It seems strange that after all the wars we’ve had and all the billions of dollars we’ve spent fighting them, no one has been able to figure that out. Or if they have, they haven’t worked out how to prevent whatever it is going on with Rob and how to ease the pain that made Jason decide to end his life.
But there’s so much about the world that doesn’t make sense to me, and it just gets more confusing every year I spend in it.
When Mom and Rob get home from the hospital, my brother’s hand is bandaged, and he’s quiet and subdued, in contrast to Peggy, who is jumping around him, barking and whining like he’s been gone for a century instead of six hours.
“Stella and I cleaned up your room as best we could,” Dad tells him. “I’ve put some cardboard over the window and I’ve got the glass people coming out tomorrow. Why don’t you go rest while I put dinner on the table?”
“It’s okay,” Rob says, heading straight up to his room. “I’m not hungry.”
Mom tells Dad and me that the doctor gave Rob some antianxiety medication, and when she told him about some of Rob’s symptoms, like sleep patrolling, he strongly suggested Rob make an appointment at the nearest Veterans Affairs hospital as soon as possible for a psych evaluation.
“What do you mean ‘sleep patrolling’?” I ask.
Dad and Mom exchange a glance, like it’s some big secret that I’m too young to know, and that annoys me.
“I live in this house with him, too, you know. I had to deal with whatever you call today all by myself. Don’t you think it’s time you tell me the truth about what’s going on?”
Mom puts on her doctor-explaining-things-to-a-patient voice. “Well, a few nights ago, we heard a noise outside. Someone was prowling around in the yard. We thought we were being robbed.”
“I got the shotgun,” Dad says.
“And I went to wake up Rob,” Mom said, “but his bed was empty.”
“What? Where was he?” I ask.
“Out in the yard, patrolling the perimeter,” Dad says.
“We had to convince him that his shift was over and it was time to hit the rack,” Mom says.
“And then we sat watch over him all night,” Dad says. “And do you know what’s even stranger than seeing Rob doing night watch in the yard?”
I’m afraid to ask. “What?”
“He had absolutely no recollection of it when he woke up,” Dad says.
“None at all?” I ask.
“None,” Mom says. “He denied he did it until Dad told him to look at his feet, which were all dirty. You should have seen the look on his face. But he still refused to go to the VA. It’s only Jason’s death that’s put a crack in the armor. Now I just hope we can get him an appointment, and soon.”
But it turns out Rob’s just one of many veterans who’ve come back from the war not the same as they were before. Mom says that in all the planning for the endless streams of operations we’ve been running since 2001—Operation Enduring Freedom, Operation Iraqi Freedom, and all the others—they didn’t plan for Operation Look After the Warriors Who Come Home with Problems. Or maybe they just didn’t plan for as many of them. Is there such a rush to get into the fight that no one thinks about what will happen afterward?
Whatever the answer, the wait just for a mental health assessment appointment is eight to ten weeks, which is just plain wrong. It’s taken so long to get Rob to agree to go I’m afraid by the time his appointment rolls around he’ll have changed his mind.
Mom says there’s not a lot we can do in the meantime except wait, and give him our love and support.
But isn’t that what we’ve been doing all along? And at the risk of sounding like a complete brat, where am I supposed to get love and support if everyone’s so focused on Rob? I mean, when I finally got a chance to tell my parents I was running for class president, they were, like, “Oh, that’s great Stella, we’re so proud of you, when’s the election?” for literally three and a half minutes, which I know because the clock on the microwave was behind Dad’s head so I timed it, before it was all Rob, Rob, Rob again.
Rob’s not the only one who needs the VA to get its act together.
Roadrunner, why aren’t you here, buddy? You thought I was just checking in on you, but I needed you just as much as you needed me. Look at me, I’m writing to a dead person at four in the morning. If that’s not a sign that I’m cracking up, what is? But I have to tell you this, because I know you’ll understand. Also, I know you won’t tell anyone, because you’re not going to read this. You’re dead.
Well, it’s official. I’m crazy. Well, half official. It was “strongly recommended” by the ER doctor that I go to the VA for a psychiatric evaluation. Apparently, I might have some form of combat PTSD. Did you know there’s more than one kind? I didn’t.
You learn something new every freaking day.
What was I doing in the ER, you might be asking yourself?
Well, that’s where you come in. When you didn’t answer my texts yesterday, I got that spidey sense that something was wrong. So I called you, and your sister picked up and told me.
I wish you’d just have come out here and punched me in the stomach. Just beat the crap out of me. That might have made you feel better, and it sure would have been easier for me than hearing those words from your sister’s mouth.
It took me longer than it should have to be able to tell your sister how sorry I was. How much I was going to miss you.
When she thanked me for checking in on you, I could feel myself starting to cry. So I said, tell me if there’s anything I can do, and then said I had to go.
And I hung up.
Then I punched a hole in the bedroom wall. Pushed over my bookshelf, too. And then punched out my bedroom window, which was why I was in the ER. Stitches.
So while I was there, the doc asked what had “precipitated” my wall- and window-punching activities.
I might have gotten away with it when I told him about you. I mean, it’s not every day you lose a friend to suicide, right? It’s a pretty good reason to want to punch a wall or a window, or even both. Maybe not the most appropriate way of dealing with feelings, but people get it.
But Mom was there, and she told the doc about the other stuff. Moodiness. Anger. Anxiety. The clincher was the sleep patrolling.
Do you know what it’s like to be betrayed by your own feet?
Mom had that look on her face like when she’s going to defend the position no matter what the cost. I think I’m tough, but there’s not a guy in our platoon who’s got anything on my mom when she’s got that look.
“You need help, Rob. I know you think you can tough this out alone, but you can’t. There’s no shame in asking for help.”
Easy for her to say. Mom’s a superwoman.
My family tells me they love me and says all the right things.
But this is what I hear the voice in my head telling me: Man up!
It’s what I hear even now, every time I look in the mirror.
A lot of times even when I don’t.
ThunderGeek out.
“How does Chris have so many campaign posters already?” I ask Farida as we walk to AP Gov the Tuesday after Rob’s ER visit. “They’re everywhere.”
There are three alone on the wall in front of us. A is for Articulate, Active, Athletic, Amusing, Attractive, Adventurous, Amazing, Admirable! Make Argleton High Awesome! Vote Chris Abbott! is one.
“Points for alliteration,” I say.
“Someone definitely Googled ‘positive adjectives beginning with A,’” Farida says.
Another one is a picture of Chris surrounded by images of the school mascot, the Argleton Astro, at football games. The tagline reads: Astro says, “Vote Abbott to Make Argleton High Awesome!”
“What does that even mean?” I say. “Random mascot imagery, school colors, and Make Argleton High Awesome!”
“It’s not exactly subtle, is it?” Farida says.
“Awesome as in people who look and th
ink and act just like Chris?”
“And she scores!” Farida says, kicking an imaginary goal.
I notice a poster on the opposite wall. “Wow, this one really takes the cake. How can Principal Hart let him get away with it?” There’s a picture of Chris surrounded by girls from our school wearing bikinis, and it says: Victoria’s REAL secret: We’re all voting for Chris Abbott!
“I just threw up in my mouth,” Farida says.
“Right? Especially since we get in trouble if we wear a tank top with spaghetti straps, or skirts or shorts that don’t meet the ‘fingertip test’ because it’s too distracting for the boys to learn.” I rip the poster off the wall. “I’m going to complain after class. They’re being such hypocrites if they let Chris get away with this poster.”
“Hey, what are you doing to Chris’s poster?” Mike Carlson shouts from a few feet down the hall.
“Yeah, taking it down because you know you’re gonna lose?” Wade Boles adds.
“No,” I say. “Because it’s sexist, and it violates the school dress code. I’m going to point that out to Principal Hart after my next class.”
“Oh, come on,” Wade says. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious,” I say. “If the administration enforces the dress code for us, because our skin makes it so hard for y’all to learn, then why are they letting Chris put up posters of girls in bikinis?”
“Because it’s a joke,” Mike says. “J-O-K-E. Where’s your sense of humor?”
“It’s alive and well but tired of double standards,” I say.
“Why do you have to make a big deal out of every little thing?” Wade says.
“Yeah, a guy can’t even sneeze around here without some girl complaining, ‘OMG, that’s so sexist!’” Mike says, in a lame falsetto imitation.
I give Farida a sidelong glance. She gives me a barely perceptible nod.
“Well, it’s been nice chatting, but we can’t be late for class,” I say.
We turn and head down the hall.
“Going to search for your sense of humor?” Wade calls after us.
“Nope! Your brain,” I call back at him.
I hear Wade and Mike making stupid comments about us down the hallway, but I don’t care.
“Do you think they know what it’s like to have to put up with this stuff?” I say.
“Getting all philosophical on me, I see,” Farida replies with a laugh. “But don’t you think it’s a little ironic that you’re saying that to me, all things considered?”
I stop in my tracks. “Ugh. Sorry.”
“Yup. But they’re human. And the fact remains, all humans hurt in one way or another. That’s what I try to remind myself.” She glances back down the hallway. “Although it’s especially hard to remember that when they’re acting like Neanderthals.”
Wade is jumping and trying to punch a hole in the ceiling, because … why?
I hear Mrs. Harris come out of her classroom and threaten them with detention as we walk away, and I can’t help smiling.
Later, I try to remember what Farida said about everyone hurting about something when Chris comes into Debate Club steaming mad, walks straight over to me, and starts yelling about me interfering with his campaign.
“You’re pathetic, Walker! You know you can’t win, so you try to sabotage my campaign? Is that how you want to play this?”
I take a deep breath and try to remind myself that he’s human and hurting rather than just being a jerk.
“Chris, it’s not about you. It’s about the issue.”
“What issue is that? Your losing campaign?”
“No. Dress codes and hypocrisy.”
“Dress codes? They’re posters!” Chris protests.
“Posters with pictures of real people who go to this school and so are subject to the dress code,” I point out. “If the girls in your poster came to school wearing shorts or skirts that don’t meet the fingertip rule, they’d still be wearing more clothes than they are in your poster, and they’d be sent home for being ‘inappropriately dressed.’”
“Do you even hear how ridiculous you’re being?” Chris asks. “You have no sense of humor.”
“How does pointing out hypocritical policies aimed at girls mean that I’m ridiculous and don’t have a sense of humor?” I ask, annoyed that he’s not getting it.
Mr. Walsh comes in before Chris can answer.
“Principal Hart tells me there’s been some controversy about campaign posters,” he says, looking directly at Chris and me. “And I am in complete support of his decision to remove the posters.”
“But, Mr. Walsh, what about my First Amendment right of free speech?” Chris complains. “I should call the ACLU. This is ridiculous.”
“Please feel free to go ahead and call them,” Mr. Walsh says. “But they’ll probably advise you of Hazelwood School District v Kuhlmeier in which the Supreme Court held that school-sponsored speech—and class elections generally fall under this category—may be censored for ‘legitimate pedagogical reasons.’”
Chris’s hands clench into fists of frustration. I flash him a satisfied smile.
“My dad is going to hear about this,” Chris says.
“I’m sure he will,” Mr. Walsh replies. “And I won’t be surprised when Principal Hart hears from Mayor Abbott and certain members of the school board. But it won’t change his decision.”
Chris is out of sorts for the rest of Debate Club, which makes it easier for me to beat him. Maybe it’s because he’s so used to having everything go his way. When your dad’s been the mayor for most of your life, problems seem to go away. Like when he threw a Gatorade bottle at someone’s head on the bus to DC on our eighth-grade trip. He was supposed to get a week of detention, but his dad intervened and it ended up being one day. And I’m sure there are, like, a billion other things he’s gotten away with over the years.
I wonder if there’s any way I can rattle him like this before the school election. Maybe then I could win.
When I get back from debate, Rob’s playing video games. He’s still wearing the same sweats as when I left for school this morning, and he smells pretty ripe.
“Did you go to class like that?” I ask.
“Didn’t go today,” he says without looking away from the screen. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
Mom and Dad would get a call and an email if I skipped school and I’d be grounded before I could say, “Why can’t Rob take a shower?” But college doesn’t do that, because my brother is a so-called adult, so he can slack off as he pleases.
Unless I tell Mom and Dad.
I should. They need to know.
I’m trying to be there for Rob, but shouldn’t Rob be helping himself, too?
Instead, he seems to be trying to make everything worse for himself.
I go upstairs and text Mom and Dad.
ME: Rob skipped class today.
DAD: Is he playing video games?
ME: How did you guess?
MOM: Stella, you manage your life and let us deal with Rob, okay?
ME: Fine.
I thought I was being helpful by letting them know.
Whatever.
They can deal with him.
And I’ll just live my life. Or at least try to.
Luckily, Farida and I have plans on Saturday to check out Walking on Sunshine, this new shoe store that opened downtown. It’s good to get out of the house, away from the atmosphere that hangs over it like a cloud just waiting to rain.
“Look at these boots!” Farida says, showing me a pair of mocha suede ankle boots.
“Cute, but not as cool as these.”
I hold up a pair of black lace-up boots that will go perfectly with jeans.
“Ooh. I love those!”
“I thought you would,” I say. “And they are screaming your name. Can’t you hear them calling, ‘Farida! Buy me!’?”
“So that’s the voice I keep hearing in my head. Come to me, pretty boot
babies,” Farida says.
When the salesperson brings us our sizes, we try them on and then walk around the store. Finally, we stand together in front of the full-length mirror.
“You have to get those, Farida,” I say.
“So do you!”
“It’s not too weird for us to have the same boots, right?” I worry suddenly.
Farida rolls her eyes at my reflection in the mirror. “Do you think guys ever think twice if it’s weird that they’re wearing the same brand of sneaker?”
I laugh. “Good point. I can’t see Chris Abbott wasting a minute of his time thinking about it. Besides, if anyone gives us crap, we can say they’re our BFF boots.”
“I think you mean our lit, incredibly stylish BFF boots.”
“Isn’t that what I said? If it’s not, it’s what I totally meant to,” I say.
“I vote that we wear our BFF boots to lunch, which I also vote we have right now. I’m starving.”
“I’m up for lunch, especially if it’s at the Jumpin’ Jive Café.”
“Deal,” Farida says.
We pay for the boots, taking our old ones home in the store bags, and head to our favorite coffee shop to get lunch. It’s warm, but not too hot to sit outside, so we grab a table on the sidewalk after we get our food.
I take a bite of my sandwich and sigh with contentment. “It feels so good to be out and not have to think about school, or running for class president. I’ve missed hanging out with you, you know?” Ever since Rob got home, I feel like Farida and I haven’t just hung out, not like we normally do. And I miss my best friend. Miss just doing silly, fun stuff together. Like throwing dance parties in her room when a new album from one of her billion favorite artists comes out. Or this, shoe shopping. Farida has the best collection of shoes in the school.
“Yeah, I know,” Farida says, tilting her head back and closing her eyes to soak up the sun. “It’s good to take a break. Otherwise we’d crack up. With my eyes closed I can pretend we’re in Paris or Madrid or Berlin.”
Anything But Okay Page 5