by Stacie Ramey
I clear my throat. “Yeah. I’m not so sure about…”
“I’d like to have you do grade forgiveness for some of your classes last year. In retrospect, they should have maybe even withdrawn you, but that’s no big deal. But what is a big deal are the classes you are in now. They are not college-bound classes. So we need to fix that.”
I don’t answer, because obviously, she’s not listening to anything I have to say. I’m filling my mind with thoughts of the Pacific Ocean. The last snowfall of the year. Ice on my neck and shoulder after practice. How a Coke ICEE feels in my mouth. Anything to get that stupid dragon of mine to stand down, because losing it in front of this do-gooder isn’t going to help anyone.
Miss Quinlan pauses like she wants me to answer but also gets that I’m not going to. “Do you have any interests at all?”
“I’m pretty sure my interests are not offered at most colleges.”
She smiles. “I’m pretty sure you’re mistaken.” She laughs a little as she says it. Then she stops looking at her computer screen and lays her hands flat on the table. This shit’s about to get serious. “The thing is, John, education is power. And power means choices. I don’t know how many choices you see for your future. Maybe you haven’t even considered that you could have one.”
I pick at the hem of my jeans that is starting to unravel. She doesn’t even know me.
Her eyes go back to her computer screen. “And that’s a shame. Because with scores like these”—she points to the papers with the stupid numbers all over them that say exactly zero about who I really am—“and with you being an athlete and with the recommendation from your guidance counselor from the last school…” She clicks keys on her computer. “You could probably do more than you think you can.”
I stay silent.
“Would you like sports management?” she asks.
I shake my head. Trying to deal with a bunch of arrogant jocks would in no way appeal to me.
“What about art? Are you good at drawing?”
“Not really.”
“Cooking? We have an excellent culinary track.”
“I like to eat,” I offer. “You have classes in that?”
She laughs. Clicks more keys. “Are you interested in architecture?”
A little beam of light shines. I sit up. She must notice my change in posture, because she keeps going. “We have an excellent architectural drawing and computer-aided drawing class. I think that will serve you so much better than that extra gym class you’re in. No offense, but you need to fill your schedule with classes that the college admissions counselors would like to see. We might need to switch some of your other classes to make the schedule work, but if you’re interested…”
I think about the buildings in Chicago. The ones I loved. “Yeah. I like that stuff.”
I listen as she clicks and types and clicks some more. She’s deciding my future with her clever, clever choices, and I should be grateful—I know I should—but all I can think of is that bottle of Jack and how Mr. Hicks looked right inside me when he said, “The best way to honor people we love is to be our best person.”
Which of course made me want to do the opposite. But that’s just who I am. Gotta work on that.
Miss Quinlan, for her part, is sitting taller in her seat, a really pretty smile on her face, like I’m making her day by letting her help me.
As she types and types, I keep pouring buckets of ice water on my beast. What I know from my experience with adults who want to save me is there’s no point in arguing with Miss Quinlan. But maybe this class would be fun. Maybe I could make something awesome. Maybe, just maybe, I could start thinking about being the person I was supposed to be all along. If there’s an Old Ryan, maybe there’s an old me too.
• • •
My new teacher, Mr. Bonham, is sitting behind his desk when I walk into his class. He motions me forward.
“John?”
I nod, slide my paper in front of him—the one that says I’m supposed to be here—and all of a sudden, I’m hit with this wave of doubt. In my other classes, I don’t care, but taking in this room with all the amazing pictures of bridges and buildings on the walls and actual models on the shelves, I worry I’m not good enough. It’s weird—that never stopped me on the lacrosse field or the football field or the basketball court.
Mr. Bonham catches me staring at a picture of one of the buildings I recognize. “That’s Chicago’s Home Insurance Building. You know it?”
I rub my hand over my cheek. “Not the name, no. But I’ve seen it. It’s kind of my favorite building.” The moment the words come out, I want to beat the crap out of myself. How effing needy do I have to be right now?
“It’s one of my favorites too. I can see we are going to get along. Have you had any CAD training?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“If you like those buildings, you’re going to love that. Sit at this computer, and I’ll show you around.”
I drop my gear by the desk. I can’t stop staring at the models. Some are made from this thin wood I’ve seen in those crappy airplane models in the stores Dad used to take us to before Ryan’s accident, when all Ryan and I did together was build things. Two liter bottles, Popsicle sticks, LEGOs, K’NEX—we built with whatever we could find. My hand wants to touch the models, especially the ones that are made from this white plastic-looking material I’ve never seen before.
“We have a 3-D printer.” A guy I don’t know who is sitting to my left, a total computer geek for sure and probably a lot smarter than I am, points to the cool models. “We get to make those next semester.”
My mind spins. I try to focus on the computer screen in front of me, but I can’t help thinking it’s cool to want something that has nothing to do with Leah or my family, that’s just about me—the me I used to be. Before I became the wreck of a person I am now.
• • •
Practice today ends with us crowding around the coaches, winded, ready to go, waiting for them to release us.
“Great work today.” Coach Gibson looks at his clipboard for verification. “We’re ready to test our team, so tomorrow will be a scrimmage with Parkland.”
Grumbles and some excitement travel around our little circle.
“John.” He taps me with the clipboard. “You’ll start at midfield. And maybe take a face-off or two.”
He keeps going, naming people and the part they will play in his little war game, but all I can hear is that I’m starting, that I’m taking some face-offs. I can’t wait. I hit the showers, then meet Emily in the parking lot.
“You look happy with yourself,” she says.
“I had a pretty good day.”
“You never said what Quinlan wanted.”
“Oh yeah.” I hand her my new schedule. “She wanted me to up my academic game too.”
Emily checks out my new schedule. English honors, computer-aided drafting, architectural drawing. And for the few seconds it takes her to review my new classes, I start to panic a little. I mean, is this crazy? Can I do it?
Her eyes go wide, and her lips turn upward, and then I feel proud and hopeful. Like a little kid. But then she high-fives me, and I stop being self-conscious as she beams. “Wow, Strickland! You the man.”
I’m not sure if it’s the post-exercise high or what, but I forget all the reasons I’m not supposed to do this next thing. “Does that mean you’ll let me take you out this weekend? To celebrate?”
Emily’s mouth drops open like she can’t believe I just said that. “You’re asking me out?” She lowers her voice as if she’s afraid someone will overhear. “Is that even allowed?”
“What do you mean?”
She parks the car. “Livy gave you the talk, didn’t she?” She uses air quotes to highlight the words the talk.
My little sister is something. “I’m
pretty sure I can handle all four feet, five inches of her. But if you’re scared…”
“I am. Totally. But…I’m also curious. I’ve seen lacrosse John. Mechanic John. Drunk John and big brother John. I wonder what on-a-date John looks like.”
“You make me sound like some kind of Barbie doll.”
She laughs. “Yeah. I still need to collect cowboy John and surgeon John to make the complete set.”
“Didn’t know good girls were into role play…”
She blushes and opens her car door. I do the same. My lacrosse gear on my shoulder, I meet her on her side of the car, drag her field hockey stuff out of the backseat.
“So?” I close the distance between us. “Is that a yes?”
“It’s a no to the role play but a yes to the date.”
“I can live with that.”
“Good.”
“For now.” I push. I can’t not.
I watch her walk to her door, wait for her to put the key in the lock. She looks back at me one more time, and I nod at her like a total dork, which makes her smile, and I no longer care if I look needy or stupid. I want to hold on to this incredible feeling that has followed me around all day. It’s one I haven’t been familiar with without chemical help—happiness.
Chapter 10
Ryan’s screams kill my good mood as soon as I enter the house. Before I can wonder if this is another before-bed tantrum, I catch another sound—a softer one. Tearful hiccups that are swallowed almost as soon as they are shed. Livy.
An alarm sounds inside me. I drop my bags to the ground. Livy’s in the kitchen, and Rosie is with her, putting ice on her lip, which is bleeding.
“What’s going on?”
They turn in my direction, fear on both of their faces.
I take the ice out of Rosie’s hand and look at the damage. “Liv…”
Tears spill down her cheeks, which are red from crying. “He didn’t mean it…”
I give Rosie the ice. “I’ll be right back.”
“Please, John, please, don’t!”
The dragon has taken over. My legs push me up the steps. I fling open the door. Ryan is in his bed, thrashing around, screaming. Mom’s standing over him, her hands out to try to calm him. “Sh, darling. Sh.”
“Stop it!”
Mom whirls to face me. “Not now, John.”
I push by her. “Stop it!” I make the sign language sign for stop that we learned years ago from a therapist who was teaching Ryan to speak again. And I’m glad for that, because it keeps my hands from smacking him or strangling him or knocking him the hell out.
“Nononononono!” Ryan screams.
I get in front of him. Right in front. My hands go on his shoulders, and I hold him tight so he has to look at me. “Stop it. Stop. You can’t hit Livy. You can’t hit my sister. Or my mother. You can’t.” I shake him once, hard.
Ryan’s eyes go wide.
I let go of his shoulders. Back away. I’m shaking. My mind is screaming at me to get out of there. To run.
Ryan starts to cry—real tears, not fake tantrum ones. The sound is awful, and I know with those tears comes Mom’s anger. Both are building. Both are because of me.
The dragon slinks away. I should leave the room, but for some reason, I’m stuck in place. I am frozen here. “You can’t hit people. You can’t just do whatever you want. You have to stop.”
It’s stupid to try to make my case. “Out.” Mom points to the door. She’s not screaming, but she doesn’t have to—the word comes out in a snarl. Ryan hits her, hits Livy, and I am the animal in her eyes. I’m the one who always fucks up. I’m the one who never gets it right. “Get out!”
I know she means Ryan’s room, but it reminds me of when I got kicked out that last time. Her face is exactly the same. Her eyes are staring at me like I’m a monster. Like I don’t belong here.
I back away. She’s so busy comforting him, she has no room for my misery.
I crash into my door, slam into the wall. My hands close around the bag of weed I stashed under my desk. Miss Quinlan’s warning me about my probation officer and the drug tests are pushed out of my head with just these words: fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Need. My hands claw at my backpack, unzip the front compartment, and grab my lighter, then I’m down the stairs, out the door, into the street.
“John!” Rosie calls after me.
“Johnny, Johnny, Johnny!” I hear Livy too, but I can’t help her. I’m not here anymore. I don’t even exist. I am gone in a puff of smoke.
My legs propel me forward. I’m not even sure where I’m going until I stop at that tree in the park, the one where I sat with Emily the other day, watching Ryan and Livy. When things were fine. When I had Jack in my system and all was cool.
I slide down the tree, and the bark tries to dig through my sweatshirt, tries to claw its way into my skin, but I don’t care. I light a joint and let the smoke seep into my lungs. I hold it inside me like the scream I should have held.
A sound comes back to me. Crash. The sound of me throwing the china cabinet over. Smash. The crystal on the floor. Mom’s face that day seven years ago. I put my face in my hands. I don’t want to remember. When my breath comes out, ragged and worn, I let the tears come, since no one’s around. I rock on my heels and bring the joint back to my lips. Take another hit. Another hit. Another one. Finally, the pot settles me. My hands stop shaking. I sit on the dirt, my legs out in front of me.
A flashlight spears the night.
“John?” Emily’s voice. Livy must have called her.
“Hey.” I throw my hands in the air. “I give up.”
The flashlight beam falls to the ground, but it’s enough along with the nearby streetlights and the full moon and clear star-filled sky so I can see her face. And her face is not happy to see me. It’s worried and relieved and maybe a little annoyed too. I’m pretty expert at reading women’s moods.
“You OK?” She sits on the ground across from me.
I put my face in my hand. “Better now that you’re here.”
She shakes her head and takes out her cell. She types. All her movements are in fits and starts. “Livy was really worried.”
That takes the buzz right out of me. “I know. I know. I just…”
“She told me what happened.” Emily goes back to being concerned. “The part I heard sounded awful.”
“You could hear it?” Perspiration beads on the back of my neck, and then I get a chill.
She puts her hand on my arms. “You’re cold.”
I give her my best pirate smile. “You could warm me up?”
“Nice try, Romeo. But if we are going to…do anything, I’d like it to be when you are sober enough to remember it.”
“So you’ve never gotten high?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It’s not like being drunk. It’s not like I don’t know what I’m doing.”
My hands frame her face. She doesn’t pull away, but she stiffens. Her eyes look into mine, deep, like she wants to find some meaning there. I would tell her not to bother, but that’s not going to help my game.
“This isn’t helping anything. You know that, right?”
I stay quiet.
“You’re angry all the time. I understand it. But…I just can’t…”
“I’m not asking you to do anything.”
“You scare me.”
I stand up. Fine. I scare her.
“And it’s not like you’re sober either. Is it?”
“I guess not.” I admit.
“I’ll wait.”
“So you do want to kiss me. I knew it!”
“Let’s get you home.”
I lean against Emily, milking this being high thing long enough to let her take some of the weight off.
• • •
<
br /> The alarm is like a saw going through my head. I reach for my phone and knock a glass of water off the night table. Pain stabs my head from all sides as I pick up the glass and pull my T-shirt over my head to mop up the mess.
“That you, John?” Mom’s voice is icy. “You need to get up and get ready. I’m not driving you.”
“I’m going,” I call back, not wanting to be a smart-ass but wanting her to know that she doesn’t have to worry about me.
It’s not until I pass Livy’s room that the full weight of regret crushes me. Her door opens a crack. I turn to face her, crouch low, peer inside. “Hey, Livy, you wanna talk?”
She opens the door the tiniest bit more, her eyes so sad, I can’t stand it. “I don’t know.”
“OK. I understand. I just want to say I’m really sorry about last night. I lost my cool, and I’m never going to do that again.”
Her door opens more, but her little foot stops it or me from opening it any farther. “How do I know you mean it?”
My heart cramps. “I don’t know. You’ll just have to trust me, I guess.” Her face gets all scrunched, and I know she’s used to people saying one thing and doing something else. Which I never used to do. “I know it is going to be hard.”
She closes the door almost all the way. I’m losing this battle. “You didn’t even come talk to me last night. I kept waiting for you.”
I sit in the hallway with my back against the wall. “It was late. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.” She sniffs.
“You’re right. I should have come to see you.”
“You didn’t want me to know you were stoned.”
It feels like she’s shot me with a cannon. “How…”
“I could smell it. I’m ten, not stupid.”
“You shouldn’t know anything about…”
“You can’t keep me from knowing things my whole life.”
“I can’t help wanting to.”
The door opens, and I turn to face my little sister, trying hard not to look at the cut above her lip or the red eyes I know I’ve made worse. “He doesn’t know any better.”