I bolt. Away from the injustice of what just happened, toward a spot that allows me to wallow in my worry. I follow Crooked Creek, a stream that meanders through town, to where it runs into Highland River, headed east and ultimately to the sea, hundreds of miles away. Where creek meets river there’s a small cliff overlook, invisible to even purposeful observation.
I’ve never seen anyone here at my private spot, never even heard anyone nearby. This is my go-to place in times of extreme stress; here, I don’t have to do anything, meet any expectations, I can just listen to the sounds of nature and hope the worry will subside. I hear the constancy of water moving, sliding along rocks and dropping effortlessly, leaving smooth surfaces, revealing order and comfort. I listen for barely perceptible punctuation of the movement, rhythms of more or less. My mind becomes tuned to the movement …
“Hey, kid, what are you doing in my spot?” a serious, deep voice booms out.
Mega-startled, I jump up and turn in the direction of the voice. I know this guy … from where? Is it …? He is dressed so different, but it’s my weed dealer. I think. Am I dreaming?
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He cracks up. “Relax, I’m just kidding with you. I discovered this spot a few weeks ago. It’s pretty special. I was looking for a new place to meet customers. The place where I saw you last has gotten unsettling. You come here often?”
“Sometimes.” I gesture to his clothes. “You look out of place here in the woods in business dress.”
I was introduced to this guy over the summer and made a couple of purchases from him. He appears to be college age. Not dressed in the usual style of feigned coolness characteristic of wealthy students—T-shirt broadcasting a fraternity logo, designer flip-flops, immaculate haircut grown out until parents’ weekend, no shave since last Friday night. This guy’s haircut and shave are definitely from this morning, linen shirt and creased slacks straight from the dry cleaner, finished off with a classy looking leather belt and shoes that I’m pretty sure are Italian.
“Yeah, I should definitely scale down, like running shoes and sweats so that brambles don’t matter,” he says. He studies me for a moment. “You look pretty upset.” His tone is one of genuine concern. And confidence. He didn’t ask how I’m feeling, he stated it.
“Yeah, my plans to make money for college just came crashing down,” I say.
“I can relate. I had to finance my ticket to success. I learned early, high school age like you, that I had to rely on myself, create my own small business rather than rely on others.”
“I don’t see me starting a business—I have no capital, only small cash reserves.” I try to sound businesslike, rather than like a green teenager.
“It doesn’t take a lot of money if the demand is strong.”
“Are you an economics major?” I say to test his credentials.
He laughs again, confidence seeping from him. “No, I’m a second-year law student. I learned what I know about managing a business from experience—over six years now. Starting in high school, I was able to finance my undergraduate degree, along with a little help from grants and scholarships. Now I’m in the most prestigious law school in the South, and the goal is to finish in the top 5 percent of my class. Not bad for a boy from inner-city Chicago.”
So, add smart to confident and independent. Wouldn’t I love to be in his shoes.
“What’s your secret?” I ask.
“Provide a high-demand product in a professional manner. College students are away from home and away from their suppliers, so they are desperate for a discreet, reliable seller. And here you’ve got a perfect storm: large numbers of users from two colleges, a small town with limited options, and a state where weed is not yet legal but will be soon. People don’t see it as a crime anymore.”
“I’m glad it will be legal soon. It really helps me deal with stress.”
“That’s a big reason—stress relief—for the large demand among young people.”
“But I’m afraid of getting caught.” I think how that would really sever any hope of my stepfather, the lawyer, agreeing to pay for my college. “Aren’t the college students taking a big risk using weed? What if they got caught?”
“For many of them, alcohol is illegal too,” he says with a shrug. “It’s convenient for the colleges to look the other way for tuition-paying students, not like with high school students. By agreement, the county police stay off the university grounds. The county police don’t want any more problems than they already have. And the campus cops look the other way as long as things aren’t out in the open. You know, we are on campus grounds right now. We’re just not out in the open.”
He tells me there is another way back to civilization, not the way I came, and I should leave that way so customers who are due here soon don’t see me. He describes where to go—around the next rock outcrop, down the hill, following a line of old cedar trees surrounded by new-growth woods. It feels like he is dismissing me from class. I kind of respect his take-charge approach, and the fact that he’s being straight with me about what he’s doing, so I don’t really mind him telling me what to do. Anyway, the sun is down to almost dinnertime level.
“Keep in touch,” he says, all respectful-like, as I head off to explore the new path. It is a path definitely not suited for flip-flops; I’m glad I have on my already scratched up sneakers, not the brand new Nikes Mom bought me for the first day of school. It’s weird, but sometimes it takes me months before I feel comfortable wearing new clothes.
I can’t figure out where this path is going to come out. It’s only when I step out of the trees that I realize I’m right behind the law school. My stepfather’s first-floor office is easily in view.
Don’t think I’ll drop in.
Mom greets me with a big hug when I get home. Her hug dissolves much of the remnants of my anxiety. I tell her about the town newspaper rejecting me. She says I’ll get plenty of newspaper experience working on the school newspaper, and I can try again next summer.
“But I want to save money for college,” I say, and it’s almost a whine. My guard comes down only with Mom.
“Daniel, we have plenty of money to do whatever we want now, not like the old days.”
“We don’t have plenty of money. He does.” I keep my tone neutral. The idea of being in conflict with Mom, the one person I totally rely on, makes me very uncomfortable.
“Honestly, can’t you two call a truce?”
“Talk to my stepfather, not me.”
This discussion topic goes back four years, to when they got married. He has never really cared for me, and vice-versa.
My real father left when I was three. I still think about falling asleep nestled in his lap. Mom worked the night shift at the hospital at the time, and would put me to bed right before she left—but I would stay awake, waiting for my father to come get me for storytelling on the sofa. Only at this time of night would he turn off the TV and put aside his Jack Daniels. (My mom says that is NOT where I got my name.) He did not read from a book; instead, he told me his own stories, looking into my eyes and holding me tight. I can remember the stories always involved a plane, what you could see happening on the ground. His quiet voice, full of sadness, seemed to never stop.
Other memories from that time are not so good. Like when he would drink during the day, often, and he and Mom would end up screaming at each other.
When Mom got home after the night shift, she would have breakfast with me and then walk me to my preschool so she could sleep during the day. I hated her leaving me again so soon. One day I threw a tantrum at preschool, literally throwing things, and saying unintelligibly, through missing teeth, “Don’t want new clothes.” Mom used to say she had to go to work so she could buy me things like new clothes. I just wanted her. But we didn’t have enough money to live without her working. My father couldn’t keep a job.
And then he left. I worry all the time that I’m the one who caused my father to leave.
Now, my stepfather screams at me for one minor infraction after another, but never in front of Mom. After his raging events, his calm exaggerations and lies to her about what I did bear little resemblance to reality. It seems he wants me out of the picture and is doing his best to undermine Mom’s unconditional love for me. When I try to explain to her what is happening, she thinks I am the irrational one. She never sees him lose it. What she does see is him being such a good provider. Money trumps everything again.
Dinnertime tonight is, as it always is, a strain of silence, the only sound in the room the ice hitting the sides of my stepfather’s many glasses of vodka Collins for most of the meal.
My mom asks about my first day back at school and I share highlights. She beams with pride. I conclude with my triumph in the new system of forming soccer teams.
My stepfather says, “But you don’t even know how to play soccer very well.”
“I used to play on the community teams when I was younger,” I say.
“You mean at the age when all the little kids just chase after the ball and don’t even know how to play positions?” He’s starting to slur his words badly—“just” sounds like “zhust,” and positions sounds like “pozishuns.”
I look at Mom. “Daniel will learn to play better by taking the class,” she says.
“Have you ever made a goal? In your whole life? Can you run fast enough to keep up with the other guys? You’re not tall enough to get headers, so what position could you play?”
The slurring is so bad now it’s hard to even translate what he’s saying. I don’t respond.
“I asked you a question … many questions! Answer for yourself. What have you got to contribute to a soccer team, for Christ’s sake?”
“Leave me alone!” I shout. I get up from the table and take my dishes to the kitchen.
Mom follows. “He’s had a bad day, Daniel. Don’t take it personally.”
She has an appointment to pick up one of her paintings that’s been hanging, unsold, in a small gallery downtown for a month. Her leaving is a signal for me to retreat to my room.
I thought my stepfather was already asleep in his La-Z-Boy recliner. I was wrong. He follows me upstairs and enters my room. He has never come in my room before—my safety space. He stands near the door, blocking my exit. I’m trapped.
The look on his face shouts disgust. I have done nothing, so the disgust must come from inside him. I’ve learned from previous episodes like this one not to say anything. If I’m quiet, not calling attention to myself, maybe he will leave.
Not this time.
“Why didn’t you answer me when I asked about soccer?” He screams this so loud I think, embarrassed, the neighbors might hear. “You treat me like a freak in front of your mother. But you’re really just a sniveling little pussy when it’s just you and me.”
He has never actually hit me—yet. But I know things are headed that way, since his physical intimidation is escalating. He pushes me down into my desk chair and stands there towering over me, bringing his face closer and closer, his expression turning darker and more evil with each insult he spits at me. “Weasel … girl weasel … think you know it all … let me tell you, she doesn’t even like you—she thinks you’re a sniveling trouble maker.” His voice is increasingly harsh and loud. “Somebody has to teach you a lesson. I’m going to forget to give you your allowance for a while. You say anything to her and I’ll make things worse, I swear. You could trip, fall down the stairs. Just an accident—”
“Stop it!”
My stepfather turns, and we both see Mom in the doorway. She’s trembling as she approaches me; her eyes are fixed on him.
“Leave Daniel’s room right now,” she says.
My stepfather leaves without a word.
When he’s gone, she starts crying. “Daniel, I’m so sorry for not believing you about him in the past. What if I hadn’t forgotten my car keys?”
We hear him slam the door on his way out.
I can’t sleep tonight, as usual. This time anxiety focuses me on listening for his car, or the house front door unlocking, or the opening of the liquor cabinet. All I hear is my obsessive thought, What have I done?
Mom will be penniless again. And alone when I go off to college. I’m afraid for the changes I have caused.
I should be glad his terrorizing me is out in the open. Looking at things logically, he has confirmed my conclusions about him. I should not doubt myself anymore.
Instead, I feel guilty. First I chase away my real father with all my crying. Then, even when I try to stay quiet, invisible, I can’t get the second guy to like me, or to stay.
He stormed out the door just now, but the fear remains. He’ll be back. Then what?
I wake to screaming, this time my alarm. I only got forty-five minutes of real sleep. It feels like cotton’s stuffed in the space where my brain is supposed to be. A shower doesn’t help much.
I hear Mom on the phone: “You can be here in thirty minutes to change all the locks? I’ll see you then.”
Good! I should have thought of that. She is stronger than me in all ways.
Next call, she leaves a message for an attorney: “I really need to meet with you today. The situation is urgent. Please return my call as soon as possible.”
How will I ever make this up to her?
When I come into the kitchen, she puts her arm around my shoulders, pulls me to her, and says, “We’ll be okay, Daniel. Nobody can come between us. I’ll make things up to you.”
I’m so choked up I can’t say anything. I leave the house as soon as possible. I walk rather than ride my bike so I have space to think. Mom’s right, nobody could come between us. But she’s wrong about who needs to make it up to whom. I’m the one at fault. Why couldn’t I just humor him, for Mom’s sake?
He hated me so bad, humoring him would not have worked. He would have found a reason to not pay for me to go to college. I knew that on one level, but wanted to believe there was a realistic chance of me affording to go. That’s probably where all this was leading. He was trying to push me out of the house or into exploding so he could justify not supporting me or my dream.
But at least Mom could have gone on with her life. Her painting is just starting to take off. What have I done?
Chapter 6: Success?
Once upon a time, I met a great challenge. With all the daring of youth, I searched for triumph over doom.
DANIEL
I don’t even remember that I was supposed to hang out with Sean later in the afternoon yesterday until I see him this morning.
“Hey, Daniel,” he says, “everything okay? You never showed up at the park yesterday.”
Whoops. “Oh. Hey. I went to the newspaper office to check on, eh, my job application. Then … and then I was bummed because I didn’t get the job.”
“Hey, sorry, man.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty depressed.”
There’s my script for the day. I won’t have to do any more explaining.
Wrong. In morning block, each of us is asked to share a sentence or two from yesterday’s writing on what school means to me, what I want from my school experience. In a small group, which includes Cora, I read a passage about the necessity of attending a reputable college and meeting people there who can assist me in launching a successful business career.
The girl right next to me asks, “What kind of business do you want to be in?”
“I’m open, as long as it is highly competitive, successful.” I project a vibe of conviction.
A dude I recognize from Spanish asks, “What do you enjoy in school now?”
When I hesitate, Cora says, �
�You’re on the journalism staff. Is that something you’re considering as a career?”
“I’m not thinking of journalism as a career because it doesn’t pay enough,” I say, a little annoyed by the questions. Cora knows I’m committed to a business career. Why did she ask? “I like journalism now because I like listening to stories. I like to see what makes people tick. But a career choice is something different.”
The teacher in the group says, “Your writing, Daniel, raises an important distinction many people make about whether any activity is an end in itself or a means to an end. Work can be an end. Like, work as a fulfilling way for someone to express themselves, or be with others, or contribute to a community. Along those lines, we can ask ourselves if school is an end in itself of growing in many different ways. Or is school only a means to a later end—college, a specific career? Also, which is money, an end or a means?” She lets the questions hang in the air for a moment, then says, “I hope y’all keep in mind how successful our counselors are in finding money for students to attend college. And for the record, I personally know many non-wealthy people who are anything but ordinary and very happy in their life.”
I want to continue the discussion, to argue that money controls everything, but I don’t trust my current emotional state.
I don’t have to sit with my rocky self for long before we leave for a scheduled meeting with the librarian. As we leave the classroom, Cora says, “I think you have a lot to say, and journalism is going to be a way for you to have a voice.”
I’ll get paid a lot more for my thoughts in business!
There’s no newspaper meeting today, so I hang out in the cafeteria, text my mom, and wait. No response. She must be meeting with the lawyer. When the bell rings, I put my phone away with a sigh and head to science/math block.
We are working on the calculus project today. I try to work on mine, but I can’t concentrate. Ten minutes into class, I flag down the technology teacher.
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