crisp bill still in his outstretched hand, half disgusted by the offer.
Like it never happened. Untangle whatever you’re feeling.
I expected … more. More than “pretend and do nothing” as some form of advice.
I shake my head. “Parents aren’t supposed to run away from their problems, but I guess you aren’t really my parent, so the same rules don’t apply anymore.”
Then I turn and go back upstairs.
I wish I’d taken the money beforehand. I wish I had looked him in the eye when I said it.
That night I hear my parents arguing again. I sit in bed under cool sheets listening to the leaves scuttle across the ground outside my window. The yelling is still about me, but mostly about how neither of them really knows what to do. How to control me or “rein that girl in,” which gets thrown around a few times, along with the fact that I am, apparently, not mature enough to deal with this in healthy ways.
I pull my phone out. I have a text from Slim, I ignore it while I scroll through some pictures of Mamma and I. There are at least a dozen more of us on my Instagram, and I go through those, too. Still, looking at them isn’t helping me forgive her, love her, the way I hoped it would. Doesn’t help me get the words out of my mouth that I’ll need to speak to her again. It only hurts a little more, a little deeper.
Finally, I pull the cold sheets off my bed and carry them to the guest bedroom downstairs, away from their accusations and the shouts.
I pull up the Gmail app on my phone, pull the page down to refresh it.
Nothing. I knew there would be nothing, but that didn’t stop the hope from spreading across my chest like watercolor paint.
In Mrs. Hitotose’s twelfth grade English class, we’re reading The Scarlet Letter when it happens. Kevin Prideux, the school’s resident basketball beefcake, raises his hand to wax poetic about Hester Prynne.
“I mean, Hawthorne does kinda show us that Hester is, like, sort of a badass.”
Hitotose clucks her tongue and mutters “Language, Kevin,” even though we all know she doesn’t really care.
“Sorry,” he says and continues, “but, so, it’s like … she’s strong, but also her strength is shown to us through her loneliness. She lives a lonely life and it’s basically, like, Hester versus society at one point.”
“Good,” Hitotose says, making a circuit around the room, her heels clacking on the shitty decades-old wood floors.
I stare off into space. My book’s open but I’m pretty sure I’m not on the right page. I checked out pretty much the second Kevin decided he knew anything about women. Even fictional ones.
I roll my eyes. “Give me a break.”
“Something to add, Miss Quirk?”
I pull myself up a little straighter in my desk. “Uh. No?”
“Obviously there’s something—otherwise that outburst wouldn’t have happened.”
“I just think it’s kind of dumb to be like, ‘Yeah, she’s so strong and that’s what’s important’ when this woman was ostracized from everyone and everything she’d ever known.”
“She had Pearl,” Hitotose says.
“The kid was a burden and that’s it. In chapter five or something, Hester’s, like, killing herself trying to figure out how she’s gonna feed them both. That’s not family, that’s obligation. Hester is alone and that’s what’s important here. Her strength doesn’t negate her struggle.”
The entire class goes silent.
“Good,” Hitotose says, pleased.
And it hits me, much like this in-class debate, that I can’t just let things go. I can’t walk away from the box and what it means and its sender. I have to find out who else knows about me.
I don’t want to be solitary in this issue anymore.
Congratulations, Tasia Quirk. You are lonely Hester Prynne.
Slim catches up with me after class. She is the least organized person I know. Makeup is half falling out of every pocket in her shoulder bag.
“Hey. What was that about?” she says, following me to my locker. People work overtime to get out of her way, her long legs eating up the hallway floor.
“What was what about?”
“Uh. You never speak in Hitotose’s class. Like, ever.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But I couldn’t exactly get out of being called on.”
Slim side-eyes me hard. I pretend I don’t notice it.
“Is this about your Daddy Issues?”
“Ew, Slim. Don’t say ‘Daddy Issues.’”
“Why? You haven’t brought it up in days. I’m just saying, you’re being weird, so.”
I laugh. “It’s nothing.”
“Aha.”
“Stacy. I’m serious. It’s nothing.”
We both stop at my locker as I swap out my English books for my gargantuan APUSH textbook. My copy of The Scarlett Letter gets chucked into the back of my locker harder than it deserves.
“Wow, Taze. Tell me how you really feel.”
“I hate that book. It puts me to sleep,” I concede.
“Right.”
“Tell me about Josiah.”
She stops, moves her arm in front of my locker to block me from physically abusing any more of my books. “You never want to talk about him. So why now?”
I shrug. “We haven’t in a while.”
“Okay, except it’s only been a couple days?”
“That’s a while for you, Slim. Who are you kidding?”
“Fair point. Still, something’s up with you. You’re just acting so much weirder than you usually do. And you didn’t even text me back last night.�
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“I went to sleep early.”
“You didn’t tell me you were doing that.”
She’s right. I didn’t. And usually that is a thing we do. We text for so much of the day that “good night,” or more accurately, “I’m about to start drooling on my APUSH textbook so I’m gonna KTFO” just happens to be part of that.
“Whatever.” She moves her arm, rolls her eyes, then looks me square in mine. “Swear to me that you’re okay. Like, I get super anxious when you’re worked up over something like this. So just … swear you’re not gonna have a psychotic break in the cafeteria tomorrow while clutching that lurker box to your chest or something.” She makes it seem like all this is taking a bigger toll on her than it is on me. Like she absolutely needs me to be solid—or else. If I know anything at all right now, it’s that this is definitely not going to result in a solid Taze.
“If I was, I don’t think I could promise you anything in advance—”
“Tasia.”
It would be so great if she weren’t making this about how she feels. No way can I be responsible for her emotional needs right now. So I tell her what she wants to hear, the thing that’ll get her off my back.
I stare at the smooth space between her eyes—and I lie. “I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong.”
The lie eats me up inside.
The bell rings in what is probably the most well-timed excuse for an exit I’ve ever experienced.
I slam my locker shut.
Chapter Eight
GAME 2 — WESTVIEW VS. MALIBU SHARKS
The game the following Friday night is a real ass-kicking. It’s one of those where you swear every other player on the team has never even seen a football before.
We play that bad.
To make matters worse, the other team’s spectators are heckling me so bad, it seriously messes with my focus. I get sloppy on a second down and end up colliding with one of our own safeties, like a fricking idiot who doesn’t know up from down.
We hit so hard my helmet goes flying off. Head, meet turf. The back of my skull vibrates for long minutes and my eyes start to feel cold.
That, much to my dismay, is a pretty clear sign that I’m concussed.
It takes me probably a minute to get up. One more to make it to the sidelines, and maybe another couple to find the bench.
The other team has their medic take a look at me. Some aggressively blond guy everyone calls “Jimbo,” which seems real unfortunate for him.
Mamma comes from the far end of the field where all spectators sit, reaching me just as Jimbo begins his examination.
“Looks like it might be a concussion, but I can’t say for sure. Definitely would say take her to the ER just to—”
“No!” I say.
“—be sure.”
“No,” I say again, more firm this time. Jesus, my head’s starting to throb. “I have to be in there for—”
“Definitely no more football tonight.”
Mamma’s hand meets my shoulder. “I’m her mother,” she says to Jimbo. “I got it, I’ll take her.”
No one argues. Obviously. Except me. I do my damnedest to stay in the game, or at least ride the bench for the rest of it. But even Siah won’t look at me long enough to see the way I’m begging with my eyes. Probably good anyway. It’s more threat than actual pleading, TBH.
In the car, I’m quiet as the “you’ll never be allowed to play football again” panic sets in. When Mamma tries to “Jesus” me, I tell her that my head hurts too much for noise even though I maybe do need what comfort she’s offering. I need the reassurance, but I don’t want it from her. Not her or Daddy or Trist or Slim. Not anymore.
Who’s left?
Still, I can hear Mamma whispering it under her breath. I want to scream. Irrationally, her voice is making me want to scream.
But it’s the most she’s spoken to me in days, and vice versa.
At the local Kaiser ER, we get checked in fairly quickly.
A nurse in hot pink scrubs calls, “Tasia Quirk?” Only she says it like “Tasha.”
As I stand, Mamma stands with me.
“It’s fine,” I say to her. “I can go by myself. I don’t need your help.”
She looks shocked, her face pulling long, eyes rounded and wide.
The nurse smiles and puts her arm around my shoulder like she’s protecting me from Mamma. “You can have a seat here, ma’am. We’ll update you momentarily.”
An hour later, after I get one IV bag of fluids and receive my concussion diagnosis, I’m released with strict orders.
No more football for the next seven to ten days. No practice, no scrimmages, no drills, no gym workouts.
Our game next week is pretty early—on a frickin’ Wednesday, of all days (super rare)—because the big shot school landed us broadcasting rights for the local CBS station or something. I ask if there’s any way I’ll be ready. His answer: a very unbothered, “Definitely not. You’ll likely be out for the week. We’ll get you a note to excuse you.”
This game—I can’t miss it. It’s a big one. We’re playing the Buccaneers. My team and our cheerleaders are missing the second half of the day’s classes just to travel to the other school up in Palm Springs. As long as I’ve been on the team, we’ve been in this out-and-out rivalry with them. The Bucks vs. the Westview Wildcats has been the game I’ve been killing myself on the field over for weeks.
When I exit the ER back in the waiting room, Mamma tries to pull me into a hug, but I hold my papers out at her instead.
She skims them fast. Exhales. “Okay, this isn’t too bad. A concussion just like we thought.” She reads under her breath as we walk back to the car. “No football for the week.”
Halfway home, the car silent save for the soft swoosh of us passing other drivers on the freeway, I say, “I’m going to miss the Bucks game on Wednesday.”
“Oh, angel …”
“It’s fine.”
“You can still go to the game. You’ll just have to watch instead.”
“If I can’t play, I don’t want to go.”
“Baby—”
“I super don’t want to talk about it, so.”
“Okay,” she says. It’s new territory for her. The not-talking-about-it thing. It’s new for us both, because Mamma and I—we talk about everything.
We used to be able to talk about everything.
Except then she failed to talk about the biggest thing with me and now that’s all shot to hell.
I run a mental list, imagine scratching names off a white sheet of paper one by one: Mamma. Trist. Daddy. Slim.
“Okay,” Mamma says again.
I use my fingernail to scratch three words into my football-pants-clad thigh: Who is left?
No one knows me like the walls in my mamma’s home.
We’ve lived in this house since I was five and it’s never felt as foreign to me as it has this week. I’ve walked through every single room—making excuse after excuse to avoid friends and, as far as I’ve been able to, family—but I’ve felt like a stranger in all of them.
I end up in the big study upstairs, going through Mamma’s phone to find out if Merrick has contacted her recently. Because it’s Sunday, Mamma usually adheres to the Sunday Sabbath rest thing, not taking any work calls or answering emails. I don’t know why. We haven’t been to church in ages. It works out well for me, though, because she’s MIA from her preferred workspace.
But there’s nothing there. No trace of him whatsoever, and I still haven’t gotten anything in my own email inbox. I check his webpage multiple times a day to make sure it’s still up and running and not swallowed by the Internet Babadook.
Spoiler: It’s still there.
That box is really all I have and it’s like he doesn’t exist outside of it.
I spend long minutes standing there, wondering if it was all made up, Mamma’s confession about him. I wonder if it was all a dream.
“What are you doing?”
I turn an
d find Mamma behind me. “Just looking for … a report folder. I finished my APUSH report and need to keep it in something bound.”
She walks over to the cabinet beneath her shelf and pulls out a box of them, handing one to me.
“Thank you.”
She nods. “What else were you doing?”
“Nothing!”
Her head tilts. She knows. That outburst was uncalled for. It was a red reaction instead of the casual blue or purple it should have been.
And also, contrary to popular belief—parents aren’t idiots.
Mamma opens her mouth and then pauses. Finally: “I want you to know I’m here for whatever you need.”
I nod. “Okay.”
I start to hope this is the moment we fix things, and all these plans spring up in my head about Mamma helping me look for Merrick and finding out more about the box and getting to know him … getting to know me.
We’re silent once more, and then she says, “Do you think you can ever forgive me?”
That right there—that’s her shooting down every reunited-and-it-feels-so-good delusion I just created, and God, this doesn’t feel like my life anymore.
I glance at her and don’t even know if the answer to her question is yes. It doesn’t feel fair that she’s asking me for anything right now. How is it fair that she should get to make requests like this when I haven’t even had a chance to figure anything out?
She hasn’t even tried to help me figure it out.
She keeps talking and, somehow, I know she’s explaining herself to me again but I’ve managed to zone out. I’ve managed to find a space that feels safe.
It’s the same space I occupy when I’m on the field. When I’m at a home game and things just feel better, and the turf is familiar under my cleats, and it’s third and long and our O needs the ball back, and so I have to run. I have to focus on what I need to do and how best to get it done. These are the types of situations where you don’t think. You can’t. There’s no time for that. As a cornerback, you just trust your instincts and you trust your lineman to put some heat on the quarterback, and that—oh my God, that—is where I go mentally right now.
I turn and walk away from Mamma while she’s midsentence. Walking away from my parents seems to be a theme this week. But all of them, from Daddy to Tristan to Mamma to Slim—all of them have been directing me, pushing me—to feel a certain way about my life. Sometimes without even knowing it. They’ve all been leading me by the hand in the wrong direction or just washing their own hands of it, not helping me at all.
Home and Away Page 5
