On Thursday morning, this mad sense of relief sunk into my chest when I thought of my parents’ deaths. This makes me the devil, right? Maybe my mom’s right. I’m going to hell for sure.
But when I went downstairs after my shower, I didn’t find my parents dead. Didn’t find them alive either. Waiting for me, sitting on my mother’s ugly-as-bird-poop floral couch with his hands on his knees and staring ahead with his usual empty gaze, was Jeremy the Priest.
(That’s what my dad always calls him. Or else “Jeremy your mom’s boyfriend.” She did spend a lot of time with him, but my dad didn’t really think they were having an affair. Jeremy’s at least seventy, probably liked guys a million years ago before he gave up all that for the church. And my mom is the least sexual person ever born. Last night was proof of that.)
“Good morning, Penelope,” Jeremy the Priest said. He always wore these tiny black glasses that were probably fifty years old yet I always thought were kinda stylish.
“Where are my parents?”
“I think your father spent the night in a hotel,” he said. The only person who knew even half as much of my parents’ shit as me was Jeremy. You’d think this would make me trust him more. Nope. The opposite. He said, “Your mom called me late last night and told me what happened.”
Kill me, kill me, kill me. The priest knows I masturbate. Kill me! First, I’m going to throw up. My knees dropped, hit the carpet. Jeremy rushed over.
“Are you okay?”
Nothing came up. “I just want to go to school.” I was hyperventilating. I’m a mess.
“Your mom asked me to take you to the church’s recovery center in Gladys Park.”
I CAN’T BREATHE. “I’m going to school.”
“Penelope, I know your mother is not very understanding.” Jeremy the Priest spoke with this wheezy lisp. It made me think he was always a breath from keeling over. Like me right now. “But you can talk about whatever you want with the counselors. About what happened last night…”
Pain. Pain. Pain. I’m not going to talk to anyone about how my crazy Catholic mother caught me masturbating! I don’t even want to talk about it with the voices in my head. I yelled, even though I never yelled at Father Jeremy, “I’M GOING TO SCHOOL.” I yanked away from him, stood, and went to grab my keys from the bowl by the front door. They weren’t there. “Where are my keys?” That’s when I looked out through the front bay window and saw my mother standing on the street, waving my keys with this possessed pride. Standing next to her, out of his patrol car, was Officer Roberts. My mother’s other friend bought with praise and free pizza. “She told the cops?!”
Jeremy the Priest stepped behind me, whispering, “No, no, no, no. She told Officer Roberts that you had experimented with teenage drinking and were resisting help.”
“Isn’t that worse?!”
“Officer Roberts is only here to ensure you come with me, Penelope,” Jeremy said.
My life sucks. Sucks. Sucks. Suck-suck-suck-sucks. My two choices: Try to escape this forced trip to some religious nuthouse and maybe get arrested? Or go with the priest and maybe end up in a straitjacket?
Father Jeremy said, “I know this isn’t easy, but it’s probably for the best. I think you and your mother need a short break from each other.”
Only intelligible thing he had said so far. My lungs almost started working normally again. So I said, “I’ll go.”
* * *
After I packed a small bag of clothes, I got into Jeremy the Priest’s old black Cadillac that smelled like cigarettes from 1974. As we backed out of our driveway, I refused to look at my mother. She’d either be proud of herself or ashamed of me and I didn’t want to see either.
* * *
On the drive, Father Jeremy didn’t ask any weird questions or attempt any lame lecture. I said thank you in my head. I texted Paul, told him that my mom was sick and that I wouldn’t be in school today or tomorrow so I could help take care of her. (This wasn’t true. But it wasn’t not true either.)
He asked if we were still going to Wild Wolf Resort on Saturday. I said yes even though I had no idea. My mother might not be able to stomach a week in a cabin with her slut-whore-deviant daughter. I sure as hell didn’t want to spend a week with my crazy-zealot-bitch mother, but I was a kid and I didn’t get a whole lot of choice in anything.
* * *
The “recovery” center was a big old brick office building across the street from one of Gladys Park’s fifty churches. Jeremy the Priest got out with me and led me to the front gates. The white plastic sign over the entrance read RECOVER IN CHRIST’S LOVE.
Walking in, I made a decision: Screw it, I’m tired of fighting a fight I can’t win. I give up on ever being real. On ever being me. You want me to pretend to believe in you, God? You got it. You want me to think you know everything, Jesus? Fine. Done. I’m yours. I’ll never masturbate again. I’ll never think about sex again until it’s time to make a baby so that baby can join your legion like me. Fine. I surrender.
* * *
So, yeah, I spent two and half days amazing the balls off the counselors. Told them what they wanted to hear. Didn’t talk about masturbating. Talked about “focusing on what’s important.” Didn’t talk about my mom being nuts, talked about my “not being mature enough to see her wisdom.”
I was brilliant. Either that or everyone there was an idiot. Who cares?
They took away my phone when I checked in. Since I was “surrendering,” I didn’t stress it too much until I woke up Saturday morning. Then, yeah, suddenly it felt like a year had passed. My friends could have moved, the school might be sucked into a black hole, cars might be flying. But seriously, I felt out of joint with my existence. Like, who was I now? Then I had this thought that didn’t feel crazy:
Paul was going to dump me.
Oh. My. God. He was. I don’t know why I thought this, I mean he said we were going to get married! I’m sure everything’s fine. I’m sure. THEN WHY AM I SO SURE HE’S GOING TO BREAK UP WITH ME?
I need my phone. I need my phone now. I went to the front desk, but they said I couldn’t get my phone back until my mom checked me out three hours from then. The one boy that ever liked me and would ever like me was going to dump me and I couldn’t stop it because I didn’t have my phone.
It’s okay, Pen.
No, it’s not.
It’s not okay at all.
NOT! AT! ALL!
Paul was the only thing in my life that made me feel like I should be alive. I can’t remember one bad thing about him right now. Not one thing because he’s my reason to live! Yes! He is! If he wasn’t my boyfriend, why would I need to be alive? I wouldn’t! I don’t care if this doesn’t make sense to you, it makes sense to me.
Oh. My. God. I need my phone.
I need my phone.
I need my phone.
I need my phone.
AND I REPEATED THIS IN MY HEAD FOR THREE HOURS. I’m not kidding. I wish I was kidding. I wish I was normal. But I’m fucking insane.
* * *
When my mom did finally arrive just after ten a.m., I was delirious. I kept up my “I love Jesus and he loves me” act, but my brain was eating itself with visions of Paul going out with other girls, like Iris or that sophomore Peggy with the big tits. And me being alone, and then shriveling up into a tiny old woman in like one day. I had to stand still and smile while the counselors told my mom how I had a major breakthrough and they were excited to see me fulfill my potential now that I was back on God’s path.
Only after she heard all this, not before, did my mom wrap me in this big, showy hug. She sniffled, choked up, repeated how she was glad she had her “beautiful daughter back.” Yeah, yeah.
“I love you so much, Penelope.”
“I love you too, Mom.” Yeah, yeah, give me my fucking phone.
* * *
My mom talked as we drove away, like talked and talked and talked, and I think it was about how my dad had agreed to go into marriage counseling
and our family might be saved by my descent into darkness. Great. I wasn’t listening. First couple texts from Paul were all nice, then about him being horny, then him getting worried, and—I SHOULD HAVE NEVER AGREED TO GO TO THAT QUACKHOUSE—there it was:
PAUL
So I just left your house. Your
mom told me everything …
“YOU TOLD PAUL EVERYTHING?”
“WHY ARE YOU YELLING?” my mom yelled back. I ignored her. Read more:
PAUL
… that you had a crisis of
faith and needed to spend a
few days concentrating on
your relationship with God.
Yeah, okay, whatever, I did that, okay, maybe he’s not breaking up with me …
PAUL
… which is why I’m not
coming to Wild Wolf with you
and your mom this year …
“PAUL’S NOT GOING WITH US?!” It was going to be just me and my mother for a week! We’d kill each other. This wasn’t even a joke.
“PENELOPE, STOP YELLING AT ME!” But I just ignored her again.
PAUL
… and considering how you
were acting on Wednesday,
talking weird and acting
weirder, I think we should
take this next week while
you’re away as a break …
“PAUL BROKE UP WITH ME, MOM! HE BROKE UP WITH ME!”
“I’m not going to even talk to you, Penelope, until you stop acting crazy.”
PAUL
… but if the center and god
and jesus really make you
back into the old Pen, then
I’m sure our love will return
too
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. OH-MY-GOD I CAN’T BREATHE.
“Why are you breathing like that?” my mom asked. But it was getting worse. She yelled because that’s so helpful: “WHY ARE YOU BREATHING LIKE THAT?!”
I couldn’t stop—or I don’t know, but I think I said I needed to go to the hospital. And my mother screamed in horror like she was the one about to suffocate from a broken heart.
* * *
So, yeah, it was a panic attack. I’m crazier than my mother. Whatever. Blah, blah, blah, I can’t even remember what the doctor said, but when we got back in the car, I realized we weren’t even going home. We were just driving straight up 294 to Wisconsin and on to Wild Wolf Resort.
I was too mortified to even ask if she’d packed clothes for me. After she was sure I wasn’t going to have another psychotic break, my mom explained that she didn’t tell Paul about my “activities,” just that I needed some spiritual guidance. She said, “He’s a good Catholic, and I’m sure when he realizes you’re a good Catholic again, you two will be back together.”
That’s right. I’m a good Catholic now. Or at least I was pretending to be one. But, really, was there much of a difference? Was I pretending any less than my mom? Or Paul? They didn’t know if any of that crap was true any more than I did. Maybe every religious person in the world is faking it. No one has any real proof! Just a bunch of books thousands of years old, so old no one can make the people who wrote them admit they made all that shit up. Doesn’t that mean everyone’s pretending? Yeah. Probably. They might not admit it like me, or even be aware of it, but, yeah, we’re all faking it just the same.
So all I had to do was keep up the act and I’d get Paul back. Right? Yeah. At least the next week at Wild Wolf Resort should be easy. There wasn’t even internet in the cabins. Six days of snow, books, and sleep. I could almost envision my deviant soul starving to death from the lack of temptation.
17
BENEDICT MAXIM …
After spending an hour in the library after school let out Friday, I walked out to the parking lot. It was empty, which made me imagine everyone had died in an alien attack and only I was left. This was more fun to think about than reality.
But then someone said, “Benedict,” as I opened the door to my car. I said “someone” because I wanted to pretend I didn’t know who it was. But it was Robert. He was the only best friend I’ve ever had, so obviously I’ll recognize his voice until I die.
“Hello, Robert,” I said, like I was annoyed at him, because I want Robert to think I don’t need him even though I want Robert’s friendship back more than anything else in the history of my life.
“I’m not here because I want to be friends again,” he said. I think if Robert had thought for a thousand years how to say the meanest thing possible, he wouldn’t have been able to come up with something so mean. Only by not thinking about if something is mean can you say something that mean.
“Me either,” I said, even though, obviously, that was a lie.
“I’m here because I know you were in the dean’s office on Wednesday with Pen and I wanted to know if you know what happened to her.”
“No, I don’t,” I said, but then I noticed Robert begin to step away from me so I said, “but we’re friends now, so I can find out.”
“You’re friends with Pen now?”
“Yes,” I said, which was also, obviously, a lie. When I was smart and confident, I never lied. Now that I’m dumb and pathetic, I lie all the time.
“I bet you’re going to fall in love with Pen now that you get to know her.”
“Penelope’s not my type at all.” This was true. I did not mention Penelope’s smell, which I’m not sure was something I liked anyway. In fact, all my problems started after I ran into her and her friends on Tuesday, so maybe Penelope’s smell is my kryptonite. (Kryptonite is Superman’s one weakness. My dad says people who use cultural references to make their point are lazy and incompetent. He’s probably right. Of course he is.) In order to stop thinking about Penelope’s smell or my incompetence, I said, “In fact, I met my dream girl today.”
“Allison Wray, the new girl?”
“You met her too?” I asked.
“Yes, she was in my statistics class. When I saw her, I thought you’d like her. She looks like the blond cheerleader from Secret Service High. Even her boobs are just as big.” We both held back a snicker because, obviously, Robert and I are embarrassed to think about boobs. Secret Service High was a show on Netflix about a high school that trains kids to be spies. The biggest girl character is a Florida cheerleader named Kelly. I told Robert last year I was going to marry her after I made my first million dollars. At the time, I thought of this as inevitable. Now I realize I’m probably a chemically unbalanced person who should be on medication. Except Kelly-the-blond-cheerleader’s real-life twin was now going to school with us and I’m not sure if that proves I can predict the future or that I’m insane or both.
Because I didn’t want to think about my mental stability anymore, I said to Robert, “I was too nervous to talk to her,” even though I had never, ever admitted to being anything less than the most perfect person in the universe to Robert.
“Really?” Robert said. He had a small grin on his lips that showed me he liked me admitting my flaws.
“I’m not perfect anymore, Robert,” I said.
“You never were perfect, Benedict.”
My face got hot and red because I hated that he said this even if it was probably true.
Robert then said, “But I think us admitting we are dorks might help us become less dorky.”
I couldn’t say anything because all facts pointed to the conclusion that Robert was more perceptive of the truth than I was all along, which made my brain not know how to use my mouth.
So Robert spoke again. “Allison’s very nice. I’m Facebook friends with her now.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I bet she’d like you if she got to know you.”
“I know Pen would like you if she got to know you.” I had no idea if this was true, of course, but I don’t think Robert knew if Allison would like me either. We were just telling each other nice things to make ourselves feel better about being dorks.
Robe
rt said, “What if, Benedict, you can help me become friends with Pen and I can help you become friends with Allison?”
“I think that’s a great idea.”
“I think so too.”
I wanted to invite Robert over to play Xbox like we usually did on Fridays, but I was too scared he would say no. I’ll wait until after I get Penelope to be his friend; then he’ll say yes for sure. And then we’ll be best friends again, and then maybe Penelope and Allison will come over too, and it will be a double date and everyone at school will know how impressive I am for having a beautiful girlfriend and I’ll say to myself, “Benedict, remember those few days before Christmas break when you thought you were stupid and pathetic?” And I’ll say back to myself, “No, I don’t remember that at all.”
* * *
After Robert and I said good-bye in a way that I think we were both thinking we’d be best friends again soon, I drove home humming to songs on the radio. I didn’t know any of the words because I like to listen to NPR usually, but I think humming to popular music is a sign that I might be close to being happy again.
* * *
But when I walked into the front door of our house, my dad was sitting in the living room eating cereal. I say “but” because it’s hard for me to be happy around my dad even though he’s my hero. I had not seen him since Wednesday, when he told me I was fired for going into his basement office without permission. (Not precisely true but my emotions, which remained in charge of me, said it felt true.)
“Hello, Benedict,” he said without looking up from the book opened on the table. “Will you sit down with me?” I nodded and did as he asked. He continued: “Your mother and sister are shopping for some items for our trip to Wild Wolf tomorrow, so I thought this would be a good time for us to talk.”
I nodded again. Maybe if I didn’t say anything, my dad wouldn’t be able to tell I wasn’t as smart as I used to be.
He kept talking. “Your mother sent me a long email yesterday regarding how I spoke to you when you came into my office, and while I contend I have the right to my private work space, I do acknowledge that it is understandable for a son—you—to yearn to speak to his father—me—during moments of distress.”
The Nerdy and the Dirty Page 7