Come As You Are

by Steven Ramirez

  As I pick it up, I notice he had decorated the page with these funny little creatures—kind of like monsters. It looks to me like they’re dancing in a big perfect ring surrounding the title. I’m about to turn to the next page when I hear Hershey’s squeaky wheel. Before he can round the corner, I race through the gate, set down my skateboard, tuck the notebook under my arm, and beat it out of there. Easy peasy.

  My sister Beth, who’s older than me by four years, is home from cheerleading practice. I could never understand it. Beth is as poor as me, but for some reason, she’s popular. I guess part of the reason is because Mom taught her how to sew when she was nine. She makes herself all these nice outfits, which are always on fleek. Also, she babysits, which gives her enough money for a cell phone and makeup and stuff.

  I don’t hate my sister, though it’s true she suffers from resting bitch face. And yeah, she always gives me and Ollie a ride to school when it rains. I don’t know. It’s just that I wish she was more like me, so I could have somebody to talk to besides Ollie. Beth doesn’t understand anything about me. Maybe that’s the way she likes it. She is so basic.

  After a dinner of beans and franks, which my father says is the whole reason air freshener was invented, I head back to my room to do homework. I’m actually a pretty good student, and I don’t have to try all that hard. I can usually finish English, math, history, and science in about an hour, give or take. Also, I like to read. I have a strong B average, which is why the principal Mr. Charbonneau put me on the stupid honor roll without my permission.

  Mom is always telling me I could be a straight-A student if I wanted to. It wouldn’t be difficult. But then they’d stick me in Honors, and I wouldn’t be able to see Ollie during the day, except at lunch and PE. And Ollie doesn’t have any other friends, even though his parents are well off.

  After finishing my history essay, I put everything away in my backpack and bring out the notebook. I make sure my door is locked—which is a joke, really. I mean, it’s not like anyone in this family is interested in talking to me. Usually, Dad is out in the garage, working on the car or fixing the lawnmower for, like, the millionth time. And Mom is in the kitchen cleaning up while watching some lame-ass reality show. And Beth. After her homework is done, she spends the rest of the night talking to her dumb friends on her cell phone. So, I’m pretty much alone to do whatever I want.

  I’m not sure why, but I keep Craig’s notebook hidden under my bed. It’s like it’s this secret thing I’m not supposed to share with anyone—not even Ollie. I’m lying on my bed now, looking at the first page. Holy crap! I could swear the little monsters Craig had drawn are different. It’s like they’ve all moved clockwise on the page—together. I look at my hand, and it’s shaking. I tell myself I’m imagining the whole thing and turn to the next page.

  It’s a list.

  There on the page, printed neatly in large block letters, are five things the reader, I guess, is supposed to do, according to this Craig kid.

  Need the Power

  Absorb the Power

  Test the Power

  Affirm the Power

  Surrender to the Power

  Staring at that page, I am struggling to understand what the list is even good for. Was this something Craig was telling himself when he wrote it down? I don’t know anything about him. Had he been bullied like me? He could’ve just as well been talking about tae kwon do or karate or some shiz. Or maybe he’d been practicing some kind of New Age mental exercise to make himself feel stronger, so he could make it all the way through middle school without killing himself like Dexter Rodine, who in sixth grade decided to slice his wrists with a box cutter. But this seems like more than a mental exercise. I feel like this Craig kid was trying to take charge of his life. Like me.

  As I turn the page again, I hear a noise. I look over at my desk, and the lamp is flickering. But there’s something else. I set the notebook down and go over there. A #2 pencil half the size of a new one—I am constantly sharpening my pencils—is, well, it’s vibrating. I go to touch it, and, I kid you not, it flies across the desk and lands in the trash can. I reach down and pick it up. Nothing. Just a normal pencil.

  Lying on the bed again, I turn the page and find a picture of a creature with red eyes and sharp teeth. Another monster, I guess. All around him are those same tiny monsters, which are floating. I can’t believe Craig had drawn these things. Seriously, they are really good. Maybe he was a gifted artist who the other kids liked to pick on.

  There was this eighth-grader, Shawna Davis, who was a really good artist. She moved away. I remember she used to make all these cool drawings for the school paper. Apparently, the other eighth-grade girls hated her, and they would spread rumors about her being a big ol’ slut. They still talk about her like that sometimes, even though she’s long gone. “Slutty Shawna.” I think one of them even made up a song. That’s what kids do when they find out you’re good at something—they make up songs.

  Below the hideous monster’s picture are words that are hard to pronounce. The page’s title reads, Need the Power. I try sounding out the words, but they’re difficult. I’ve seen Latin before, and these words don’t look familiar. One time, our English teacher Mr. Korn brought in a copy of The Iliad in the original Greek, so we could see the language Homer wrote in. But this writing doesn’t look like Greek. I don’t know what it is. Maybe Craig invented his own monster language? I spend the next half-hour trying to sound out the words, but it’s no good.

  In the end, I’m a little disappointed, but not very. Truth be told, it’s not like I really care about any of this. What I mean to say is, I’m not desperate. Not like this Craig kid. Who gives a crap about Kirk Wardell, anyways? I’ll survive him. Shit, but then I start thinking about the rest of middle school and how I’m going to have to put up with his stupid bullshit, day after day after day. And what about Ollie? He has it worse because he’s smaller than me. It would be nice to have an edge for once.

  Who am I kidding? It’s not worth it. Besides, it’s late. I shove the notebook under my bed, brush my teeth, and turn out the light. I can hear Beth on the phone, laughing in this unnatural cartoon voice. That usually means she’s talking to a guy. Maybe he’s her boyfriend. I wouldn’t know because she never tells me anything. I ignore her and go to sleep.

  I don’t usually remember my dreams, and tonight is no exception. But when I wake up the next morning, I feel funny. Like something has changed.

  Kirk, Lonnie, and Gilbert pull one of their usual pranks on me and Ollie in PE—this time, stuffing our gym clothes in the toilet. Real original. And the teacher never says anything. He’s too busy checking out the more mature girls in the class. I thought about reporting him one time, but what good would that do? He’s married with two young kids. They’ll be the ones who end up getting hurt.

  Normally, I try and ignore Kirk and his friends because I know I won’t see them again for the rest of the day since the three of them are in class with the Special Ed kids. But today, I find myself wishing Craig’s list was real, and that I could take care of those thugs once and for all. Not kill them or anything—I only want to hurt them enough so they’ll leave me and Ollie alone. Fat chance.

  Kirk has us up against the wall now outside the gym, and he’s threatening to punch our faces in for no good reason. He calls Ollie a fairy and says I’m trailer trash. Which is kind of funny because Kirk is as poor as me. He was held back—that’s why he’s so huge. I would say his life is of the typical variety you can find anywhere in this town. He lives in a crappy house with a stepfather who drinks and hits Kirk’s mother just about every night. The damned cops are over there all the time.

  Wait, how the hell do I know this? Kirk has never once said anything to me about his family, and Lonnie and Gilbert never talk either. But somehow I know. I can see the bruises on his mother’s face and arms, and I can hear his father cussing at her.

  “Sorry about your mom.”

  “What?” he says.


  “I understand she had to go to the emergency room this time. Must’ve been pretty bad.”

  Kirk has this strange look on his face. Instead of hitting me, he just stands there, staring at the ground. Lonnie comes up to him and, crouching down and wearing a stupid grin, looks up at his face.

  “Dude, you crying?”

  Then the big, stupid prick walks away, just like that. His minions punch both me and Ollie in the arm, and suddenly, we’re alone.

  “Was all that true?” Ollie says. “What you said about his mom?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But how?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Walking home, I think about Kirk some more, even though I don’t want to. It’s like my brain has tuned into a new channel, and all this information is pouring in. Ollie is next to me, babbling about something or other. I don’t even hear him.

  My house is a palace compared to Kirk’s place, where all of the furniture is either torn or broken. There’s dog pee on the carpet, and the walls are full of holes from where the old man punches it when he isn’t whaling on his wife. The backyard is nothing but weeds. There’s an unused tool shed toward the back. Kirk likes to hide behind it and whack it. Sometimes, Lonnie and Gilbert join him, and they all imagine they’re doing it with high school girls and…

  “Ivan!”

  Ollie and I are standing in front of his house—I don’t even remember arriving. My friend looks pissed.

  “Are you even listening?” he says.

  “Sure.”

  “Then why haven’t you answered me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I asked if you wanted to go to Gasher’s Park.”

  “Not today, Ollie. I don’t feel well.”

  At home, everything is same old, same old. Mom is busy making dinner—some disgusting meatless casserole she found on the back of a box of au gratin potatoes or whatever. Beth is at a friend’s house, apparently, and Dad is out “looking for work,” which usually means he’s hanging out downtown with the other unemployed dads over at the Tap ‘N’ Chat.

  Dad’s okay, though. He isn’t a mean drunk or anything—not like Kirk’s stepdad—and he’s never laid a finger on Mom or me or Beth, for that matter. In fact, Dad is a major practical joker. I remember one time when he left a fake human head in the refrigerator. You could hear my mom’s screams for miles. Another time, he filled one of Beth’s bras with shaving cream. Totally inappropriate, but funny as hell. Last year, he hot-glued my science book to my desk. I don’t believe in God, but if I did, I would thank him for my old man—job or no job.

  After my homework is done, I bring out the notebook. The monster circle on the first page has moved again. I ignore it, turn the page, and review the list. So, this will blow your mind. The first item on the list—Need the Power—is now blood red, while the rest of the items are still black. Had I made it through the first step already? I suppose I thought I wanted the power, but when did I decide I needed it?

  I’m a little nervous as I turn the page again and silently read the chant below the monster’s face. I can feel an invisible hand pressing against my chest. Probably my imagination. But this time, the words are glowing—dude, they actually glow. Now, my left hand starts to feel funny, like it itches. I hold it up to look at it and almost fall off the bed.

  There’s a faint outline of something on my palm! It looks like someone carved it into my hand with an X-Acto knife.

  I almost lose my shit and race out of my room into the bathroom, where I blast the hot water into the sink and lather up my palm with soap. Almost burning myself to death, I try scrubbing the mark to get it off. But it’s not going away. I keep at it, and finally, the symbol fades. My hand looks like a cooked lobster, so I run cold water over it and hope for the best.

  When I return to my room, I find the notebook lying open on my bed where I left it. Ivan, you idiot! Mom might’ve walked in and found it. Anyways, I decide that enough is enough. Kirk isn’t worth it. So, I grab the thing and run downstairs, taking the steps two at a time. No one’s around. I slip out the back and cram the notebook toward the bottom of the garbage can, under a bag.

  So much for being a badass.

  It’s morning now, and I am lying in bed after a night of zero sleep. For the few minutes I did manage to doze off, I had a terrifying dream, which involved me following Kirk into his backyard. We’re walking behind the shed, and I’m starting to get nervous because I think he’s going to whip it out. Instead, he points to something hidden in the grass next to the broken-down wooden fence.

  It’s a baby sparrow.

  When I look up, I can see a nest in the orange tree. There are other babies in it, and the mom bird is sitting on a branch, watching us. Kirk grins at the mom bird—only he’s not Kirk anymore. He’s some other kid I’ve never seen before, with dark beady eyes, super-short red hair, and bad skin. He picks up the baby bird with both hands and, chanting something I can’t understand, crushes it in his fingers, the blood dripping onto the dead grass and burning it like acid.

  “Ivan, are you up yet?” It’s Mom calling from downstairs.

  “Yeah!”

  I realize it’s late, but I don’t feel like moving. Though I don’t want to, I raise my left hand and examine the palm. Nothing—except the skin is still a little red from all that hot water. Could the mark have been my imagination? Creepy shit like this happens in movies all the time, but not in actual life. I remember one time when me and Ollie were playing around with one of those cheesy Ouija boards. And guess what—nothing happened. Those things are bogus if you ask me. Just the same, I’m glad I threw the notebook away.

  No time to shower, so I brush my teeth and dress. As I reach down to grab my backpack, I see something sticking out a little ways under my bed. No, it can’t be. Shutting my eyes tight, I get down on my knees. When I open them, I can see it lying there.

  It’s the damned notebook!

  I’m pretty shaken now as I leave my bedroom. I decide the best thing is to return the notebook to Craig’s locker. As I pass the bathroom, I can see my sister putting on her makeup.

  “Hey, Ivan?” she says. “What was all that noise last night?”

  “What noise?”

  She leans over the sink, smacks her lips in the mirror, pushes up her boobs, and walks out. I’m guessing she’s meeting her boyfriend at school.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “It was like you were moaning or something. I thought maybe you were, you know…”

  “What? Shut the hell up. I had a bad dream, is all. And since when do you listen to what goes on in my room?”

  “I don’t, dumbass, but you woke me up.” She starts down the stairs.

  “Hey, Beth? Do you remember what time that was?”

  “Like three? How should I know?”

  Okay, so I’ve seen enough horror movies to know that three a.m. is the witching hour. And people have been known to do some crazy shit during that time. Like the pharmacist who used to live on the next block. Last year—for no good reason, apparently—he decided to cut up his wife and baby daughter with a chainsaw and stick all the pieces in a freezer in the garage. He said it was because of an occult book he’d bought at a yard sale. But the cops said it was because of all the drugs he’d been stealing from the Rite Aid where he worked. And the jury agreed.

  My point is, me having a nightmare during the witching hour was just a stupid coincidence. There’s no way I am blaming that on a notebook I found in some kid’s locker. That’s crazy talk. Still…

  “So whatever happened to that notebook you found?” Ollie says.

  We’re almost at school, and all I can think about is how I’m going to get through another day of the Kirk Wardell shit show.

  “I took it. That’s all.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Curious, I guess.”

  “Ivan, you needa put it back.”

  “I hope I can.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ollie, I
wasn’t going to tell you, but there’s something weird about that notebook. Last night, I tried throwing it away, but it showed up in my room again.”

  “Oh, come on. It was prob’ly your dad playing another joke.”

  “Also, there’s this mark on my hand.” I showed him my palm.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “That’s because I washed it off. But it was there, I swear.”

  “What else?”

  “I had this really bad dream. And I know things now—things about Kirk that no one ever told me.”

  “You mean like, about his mom?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dude, you needa lose that book.”

  While Ollie is getting his books, I sneak back through the gate and approach Craig’s locker. I’m thinking I can throw the notebook in real fast and leave, with no one the wiser. But when I get there, I can see that the door is shut. Just as I’m about to open it, stupid Hershey shows up.

  “Hey!” he says. “What’d I tell you?”

  He pushes me away and checks the locker. If he opens it, he’ll see that I took the notebook. Better to walk away now.

  “So did you do it?” Ollie says.

  “No. Hershey caught me. Look, it’s no big deal. I’ll wait till after school.”

  As Ollie and I head to class, I can see Kirk in the parking lot. He’s standing there with his stepdad, and he looks butthurt about something—probably his mom. They’re having a loud argument, and people are staring. Kirk says something to him, and his stepdad takes a swipe at the kid’s head, almost knocking him down. But Kirk doesn’t do anything—he just takes it.

  My dad had told me one time a lot of guys in this town grew up like Kirk. When they turned eighteen, their fathers threw them out of the house. It was like they thought they’d done their job, and now they were going to kick back, get drunk, and watch porn. The thing of it is, when these “model parents” got old, their sons never came back to see them. Never gave them money or looked after them when they got sick.