“He’s sleeping,” Mom affirmed, like that was going to make me feel better about the situation.
“Can you give me a moment alone with Dad?”
“Of course, honey. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
After she left, all I could do was stare at Dad in astonishment. I looked around at the monitors and machines. Guilty worries flooded my mind: Did I do this? Did I set to the fuse to a bomb when I gave him the cigarette last night? In a state of remorse, I traced my finger along his clammy cheek. How could my father look so vulnerable? This was my hero, the one who taught me everything about life and basketball. This was the man who was there for me in my time of need, the one who had helped me through my grief after Carter moved away. Things like this just didn’t happen to me—to us. Dads were supposed to be indestructible. Dad’s eyelashes fluttered like tiny butterfly wings when I started crying softly to myself. At this discovery, my heart stopped, and I stood frozen as I watched his eyes open just a slit. This was the father I knew, this was the man who never stopped fighting no matter how dire the situation. He lethargically lifted his arm and wiggled his fingers like he was gesturing for something. I realized he was beckoning for my hand. I entwined my fingers with his, wanting that cold hand to be stuck to me like glue for the rest of my life. He gave my hand one good squeeze and pressed his fingers into me as though trying to make me understand that I didn’t have to be afraid.
I whispered into his ear, “I love you, Dad.” I clutched onto him until one of the nurses shooed me out of the room.
Dad went into cardiac arrest around two in the morning. I will never forget the nurses running into Dad’s room, Mom in hysterics and me waiting in the hallway in sheer terror, for as long as I live. My Dad, my hero, a man I thought to be indestructible, was pronounced dead twenty-five minutes later. The doctors assured us the cliché “We tried everything to save him, but his heart was just too weak.” I felt like my soul had been doused in gasoline and someone had lit a match. My heart just smoldered away into nothingness. From that night forward, my life would take a drastic turn, whether I was prepared for it or not.
***
With no immediate family still living, Dad’s funeral consisted of mainly co-workers from the dealership. At the reception, I sat in a corner of the room by myself. I glanced at my reflection in the living window, feeling ugly in my baggy black dress. Tearstains had run down my cheeks and smeared my eye makeup.
“Here, I brought you some food.” Ruth handed me a plate with half a sandwich and potato salad. In spite of how dreary that day was, she had managed to make herself look gorgeous in a black velour knee-length dress. A river of creamy pearls surrounded her delicate neck like a choker.
“I’m not hungry, but thank you.” I continued to look out the window in despair.
“Come on. You have to eat.”
I knew she was trying to be helpful, but I just wanted to be alone. “Ruth, please. I don’t want it.”
“At least try the pasta salad. It’s really good.”
I would have done anything to get her to leave me alone at that point. “Fine.”
“Okay, I’ll go get you some.” She scooted off and disappeared amid the crowd.
After everyone left the reception, all the pain and heartache rushed back to me at the sound of Mom’s muffled cries in her bedroom. The sound of her crying was like nails running down a chalkboard. With my heart thudding, I went back to my bedroom and locked the door. I lied down on my bed and looked up at the posters of Carter that I had taped to the ceiling. As silly as it sounded, I sometimes talked to his pictures. Sometimes it was as if the blue-eyed boy himself was sitting right there in the room with me, and it comforted me in more ways than I could count.
That’s What Friends are For
1992
Yes, Carter was the only friend I had in eighth grade, but I felt confident with just him by my side. The outside world could do no harm when I was with him at school. Surprisingly, that school year went along smoothly. Then one afternoon the inevitable happened: The school bully, Tim Morris, decided to choose me as his next victim.
Students were scattered throughout the horseshoe atrium during lunch while they socialized with their cliques on the cement steps. Carter was meeting me in this area after he got done with gym class. The longer I waited, the more impatient I became. I felt a light touch on my back and I thought it was Carter, but I turned around only to find an unopened ketchup packet at my feet. When I looked up, there stood Tim Morris with his unmistakable fiery red hair, pale skin, and dark brown freckles. I'd known him since grade school, and the big brute was extremely obnoxious as he was overweight. He was one of those kids who picked on others to make up for his own low self-esteem.
Something hit my back again moments later. This time it was an unopened mustard packet.
“What the hell?” I yelled back at Tim. “Cut it out.”
Tim and his entourage laughed hysterically. I had had just about enough of his childish antics, and I got up to walk away. I’d only gone two steps when something wet struck me dead center on my forehead—a French fry drenched in ketchup.
“Score!” Tim said victoriously as he gave his friend a high-five.
A glob of ketchup slid down my cheek and landed on new my red blouse. I could have sworn everyone in the vicinity was pointing and laughing at me.
“Hey, jerk off, you got a problem?” Carter said with his arms crossed.
“Oh, I’m soooo scared,” Tim said tauntingly. “Look, guys—toilet paper boy thinks he’s tough.”
Everyone in school knew about Carter’s latest endeavor. He had recently appeared in a toilet paper commercial, and the students wouldn’t let him live it down. I believed it was because kids were extremely jealous of Carter’s rising fame.
Carter disregarded Tim’s heckling and snapped, “You do that to my friend again, and I will make you really sorry.”
“Oh yeah? Try me, toilet paper boy.”
“Carter, let’s go. Forget him. He’s not worth it,” I said, feeling my throat constrict as I held back tears.
“Toilet paper boy, toilet paper boy,” Tim mocked, “likes to wipe his ass on national TV.”
I’m pretty sure Carter weighed the consequences of punching Tim Morris’s lights out. Carter looped his arm in mine after a brief moment of hesitation, and finally dragged me away. This time, Tim threw a ketchup packet at the back of Carter’s head. Thankfully, it wasn’t opened, and Carter had the moral fortitude to ignore it. Once we got away, we ended up on the lower field under a tree.
“Don’t let that jerk get to you,” Carter tried to reassure me.
I swallowed down tears and said, “I’m so sick of this school and everyone in it.”
Carter retrieved a napkin out of his brown lunch bag and wiped the remnants of ketchup off my blouse. “He’s a complete idiot, and no one likes him anyway except those stupid cronies of his.”
At first I was humiliated, but now I was just fuming. “I can’t take this abuse anymore. When does it end?”
“I’ve got your back, Alexa.” He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me in close. “If anyone messes with you again, I’ll kick their butt.”
Maybe it was a good thing, but I could never imagine Carter harming anyone. This boy didn’t have a cruel bone in his body. Quite simply, it was not in his nature to be mean spirited. Nevertheless, the sentiment was endearing. To have a friend who cared for me in such a way was something I had yet to get used too. I had to admit that I’d never met anyone my age that impressed me more each day.
Chapter 6: Repercussions
The Grammys are the considered one of the most significant nights of a musician’s life. The nomination can lead an artist to the top of their game, and remembered in music history as an honor that no artist forgets.
Musicians and entertainers sauntered down the red carpet on a Sunday evening in February of 1998. Television reporters shoved microp
hones at any willing celebrity, hoping to get a moment of their time. Paparazzi tried snapping pictures of every high-profile figure walking into the venue as many celebrities walked on by, ignoring the annoying banter.
The swish of couture gowns and the click of stiletto heels meant it was coming down to show time.
Rock-and-roll hunks and pop-star divas filled the plush velvet front seats of the Dome Theater in Los Angeles, California. Aiden Storm attempted to relax his nerves while his famous pop princess girlfriend, Whitney Milano, tried to ease his anxiousness. The rambunctiousness of Aiden’s entourage sitting in the seats behind had him feeling just a tad bit uncomfortable. They whistled and booed obnoxiously at award nominees like a bunch of rowdy teenagers. Aiden peered over at his manager, record producer, and lawyer, all of whom watched the show intently.
A bright flash of light lit up the stage and the show began. R&B singer Koko Brown walked to the front in a gold flowing sequined dress. She read off a teleprompter, “This year we have been swept away into the pop music scene, but there can only be one pop queen. These are the nominees for female artist of the year…Christina Burkle - ‘Here I Am’, Whitney Milano - ‘Heartbeat’, Sheryl Black - Sheryl Black, and Tanis Morrisey - ‘Razor Sharp Pill’.” Koko carefully tore open the envelope. “And the Grammy goes to…Christina Burkle!”
When Whitney Milano shot a bitter glare at her rival, her sentiments were obvious. The competition had gotten fierce now that Christina Burkle went from movie actress to pop songstress.
Aiden squeezed Whitney’s hand reassuringly and whispered in her ear, “Don’t worry, baby. You know she has nothing on you.”
Pop veteran Tanis Morrisey came out to present the next award.
“Male pop artists have dominated this year’s charts. With hits like, ‘Everybody Get on the Dance Floor,’ by Aiden Storm to ‘Cry, Cry, Cry,’ by Dustin Ackerland, they have sold millions of albums across the country, and left countless young female fans swooning in their wake. Your nominees for male artist of the year are…Dustin Ackerland - ‘Your Listening Pleasure’, Frank Hatton - ‘Fields of Hatton,” Mr. Sparks - ‘Giddy Up’, and Aiden Storm’s, ‘Must Be the Music.’ And the Grammy goes to….Aiden Storm.”
When Aiden jumped up from his seat with a cool smile, Whitney proudly kissed him on the lips. At that moment, the camera aimed toward Dustin who rolled his eyes in response.
Aiden took a deep breath and made his way to the stage where Tanis embraced him and handed him the Grammy.
“Wow,” Aiden said into the microphone. “This is unreal. I really wasn’t prepared for this, but I want to thank my manager, who has been there for me every step of the way. Hue, I will always be so grateful to you. I also have to thank my record producer, Tom Michaels. And Whitney, thank you so much for your support. I love you, baby. Oh, and last but not least, I want to give a big shout-out to my fans. Without you, there would be no Aiden Storm. This one’s for you,” he said, hoisting the award in the air.
At the cue of the music, Aiden headed backstage where several photographers greeted him by furiously snapping pictures in his face.
Television entertainment reporters crammed together in an effort to secure an interview with the Grammy winner.
“Aiden, how does it feel to be the youngest male performer in history to win a Grammy?” asked a television reporter.
“How are you and Whitney going to celebrate your big night?” asked another.
Aiden felt like he was in some sort of dream standing in the background and watching everything happening around him. He envisioned this moment since the time his father gave him a plastic microphone on his third birthday, now finally, it was his reality.
***
Our lives became radically different after my father died. It started with the dilemma of where our income would come from, and if mom was capable of becoming the breadwinner. She had no skills other than cooking and cleaning. For months, she searched for any type of job from petty to low paying. I even offered to help out by getting an after-school job, but she insisted I only focus on school. After months of job hunting, she finally got a position at our local grocery store as a checker.
The first year of my father’s death drained any bit of enthusiasm I had left for school. I neared graduation, and my grades fell dramatically. Admittedly, I was no longer interested in doing homework and made little effort to pay attention in my classes.
“What’s going on with you, Alexa? Lately you seem totally out of it,” Ruth whispered in class one afternoon.
“Why do you always ask me that? I told you I’m perfectly fine.”
“Ms. Moore,” my math teacher said suddenly, “would you like to share your secret with the class?”
“Bite me.”
The classroom went silent.
The teacher got a citation out from inside her desk drawer in a matter of seconds. “Report to the principal’s office now, young lady.”
At that point, I could have cared less about what kind of trouble I was in.
***
I dumped myself on a chair in the small administrative office, and waited for the student ahead of me to finish meeting with the principal. Someone had left a pink folder on the seat next to me, with a magazine picture of Carter Storm stuffed into the clear sleeve. I found myself thinking about Carter and all the success he was having. My thoughts were interrupted when someone called my name.
“Alexa, come inside and take a seat please,” the principal said.
The girl before me quickly stepped outside his office and grabbed the pink folder as she made her exit.
I warily handed Principal Marsh my yellow citation and took a seat in front of his desk. He slipped on his glasses and thoroughly read over the slip. I studied Principal Marsh in bright afternoon sunlight. He was attractive for a man in his late forties. He had smooth, wrinkle-free skin and was in terrific shape. Of course, he showed his age in other ways. His hair was gray and thinning, and his personality was as dull as dishwater.
“Interesting. You told your teacher to, ‘Bite me’?”
As he spoke, I gazed out the window behind him and watched a couple black crows swoop across the sky in the afternoon breeze. The pungent scent of lilacs drifted through the window. I took a deep breath and wished I was a bird. I would have done anything to fly away from everyone and everything at that moment.
Principal Marsh walked to the filing cabinet and pulled out a thin manila folder. He sat back down at his desk after a minute of standing, and flipped through my paperwork. “I see your grades have slipped significantly over the last six months.”
I smirked and said, “Oh really? I didn’t notice.”
“Listen, Alexa.” He neatly folded his hands together. “I know you’re going through a tough time, but you can’t let yourself go. You’re a senior at the point of failing. Don’t you want to graduate?”
“I guess.”
He sighed and said, “This attitude needs to change. Do you want me to call your mother?”
If Mom found out I was failing high school it would literally kill her. “No. She’s had enough to deal with, don’t you think?”
“I’m going to give you one month to get your grades back up. If this unruly behavior doesn’t stop, I’ll have no choice but to call your mother. Then we’ll arrange a conference so we can find a solution for your behavior and attitude.”
***
Mom took the back roads of Irvine on the way to school one morning, and dropped me off a mile away from campus. I could only assume that she wanted to avoid school traffic. I took my time walking to school from the drop-off point. As I waited for Mom’s car to disappear down the road, I formulated a plan of action. I slithered past high school grounds at the precise moment, and hiked uphill toward a winding road that led back to my house. I would have the house to myself now that Mom had a regular nine-to-five job.
Upon opening the front door, I realized that for the first time in my life I'd done something rebellious. Then the a
nswering machine interrupted the unnatural silence of the house the moment I walked in the door, sending me into a nervous stupor.
“Hello Mrs. Moore. This is Irvine High calling. We just wanted to inform you that Alexa missed first period today and has been marked absent. If you could call us back to confirm…”
I pressed the delete button.
After convincing myself the message wouldn’t come back to haunt me, I spent rest of the afternoon watching television and plastering posters of Carter on my bedroom wall.
Ruth showed up on my doorstep around four-thirty in the afternoon.
“Hey, where were you today?” she asked. “I didn’t see you at school.”
“Oh—yeah, I...I didn’t feel well this morning.” I gave her my best phony cough. “I decided to stay home.”
“Are you okay? Do you need me to get you anything?”
“Nah, I’m going back to sleep.”
“Oh, okay. Well, feel better. Hopefully I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”
Mom returned home from work not long after Ruth stopped by, looking exhausted. “Hey, honey. How was school?”
“It was good,” I fibbed as I continued flipping through channels on the television. “Same old, same old.”
Mom opened a letter from the mail and examined the contents thoroughly. She momentarily stopped to take a glance at her wristwatch. A puzzled look came over her face. “Aren’t you home a little early today.”
“Yeah, Ruth gave me a ride,” I lied.
“Honey, do you mind making your own dinner tonight? There is some leftover beef stew in the fridge. I’m not feeling so well.”
I heard her whimpering in her bedroom moments later. The sorrow was only contagious, and I ended up with my face in a pillow as I pondered the reason for my own mother’s pain. Both of us yearned for something we would never have again—the warm embrace of my father.
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