by Diane Lang
I saw Sable at youth group tonight. She asked why I didn’t eat in the lunchroom any more. I shrugged and said that I hated it in there. She asked me to hang out with her and her friends in the lunch hallway. “We never eat the school lunches. They’re gross. You’re not supposed to eat in the hall, but kids do anyway.” I told her I might do that, but I don’t feel comfortable around her friends. They’re what you call “emo,” and they’re considered really weird. I don’t think they’d like me any more than anyone else. They might be even worse, since most of them are vegans and probably think I’m committing murder every time I eat a cheeseburger. Paul used to hang out with them the few days he showed up for school. He skips all the time now. I don’t know how he gets away with it. The school usually calls when you’re not there, but maybe his parents have given up on him and don’t care whether he goes to school or not.
I tried faking sick this morning, but Mom took my temperature and said I was fine. She seemed worried about me though and asked if things were going okay at school. Dad asked the same thing while we were running. I don’t know why I waste my time working out when I get picked on just as much, if not more. My life really bites right now.
Friday, 2–16
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Today was the worst day of my life. Much worse than last weekend. It probably happened because of the party. I mean, once kids get on a roll, it’s like they don’t know when to stop.
I wish I could run away from here forever. It’s not just the same old jerks at school—I expect most of them to make fun of me, but when someone you thought was a good friend betrays you, then that’s when it really feels bad. Like you begin to wonder what’s wrong with you, if you really are a freak. You begin to think you deserve all the mean things that people do to you. You begin to feel that your life isn’t worth much. That no one but your family will ever like you, and without them your life will be constant torture. I feel so bad. I can’t understand why everyone hates me so much. I’m not perfect, but I’m basically a pretty good kid. Why can’t life be fair? Some people have it so easy—it’s like the world was made just for them. They have it all, like Spencer.
I don’t understand why Spencer set me up. He seess how tough life is for me. And he has everything in the world a guy could want. He’s a star athlete, gets good grades, the girls like him…I mean, why would he go out of his way to hurt me, when he has so much? I should have been suspicious; Allen warned me about him. He hasn’t paid any attention to us since before Christmas. But, when he came up to me and said the soccer players think I’m cool and want me to keep stats for them this season, I was all over it.
“Come down to the locker room when you’re done with lunch,” he said.
You can guess how pumped I was. The soccer team wanted me to keep stats for them! Yay for me, I thought. Finally, I would have some respect around this school. I practically inhaled my lunch—I couldn’t wait to get down to the locker room. But looking back, Spencer seemed nervous when he was talking to me. He had his hands in his jean pockets and he shifted his eyes away from me. I noticed he seemed different.
When I got to the locker room, Spencer was nowhere around, just a few of the other soccer players. I didn’t know them since they were sophomores, but I recognized them from the pep rallies. They asked me how things were and I said okay. One pretty big kid, probably a goalie, said I had to stay and watch what Sean was going to do. Sean was in his underwear, and he was about to run out into the hall and then back in the other locker room door ten steps away. One guy opened the door and watched while someone else was ready to push open the other door for him. Sean counted to three, sprinted down the hall, and then ducked back in the other side. Only a couple of screaming tenth grade girls saw him but no teachers. Everyone laughed and high–fived him. Then one of the players asked if I wanted to do it. I said, “No way”and grabbed my math book. That’s when another player got in my way and said that if I’d try it, they would make sure that no one bothered me anymore. What a great thing to gain for five seconds of anxiety! So I took off my pants and everybody got by the door ready for me to go. One guy standing there said, “It’s clear. Now!” Off I went right into a bunch of girls coming back from the gym. They screamed and so did I. I turned around to run back in, but the door was shut. And locked. I could hear kids laughing on the other side. I ran to the other door and someone was pulling on it, so I couldn’t get in. I was stuck in the hall with no pants on. The weight room door was open, so I ran in there and hid in the corner. About ten minutes later, Coach Bronner came to get me. “C’mon Winterpock,” he said. “There’s no one out here.” For once he felt sorry for me. I was late to HR but he gave me a pass. By the time I got on the bus to go home, the whole school had heard about me streaking in the hall. I hate high school.
Sunday, 2–18
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Paul and I hung out at McDonald’s after church. I told him about the streaking episode and how the soccer players got a big laugh out of it. He told me he’s thinking about running away from home and that I could go with him. Then people wouldn’t be able to hurt us anymore. I told him, “Home is fine, but it’s school I want to run away from.”
He heard from some guys about jumping trains and traveling all over the country. He really wants to go out West or to Florida. Gee, my life’s pretty bad right now, but not that bad. I don’t really think Paul will run away; I think it makes him feel better knowing he has that option. It’s bad enough that his dad is a big jerk, but then his mother is out of it all the time. I don’t get it. Guess she didn’t get the mother gene or something. I mean, mothers are supposed to be nice and there for you—not that dads aren’t that, but they aren’t as soft as moms. They let you get away with more, because you’ll always be their little kid. Mothers should be happy to see you and want to hear all about your day, not passed out drunk on the couch in the middle of the afternoon. Isn’t there some sort of natural hormone that make moms want to treat their kids right? Last year we read the story A Child Called It, and it was about a mother who tortured her kid. That story seemed unreal to me at the time. I don’t think Paul’s mom is that bad, but still she’s really two–faced. I mean, Paul’s mother acted like an everyday, normal mom when I used to see her at church. But at home, she drinks herself into a sad state and then takes her anger out on him. Sometimes she gets so drunk, Paul has to hide her bottles. When she can’t find any of her liquor, she has a big fit and throws things all over the place.
Even at his uncle’s house, it’s a struggle for Paul. There’s always trash and dishes everywhere, and cigarette butts and gin bottles all over the living room. No wonder Paul wants to run away. He thinks for now his only escape is drugs. I asked him if he was doing harder drugs, but all he said was “I barely get a buzz from toking up.”
A lot of kids smoke pot—even some of the really smart ones—and they seem like they’re fine. For most kids considered “potheads,” it’s pretty easy to tell they’re smoking. In gym class I even heard some of the football players talk about getting high this weekend. If I wanted to, I could report them, but I would rather stay far away from those guys. I don’t smoke because I hate what it does to your lungs, and I wouldn’t want to hurt my parents. Besides, I would probably cough all day long.
I tell Paul all the time that drugs won’t solve his problems with his parents. That they’ll only make things worse. But Paul just laughs and calls me clueless. “If you had parents like mine, Winterpock, you’d do drugs too. It’s not like I can’t stop or I’m addicted or anything. I just like the way they make me feel.”
“How do they feel?” I asked.
“Sort of like happiness.” Then he started laughing so hard, I thought he was crying. Maybe he was.
Monday, 2–19
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Things have calmed down at school, especially since Allen and I don’t go in the lunchroom anymore. Most of the time, we eat lunch in Mr. M’s class
unless he’s not there; then we eat with Sable in the hall. I just go to my classes and go home. Even the picking on the bus isn’t so bad, or maybe I’m just used to it. I did pass Spencer in the hall, but he kept his head down and acted like he didn’t see me. I guess if you sink as low as I’ve sunk, there’s nowhere else to go, so kids leave you alone. Coach Bronner did call me into his office after the locker room disaster and asked me a few questions about the soccer players. I told him it was just a joke and I fell for it. Then he asked if I thought my life was in danger. That really freaked me out. Especially with all the talk of dead Kimberly Taylor. I think her boyfriend played soccer.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “The guys seem pretty nice, except for the picking.”
“Well, I sure wouldn’t want to have to kick anyone off the team— we have a chance to go to state.”
“I don’t think you’ll have to do that, Coach.”
“If you keep losing weight like you have been, things will be better. But you know how some of these guys are.”
“My dad’s helping with that,” I said. “We work out everyday.”
“Well, keep it up.” He pushed his chair back and stood over me. “Good luck, Jimmy.” He stuck his hand out and I shook it.
It felt pretty good that for once Coach saw me as Jimmy and not the fat kid in class.
Tuesday, 2–20
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I finally told my dad about the soccer players and what they did to me. He was upset at first, but then he told me to pray. He said to pray for Spencer, because he must feel pretty bad about what he did. Dad told me God would help me through the rest of the year and that I must focus on what’s important, like family, my friends, and grades. “You need to be strong, Jimmy, and get on with your life. Focus on the things that matter and forget about the things that don’t. You’ll be fine, son.”
I’m taking Dad’s advice. I’m focusing on my schoolwork and youth group. And Paul and Allen. And the Total Gym. And maybe Sable.
Thursday, 2–22
The poem we read in class was okay, but it’s too old–fashioned. The poet spoke of riding through the woods and coming to a fork in the road. He chose the road less traveled and has been happy ever since. I get the meaning—it’s better to take risks and try new things. But the poem made me think how different things are today. There aren’t many peaceful roads any more. Most of our lives are spent on expressways and highways, speeding from one to place to another. Then if you go too slow, you run the risk of road rage with some driver yelling the “f” word and giving you the finger. You never have to think any more about which road to choose, because we have GPS and MapQuest telling us which roads to take. And drivers need to take the most traveled roads, since we have to find gas stations.
My parents said they remembered the poem from high school and they really liked it. The poem was more relevant back then, when there weren’t so many cars on the road. I bet in twenty years the poem won’t even be read in schools, which is a shame because the message is good. If more people followed the poem’s theme, there wouldn’t be such an oil crisis, and the government would stop ruining places like Florida and Alaska. I wonder though, if everyone took his advice and went down the road less traveled, wouldn’t it become the road most traveled?
Saturday, 2–24
Hi, Mrs. Pope. I wrote another poem—I’m not really sure what it means—it just came to me.
Pot, cocaine, speed
Drunk, Lost, Isolated
iPods, Computers, Cell phones
No one to talk to
Parents working
Teachers stressed
It’s just a matter of time
Guns, knives, bombs
Before we self–destruct
On the news today, they played a video that some girl recorded with her cell phone at her school. It showed one girl attacking another girl in the hallway. Our school bans the use of cell phones, but there are so many kids with them, it’s impossible for teachers and administrators to do much about it. They’d have to bust 90% of the school. In the movies, robots rebel against humanity. But with the way kids treat one another, who needs Terminators? If you look at the halls, all you see are kids with iPods in their ears. Some parents—not mine—don’t care if their kids play Wii twenty–four hours a day or sit around playing their iPods all the time. Teachers, like you, try to get their classes to discuss things, but everyone just sits there, as if you asked them to recite the quadratic formula. It’s not a reflection on you, it’s just that kids aren’t used to discussing things.
Monday, 2–26
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I’m worried about Paul; he’s acting really manic lately. He’s back in school and spends his time with the slacker kids. Paul’s still smoking weed, not that his smoking makes me think less of him. I mean, lots of kids at our school have smoked it, but I’m worried he might have gotten into something more dangerous. Last week I saw him sitting on the ground between some cars in the parking lot. He was shaking but it wasn’t because of the cold. I hope he hasn’t jumped into any crazy drug that’s going to kill him. He’s one of the only friends I’ve got. There just isn’t much I can do to help him, besides give him my time. I’ve never smoked or drank, so what do I know about what he’s going through? He shouldn’t be hanging with some of the people he’s around. One of those kids, Ricky, went to jail for drinking and driving, and painkillers. He’d also gone to a gas station and stole gas. Paul’s friendship with Ricky will only get him in trouble.
Wednesday, 2–28
My grandmother on my dad’s side has really had a hard life. She lost her first husband, my grandfather, right after my dad was born. He died of lung cancer from working for years in the coal mines of West Virginia. After he died, my grandmother moved to Kentucky and lived with my great–grandparents. It was there that she met her second husband. He was really mean to my dad and believed in beating kids for little things, and my dad said he even hit my grandmother. So, she eventually left him and moved to Cincinnati, where she found a job working in a soap factory. She didn’t make much money, but she provided for my dad. He did really well in school and got an academic scholarship to Ohio State. My grandmother always talks about how proud she is of my dad. She’s had Alzheimer’s for the past five years, and now she’s gonna die but at least she always has a smile. She can’t remember much, but she does remember loving my dad and me. Here’s a poem I wrote about her:
Love
She remembers love
Loss
She remembers love
Stress
She remembers love
Divorce
She remembers love
Loneliness
She remembers love
Alzheimer’s
She remembers love
Death
Love remembers her.
Saturday, 3–3
My sister asked me to go to the mall with her, since that’s the only way Mom would let her use the car. I said I would go because I’m losing some weight, and my jeans are getting kinda baggy around the waist. I’m not into wearing oversized pants. It was still kind of depressing, because I really thought I could find some cool jeans at Abercrombie, but they were all too small, so back to Kohl’s. My parents don’t approve of spending too much on jeans but said I could buy one expensive pair if I really wanted them. They don’t go for that status thing—they think it’s shallow and a waste. But I don’t think one pair of jeans will make me a follower. I just think they’re cool, and would make me feel like, for once, I fit in. Get it? Fit in with the kids at school, because I can fit in a status–jean that fat kids can’t wear.
This weight thing is really frustrating. Seems like I take two steps backward for every one forward. I give up all the food I love, get up at five to work out and run with my dad, lose a little weight, then after a few days, I can’t take the hunger pains any more, and chow down on a bag of chips. Or bribe my sister into sneaking
me a Big Mac, or eat an entire bag of Oreos. It’s amazing that I’ve lost any weight, especially with the zillions of fast food commercials on TV. And then my sister is constantly cooking pizzas and leaving the leftovers on the kitchen counter. I told her I’m on a diet but she doesn’t care. I think she wants me to stay fat; that way she can feel superior. She is so into herself, it’s sickening.
Monday, 3–5
I had to miss church on Sunday because of band rehearsal. I was in the school auditorium by eight and we practiced almost five hours, with only a few breaks. We played through all of the songs several times and did some last minute touch–ups. Then we pretended we were actually performing in front of an audience and did our show.
An hour later, we set up the chairs and stood backstage as parents and other audience members took their seats. My lip was numb from playing my sax for so long, but after the place filled up, I was full of excitement and took my chair in the front row with the rest of the sax players. Our first song was “The Judge.” We started off a little shaky, but after the first couple measures, we picked it up and played the song really cool. Our next several songs, “Milestones,” “Harlem Nocturne,” and “Low Rider,” went smoothly, except I fumbled a little on one of the sixteenth notes in “Harlem Nocturne.” Between songs, the kid in the chair next to me whispered, “Way to go, Winterpock,” but I just ignored him and continued playing.
We concluded with “Won’t You Come Home, Bill Bailey,” which was the best we had ever played it. After our last note, the audience gave us a standing ovation. We filed off the stage and walked back to the band room with kids patting one another on the back, telling one another, “Good job.” For once, no one seemed to notice my weight, and I felt part of the group. We stayed in the band room for a few minutes while Mr. Berry, our conductor, said how proud he was of us. Later I met up with my mom, dad, and sister, who all hugged me and told me how great the show was.