by Sarah Daltry
“I don’t want to ruin anyone.” Although that’s not entirely true. The idea of being in bed with Strawberries, of making her scream while I fuck her, is so tempting that I can’t breathe. I wonder if her cunt tastes as sweet as the rest of her.
“What’s her name?” Alana asks.
“I told you. I don’t know. I’ve only called her princess and she’s never corrected me.”
“Well, then, pretend I’m your princess. Fuck me, Jack. Make me forget that I can’t be her.”
And because I’m an asshole, I do. I fuck her harder than I have in ages, bending her over and thrusting against her hips while I imagine how hot it would be to do the same to the sweet, innocent girl from the lounge. I even call Alana princess while we fuck. I feel a little shame, but not enough to stop.
Chapter 6
I hate long weekends. Columbus Day comes up quickly and my grandmother wants me home for a few days. I only go home when it’s required or when I don’t want to make her sad. I’m still a little annoyed about catching her at the prison, but she’s my grandma. I’m not going to hold that shit against her only to have her die. That’s the last thing I need on my already overloaded conscience.
Luckily, I get scheduled for Saturday and Sunday, so I just have to get through Friday night and Monday morning. Alana will visit, too, which will pass the time. She’s been a little distant since she asked me to pretend she was someone else, but I ignore it and hope it will pass. What else am I supposed to do?
Grandma’s late coming to get me, so I’m just sitting on the hill by the dorm, smoking, while I wait. I could take my bike home, but my grandmother enjoys our “sojourns” as she calls them, so here and there, I let her drive me around. Besides, the weather is getting cold and it looks crappy enough to rain. Probably best.
I’m playing with blades of grass, tearing them from the ground and lighting them on fire, when I see Strawberries getting in a car with her boyfriend and some other guy. She looks exhausted and I wonder what could possibly tire her out so much. I wouldn’t mind making her look like that, but I can guarantee she isn’t tired for the same reason she would be with me.
She fits naturally alongside her boyfriend. He wraps his arm around her and there’s a familiarity between them that says they’ve been together for a while. It pisses me off a little.
They’re gone before I can think about it more and my grandmother arrives almost immediately after. I feel anxious for some reason, and I know why as soon as I get in the car. She’s wearing a hat. She only wears a hat when we visit my father.
“I’m not going,” I tell her as I put my seatbelt on.
“You know you need to make an effort. It’s in his agreement.”
“I don’t give a fuck about his agreement,” I snarl.
“Language.”
“No. Fuck him.”
“You’re acting like a child,” she warns.
“Right, because the adult thing would be to hang out with my dad who snapped my mom’s neck while I screamed for help.”
“You know there are-”
“No,” I cut her off. “There are nothing. He killed her, she’s dead, and I’m fucked because of it all. I don’t want to see him.”
She turns the ignition off and rests her head on her arms against the steering wheel. I want to feel guilty, but it’s asking too much. I don’t care what his reasons were. I don’t care that the state feels he’s a strong candidate for rehabilitation, provided he can show progress in patching things up with me. I hope he fucking rots in there for the rest of his life.
“No,” I say through gritted teeth. “That’s final.”
My grandmother says nothing, just lifts her head, turns on the car, and starts driving. She stares straight ahead, not even trying to hide the tears that come, but I’m not backing down on this. Even when we get close to the prison and she takes the long way, probably hoping I’ll change my mind, I say nothing.
I don’t understand how she can forgive so easily and I’m not sure I ever will. It was her daughter after all. Addict or not, my mom could have been fixed. Maybe the state should’ve been thinking about rehabilitation then and not waiting to fix someone already too far gone.
We ride an hour in silence and I turn on the radio just to drown out the judgment in the quiet. If my father doesn’t get put in this special program, it will all be on me. The only condition he hasn’t met is establishing a dialogue with his son, but I’m not doing a thing to help the man.
My grandmother pulls into the parking lot of a liquor store and looks at me sadly. “Do you want something?”
I’m not 21, my family has a history of addiction, and my own anger is dangerous when mixed with alcohol. But the antidepressants they prescribed me in high school didn’t help and I figure it’s liquor or something harder eventually. I know Neil knows some people with all his club connections who could get me strong drugs, but I try to stay clean. I’m no saint and I’ve experimented, but my mother’s story is too much of a reminder. So I stick to the numbing power of booze.
“Jack,” I tell her.
She laughs a little. “Jack for my Jack.”
In any other circumstances, maybe it’s cute. In mine, it’s just sad.
She goes into the store, a small, hunched woman who should have retired but can’t afford to now that her entire savings went to paying legal fees. I think about the kids at school, especially Strawberries. I picture them all getting home for the first long weekend since school started, sitting around the dinner table and laughing over a home-cooked meal. Meanwhile, tonight I will be finishing off a bottle of Jack and hopefully fucking my equally screwed up friend if she isn’t busy.
My grandmother comes back a bit later and hands me the paper bag. I shove it into my messenger bag and stare out the window for nearly the rest of the ride. We’re almost home when she decides it’s time to get serious.
“I know you refuse to take those meds, but are you seeing anyone? Are you safe?”
“I’m fine,” I reply.
“Don’t lie to me. You’re not fine.”
“Yeah, well, what should I say? That I hate him and I refuse to go? You keep telling me I have to move on, that it’s not okay to hate him. What else do I say? That I’m sick of the way people look at me? That I know they see it in me? Because they do. I know I’m a loser and I know they can feel it coming off me in waves.”
“You’re not a loser. You’re a victim of circumstance.”
“I’d rather be a loser. I don’t want to be a fucking victim of anything.”
“I think you should go back to Dr. Nelson,” she suggests and I push my face against the window, hoping the cold frosty glass will balance the heat inside me. Dr. Fucking Nelson. The fuckwad who somehow thought it was a good idea to give antidepressants to a 15-year-old before trying therapy. Like it was just a chemical imbalance that made my mom turn to drugs and my father become a lunatic. And as if the smartest move was to get the teenaged kid of a junkie hooked on prescription drugs. Fuck him, fuck his meds, and fuck his phony therapy.
“I know you’re an adult now and technically, I can’t force you. Unless there’s another incident-”
“There won’t be. I have been incident free for nearly two years,” I remind her.
“I just worry that the people at that school can’t treat you.”
“I don’t need to be treated. Fuck. Why am I such a case that everyone needs to fix?”
She shakes her head, but it shuts her up. Considering my life, I think I turned out fairly okay. I have a decent job that I’ve held down for years and I’m on a full scholarship to an awesome school. So I get drunk more than I should and I treat sex like a hobby. I’m not hurting anyone and I’m certainly not the only college guy who does those things. I know she doesn’t see it, though. She’s afraid I’ll regress to the way I was in my senior year of high school, but it isn’t going to happen. I’m too close to the end and too close to escape to give it all up now. At least most days. But no
one needs to know about the exceptions.
When we get to the house, I excuse myself and call Alana. She doesn’t answer, so I leave a voice mail, a little pissed off since she knew I was coming back tonight. I leave my phone on the nightstand and start working on a new song. I think about earlier tonight, sitting on the grass, seeing Strawberries and her happy relationship. It aches – and I hate the ache. She doesn’t have the right to make me ache like that. I scribble fast, both thinking about her eyes and about how angry I am that I’m thinking about her eyes.
The lyrics are rough, but the song has potential. I’m about to start on the music when the phone rings. It’s Alana.
“Yeah?”
“Sorry. Mom wanted me to go to dinner with the new boyfriend.”
“And?”
“Well, he didn’t hit on me when she went to the bathroom.”
“Progress.”
“Yup. So you’re back?”
“I am.”
“Whatcha doing?”
I put down my notepad and lean back on the bed. “Writing a song.”
“Yeah? About what?”
“Strawberries,” I say.
“Strawberries? Like the fruit?”
“Sort of.” I don’t want to talk about her. I don’t want to face the fact that I’m obsessing over a girl who will never even notice that I exist. I’m the type of guy who lives in the periphery of girls like her and that’s just how things go.
“The princess?” Alana isn’t dumb. She knows me well.
“Sure. But I don’t want to talk about her. Are you coming over?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m horny and my grandmother bought me a bottle of Jack,” I tell her.
“Yeah, that’s an amazing pick up line, but I don’t know, Jack. I was thinking…”
“Don’t do this. Please don’t do this.” I sit up and grip the phone tighter. I want to snap it, to break it into a hundred pieces, to go back to before I told Alana anything.
“It’s just – if you’re moving on, you’re leaving me behind, right?”
“No. You’re my best friend. You’re the only person I love this much. You’re the one who was so fucking worried about being abandoned and now you want to fucking walk away?”
“Cheap shot,” she says.
“Well? It’s true, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. It hurts, though, you know.”
“Stop making this something it isn’t. You’ve dated. I’ve dated.”
“You don’t date. You fuck.”
“Fine. But I’ve fucked other girls. I’ve fucked other girls with you in the room for fuck’s sake.”
“Yup. But you always wanted me. Now, you want someone else.”
“Alana, please come over here. Please.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“Tonight. Please?” I’m begging, but the thought of her leaving, of losing her, of being alone – it makes me want to die. “You’re killing me.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why the fuck not? You’re making me want to die.”
“Because I won’t suck your dick? You’re going to kill yourself because I won’t suck your dick? Fuck you, Jack. I’m not listening to this shit. If you’re serious, I’m there, but don’t play that fucking card. Don’t you ever play that card. You know what I went through last time.”
“I wasn’t playing any card. That’s not what I meant. Please. Come over. I won’t even touch you. I promise.”
She’s quiet for a minute. “Fine. But jerk off first or something.”
“You’re always so sweet.”
“Fuck off.” She hangs up, but I know she’ll be here within the half hour. I don’t jerk off, because I don’t need to see Alana just for sex. In fact, I’m okay with simply being around her right now.
I decide to get something to eat while I wait. My grandmother is making cookies, which seems strange, since she never does things like this.
“Cookies?”
“I missed you.”
“So you made cookies?” I laugh, caught off guard.
“Can you sit for a second?” She grows serious, and I worry. The cookies aren’t just cookies. They’re a warning, a bribe for something. I sit, but I choose the chair by the door so I can storm out if needed. As soon as she speaks, it appears to be needed.
“We have to visit your father this weekend. They won’t even hear his case unless he tries with you.”
“Good.”
“I need you to do this, Jack. You can decide when. I didn’t want to force it tonight, but you have to go. Please don’t make this worse.”
I know she’s been fighting to help him get into this rehabilitation program. It’s been her primary focus since he went in, but it was always an elusive concept, not a reality.
Do I think my father can be rehabilitated? No. I don’t. I don’t think people can be fixed after a certain point. Do I think he’s a risk to the average person? No, I don’t think that, either. But I don’t want him to take the easy way out. He did what he did and he deserves the fallout. Why should I face it alone? Regardless of where he ends up, I don’t get a chance at rehabilitation.
“Why? Why are you pushing this?” I ask.
“Because he’s your father. You need your father.”
“If he cared about that, he would be here, wouldn’t he?”
I leave the room, without cookies, and I don’t know what to do with my emotions. I open my paper bag and start drinking. It’s half gone when Alana arrives and I’m nearly drunk.
“Stupid,” she says and closes my bedroom door.
“Fuck you. Fuck her. Fuck all of it.”
I collapse back on the bed and Alana takes the bottle. She starts cleaning my room, which is so degrading, but I don’t want to do it, so whatever. I don’t realize the lyrics are still on my nightstand until she picks them up and starts reading.
“’In the essence of a moment/in the flicker of a kiss/your eyes brought me to the edge/and there was only you to miss.’ What’s this sappy shit?”
I sit up and grab the notepad from her hand, ripping the lyrics up and tossing the shreds into my wastebasket. “It’s nothing.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Is what what I want?” I fall back onto the bed, but only after reaching for the booze. She takes the bottle away from me and sits.
“Do you want to be in love with someone?”
“No. I don’t want to feel anything.”
She lies down by my side and I wrap my arm around her; she rests her head in the crook of my arm. “Tell me what’s going on. Are you okay?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because you’re not acting okay.”
“I’m acting fine.”
“No,” she sighs. “You’re acting like… well, like…” She doesn’t want to say it and I realize what she thinks.
“I promised you last time it would never happen again.”
“I can’t go through that again, Jack. You know I would’ve followed you.”
This makes me angry and I roll over on my side. “Never. Say. That. Again.”
“Did you even think about what it would have been like for me?”
“No, I’m sorry. When I was wrapping a fucking rope around my neck, I did not think about your thoughts on the matter.”
I move away from her and sit on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands. She doesn’t move and her voice is a disembodied condemnation.
“They told me in math class. They came to get me and I thought you were dead.”
“Well, I’m not. Hooray.”
“You don’t understand why I didn’t go away to school?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Because I wanted to be able to drop it all if you needed me,” she says. “Because I couldn’t be in another state if you tried to kill yourself again.”
I turn around and look at her lying on my bed. She’s crying, but she looks so m
uch more alive than I’ve ever seen her. The sobs shake her body and I consider hugging her, but then I remember that I’m still mad. Although I forget why I’m mad.
“I’m not worth that,” I tell her.
“No, you’ve always been worth that. You’ve always been worth everything. You just don’t care about my opinion. You always wanted everyone to like you, to please them all. For all your venom, for all your anger at them, you wanted their approval. You had me and you had Dave, but we were never enough. I could give up my entire future for you, but it didn’t matter if some stranger in your dorm looked at you the wrong way. And now, I’m going to end up stuck here, because I planned my future around you and it’s not good enough. Not if your ‘princess’ doesn’t acknowledge you.”
“That’s not-”
“Just shut the fuck up,” she interrupts. “I needed to say it and you needed to hear it. Now let’s just forget about it and get drunk.”
“I lost my buzz,” I tell her.
“Good thing I brought more.”
She takes out a bottle of vodka and a bottle of tequila. We drink until we both pass out in my bed. It’s almost like sleeping, like disappearing. Except I can’t stop seeing that girl.
Chapter 7
During work the next day, I find a quiet moment and ask Sandee for advice about my dad. We’re out back during break, the door propped open with a box of hot sauce, and we lean against a stack of pallets, smoking. She passes me a bottle of something. I don’t even look to see what it is. I take a swig and the burn feels so fucking good.
“Can I ask you something?” I ask.
She slips the alcohol back into her apron pocket and lights another cigarette. “Ask away.”
“My grandmother insists I see my father before I go back Monday night. I can’t stand seeing him. I hate him so much.”
She nods.
I continue. “Like, fine, okay, maybe it would be better to have him in some program, but it seems really lame, you know? Like, oh, go ahead, fucking kill your wife, but now things will be a-okay because you said sorry. That’s bullshit. No one stepped in to help her. No one tried to help me.”