by Amy Reed
It’s like she falls apart and the only thing that’ll hold her together is feeling like she’s in control of everything around her, so she makes up these imaginary things to be in control of, and we’re supposed to be her puppets. Since Dad hasn’t been working lately, he has no defense, so he’s just like, “Yes, dear,” and does whatever she says, then hides in his “office” in the basement to drink his cheap beer when no one’s looking. My brother and sister are lucky because they haven’t lived here in a long time, but I remember how my sister would try to fight back and my brother would just shut down and hide. We all have our own particular ways of dealing, I guess. Me, I don’t think I’ve really found mine yet. Sometimes I try to do what she wants, but it never seems like enough, like no matter what I do, she’s never happy and always stressed out, so then I give up for a while. But then I think she hates me, so I try to make her happy again, but it still doesn’t work.
So yeah, Thanksgiving. My sister and her partner, Karen, showed up, and I don’t know what came over me, but I kind of started crying as soon as I saw them. My mom was in the kitchen telling the caterers where to put everything, and Dad was hiding somewhere far away from the kitchen, and then all of a sudden there was my sister and I just sort of lost it. She’s been coming around to the house less and less, and even though she meets me a lot after school for coffee and I go over to her condo sometimes, it’s just not the same as living with her when she moved back home after college, when I could see her whenever I felt like it. It’s just me and my crazy parents in this big, empty house, and she’s across town starting a new family, and I just miss her. I really, really miss her. So there I was crying, so she hugged me, and Karen was standing there patting me on the back like an idiot, and it made me so mad, like can’t I have one moment alone with my sister, or do you always have to be a fucking “unit” now?
And maybe I had a chance to say something, but just then my mom comes in wearing an apron, like she expects us to fall for her Thanksgiving Mom costume, and she’s like “Karen, Gennifer, darlings!” and Dad decides to come out of the basement because now that the sane people have arrived he figures he’s probably safe from Mom’s wrath for a while. So everyone hugs and Dad pours some wine, except Karen says, “None for me, thanks,” and she and Gennifer look at each other in this way my parents have probably never looked at each other. And I try to share the look with them because I know what they’re smiling about and I want to be included; I keep staring at them, waiting for them to look at me and smile too, but it’s like I’m not even there. It’s just the two of them and the possible maybe-life inside Karen. That is their family. Not me. I’m stuck with the other two people in the room, the ones who are oblivious to everything.
We’re all sitting around in the living room, and Mom only checks her watch once and doesn’t even complain about Jesse being late, so things are looking pretty good for a while. Gennifer says, “Karen and I have something to tell you,” and they give each other that look again. Dad smiles and puts his glass of wine down and says, “What is it, honey?” And I’m thinking, Wow, we just might have a nice Thanksgiving. Except Mom has to go and ruin it by saying, “I don’t think this is really the best time.” Karen just looks stunned, but I can see the black clouds gathering behind Gennifer’s eyes. She says, “What did you say?” and Dad picks his glass back up, and Mom starts saying something about how the food is ready and the caterers are waiting on us and could they please try to be a little more thoughtful? And Gennifer’s like, “Thoughtful? Thoughtful? You’re going to tell me about thoughtful?” and Karen says, “Calm down, honey. She didn’t mean it like that,” and Dad says, “Does anyone need a refill?” and the caterer comes in and says the turkey’s getting dry. So Mom says it’s time for us to all sit down for dinner, but Gennifer says she’s not hungry, and just then Jesse comes bursting through the door and says, “What’s up?” like he has no idea he’s almost an hour late. And he’s wearing ripped jeans and a stained sweatshirt, and it looks like he hasn’t washed his hair in weeks. The skin around his right eye and the top of his nose is kind of yellowish-brown, like an almost-healed bruise, and Dad says, “Is that a black eye?” Mom says, “Sit down!” and everyone knows she’s about to lose it, so we all do what she says and sit down.
Jesse starts pouring himself a glass of wine, and we all look at him, and Dad says, “Are you sure you should be doing that?” Jesse just acts like it’s no big deal and says, “I never had a problem with alcohol,” and Dad looks to Mom for some kind of support, but she’s too busy instructing the caterer where to put everything. Jesse drinks half of his glass in one gulp; Karen is trying to hide the fact that she’s crying; and Gennifer is holding Karen’s hand so hard it looks like she’s going to break it. The caterer and her helper start serving everybody, but the helper stops when she gets to my brother and says, “Jesse?” with a shocked look on her face. He’s like, “Oh, hi,” and it’s totally obvious he doesn’t know her name, and she says, “Jane,” and he’s like, “Yeah, Jane, hi, how’s it going?” and she practically throws the food she’s carrying at him. Gennifer says, “What the hell was that?” and he says he has no idea but we all know he’s lying.
Dad does what he does best and tries to pretend everything’s okay, pouring everyone more wine, even my brother. “How’s the new job?” he asks Jesse. “Oh, I had to quit that job,” Jesse says. “Boss was a fascist.” And just then I notice how much he’s twitching, like he’s grinding his teeth and his leg is bouncing up and down a million times a second. “What?” Mom screams, and Dad says, “I thought you liked that job,” and Gennifer says, “Oh, I see how it is. Jesse shows up and everything’s about him. Nobody fucking cares that Karen and I are having a fucking baby.” Everyone stops what they’re doing and looks at her. “What?” Mom screams again, and Dad says, “Oh, honey, that’s wonderful,” and he gets up and gives them hugs, and Jesse says, “That’s fucking awesome, you guys.” Karen’s still crying, but she’s smiling-crying now, and Jesse gets up and hovers over Karen’s belly saying, “I’m going to be a fucking uncle,” and Gennifer yells, “It’s not about you, Jesse!” and Karen says, “Calm down, honey,” and Mom says, “Everyone sit down!” and Dad pours himself another glass of wine, and I just get up and walk upstairs to my room and nobody even seems to notice.
I close the door and put my headphones on, set the iPod to shuffle, and just keep skipping songs until it comes to something loud and angry. The louder the music is, the less I care that neither my brother nor my sister has come up to see me or say good-bye, and the whole time I was downstairs, no one even so much as looked at me.
Happy Thanksgiving. I imagine yours was splendid. I bet Santa even showed up early.
Love,
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Saturday, November 26—10:24 AM
Subject: re: turkey
Dear Isabel,
Well, I guess you win. I’m sorry your Thanksgiving was so horrible. I’m sorry your family finds so many ways to break your heart. I was going to complain about spending Thanksgiving volunteering with my mom at the food bank in Bremerton, but now I feel like a big, fat asshole. It figures. As soon as I have an unpleasant feeling or a little dissatisfaction about something in my life, I’m immediately reminded that those feelings are off-limits to me. I am not entitled to them. They are there for you, for kids in the foster-care system, and for kids starving in Uganda. Not for me with my perfect little family and my perfect little life on this perfect little island. If I try to claim one of those feelings, it’s like I’m stealing from the people who really deserve them. So I just pretend not to feel anything at all, so then I won’t feel like so much of an ungrateful prick.
Does that make any sense? I honestly can’t tell if it does. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I don’t appreciate how lucky I am. Sure, my dad left us a long time ago—but really, who has two parents these days, anyway? I have a mom who loves me and thinks I�
�m the greatest thing to happen since sliced bread. So why do I feel so weird most of the time? Everyone at school has their little group. Even the people nobody likes seem to tolerate each other enough to sit together at lunch. But I just sort of wander around by myself most of the time. It’d almost be better if I thought no one liked me, if I had some weird tick or social inadequacy that could easily explain my alienation, but it’s not that easy. People talk to me at school and invite me to parties, but something’s missing on the smaller scale. I don’t belong to anybody. I don’t have anyone who is mine.
Blah, blah.
I’m sorry you had a bad Thanksgiving. You should have joined me and had dinner with a bunch of homeless people. See? How can I possibly complain when my mom’s a saint? She’s a child psychologist, for Christ’s sake. She treats Kitsap County foster kids pro bono. I know I shouldn’t be so selfish, but sometimes it seems like her work means more to her than I do. It’s like she’s so busy taking care of everybody else, she has no time to think about me, let alone herself. Maybe life seems easier that way because she doesn’t have to think about what’s missing, or the fact that she’s been single for over a decade. And I just have to watch her doing this, making everybody’s life matter more than her own, and I have all sorts of weird feelings about it. Like in some ways, I’m one of the people she takes care of. But in other ways, I’m always competing with her clients for her attention. All I know how to do is try to keep her from being sad, and sometimes that means trying to be the trophy for all her hard work as a single mom and professional woman, trying to be the perfect and attentive son to affirm her parenting. But sometimes it means just getting out of the way and trying to be invisible, so she doesn’t have to be reminded that I have needs too.
But really, how terrible is all that? I almost wish she was a serial killer so I could feel entitled to some goddamned angst like everyone else.
Ungratefully yours,
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Monday, November 28—11:02 PM
Subject: re: turkey
Dear Connor,
Let’s trade parents. I’m serious. If you’re worried about not having enough angst, you can have some of mine. I have way too much for one person.
I’m sad again. I skipped school today and went to the park to read a book I don’t even like. Even though it was cold and windy and wet, I just sat there in the grass until I couldn’t stand it anymore, until I was shivering so bad I could barely hold my book up.
Maybe you don’t have a little dog pack like everyone, but at least people like you. You’re the cool loner. You’re the mysterious guy no one really knows but everyone wants to know. I’m a loner too, but that’s because no one can stand me. I don’t blame them, really. I can’t stand myself most of the time, especially when I feel like this. All I do is lie around and obsess about everything that’s wrong with me. My thoughts go around in these little horrible circles, like “No one likes me because I’m annoying, because I talk too much, because I want attention, because no one likes me.” I can meditate on that for hours, and that’s just one of them. There are about a million others.
Who decided we need to go around in groups all the time, anyway? Maybe it’s a weakness to need people like that. Maybe you’re just more evolved than everyone else. Because really, isn’t everyone alone when you get right down to it? Maybe some of us surround ourselves with people, but the truth is we do most our living inside our own heads, which is a really lonely place.
Love,
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Tuesday, November 29—8:29 PM
Subject: torture
Dear Isabel,
I doubt I’m as evolved as you seem to think I am. And I don’t believe you when you say no one likes you. It’s just not possible. How could I like you so much? Seriously. You’re the most intriguing person I’ve ever met.
I have an English paper due tomorrow. So, of course, I spent the last twenty-three minutes making this list:
Top 10 Worst Ways to Spend an Hour
10. Writing an English paper
9. In jail
8. Hanging upside down by your toenails
7. Stuck in an elevator with someone with digestion problems
6. At the dentist
5. Watching your mom have sex
4. Watching puppies get run over by tractors
3. Getting buried alive
2. Working at McDonalds
1. Swimming in a full Porta-Potty tank
The good news is you’re not stuck doing any of these things.
Love,
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Wednesday, November 30—11:53PM
Subject: Re: torture
Dear Connor,
Well, I’m flattered. But I will remind you that “intriguing” is very different than “likeable.” I’m sure Hitler and Pol Pot were “intriguing,” but they were also murderous sociopaths.
That’s a pretty good list. I’d add “listening to your parents fight.” And “sitting alone in the lunchroom at school while everyone else is talking and laughing with friends.” Unfortunately, I do both of those things quite a lot.
Have I told you about the Two Aris? Well, they’re these boys at my school and they’re both in my class and they’re both named Ari and they’re best friends and handsome and perfect and I hate them. They’re going to conquer the world. I’m sure of it. One of them was raised in Switzerland and speaks like, five languages and the other one got a perfect score on the SATs. They both have perfect teeth without ever having needed braces. One of them is dating one of those slutty Disney starlets and the other one got the governor of Washington State to write him a recommendation letter for Harvard. Who does that? How is that even legal? They walk around with their perfect hair that never moves like they already rule the world, and they’re only eighteen. Only robots should be allowed to be this confident. It’s not natural. The worst part is they’re so nice, they won’t even let you hate them. Today one of them came up to me with this saintly look on his face and asked me how I’m doing. You could practically see his halo. Bastard. Like I’m some charity case. There’s something wrong with the world when people like this are allowed to exist.
Grumpily,
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Friday, December 2—7:31 PM
Subject: good news
Dear Isabel,
I’m happy to report that I have made a friend. A real, live boy! His name is Jeremy and he’s in my American History class and he wants to be a marine biologist when he grows up. We were made partners for a research project after each of ours simultaneously and abruptly left school—his with mono and mine because her family moved to Utah to join a cult. Of course, I’ve known him for years because we both grew up here, but I never knew knew him, you know? He always seemed to be too much a part of the inner circle, which has never been of too much interest to me.
We make a funny pair because he’s pretty and preppy and popular and perpetually perky, and I’m whatever I am that does not start with a P. He’s also gay, which isn’t really the issue—it’s that he’s spent all of high school surrounded by squealing girls who want him to be some stupid idea of what a gay boy is supposed to be. That has to seriously screw with a guy’s head. He’s pretty sick of it, which is perhaps why he latched on to me so quickly. And maybe that’s why I latched on to him, too, because even though he’s always around people, he feels pretty alone most of the time. I knew I liked him after this one time a couple of his followers came by and announced he had to come shopping with them at the Kitsap Mall that weekend to help them pick out dresses, and when they skipped away he looked at me very seriously and said, “I hate shopping. I fucking hate shopping. And what the fuck do I know about dresses?” We’ve been friends ever sinc
e.
All we do is basically make fun of people, and it’s nice not being so serious for once. I’m starting to think that the ability to make people laugh is more important than something totally overrated like, for instance, knowing how to perform brain surgery. The government should subsidize the lives of funny people so they don’t have to waste their God-given talents doing stupid jobs. When I am president, I’ll make sure that happens.
I just realized you haven’t mentioned Trevor in a very long time.
Love,
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Sunday, December 4—2:32 AM
Subject: Re: good news
Dear Connor,
Trevor’s band is on tour on the East Coast, and apparently there’s no internet or cell phone reception in that part of the country. Fucker. I’m done with him.
I’m trying to be glad for you that you found a friend, but mostly I’m bitter for still being pretty friendless. The only people I really talk to are my sister and Karen, but I’ve been getting a vibe lately that they don’t want me coming around so much. Karen’s starting to show, and it’s all they talk about anymore. I’m starting to hate that baby. Just kidding. (I sincerely hope I’m kidding.)
I’m bored, bored, bored. Nothing’s happening. Nothing ever happens. There’s a pile of college application crap on my desk that’s collecting dust. I already sent in my Reed application a couple months ago, but my mom doesn’t like my plan of just applying to one school early decision and seeing what happens.