When I arrived at my house, my father was in our living room, sitting on the opposite side of the same white couch my mother was occupying.
“Why did you skip school?” they said, almost in unison. “Where have you been?”
“You know what? I’m going to tell you the truth,” I said, and then I erupted, telling them everything—from Shannon spreading rumors about me being a lesbian, my hatred of soccer, my love of The Bubblegum Reaper, kissing Mr. Graves, how practically all the girls on the soccer team were alcoholic sexpots, my love affair with Alex, his defending little kids and ending up in jail, all the way to my not being sure that I actually even wanted to go to college next year. “The truth is I’m not sure about anything anymore. I have no idea what I want to do tomorrow let alone next year or any year after that and now you two are splitting up and it’s like I’m starting from scratch with absolutely no map and I’m scared, okay! I’m fucking scared!”
I started ugly crying, and I couldn’t stop.
It felt like so many years’ worth of anxiety and worry were trying to escape all at once—maybe like an emotional volcano, only my mom and dad, they didn’t run away to save themselves but sprinted right into my lava. They both jumped up off the couch and wrapped their arms around me even though it meant touching each other. We stayed like that for a long time, and it felt good—almost enough to justify everything that had precipitated it, but not quite.
Later, in my room, I looked up the word obtuse.
Imperceptive is a synonym.
Maybe I was obtuse.
18
My Fist Rattling the Skull
THERE IS POWER IN KNOWING
By Alex Redmer
I went to the homes of four fathers
Whose boys were terrorizing
A friend of mine
And I said, “Can you make it stop?”
“Make WHAT stop?” they said
“The terrorizing,” I said
All four laughed like I had
Told the greatest joke
Next, platitudes were offered
Like cricket-sized Band-Aids
To the bleeding man
Whose hand has been cut off
“Boys will be boys”
“Kids need to learn to fend for themselves”
“Just part of growing up”
“There are two sides to every story”
“Not my boy”
“What did he do to provoke them?”
And when the little terrorizers
Were forced to face me
They proved to be liars gifted well
Beyond their years
Who could light up their parents’ faces
With a powerful, blinding pride
The glow of which
Couldn’t be beat
And it was then that I
Realized why these pretty boys
Felt invincible, because
I envied the way their fathers
Believed in them, defended them
Even though they were lying
So when I realized I had lost
And would continue to lose
Forever and ever and ever
I took a swing at the fourth
Father—having already endured
The first three, whose bleached teeth
Glistened in mockery
Which needed to be answered
And spit flew from his mouth
When his head jerked back
My fist rattling the skull
Of that pretty man maker of pretty boys
He dropped to his knees
No longer seeing the glow
And his son began to cry
Like pretty boys do
As I asked him how it felt to
See someone you loved hurt
He had no answer
Of course
Because he had never known
Before
But
Now
He
Knows
There is power in knowing
And I’m sure his pretty boy friends
Now
Know
Too
PART TWO
19
Kill the I
Alex is being sent to a school for troubled boys in western Pennsylvania. In orange crayon, he writes me a multipage letter and sends it via the United States Postal Service. The words are scrawled much too big and messy and wild and heavy-handed, and say that Alex is technically not allowed to communicate with me (or anyone) now. His iPhone and computer have been confiscated by his father, who is also selling his Jeep. Alex was made to apologize to Mr. Mandrake, who agreed to drop the assault and harassment charges if Alex leaves for reform school immediately and stays there for at least the remainder of the school year. Reform school costs a lot of money, Alex’s father keeps saying over and over again. “Roughly the cost of a brand-new Jeep.”
What else is there to say? Alex writes toward the end. Should I ask you to wait for me like I’m a soldier headed to war? I don’t know what will happen to me “out west.” (Maybe I am like a prospector chasing gold, leaving his lady behind? Ha-ha!) I’ve been told that I can “earn” the right to communicate with the outside world but will not be able to do that for at least six weeks from my “start date” and maybe even longer if I do not reform, which I am unlikely to do! I’m going to have to sneak this letter into the mail when my dad isn’t looking. He thinks you’re a bad influence on me. Hilarious! Especially since I know you don’t approve of my choices. You AGREE with my dad. But that’s adults. Senseless people. I don’t regret what I did. Maybe that’s the problem. I don’t know. I do already regret not being able to see you. I really do love you, Nanette. You are the best thing that has happened to me in quite some time. You are perfect just the way you are. The first flawless woman I’ve ever met. I’ll contact you when I can, but I completely understand if you can’t wait around for me. Can you look in on Oliver and maybe take him to see Sandra Tackett again? Solve the mystery of The Bubblegum Reaper, if only for the kid. Maybe you two can go to the movies—the good kind that they show at the art houses in Philly. Or take him to finally meet Booker, if you can talk the old man into it. I don’t think the pretty boys will be messing around with Oliver anymore. I’m happy to do time if it means putting the pretty boys in their place. And in the meantime (MEAN TIME! Get it?), don’t let the bastards get you down!!!!!!!