Draping my arms over his shoulders, I cupped the base of his neck and buried my fingers into his hair. Feeling his urgency, his ragged breath harmonized with my own. I parted my lips wanting all of him.
Unceremoniously, I was dropped to my feet on and found myself standing alone in the drizzling moonlight.
CHAPTER 21
Mom walked into my bedroom while I was scavenging in my closet for something to wear. Her face was a mesh of apprehension and worry. She informed me that Stevie had departed for the Washington peace rally. He’d left an obscure note saying, he’d be back within the week. On a euphoric high and low from the previous night, I hadn’t even noticed he was missing.
A perplexing feeling followed me to school. And during history class, Mr. Simpson expressed his opinion concerning previous peace demonstrations and the aggressive aftereffects, the positive and the negative. I prayed Stevie wouldn’t lash out vocally or otherwise and get himself handcuffed and thrown in jail.
I blended with the stream of kids heading for the lunchroom and fingered the money in my pocket that Mom had given me. The breadbox had been empty, and she’d clarified grocery shopping was on Saturday. But I also knew money had been tight. It was my parent’s constant concern and what sparked many of their battles.
The cafeteria was pulsating with energy, and a minor food fight had commenced, but was hastily quashed by the monitors.
Gwen had been pumped and ready to throw her doughnut but took a bite instead. “That was lame,” she said.
My chuckling was cut short when Dee asked, “Did you talk to Jesse?”
I’d forgotten about my conversation with him, because private thoughts of Michael had kept me occupied. I speared a fork into a gloppy conglomeration of macaroni and cheese. “I did.”
“You told him you didn’t want to go out with him?” Dee probed. “Kind of harsh, don’t you think?”
“I was nice and said I just wanted to be friends.”
“The friend talk.” Gwen hooted like an owl. “That is harsh.”
Dee clinked the tines of her fork on her plate. “Why’d Michael feel it was so important that you talk to Jesse? Did he arrange the meeting?”
Candy said, “Steve mentioned a while back that Michael had been trying to get Jesse to get clean. Maybe he figured Jesse’s obsession with Mary was hurting him.”
Dee began to hammer her fork on the table like a gavel. Something was bothering her, and I wasn’t about to inquire what it was.
Instead, I said, “I told Jesse to quit taking drugs.”
Candy added, “I bet that went over like a lead brick.”
“You’re right. At least I tried.”
I felt as if I were walking a razors edge, waiting for them to ask how I’d managed to get home after missing the bus or what I’d done the night before. No way in hades would I confess about my dinner at Michael’s. Not yet. His invitation might very well have been a nicety because I’d performed as he’d commanded by speaking to Jesse.
While attempting to swallow the sticky macaroni, Dee said, “Michael hasn’t asked me out yet. Does it have anything to do with you, Mary?”
The glop wedged in my throat. I pawed my neck, choking and coughing. Candy and Gwen jumped and pounded me on the back. I grabbed my carton of milk and sucked it down.
“Oh my God, girl.” Candy said, taking her seat. “You scared us to death.”
“I’m good.” My voice scraped out like a ninety-year-old with laryngitis. “Thanks.”
My suffocating event had aided in deviating the route of discussion as we ate in relative silence.
Gwen said, “Friday is senior skip-day. They’re partying at the park. We’re all going.”
“We’re not seniors.” I looked from face to face. The girls had identical cocky grins. At that moment, frustration over Michael’s motives sped through my veins like a torpedo. Skip-day could be a helluva good time to let my troubles fritter to dust.
“Tom said he’d take us. And remember to make the call in the morning to the attendance office or you’ll get detention.” Munching on a potato chip, she added, “Tom stunk of alcohol when he picked me up this morning.”
“So it’s official.” Candy veered toward Gwen. “You and Tom?”
We stopped stuffing our grub holes to hear what she had to say. “So he likes his weed. Big deal. Don’t we all. He’s a sweet guy.” She fingered a heart pendant hanging from her neck. “Since we just started dating, what can I say to him about staying out all night? My parents hemorrhaged when the phone rang at two in the morning. Tom was so wasted that I hung up on him. This morning, he apologized, saying he was with Michael. The guy had issues, and that’s all I could get out of him.”
Candy’s tweezed eyebrow arced. “You don’t want advice from me? Steve and I scarcely lasted four months.”
Last night? Michael went to the bar after he dropped me home. The macaroni and cheese clouded before my eyes and I was brought back to his caged embrace, so unlike the first time. He was riding an emotional rollercoaster, and I was along for the ride.
Dad was in a prickly mood by dinnertime, and I knew why. Ever since Stevie had embarked on a mission for peace, my father had been argumentative.
“Annette, you know I hate this casserole.” Dad slopped the ham, potato, and broccoli on a plate. “This is swill.” Holding his dinner plate, he walked into the living room and switched on the television. “C’mere. They’ll be televising the peace rally.”
With a curt nod of Mom’s head, giving her consent, I shored up my plate with my hand and followed Dad. That night we ate glued to the tube. The news anchorman Walter Cronkite was reporting the Moratorium march on Washington, protesting the Vietnam War.
Recorded footage from the morning’s activities, then live footage spanned the screen. We had a special interest—Stevie. The Peace Moratorium was proclaimed the largest demonstration in United States history with an estimated two million people’s involvement.
I noted the all the black armbands that the people were wearing. And then, the newscaster mentioned the armbands signified their dissent of the war, and paying tribute to those killed.
Recordings of Senator Edward Kennedy remarked, “I do believe this nation is in danger of committing itself to goals and personalities that guarantee the war’s continuance.”
It elapsed into a fraught evening with Dad fermenting over Stevie’s impractical exodus.
CHAPTER 22
In a vapor of pungent weed, and smelling like a brewery, Stevie swaggered into the house after ten o’clock the very next night. Lucy had been asleep, and Mom had raced into the kitchen to make the prodigal son something to eat. Some days it was sickening to watch her dote on him. I’d been hunkered over my spiral notebook in front of the television, scribbling English notes. Typical Stevie had thought he was being funny by toeing me over, and I’d rolled onto my side.
“Hey.” I struck back, my socked foot catching him in the shin. “You made me mess up.”
“Didn’t you miss me?” He dumped down on the couch.
“A little, I guess.” I flipped my notebook closed and sat cross-legged. “How was it?”
“I liked getting away. Saw some pretty neat stuff in DC.” He rubbed his eyes while giving specifics on the peace demonstration, then asked. “Anything happen while I was gone?”
“Jesse called me, all messed up. He told Michael I was with him in his basement.” Heat rose to the tips of my ears. “You know what I mean. With him.”
“You weren’t, were you?”
“Duh. Do you even have to ask?”
“He’s dabbling with heroin, possibly hallucinating. You’d better stay away from him.”
“Michael said I should set him straight because he’s blabbing crazy things.” Glimpsing the kitchen, I made sure Mom couldn’t overhear. I didn’t know why I’d brought up the
subject of Jesse, because now I had to explain further.
“I missed the bus after talking to Jesse, and since Michael was still at football practice, he took me to his house for dinner.” I said it purposely to see if he would cough up information about Michael.
“You mean Covington?” Stevie’s face screwed up as if he was trying to register what I’d just said. “You went to Covington’s place?”
“Yes, his Aunt and Uncle are really nice.”
“You should stay away from Michael too.” He bent forward and rested his elbows on his knees.
“Why?” The hairs prickled on my skull. I held my breath, not wanting him to disclose wicked news about Michael.
“He’s…” Stevie paused in thought “He’s too old for you.”
My lungs deflated in relief. I hadn’t expected that, and it wasn’t logical. “He’s only seventeen, and I’m sixteen. Besides, you dated Candy, and she’s my age.”
“That’s not what I mean. Candy’s more mature than you are.” Stevie teasingly poked my forehead with his fingers. “You’re young for your age, and Michael’s got history.”
I jumped down his throat, saying, “What does that mean? He’s been with a lot of girls?”
“That’s one reason, but that’s not what I’m talking about here.” His cheeks bloated, puffing out a winded breath before speaking. “Did you see his scars?”
Wondering where he was going with this, I haltingly said, “Yes.”
“Not the ones on his face,” he said. “His back.”
Before he had a chance to expound, Dad walked in the back door. He’d been out with his drinking buddies.
“Why are you cooking at this hour, Annette?”
I could tell by his voice it was going to get dicey.
“Stevie’s hungry.” Mom was ladling hot stew into a bowl.
Dad’s arm sliced through the air, unsettling the bowl from her grasp. The stew spattered. Mom shrieked as scalding droplets sprinkled her skin.
Stevie bolted from the couch.
“You’re such a jackass,” Stevie exclaimed.
I cringed.
Drunken eyes pinned on Stevie. “This isn’t a flop house, and your mother isn’t your personal servant.” He stepped over the threshold and onto the rug in the living room. “I don’t want some hippie, pot smoking druggy living in my house.”
“You’re nuts,” said my incorrigible brother.
“I’m nuts! You’re the long-haired freak who can’t finish high school.” Dad took another ill-omened step.
“You’re fucked in the head, man.” My brother knew how to send Dad into overdrive.
I threw myself into Dad’s arms before he executed the first swing. “Don’t, Dad,” I cried. “Don’t—” Full of rage his gaze cut to my face.
I’d made an error. Never before had I seen that flicker of repulsion. It was reserved for my brother. Fast as lightning, Dad’s fingers pushed into my long hair and yanked. Yelping from the throb, I reached up with both hands, grasping his wrists. By the hair, he dragged me to my bedroom.
“Stay out of my business, or you can get kicked out too,” he said at the top of his lungs.
“You’re all crazy.” Tears welled in my eyes. Not from the ache in my head, but because of my dysfunctional family. “Why are you doing this? I hate living here.”
“Don’t you have any guts,” Dad said, crotchety.
My voice gurgled, saying, “Why do I need guts to live in my own home?”
He released my hair, throwing me to the bed. I whirled around to see Stevie behind Dad.
Stevie clamped a restraining hand on Dad’s shoulder. Dad spun, wringing his fingers around Stevie’s neck and backing him against the wall.
A bass-like rumble sounded in Dad’s throat. “You scrawny piece of shit.”
“Go to hell you prick,” Stevie grunted, enraging my father all the more.
Stevie managed to haul him off, and Dad crashed against the opposite wall. They wrestled into the living room, and I scrabbled after them.
Havoc and friction thickened the air, and my chest was ready to implode with each breath. Stevie slipped over my notebook and fell to the carpet with Dad tumbling on top of him.
“I’m calling the police, Will,” Mom threatened, showing them the receiver as if it was really going to stop them. “I’m calling the police.”
Seizing Dad’s arm, I attempted to wrench him to his feet. His hand slammed out, catching me in the side of the head. Dad and Stevie staggered to their feet. At first, it looked like slow motion as Dad’s arm pulled back, and I was too late to stop him. I heard the noxious smack and cracking of bone.
Stevie’s body flew backwards. His hands sheltered his face as copious blood spilled from his nose.
Dad’s face that had been engraved in wrath had slackened.
Mom screamed and dashed to Stevie.
It was over. Feeling sorry for myself, I grabbed my coat from the hall closet and fled. I should’ve felt empathy, or something for Stevie. Of course, I did—his fury and pain. But I was also furious with him. If only he’d learned to zip his potty mouth.
Running from my sick family, I morphed into a watershed of blubbering tears. It took the entire street block to compose my inner conflict. I mopped my wet face on my coat sleeve. And I sluggishly slowed as my legs filled with concrete. Strumming through my brain was the swearing, the final crack of bone, and mom’s scream, will I ever forget these nights? After a while, I made my way back home and stood gazing at its exterior. Tranquil and dark.
The garage yawned open in the twilight. My parent’s car was gone.
CHAPTER 23
Morning came too soon as I hobbled from bed feeling as if I hadn’t slept a wink. My stomach squeezed into panic mode when I remembered it was senior skip day. I crept around the house and noticed Mom was getting Lucy ready for daycare and Dad had left for work. I peeked into my brother’s room; a teepee of white bandages protected his nose. Dad must’ve taken him to the hospital. I’d been zonked and hadn’t heard them come home.
During breakfast, I stared blearily at the syrupy concoction of toasted waffles. I used my fork to plow the spongy pieces over my plate, making designs in the maple syrup. Supposedly, Tom and Gwen were picking me up at nine o’clock, and what I’d eaten churned in my belly like a thrashing fish.
After last night Mom would more than understand if I said I was sick and wanted to stay home. However, she’d call from work to check in on me, and I wouldn’t be home. I spread peanut butter and jelly on two slices of bread and bagged the sandwich. It had to appear as if I was getting ready for school, right?
Lucy was content in her high chair painting gummy syrup on her forehead with her sticky fingers. When her baby hands draggled into her hair, she cooed. Mom leapt to stop her and sloshed her coffee over the tablecloth.
Before she ferried my sister for a cleanup, I cleared the lump stuck in my throat. “Mom, I’m staying after school today.” I wanted to grab her while she concentrated on wiping the highchair so she couldn’t spare a glance into my dishonest face. “I have to get my art project done before the end of this quarter. Then I’ll stay and watch football practice. So I won’t be home for dinner either.”
“You’ve been staying after for football practice a lot lately.” Busy cleaning Lucy’s chaos, she didn’t have a clue. “Does it have anything to do with that boy whose house you ate dinner at the other night?”
“A little.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Michael. Michael Covington.” I swept crumbs and my uneaten waffles into the garbage. “We’re just friends.”
“Oh? But you want to be more than friends?” She knew me too well.
“Dee Sorrentino likes him.”
“Does Michael like Dee Sorrentino?”
“Probably, she’s beaut
iful.” Not wishing to get into a Michael debate, I whined, “Please, Mom, no third degree this early.”
As she held Lucy’s hands away from her silky-fine hair, Mom carried Lucy to the bathroom and threw me a smirk over her shoulder.
Perfect timing. Mom would be out of eyesight of the backyard. “Bye, see you later.”
Lucy waved with an open-mouth smile, showing Chiclet shaped teeth.
With notebooks stacked on my arm and crunching the lunch bag, I slipped outdoor into a dull morning. A halo of haze encased the rising sun, and I checked the neighboring houses on the right and left, making sure no one was in sight. Then, squishing on the malleable grass behind our garage, I balanced my vertebrae on the shingled exterior and slid to the frosty grass. Beyond the perimeters of our yard was a vast woodsy field of pine, oak, and ash trees with chickadees, finch, and robins twittering from branch to branch.
A loud trundling of a passing school bus broke the solitude. My bus. Curling my body over my books, I waited.
It seemed like an eternity before the garage door squealed open. Mom talked animatedly to Lucy. I heard car doors slam, then a rumbling of an engine and a slow reverse down the driveway.
Afraid to move, I endured the balled position for an extra five minutes. What if Mom forgot something and came home? I’d be screwed. Finally unrolling my spine, I walked into the house, skidded to a stop, and gasped.
“You scared me. I thought you were sleeping?” I gawked at Stevie’s face. “Does it hurt much?” A palpable white tent covered his nose amid swollen, bluish-purple skin around both of his eyes.
“Not bad. It looks worse than it feels. They gave me pain meds.” He tossed a pill into his mouth and chased it with orange juice.
Both of us circumvented the topic of what had transpired. It instilled memories we’d rather forget. Dad and Stevie had clashed over the years, but their fighting mainly consisted of throwing obscenities, and pushing and shoving, never to the point of breaking bones.
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