Mom shrugged to me, "That's wrong."
"NASA's website is wrong?" I asked.
She nodded, "Yes. I'm right about this. I know what I'm talking about, Jay."
I gave up at that point, and walked out of the room. It just wasn't worth my time any more.
I can see where Uncle Frank gets his attitude from now.
11 March 2014
Archer had a basketball game today. I sat at the side of the field and watched. It's still a bit cold for this time of year, so he didn't play topless like I would have preferred, not for a proper match like this.
He moved so smoothly and easily, like water. I barely understand how the game works, but I could have watched it all evening long just as long as he was playing. At the end of the match, I wanted to run up and kiss him. Naturally I opted not to do this until we were somewhere a little more quiet and discrete. As much as we feel for each other, I don't think either of us are ready to be 'out' to the whole school yet.
12 March 2014
The neighbours had yet another in a series of their screaming arguments this evening. More things were thrown and I could hear them breaking as they hit against the wall. Because the wall that they are throwing things against is the other side of my own bedroom wall, I think I'm going to sleep in the living room tonight. I phoned CC, she said that sometimes people get into arguments simply because it's a force of habit. The brain releases endorphins which get their blood pumping and heart racing, and because we live in such an apathetic society this is the only outlet for emotion that some people get. I'm not sure I buy that theory, but CC thinks it's sound. Maybe that explains my mom as well.
13 March 2014
With less than a month before the big night of the show, we have been spending more time in rehearsals. Because most of my lines consist of silence, I'm picking up some of the slack in putting together the set. Today I spent two hours painting a backdrop of the sky at night. On the plus side, I was able to walk Archer part of the way home, which was massively worthwhile.
When I got home, Mrs Price was sitting in the living room having a cup of tea. Mom was saying to her "Yes, of course you can stay here, love. You can have Jay's room."
I walked over and asked what was going on. Mom ushered me into the hallway. In a hushed voice, she said to me that Mrs Price was going to be staying with us for a while. I asked why, and she told me not to argue and to do what I was told. This really made me angry, and before I knew what was happening, I was snapping at her, "How am I meant to do what I'm told when you won't even tell me what's going on?"
Dad stepped in from the kitchen and, before things got any worse, put his arm on my shoulder and guided me into the kitchen. He told me that during the argument that the Price's had last night, Mr Price had hit her several times.
"Are they getting a divorce?" I asked.
"It's probably going to be a bit worse than that" said dad. "Mrs Price said that it's been going on for a while. She's wanting to press charges against him. Because of that, she needs a safe place to stay."
I folded my arms. "Mom didn't even ask me" I reminded him.
My dad nodded, "I know. Your mother doesn't think sometimes. But her heart's in the right place, and you know that it's the right thing to do. She didn't ask you, but I will. Is it okay if Mrs Price has your room, Jay?"
I closed my eyes. There were a lot of questions I had to consider. Letting Mrs Price into my room wasn't just a matter of me being territorial or sharing my house with a stranger, or even being put out by my parents being inconsiderate. Truth is, I actually do have secrets that I'm keeping from my parents. Namely, the Z-Word. My supply of meat, that old 'human flesh substitute' is not the easiest thing to explain, and I keep more than a few slices of pork stashed away in a cooler under my bed. "Where would I sleep? The sofa?" I asked.
"If that's alright with you" said dad.
The worst case situation, of course, was that I'd wake up in the middle of the night craving meat, and if I couldn't get to the cooler in time, might chow down on Mrs Price's face. That would definitely be a major league bad ending. I'd have to move that supply, find somewhere downstairs to hide it. But for how long?
"Will she be here for a while?" I asked.
"A week," dad said, "Two at the most."
A few moments ago, I'd been ready to tell mom to ditch the entire idea and find someone else's room to use. I told dad that yes, she could stay.
But I'm still sure it's a bad idea.
After moving my cooler and stashing it in the back of the coat cupboard under the stairs, I spoke to Mrs Price. It turns out that what I thought were plates and dishes hitting against the wall during their arguments weren't plates or dishes at all. It was her.
God, sometimes I think MY life is difficult...
14 March 2014
All through class today, I was thinking about Mrs Price. Throughout Maths I had this twisting, spiralling feeling in my gut that just made me feel very, very bad for her. And, conversely, ashamed of myself. For the last few months, each time they have had an argument, I have just rolled my eyes and wished they'd keep it quiet. It genuinely never occurred to me that there might be something really dangerous under it all.
I slept on the sofa last night. I woke up in the middle of the night, three twenty-six in the morning. At first, I thought that the room felt cold. Then, gradually, I realised that the chill wasn't from outside. My body was utterly lacking in heat, it's temperature having plummeted overnight. I tried to stand, and my muscles screamed at me as they resisted. I stumbled towards the hallway, desperate to get to the cupboard beneath the stairs before the last remnants of my mind were consumed by the bellowing, raging hunger that was opening up inside. But thankfully, dad had left half a chicken sandwich on the kitchen counter, so I wolfed that down instead. Hm. Kinda ruins the dramatic moment when I phrase it like that, doesn't it?
I joke about that. I guess that's because this journal is the one place that I actually can joke about this.
I should tell CC.
No. I should tell Archer.
15 March 2014
Mrs Price has asked if I am okay. She said that I spend a lot of time daydreaming. I guess that she's correct, but I think it comes down to that I have so much on my mind.
She's been really keen to help out around the house. When I came home today from rehearsals, I found that she was washing up all the dishes. Dad said that there's nothing we can do to stop her, that she's just keen to make it up to us.
After she finished polishing the windows, I asked her what was going to happen with Mr Price.
She looked at me with a far-away look in her eye. "I'm not sure, Jay" she said.
"You don't love him anymore, do you?" I asked.
She didn't really answer that.
16 March 2014
Me and Archer had lunch together today. We got to talking about parents. I think my mind was still on Mr and Mrs Price. But when he asked me what my parents were like, I struggled to answer. "I think they're having difficulties" I explained. "Dad has been out of work for a while, and mom isn't coping with it well."
"Do you think that they'll get through it?" he asked.
I found that really hard to answer. "I'm not sure" I said eventually.
Archer started to roll his orange around on the back of his hand. "I wouldn't worry about it" he told me, "My dad separated from my mom for about three months once. That was about two years back, though."
"Did it work out okay?" I asked.
He smiled to me. "Nobody's family works out okay. It's always a mess. You just have to remember, they don't really know what they're doing. They're just making it up as they go along."
"Just like us?" I asked.
He nodded.
17 March 2014
Walking back home today, I started to feel the hunger again. It was off schedule, I know. I missed indulging it earlier this morning. Sometimes, on a good day, keeping the hunger at bay feels like feeding a puppy. But if I don't k
eep it fed, it becomes a wolf, vicious and salivating. So as I walked home, all I could do was glance at the people in the street from around the rims of my sunglasses, thinking about how warm they looked, how fresh, how delicious.
By the time I got home, I was ravenous. I hurried to the cupboard under the stairs, pulled aside the coats - but my cooler was gone. I rushed into the kitchen, only to find mom waiting there, with the cooler. She looked at me, her head canted to one side. "Jay" she began, "Why are you hiding food around the house?"
I really didn't want to have this discussion. I wasn't prepared for it, I had no clear plan on how to approach it. And if I were to approach the subject with someone, that person wouldn't be my mother. For all her pretences of being laid-back, multicultural and accepting, she had such a totalitarian streak that made me instantly want to step back. Dad, I could have probably discussed this with. But not mom. "Never mind" I said to her and motioned to the cooler, "Can I get a sandwich?"
Mom shook her head, moving herself between me and the cooler. "Not until you explain yourself, Jay. What's going on?"
I felt a low growl creeping into my throat. Why was she doing this? Standing between me and what I needed. I wanted to rush forward, I wanted to push her out of the way. I felt my hands curl, my fingers clenching against my coat pockets. "Nothing's going on" I told her.
She snapped at me, "Don't lie to me, Jay. Are you bulimic or something?"
I shook my head, violently. Partly to deny her suggestion, and partly to push away the creeping thought that she was, under our family relationship, just as viable a meal as anything in the fridge. "It's nothing like that."
She leaned closer to me, and I swear that I could smell the blood pumping through her veins. "Are you on drugs?" she asked.
I snapped back, "No. Don't be stupid" I hissed, almost through gritted teeth.
"So what is it?" she asked.
The doorbell rang.
I don't think I'd ever been more grateful for a doorbell in my entire life. My mother pointed a sharp finger at me, "We'll talk about this later" she said. We did not get to talk about it later. She hurried past me to the hallway. The doorbell rang again, and again before she arrived at the door. She opened it. Mr Price stood at the door.
His eyes met my mother, and then he turned to look at me. He looked so small, wearing a tatty old duffle coat. He smiled. "Hi. Is Sylvia in?"
It took me a moment to realise that he meant Mrs Price. Then the thought came to me, where was Mrs Price? I hadn't seen her since I had got back home. "She isn't here, sorry" said my mother, and moved to close the door.
But Mr Price was already moving forward, and jammed his shoulder between the door and frame. "Please," he said, "I just want to talk to her. That's all."
My mother was her usual firm self. "I'll let her know that you called" she said.
"No" said Mr Price, "I need to talk to her face to face. Just talk. That's all." That was when I noticed that he had his foot literally jamming the door open.
I was already moving closer to the door. I'm not sure what I wanted to do, how I hoped to help. And, God help me, I'm sure that if I had got involved, I'd have wound up taking a bite out of him. In that moment, he seemed so alive. No, more than alive. I could see him, every pore on his skin, every beat of his heart. I could see, hear, taste it all with such clarity. It was like I was looking at him through new eyes, as if he were (or I was) an entirely different creature - and I knew, without a speck of doubt in my mind, that he was nothing more than meat. Yes, he could walk and talk and think, and all those other funny little tricks that we manage on a daily basis. But he, at the end of the day, was nothing more than a hefty bag of meat, something that could be cut up, rendered down, hacked apart - and devoured.
All he had to do was push his way into the house, and I would claim him.
"I'm right here" said a voice. I turned and looked. At the top of the stairs, Mrs Price stood.
Her husband turned and looked to her, and smiled. "Sylvia" he said.
Mrs Price looked to my mother. "I'm sorry John" she said, "I'm not ready to talk yet."
He let his gaze slip, hesitantly. He was also looking at my mother, and at myself. He nodded. "Can we talk tomorrow, maybe?" he asked. He smiled, politely.
Mrs Price stayed at the top of the stairs, lingering there. "I don't think so" she said.
Slowly, he drew his foot back, easing it out of the frame. "Call me?" he asked her.
"When I'm ready" said Mrs Price.
"Can I call you?" he asked.
She shook her head, "I don't think that's a good idea."
My mother closed the door. Mrs Price stayed where she was, at the top of the stairs, until my mother went up to get her and bring her down. They both went into the living room, and stayed there for the rest of the evening.
18 March 2014
Mom hasn't spoken to me about the cooler. I think it must have slipped her mind. I'm glad about that. I'm definitely not feeling ready for that little talk.
I tried to ask CC about it. But no matter how I thought about it, there's no easy way to approach the big Z topic. I suppose it all comes down to the fact that zombies just aren't sexy.
I spent about half an hour in front of the mirror in my bedroom this evening while Mrs Price was talking to her sister about finding a place to stay. I tried posing a few times without my shirt on. No matter how I try it, I just don't look even half as stunning as Archer, and definitely not a spot on the guys in the porn mags.
I called CC and asked what she thought. I said "If I was one of the living dead, what would be the best way to look good?" She told me to try some body glitter.
19 March 2014
Just before I left the house today, I heard a ring tone going off. It went off twice, and I didn't recognise it. I found the phone in Mrs Price's coat. I wasn't going to read her messages, but my curiosity got the better of me. The first said "Don't think you can keep avoiding me forever", and the second said "You're going to regret putting me through this you bitch." Both are from Mr Price.
I’m not sure if I did the right thing, but I deleted both messages. I figure that she doesn’t need that kind of stress in her life right now.
20 March 2014
In order to take my mind off the events of the last few days, Archer surprised me by suggesting we head out to the skating park. I was a little too ashamed to confess to him that I can't skate, and even if I could I would still be afraid that an arm would snap off. We instead settled to go to the April funfair, which I'm sure will be totally lame. It sets up every year and, although I loved it when I was eight years old, in more recent years I've avoided it because the rides all seem to be held together with duct tape and the guys running them all reek of home-made whisky. I'm sure it'll be fun with Archer though. But just to give an impression of how utterly pathetic this funfair is, it's called the April Funfair, but it opens in March. Lame!
21 March 2014
With all the hubbub and chaos that's consuming my personal life, I had almost forgotten to dedicate time to improving my artwork. Today I put all distractions aside and spent a full two hours working away diligently on a very strong pencil piece of a large eagle eating Mr Price's head. Dad said that the anatomy of the eagle shows promise.
22 March 2014
The day that I knew was coming since last week has arrived, Mrs Price has moved out. With her sister's help, she found a small flat on the other side of town. Mom has arranged to visit her every few days. I'm glad, not just because I get to have my room back, but because it means that she'll be further away from Mr Price. I managed to sneak the cooler back up to my room and stash it once again under the bed, as if I were hiding some dirty magazines (Do they still exist now that people have the internet?) away from my parents. Mom hasn't so much as mentioned the cooler since, and I'm hoping that she's forgotten. I can only hope. Although I'm sure that one day, if I can't keep the hunger under control, it won't be store-bought meat that it contains. It'll be bits of
Mr Price.
23 March 2014
I can't quite believe that we only have eight more rehearsals before the play. Archer told me that he hopes Willy Drensham gets a bad case of the runs so that I can get his lead role. I think that's sweet of him to say, but the mental image is perhaps a bit lacking. Romantic overtures tend to be nicer without so much poop.
24 March 2014
Tonight I walked along the road beside the park, curious to see the work that they are doing to set up the April fair. We call it a 'park', but it is really more of a grassy common. Tonight though, it was all fenced off with some bright blue wood. I peered through the gaps and vents in the fence, and could see people setting up the stalls and rides for the fair. None of them look particularly safe, the ghost house seems to be composed of bits of metal and painted wood that are loosely clamped together. I'm sure someone will fall off the thing and wind up in the newspaper after suffering a gruesome decapitation or something. I wonder why they bothered to put a fence up in the first place - probably to keep people out, but the place looks so rickety and nasty that nobody would want to go in anyway!
25 March 2014
Now that Mrs Price has moved out, the atmosphere of warmth and homeliness seems to have vanished from my house. My mother has returned to her usual argumentative self, and launched into a massive argument today because I didn't want to drink a cup of tea she had made. "I just had one an hour ago" I explained.
"You don't drink enough" she kept saying, "It's not good for your kidneys." I pointed out that she had drank eight cups of tea in the last three hours. She kept insisting that this is perfectly normal. "There's no limit on how much tea you should drink" she said. I would have checked the NHS website, but what was the point?
26 March 2014
Our substitute teacher told us that Mr Swanson will be returning to us in a few weeks, but only for two days out of the week. It seems that he wants people to go easy on him after he had his nervous breakdown and went mental. The rest of the class is already planning how to make him go really round the bend this time.
Diary of a Gay Teenage Zombie Page 5