The Homecoming

by Stacie Ramey

  I slip down the stairs, go into the kitchen, reach under the sink, and grab a garbage bag.

  “What is he…wait,” Dad says. Goes to the kitchen, fills a water bottle, caps it, and hands it to me. Our eyes meet for the briefest second before I am out the door. I can’t help looking up at Emily’s window as I jog down the street. She’s not there anymore, but I swear I feel a chill from where she was standing. In addition to a clean test, I wouldn’t mind a clean start.

  Chapter 21

  Monday morning riding in with Matt sucks worse than I think it will. Everything I swore I wouldn’t do while I was here, I’ve done. I got involved with a team. A girl. I let some teachers talk me into trying to be more than I am. I am so busy cursing myself out in my head, I don’t even respond when Matt says, “Ruh-roh.”

  There’s Emily. And she’s walking with someone else. A guy. “Who’s that?”

  “Marty. Track dude. Thought she was with you.”

  I look down, grab my lacrosse gear. “Not anymore.”

  “You knew?”

  “About him? No. About me, yeah.”

  “Still sucks.” He smacks me on the arm, then puts his arm around my shoulder. “Good thing you still got us.”

  Will and Parker step out of the crowd and join us almost on cue.

  The bad news train keeps chugging along, this time dressed as Miss Quinlan. She’s in her casual look today, and my smart-ass self wants to ask if it’s dress-down Monday, but I’m pretty sure going on the offensive won’t help ease the tension for the scene that’s about to go down.

  “Mr. Strickland,” she says as I approach. “I’ll need to see you in my office.”

  Matt and the boys peel away, leaving me to face another adult who is disappointed in me. I want to tell her it’s her own damned fault, but I’m too tired from the twenty-five miles I ran this weekend, my legs like jelly. Weed sticks to your fat deposits. I need to get rid of those. Everyone wants a clean test, and I can’t disappoint.

  She ushers me into her office, and I can’t help but remember the last time I was here, when she was actually hopeful that I’d do good things, make good choices, and all the other crap she laid on me. I plant myself in my chair and put my head in my hands, not because I don’t want to hear her squawk at me but because I’m dizzy from the exercise and no food regimen I’m currently on.

  She sits in her chair. I listen for her to gulp her Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee, but she doesn’t even touch it this time. She clasps her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry, but we have to talk about your schedule again.”

  I nod.

  “I can see that you feel bad…”

  I put my hand up, look up at her. “No, I’m fine. Put me back in the dummy classes. I deserve that.”

  “It’s not that easy. You can’t be in Mr. Bonham’s class, but I’ve looked at all the other options, and it would be impossible to fix your schedule without messing it all up.”

  “You can’t just put me back in my other classes?”

  “I’m afraid not. You’re doing the work in all your classes.” She clicks through my information on her computer. “You have solid grades in all of them. I hope you will continue to keep those grades up. I think we’ll have to put you in as a teacher’s aide or something, but I need to have a teacher agree to that.”

  “And no one wants to do that?”

  “The media specialist said you can help her if you like.”

  “Sure.”

  “OK. Then we’ll do that. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, John.”

  “Huh?”

  “The drafting class.”

  “It’s not that it didn’t work out. I didn’t work out. I didn’t belong there.”

  She cocks her head at me. “You made a mistake.”

  “Momentary loss of muscular coordination.”

  Her face brightens. “The Shining?”

  “Yeah.”

  She hits the P button on her printer, and a paper spits out. She circles a bunch of things, stamps the sheet, then hands it to me. “Look, John, this doesn’t have to be a make-or-break situation for you. You can still stay on track to graduate on time. Go to college. I’ll help you apply.”

  “Thanks.” I grab the new schedule.

  “You have to have Mr. Bonham sign you out of his class, here.” She points on the page. “Then you can have Mrs. Reilly sign you in as her aide, here.”

  My beast is tired, but he lifts his head. He tells me she could have made it easier on me. Could have gotten me signed out of Mr. Bonham’s class so I wouldn’t have to face him. But I grab the paper and nod at her instead of firing my rage at the one person who is still trying to be nice to me.

  • • •

  The gods of fucking up my life are working overtime right now, probably having a big-assed party, passing the chips and the beer, and toasting how freakin’ awesome they are. That’s how it feels when I—and I almost never run into Emily at school—see her at least six times today.

  I try to catch her eye, but she makes sure that’s not possible. I’ve never known a person to avoid eye contact that well.

  So now I round the corner and see that Marty dude trying to lay his arm around her just before Mr. Bonham drums me out of his class. I’m going to have to give those gods an extra point for creativity there.

  Emily steps away, a tired smile on her face, like maybe she’s told him to not do that already and he’s not listening. I storm into my old classroom. A wave of emotions hits me, but I make my dragon stand down. He can’t help me here. Mr. Bonham sits next to one of those computer geeks, pointing at some drawing on the computer. That gives me time to examine all the 3-D models on the shelves, the ones I’ll never get to make.

  Mr. Bonham sees me waiting by the door, waves me in. “Let’s get this over with.” He sits at his desk, and I give him the paper, trying not to look at the half-eaten sub he’s got in a wrapper on top of a brown paper bag. The pickles and peppers and dressing invade my nose, making my stomach growl like mad. I’m this complete freak of sensations now. Tired. Sore. Hungry. Angry. Wasting. My body is wasting. It’s an actual term they use. Ketosis. I know this because one of Mom’s big plays with New Ryan was to make him eat this ketogenic diet that was supposed to make him get better faster.

  I remember how bad it smelled. Fat and protein mushed in a blender. She had me feed it to him so he’d know it wasn’t disgusting, but even he knew better than to eat that crap. He swatted it away and pushed his lips together so it would just pour out. I remember thinking it was like a scene from a horror movie, and Mom yelled at all of us to stop acting that way. That’s when she got the idea. Ryan would eat the food if we all did too.

  I used to hide Oreos in my room for Livy so she wouldn’t have to eat tuna salad for breakfast, steak with garlic oil for lunch. She was a little kid, for cripes’ sake. She wanted chicken nuggets and french fries.

  That’s how I know what’s happening to my body now. It is actually eating itself. Which is good for my tox screen, maybe, but not good for my state of mind. Because when your body is eating itself, you get kind of mean.

  That’s what was happening the first time Ryan hit Mom. I know that now, but I didn’t then. Back then, I just knew he gave her a black eye, and she needed stitches inside her mouth, and then Dad threw out all the mayonnaise and said we could all eat what we wanted.

  Mr. Bonham gets quiet. He rubs his hand over his face like he’s trying to wake up from a deep sleep. Then he grabs a pen, signs my paper quickly, and then passes it back at me. I want to tell him I’m sorry, but I know it won’t make a difference.

  “Thanks,” I say, because he actually was a human being to me, and I know I’m the one who screwed up.

  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Oh, OK.” I start walking away but stop. I need to know the truth. My food-starved brain is screaming
at me to stop this shit and get the fuck out of here before I ruin things even more. Too bad my need-to-know brain wins. “Excuse me, but do you mean the contest wasn’t your idea?”

  “No. That was my idea. Your drawing was good.” He shakes his head. His hands lay flat on the desk. Hard man’s hands. Unmoving. Unmoved.

  I guess he means kicking me out of his class, but I’m not going to go all needy on him and ask. “Thanks again,” I say, then I walk out to the bleachers on the field. I can go to the media center tomorrow.

  For now, I stare at the grass, and the wind blows, and in my weird state, I feel like I’m actually watching the grass grow and change in front of my eyes. And I wonder if that’s what happens to moms and their kids. That the wind changes them, and moms just have to sit and watch and love them just the same.

  Chapter 22

  Mom hears me throwing up Wednesday morning. “You’re not going to school,” she pronounces, and I don’t fight her. I lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling, making as many bargains as I can make. If I pass this test, I’ll never smoke dope again, at least until I’m on my own in California. If I pass this test, I’ll be the model son. For once. If I pass this test…

  I am weak from not eating. Dizzy. Nauseous. So I allow myself to open Leah’s letter. The one she mailed to me the night she killed herself. I read it a hundred times when it came in the mail, but now I only let myself read it when I absolutely need it.

  For John:

  We are like the water. Salty. Stubborn. Frothy and rolling and scary all at once.

  We are like the sea. Calm and still and alive. Changing all the time.

  We have been alive forever. Long before our bodies were born. Long after our bodies will die.

  We will live forever, our waters mixing with the waters of others. All of us tossed together beneath the stars. Beneath that constellation you call your own. The sea monster one that looks down on us here on earth and knows all about us. Me and you and all the others, married and mixed in the ocean. Churned together.

  Can I walk out into the water? If I say we are eternal, will you let me go? Let me slip into the sea, alone as I came into this world?

  I am here, alone also, but still affecting everyone around me. I stare at the ceiling, my vision clouded, and I’m amazed I have any water left inside me to cry out. Mostly, I wonder if I’ve done enough to get the THC out of me. Or will this be the last time I’ll be home, where I never wanted to be?

  • • •

  I sit on the brick ledge that surrounds a tree in front of the building. My brain knows I have to move, but my body isn’t listening. That may be nerves, or it may be the effects of not eating for days and then puking up what little was in me.

  I blow out a big breath and force myself to cross the threshold of the courthouse, go through security, and wait for Mr. Wexler to come get me, worrying the whole time this is not going to go well. The building isn’t exactly helping. It feels dark and cramped. So cramped you can’t breathe right. I try not to look as nervous as I feel. My hand goes to the silver dragon medallion. Like I’m praying for his intervention or some shit. God, I’m still that dorky little kid.

  Mr. Wexler comes forward, nods at me and gestures for me to follow him. “We’ll make this as painless as possible,” he says.

  We walk by at least twenty cubicles. With each twist and turn, my nerves grow as large as my dragon. Some people look at me sympathetically. Others look away quickly. Maybe they think my bad luck is contagious. Like they know that I’m going down. They look back at their work when we pass, and I imagine them feeling like I deserve this. They wouldn’t be wrong.

  “Try to get you out of here as soon as possible,” Mr. Wexler continues his running dialogue as he grabs some forms off a desk on our trip to his cave-like office, small and stuffy. Files are stacked neatly on his desk. How many of those had been started for me over the years? How many for my brother? And on the one corner, a urine specimen cup stares at me like a challenge.

  Mr. Wexler sits back in his chair. “You look like shit, man.”

  I hold up my hand. “Save the flattery.”

  “Let me guess.” Mr. Wexler’s voice is controlled, calm, like he’s talking to a wild animal. “You’ve spent the last few days trying to wring the pot out of you.”

  I feel my beast growl. He doesn’t like people cornering me.

  “Exercise, tons of water, maybe even a sweat suit. You know, one of those…” He motions across his body a pretty decent approximation of what I must have looked like putting on that stupid garbage bag. Then he laughs like an idiot. Shakes his head. “You’ve done everything in your power, but I can tell you from experience, it won’t be enough.”

  I clear my throat. Look at my fingers.

  “You do one of those clean kits?”

  I stay silent.

  “They’re not worth it. Does the same thing. Gets rid of water weight. Fat—that’s where the THC lives. Primarily.”

  I pick at a hole in my jeans.

  “But for a regular user like you? There will still be traces.”

  My heart thuds in my chest, and it feels deep and thready at the same time, like it’s rolling around inside an empty shell.

  “Look,” he says, changing his body language to tell me he’s not a threat. My reaction? Anger as usual. Maia Cetus’s got me. He likes confrontation. He is one sick dude.

  Mr. Wexler continues, “I don’t really want to give you a violation.”

  My head fills with all the possibilities and the probabilities that that statement is even the slightest bit true. But none of them compute.

  “I can tell you care based on how crappy you look. That you care enough to not eat for days and work yourself to the point of obvious exhaustion. So here’s what I want to do. I want you to tell me the truth.”

  “About what?”

  He smiles like I’ve said the stupidest thing in the world. “About the weed, genius. When was the last time you smoked?”

  “Three weeks ago.”

  He nods. “How much?”

  “A couple of joints. Nothing much.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  I consider telling him I smoked it because I needed a break from Mom hating me or that I needed a break from the constant fucking noise in my head or that when I smoke pot, I get to stop thinking about all the ways I’ve ruined my life, but that sounds too damned whiny. So instead, I simply say, “Tough day.”

  He nods, reaches forward, opens the top drawer on his desk, slides the specimen jar in, and closes the drawer again. I breathe out.

  A knock on the door breaks the tension. He calls, “Come in.”

  The door opens, and a woman walks in carrying two boxes and two huge Cokes.

  “Got us lunch. Hope that’s OK.” He motions. “Eat. I can wait.”

  I consider telling him I’m not hungry. I consider being a hard ass and refusing his help. I know this is a play, and he’s winning this fucking war, but my stomach growls, and he laughs and says, “Come on, no strings attached.”

  So I bend my head and shovel the food in my mouth. Each bite tastes better than the last. My stomach groans, happy to be filled. Embarrassed by my savagery, I wipe my mouth with a napkin.

  When I’m done with my sub, he pushes the second half of his toward me. My stomach tightens. Who is he to pity me? Still, I take the offer. I’m starving, you know? Plus, it’ll make him feel that I trust him.

  I chew slower this time. And drain the bottom of my drink.

  “Sorry,” I say between bites. “I guess I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” I shift in my chair. “Thanks.” He should know that my mother taught me manners.

  “So now we have to figure out what to do with you.”

  And just like that, all the food I consumed turns to cement in my stomach.

  “I look around at your
life, John, and I know you feel pushed in all the wrong directions. But you’re not paying attention to the whole picture.”

  I’m annoyed at his dissection, like I’m some sort of lab rat, but I need to stay calm. I let my eyes drift to the pictures he’s got on his shitty little shelves. One of him with what has to be his brother, younger than he is. The other, him in full navy uniform.

  “So you’re a squid? Should’ve figured.”

  He swivels around and picks up the picture. “Yeah. That’s me. Top of my class at the Naval Academy.” He picks up the navy picture, stares at it, and says, “I went to Pensacola. Was supposed to fly jets.”

  I nod. This is the part of the discussion where he shows me we are really alike. “What happened?” I ask, not because I care but because I know this is the part I’ve got to play in this little crap-fest production.

  He looks at me. “I’m glad you asked.” He gives me a smart-assed smile. Then puts the picture back. “They give you all kinds of tests in Pensacola. You know?”

  I nod. “You didn’t study? Got wasted? Tsk-tsk.”

  “These tests were not the kind you could study for.”

  “You puked in the oscillator? Embarrassing.” I dig around with my straw, trying to find a last sip of Coke, slurping the bottom to see if the sound irritates him.

  “No. Ocular afterimage.”

  Something about those words make me sit up. “What?”

  “It’s how my brain processes visual information. When I look at something and then look away, my brain still sees it. There’s this afterimage, like a ghost. It happens, and there isn’t anything I can do about it.”

  I’m floored by his confession. Not just because of the word he fed me: afterimage. But also how he can brush it off as not his fault. His face is serene, like it doesn’t get to him. Afterimage. I think about that word.