I don’t even attempt to be quiet as I pick up the garbage or straighten the chairs. Mom lifts her head, squinting at me in the harsh glow of the kitchen lights. A hand goes to her head and she rubs her temple, coughing like a smoker with terrible emphysema.
“Monica, what are you doing?”
“Cleaning up.”
She looks at the trash bag in my hand and frowns. “Why did you dump the garbage all over the floor?”
“I didn’t. You did.” I sigh. “Can’t you remember anything?”
She stands, gripping the table for support.
“Oh yeah,” she says, a funny look on her face. “I did do that.”
Her gaze goes to the living room.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ve got it pretty much cleaned up in there, too.”
She actually looks contrite.
“I’ll wipe that up next,” I say, pointing to the blood on the floor. “As soon as I get done with the garbage.”
She stares at the dried droplets, her face blank.
“Where is your father?” she asks.
“Upstairs sleeping.”
“Is he…okay?”
“I guess. I didn’t examine him or anything.”
“We had a fight last night.”
“I figured,” I say.
“Monica, I’m sorry.” Mom looks down at the table, her finger tracing along one of the cracks in the granite. Whatever happened last night has drained all emotion out of her, making her voice flat. “I never wanted to hurt you, but things have just gotten so bad. I’m…your father and I…we—”
“You’re divorcing.”
She nods, still not meeting my eye.
“I see.” I try to breathe normally, try to ignore the stabbing pain in my heart. “Is that what you fought about?”
She nods again.
This is all my fault. If only I hadn’t said anything about Jude.
“Mom, I’m so sorry.” I can’t stop the tears. “I thought you knew about Jude. I shouldn’t have—“
She looks now, her tears mirroring my own as she comes around the table to me. “I suspected the truth all along, but when your father didn’t stop Simone from dating him, I thought maybe I was wrong. What happened to Simone was a result of your father and his indiscretions. I can’t forgive him for that.”
“Don’t you love him anymore?” I sob. I can’t help it. My family is broken. “Doesn’t that matter at all?”
“Baby, I care about your dad. Some part of me always will, but we haven’t been right together in a long, long time,” she whispers and puts her arms around me. “I love you. I do, but I want you to know that I’m packing up a few of my things today and then I’m moving out.”
“Today? You’re moving out already?” I breathe in her scent, hoping to find some shred of the woman who raised me. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“You can come with me if you want. I’m going to stay with a friend over in Davenport.”
“Who?” I pull away. “Are you moving in with Coach?”
“You don’t know this friend.”
This friend? Not her or him. Just this friend.
I try to picture myself packing up and moving out, moving away from the only home I’ve ever known, living with my drunk mom who can barely take care of herself, much less me. She sounds sincere, but part of me already realizes her offer is a courtesy. She will be able to look back on this guilt free and say she gave me the chance to come with her. It will be the thing she clings to late at night when her conscience nips at her.
Fine. She offered. But I’m not accepting. Staying with Daddy means staying in my house, going to the same school, seeing Stephen. Why should I leave behind those things just because my mother can’t hack it?
“I’m going to stay here,” I say. “With Daddy.”
A shadow crosses her face, but she doesn’t argue with me.
“Mom, you’re not going to say anything about…about Jude and Simone’s relationship to anyone, are you?” The thought of the kids at school knowing makes me shudder. “Please don’t.”
“I won’t have Simone’s name and reputation be dragged through the mud because of your father’s indiscretions.” She kisses me on the forehead and stumbles by, leaving me to do what I started.
Clean up after her again.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
STEPHEN
My mother decides to sell our house.
To my surprise, she got up on Sunday morning about ten. I’d expected her to be emotionally laid out for weeks. The determined look on her face was even more impressive, momentarily swaying my anger. Sure, there are still dark hollows beneath her eyes, but the depression I’d expected to see is replaced by a new resolve I don’t know what to make of.
“We’re selling the house,” she says.
I look at her, unsure I’ve heard correctly.
“Now that Jude is…is gone, there isn’t a reason for us to stay here. I’ll find a realtor tomorrow.” She brushes the hair out her face. “We may not get much, but I’ll figure something out. Unfortunately, most of the money will probably end up going towards lawyer fees and the lawsuits they keep saying are going to get filed, but I have to do something. Rockingham is no place for us to be.”
If she had just made this decision a month earlier…damn, it only pisses me off instead of making me happy. Now that she’s lost the loves of her life—Jude and Simon Monroe—I guess, we’re playing by a new set of priorities.
It would be nice to be one of them.
But the next day she shocks me even more.
“Do you still want to be home schooled?” she asks. I’m burrowed in my bed, unwilling to get up and go to school. The news of Jude’s death will no doubt be everywhere by now. How am I supposed to face people?
“Hell, yes, I do,” I answer, becoming alert. “Can we start today?”
“I’ll speak to the counselor this morning.”
“Wait, so that’s it?” I sit up, unsure I’ve heard correctly. “I’m done with Rockingham High?”
“If you want to be.” She smiles, pleased by my reaction I guess. “It’s up to you.”
What the hell is going on? Has she lost her mind?
“Why are you doing this now?” I ask. “Why not before?”
“Because before I thought we were stuck here for a least a year.” Mom swallows hard, but doesn’t look away. “I didn’t believe I could help you with studying at home. Now, I think this is the best option. Besides, it will only be for a little while. You’ll enroll in high school wherever we land.”
“Thank you, Mom. I mean it.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, softly. “It’s time I did right by you. I know you’re mad at me, Stephen, but I want you to know that I love you no matter what.”
She leaves the room and I process her words. Mom feels guilty and that’s probably the only reason I’m receiving this amazing gift, but I’ll take it. After so long, I’m greedy for the attention. I’m greedy for the focus to be on me. Some of the anger in my chest loosens, letting me breathe.
No more Rockingham High. No more Derek Andrews. No more whispered curses or lingering looks.
No more Monica.
That takes the joy out of Mom’s announcement. I’ve grown dependent on the one friend I have. Not to mention that despite everything, I’m in love with her.
I love Monica Monroe.
Whoa.
The realization is staggering and in light of everything we’ve learned about our families, that feeling shouldn’t still be there. I should see her as an awful extension of her father—who holds just as much blame here for Jude and Simone as my mother—but I don’t. She’s the girl who makes my heart feel lighter, the girl I want to wake up and see every day. I want to talk to her about all things Marvel and argue over books and movies. I want to hear her thoughts on whatever stupid musical is the big thing on Broadway right now just so I can watch her eyes lig
ht up with excitement. Hell, I want to spray paint her name in a million neon colors across the front of the school as a sign that she is mine.
Don’t worry. I won’t do that last one. I’m not stupid.
I should have called her last night, but I figured she might need some space. Everything we found out is overwhelming. I haven’t quite pulled myself together yet. I don’t imagine she will go to school today either.
But now that I’m up, I can’t go back to sleep. My body wants to, but my mind is jumping all over the place. Might as well get out of bed.
It must be the same for Mom. She’s staring at the TV, but her fingers tap in her lap, a mind of their own. I guess she’s not going to work today. Not that I blame her. The morning news is on and Jude’s class picture from last year pops up.
“In other news, Jude Valley, known as the notorious Rockingham Rattler, has died. Accused of shooting seven students last May at Rockingham High School, Valley’s trial had been set for November,” a pretty female newscaster reports. Her eyes are solemn and serious, no trace of her own feelings about my brother revealed. “Few details have been released about the cause of his death other than it is being considered a suicide.”
The reporter moves on to other stories, having no idea she just summed up my brother’s passing for his family in a few short sentences. She could have been talking about anyone. In the dim light of our living room, the smell of my mom’s coffee in the air, Jude doesn’t even seem a real person anymore.
I sneak a look at Mom. Her face is blank, revealing none of her feelings. Did she hear what the reporter said? Or did she block out the news altogether? I can’t tell, so I don’t say anything.
We sit quietly, watching the news, learning how the rest of the country has fared this weekend. The economy sucks, the Republicans don’t trust the Democrats, and people in the Middle East are still pissed about something. Nothing has changed in the world with Jude’s death.
Eventually, Mom turns to me. “Okay. If neither of us is going to school or work, then we’ve got shit to do.”
Shit to do? Who is this lady?
“’Kay,” I say. “What did you have in mind?”
“If we’re moving, we need to pack up his stuff and get it out of the house,” Mom says. She nods her head as if I agreed with her. “We’re going to tackle his bedroom.”
“Today? Like right now?” I can’t hide my surprise. Where are the weeks of depression and the silent rule of not dealing with our problems? Who is this woman? “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer. Instead, Mom goes to the kitchen and takes out the big box of black trash bags we keep in the pantry. Then she marches into the garage, coming back with several boxes from recycling. She raises an expectant eyebrow at me.
“Well? Are you helping or not?” she asks.
“Helping,” I decide and follow her down the hall to Jude’s room.
Outside the door, she pauses and exhales slowly.
“You sure, Mom?” I ask, softly. “We don’t have to do this today.”
“Today is as good as any other day,” she says. “I will always love your brother. I will always blame myself for what he did. But right now, right this minute, I want him out of the house.”
She opens the door and goes into Jude’s room, leaving me to stare after in amazement. I’m not naive enough to think she will never suffer a bout of depression over all this again. Odds are good I will come home one day and find her buried under the covers, unable to face the world.
But I will take this mother right now who is willing to start shortening Jude’s long shadow.
****
We work most of the day, reducing Jude’s bedroom down to a stripped mattress, desk, and empty bookshelves. There are fifteen trash bags ready to be hauled away and five boxes filled with mementos of the kid who once lived in this room. There isn’t much talk between us, but Mom and I finally close the door to the room and doing so feels symbolic, as if we’ve started on a new path together.
I can’t lie though. The anger is still there. Maybe it always will be.
I could rant and rave about what a bitch my Mom is, how she ruined my brother’s life with her lies, and therefore, caused him to ruin mine. There are ways to humiliate or torture her over Mr. Monroe, but what would be the point? She made mistakes and has to live with them, which seems worse than anything I could do or say to her, but no matter what the reason Jude gave, in the end, he made the choice to become the Rockingham Rattler all on his own.
I call Monica three times, but she doesn’t answer. All sort of thoughts crowd into my head over why. She’s drunk and passed out in her room. Her parents took her phone away. She’s too depressed to talk. She’s done with me.
The last one is the one I’m afraid of.
The next day, Mom and I go up to the school. We arrive after the first bell so class has started and there is no one around to see us walking in to the front office. Ms. Taylor, the admin assistant to the principal, frowns when she sees us and immediately picks up the phone.
“Mr. Buchanan? The Valleys are here.” Her disdainful tone sets the mood. “Shall I send them in?”
A long pause while she listens to the principal. When she puts the phone down, Ms. Taylor looks coolly at my mother. “He’ll see you now, Ms. Valley. He wants Stephen to wait out here.”
My mother frowns. “Why is that? We’re withdrawing Stephen from school. He will no longer be a student here. I was hoping to speak with the counselor regarding this.”
Ms. Taylor’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “You aren’t here to discuss the vandalism?”
“What vandalism?” Mom asks.
Before Ms. Taylor can respond, Mr. Buchanan opens the door to his office. He is holding a handkerchief in one hand. He wipes it across his forehead as he surveys us, a deep frown on his face. His eyes settle on me.
“Stephen, I’m glad you’re here. Confessing is the best thing to do and will save us time,” he says.
“Confessing? What’s he done?” Mom narrows her eyes. “What’s going on here?”
“Someone spray painted all over the doors to the cafeteria,” he says. “I believe your son has a history with that sort of thing.”
Mom glances at me, but she shakes her head at the principal in confusion. “Mr. Buchanan, I don’t know what’s going on here, but my son has been at home with me this weekend. As you may have heard, we had a death in the family.”
“Yes, I heard,” he says, but doesn’t offer condolences. “Perhaps we should discuss this in my office.”
“Fine with me,” Mom says, but she before entering the office, she looks at me. In a tone that practically begs Mr. Buchanan to try and protest, she says, “While I’m in here, Stephen, you need to go empty out your locker. Do it quickly.”
Mom lifts her head high and sails into the office, in command of the situation. Mr. Buchanan sighs and follows behind her, the door shutting firmly. I turn on my heel and go before Ms. Taylor can say anything to stop me.
So someone spray painted the doors of the cafeteria. Wonder what they put there? What genius decided to get creative? Whatever it was, judging from Mr. Buchanan’s reaction, it must have been bad.
I open my locker. Someone has managed to slip a folded piece of paper inside it. I glance around the empty hallway, knowing whoever left it is probably long gone. Unfolding the paper, I discover a picture. It’s poorly drawn, but the message is there just the same.
YOU SHOULD KILL YOURSELF TOO
It’s written in big block letters above a drawing of what I assume is supposed to be Jude hanging himself. I wad it up, tossing it onto the floor. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Break down and cry? Throw a fit? Stalk the school with a gun?
Cleaning out my locker takes under a minute. There’s really nothing personal in it. Fuck it. Yanking all the textbooks out, they land on the hallway floor in satisfying crash. I�
��m not picking them up. My locker is clean.
I mosey back down the hall intending to go to the office, but a delicious sense of freedom fills my soul. I imagine it’s a lot like how you feel the last day of school when you’re a senior. You’re out. You’re never coming back. Life is stretching out before you. No more bullshit from teachers or students you don’t like.
I detour to the glass doors leading to the path towards the cafeteria. Those doors have two large pieces of cardboard taped to them, but a swirl of blue spray paint can still be seen where the cardboard wasn’t large enough to cover. Drunk on freedom and more than a little curious, I go outside and cross the short distance to see what I’m being accused of.
Pulling back the cardboard, I read the words.
R.I.H.—the Rockingham Rattler.
I know exactly who wrote this. Derek Andrews. R.I.H. is the name of one of my favorite metal bands. A year ago, I’d had a short conversation with Derek at my house about the band.
“What does R.I.H stand for?” he’d asked, looking at the letters on my shirt.
“Rest in Hell,” I answered. “They are an awesome black metal band.”
“They’re a bunch of douche bags.” Jude walked into the room, his backpack slung casually over one shoulder. “Just like Stephen.”
Derek and Jude had both laughed and left.
The way it’s been written—I’m not sure if Derek is trying to imply that the kids in the cafeteria should rest in hell or if he’s implying the Rockingham Rattler rests in hell. My guess is Derek probably doesn’t know either. He’s too stupid to pay attention to the details.
Regardless, he’s trying to get me in trouble. Since everyone knows I’ve been caught graffitting before, naturally they will assume I’ve done this piece of shit work, too. Asshole.
I’m a dick, but I would never spray paint on the cafeteria door. It’s practically hallowed ground. Nor would I hurt Monica like this.
“Young man!” I turn to see Ms. Taylor standing at the doorway. She quivers with indignation. “You get away from that. Come on back to the office right now.”
I amble over, taking my time, enjoying the frown deepening on her forehead.
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