Skin

by Adrienne Maria Vrettos

  “What?”

  He looks at me nervously and swallows.

  “I said your grandmother, my mother, was tall.”

  One night last winter Karen and I were out behind the house kicking at the snow, waiting for Mom and Dad to finish fighting. I was bending over, packing a snowball to throw at Karen, and I felt her fingers on my wrist. At first I thought she was going to try to pin my arm behind my back and push my face in the snow, and then try to sit on me, but then I looked up and saw a deer in the dark by the shed. Karen barely shook her head, telling me not to move. We looked at the deer, the deer looked at us. We all three breathed white breath out of our noses. I knew I wasn’t supposed to move, wasn’t supposed to speak, or it would run away.

  It’s the same thing with Dad when he decides to open up. If you make any sudden moves, he’ll bolt, or at least get real quiet and ignore you. I’m supposed to be touched that he’s opening up. It’s supposed to be a “special moment.” I’m supposed to sit here and ask gentle questions about when he was a kid, and maybe hell poop out a tiny turd of information and I’m supposed to think it’s a diamond. Forget it. I’m not playing. I don’t care if he’s looking at me like a kicked puppy, waiting for me to ask . . .

  “How tall was she?”

  If I could suck the words back into my mouth, I would. It’s just so hard, he sits there looking wounded, like every second I don’t say something is tearing his heart out of his chest.

  Dad exhales and smiles.

  “She was six feet, one inch. Her mother was taller: six three.”

  “Wow,” I say. I mean it. It’s something I didn’t know. I’ve seen one picture of them, and that was just of their heads. They both looked old. I picture long bodies reaching out from where the picture cut off.

  He nods.

  A nod. That counts as him saying something, meaning now it’s my turn. Sneaky bastard.

  Fine, he wants to play that way . . .

  “Really?” I ask.

  He looks at me, brows creased. He’s on to me. He nods again. I’ve got it.

  “Did they play basketball?”

  He smiles. “Yes. Both played in high school.”

  I wait for him to say more. He looks at me, waiting for another question that hell either answer or ignore. I can’t play this game for very long anymore. It pisses me off too much. I used to think it was fun, figuring out exactly what to say to him so that he’d answer back with actual information. I thought it was like being a spy. I’d report back to Karen what I’d learned. Then we’d put it together with what we already knew and try to tell each other the story of when he was a little kid. It was always full of holes. I can’t believe he expects me to sit here and spoon-feed his attempts at opening up.

  “Did your dad play basketball?”

  He looks at me. I think, Not the question you expected was it, asshole? I broke the rule, the talk-only-about-people-that-Dad-mentions-first rule. I’m tired of tiptoeing.

  “Did he? Did my grandfather play basketball?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he says, and then looks at the road. This answer is supposed to shut me up. I’m supposed to give him a long look and then stare out the window and not talk for two hours.

  “Why wouldn’t you know?”

  I swear I can hear Dad telling himself not to punch me: Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it.

  “That’s the sort of thing,” he finally answers, “that boys who grew up with their Dads would know.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  Note to self: Learn difference between thinking of brilliant things to say and actually saying them.

  Dad’s gone cold next to me.

  “Dad?”

  He shakes his head.

  “You’re wrong, you know,” I say. “Growing up with your dad doesn’t mean you know jack shit about him.”

  We’d go to California first. Kind of inevitable on the way to Hawaii. I’d be a quick learner, the quickest anyone ever saw. I’d work for a couple months at an open-air taco place on the beach that all the locals go to, till I was ready to move on. Then I’d be gone again.

  I’d go down to the docks and make a deal with some rich guy to take me with him to Hawaii in exchange for working on his yacht. He’d have a daughter. Hot.

  My first day in Hawaii I wouldn’t have anywhere to go, so I’d hitchhike from the docks and get dropped off at the first beach I see. I’d ditch my stuff under a palm tree, grab my board, and head straight for the waves. I wouldn’t know it, but it’d be a locals beach, and as I paddled out, the locals would move together in the water and plan how to beat the crap out of me. They’d watch me catch my first wave and ride it all the way into the beach. I’d get out of the water, feeling all of their eyes on my back. I’d jam my board in the sand and hold my hand up above my eyes to block the sun and watch the locals in the water. I’d hear a voice next to me, turn, and see the local legend they call Dingo standing next to me. I’d think he was going to beat the snot out of me, but instead he’d say, “You’re raw, but you’ve got talent.”

  He’d offer to train me and tell me I can crash with him in the house where all the local surfers live. The house would be this sort of ramshackle sprawl on a bluff over the ocean, so you could see how big the waves were from the porch, which is where Dingo would cook on the grill for the whole house. There’d be a lot of people living in the house, so you would just have to find a place to sleep wherever. At first I’d crash out on the couch in the living room, then Kula, this really hot girl, would tell me I could room with her. We’d spend a lot of time making out, facing each other on my surfboard in the water.

  18

  This is what I feel like: I’m trying to keep my balance in a cold, hard wind, standing on the tip of a gigantic metal cone that towers over everything in my world. I have this feeling that if I can stay balanced, things will stay the same, as bad as they are. They won’t get any worse. But if I lose my balance, I’ll go flying off the tip of the cone, and the whole world will come apart. I have a list in my head of things I have to do to keep the balance.

  1. I have to talk to at least three people at school every day. Chris and Bean don’t even say “Hey” to me anymore. Every time I talk to someone, it’s like an invisible octopus tentacle shoots out of me and attaches itself to them. So no matter how hard they try to beat me back until I disappear, I’m still here because I’ve got these tentacles attached to them and they keep me from floating away.

  2. I have to watch Karen eat at least what Mom puts on her plate every night. Because if she eats, then maybe she’s not sick, and that one trip to the emergency room can be just that—something that happened just that one time. She’s in counseling, and she wouldn’t be in counseling unless it was making her better, right?

  3. I have to see Dad at least once every ten days, because if I can get him to come by every ten days, it means that he’s just a busy guy, and that we’re basically a normal family.

  4. I have to make sure Amanda sleeps over at least once each weekend. This means that if it’s Saturday night and she’s not at our house, I say to Karen, “Where’s Amanda?” They’re not spending as much time together anymore, and I think Mom’s worried about it too, because when I ask, “Where’s Amanda?” Mom gets Karen to call and invite her to sleep over. Karen’s having a best friend means that she’s okay, and Amanda wouldn’t sleep over at our house if we weren’t normal, so of course if she sleeps over, it means we’re all right.

  Today was a good day at school. Mr. Delancey had us do a group science project in experimental bio where we tested how flammable candy is. That means that before first period was even over, I’d talked to the four people in my group. That means that I talked to one more person than I needed to, and if only two people talk to me tomorrow, it’s all right, because I’ll just use that extra one from today to make up for it.

  Karen and Amanda are sitting on the front steps scrunched together under a blanket when I get home. It’s freezing out, an
d they have on hats and scarves and gloves, and they’ve got the blanket pulled up under their chins. They’re both laughing but have tears on their faces, which usually means they were fighting and then made up. They don’t move when I try to walk past them up the steps. Amanda says, “Hey, Donnie, I have to tell you something.”

  Today I’m going to count Amanda as the fifth person I’ve talked to today. Usually I just count her as family, which doesn’t really count, but since I haven’t talked to five people in one day in over four weeks, I’m letting her in.

  “What?” I say, and I don’t let myself hope that she’s forgiven me for the whole lying-about-sleeping-with-her thing and that she wants us to be friends again and by the way do I want to go make out with her in the woods behind the baseball field?

  “My dad’s moving us back to Chicago.”

  Karen starts crying, and there is no more balance, and I think, This is what falling feels like.

  19

  The night when they took Karen to the hospital and I got in a fight with the clock seems like it was forever ago. Amanda’s been in Chicago for a week already. My family seems like we are plowing through time, trying to get our distance from what happened, even if we never talk about that night or the fact that Karen’s in counseling or that Dad never comes home or that I’m flunking three subjects and am home every day after school and all weekend. No one at school knew what happened, and even though I opened my mouth the next day at lunch to tell the story, Chris looked at me and said, “Shut up.” It’s amazing, the way him saying that made my mouth clamp shut, like it was connected to a remote control in his hand.

  Karen and Mom have been fighting and making up every other day. One day they’re screaming at each other, and the next Karen’s practically in Mom’s lap while she makes tiny braids in Karen’s hair. It’s like there’s a hiccup in the way time works, and they can only live the same two days over and over again.

  It’s been different the past couple days, though, the way Mom’s been watching Karen. It’s because when Amanda was over last week, and Mom asked if they were going to eat dinner, Karen said, “I ate at Amanda’s already.” And Amanda looked right at Mom and said, “No, you didn’t.” Karen made some excuse and dragged Amanda out of the kitchen.

  Mom and Karen have been circling each other all night. I think, Tigers. Grrr. Mom watches Karen closely, and Karen pretends not to notice. I watch them both and wait for something to happen. I think Mom is having some sort of out-of-body experience. She walks around like she doesn’t recognize our house or her family, and what she does see puts dark shadows on her face.

  “Mom, come on. Just check it off.” This is humiliating. My math teacher found out I forged my math midterm progress report, which said that I’m failing, which I am, and now Mom checks my math homework every night.

  “Hold on. You didn’t finish this one,” she says, tapping her pen on the last problem.

  “That’s the extra credit. You get credit just for trying,” I say. It’s a lie. It’s not extra credit, it’s just a problem that sucks. She falls for it, sort of. She signs the page and says, “Finish the extra credit, okay?”

  I wait till she’s back to watching Karen across the table before I say, “Fine.” Then she glances at me like she’s surprised I’m standing there.

  “Karen,” she says, “do you want some ice cream?”

  Karen shakes her head and finishes drawing a straight line across the graph she’s working on.

  “I’ll have ice cream,” I say, still standing next to Mom. I’m too mad to leave like she wants me to.

  “Your brother’s having ice cream,” Mom says, not looking at me.

  “So?” Karen says.

  “Maybe some fruit?” Mom asks. I can tell this is leading nowhere good. I sit down at the table.

  Karen looks up from her graph.

  “Mom, what are you doing? You’re just sitting there. Don’t you have something to do?”

  It is kind of weird. Mom’s just sitting at the kitchen table in her robe and wet hair from her nightly shower, watching Karen. I know Karen can feel it, even if she’s looking at her homework. What I don’t understand is why Karen doesn’t say anything, why she doesn’t scream, “Stop staring at me!”

  “Mom, why are you staring at Karen?” I ask, still mad about the homework.

  Both Karen and Mom whip their heads around to look at me. They exchange a look, and Karen gives Mom a small, pleading shake of her head and I think, Oh shit, what Hi I do? I pressed the bad button, the one that makes terrible things happen. You can’t unexplode a bomb.

  Mom sighs and reaches into her robe pocket and brings out a folded pamphlet.

  “I just think,” she says to Karen, “that maybe you should . . .” She pushes the pamphlet across the table.

  “What?” Karen says, knocking it to the floor. I can see it says Kennedy Inpatient Treatment Center. “What do you think I should do, Mom, what?”

  “You know what, Karen. I’ve been watching you . . .”

  “Oh, really, I haven’t noticed.”

  “And I just think that it would help. So does your counselor. They do good work, it’s a good place, Karen.”

  “You talked to Marie about this? You planned this with her? She’s my counselor, Mom! You have no right to talk to her! I’m not going, Mom.” Karen’s face has gone white and still. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “Then prove me wrong. Go there and they’ll send you right back with a note pinned to your shirt that says, ’There’s nothing wrong with this one.’”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Karen, I’ve called your school. They know you’ll be out for two weeks. Your dad and I are going to drive you to the . . . place, tomorrow.”

  “You told Dad?” Karen yells. “Why did you tell him? I’m not going anywhere with him!”

  “What’s wrong with Karen?” I ask, feeling sick.

  “Nothing,” Karen says. “Mom’s just being an asshole.”

  I whisper, “Whoa,” and get up from the table. It’s too big, what’s happening. There’s no room for me.

  From my room I hear the rest of the fight. What’s weird is that even though they’re both trying to yell, it gets caught in their throats. So it comes out with no force. Here’s the argument:

  Karen: What, were you just not going to tell me? Were you just going to throw me in the trunk and hope I didn’t asphyxiate on the way there? You’re so stupid, Mom. You think I didn’t know you were planning this. I found the pamphlet in your room. I knew what you were doing. You don’t have anything better to do than watch me eat. Even Marie says you have no life outside of Donnie and me. I feel sorry for you. I’m embarrassed for you because there’s nothing wrong with me and you’re just a bored housewife inventing things that are wrong with your kids because you have nothing better to do. Why does Dad have to come? I don’t want him to come! Who else knows? I’d better be back for Christmas, because you said Amanda could come and visit. You’re jealous I have a best friend and all you have is Aunt Jannie and she never even visits anymore. Why are you doing this to me? Who else did you tell? What are you going to tell Donnie? Don’t tell him anything, I don’t want him to know anything. I bet you hope he gets another ear infection because you love it when he’s sick because then you get to act like a real mom. Why don’t you just pop some more pills into him, he can’t get more screwed up than he already is. This is seriously messed up, Mom, I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. It’s not going to change anything because I’m fine, there’s nothing wrong with me and I hate you and I won’t forgive you for this, ever.

  Mom: Of course I was going to tell you! I just couldn’t find the right time. Don’t be ridiculous, I would never lock you in a trunk. I don’t see how I’m an idiot when you’re the one who thinks I won’t notice that as soon as I turn my head, your dinner magically disappears from your plate. Funny how I always find it in your trash can later. You didn’t think I knew about that, did you? You a
re in way over your head, young lady. You have taken this entirely too far and you can be as nasty as you want to be to me but it won’t change the fact that tomorrow morning you are getting in that car with your father and me. He’s your father, that’s why he has to come. You’ll be there as long as you need to be and if you want to be home in time to see Amanda at Christmas, then it’s up to you to get yourself well. This isn’t about Donnie. This is about you. You can hate me all you want to, Karen, but you are going to get yourself out of whatever phase it is that you’re in. I want you well. I just want you well again.

  “Donnie, I’m leaving.” I know she’s leaving. I’ve been up since really early this morning, waiting to see if she would say goodbye before she left. I open my bedroom door. She’s been crying and she’s wearing her jacket.

  “I hate them,” she says.

  I don’t know how to answer so I say, “I know.”

  “Go out on the steps if they start in on each other. I left you candy in the tin.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You can’t call me up there. But call Amanda in Chicago if. . . if it gets bad here, all right?”

  I nod. She gives me a quick, fierce hug. I didn’t realize she’d gotten so small. I pull back and look at her, my hands on her sides.

  “Shut up,” she says, and walks down the stairs.

  20

  I’m becoming invisible. Every day more and more light shines through me. I think about writing Karen at the hospital and telling her. If I wrote her and told her I was becoming invisible, I think she’d tell me to stop being so dramatic, and she’d say that she understood.

  Once I realized that I was becoming invisible, once I realized that no one really noticed me anymore, I stopped fighting it. I stopped taking the tiny bit of room they left me on the bench at the lunch table and sat by myself at the end of the teacher’s table, which is pretty much the worst place any kid can sit, ever. Unless that kid’s invisible, and then it doesn’t matter. Every day since Karen’s been gone, I practice floating through the school halls like a ghost. I don’t touch anyone and I imagine that the times I do brush up against their arms it feels like a clammy, cold breath on their skin. I sit in the back of class and I don’t raise my hand. I ignore everyone, even the teachers. Not the kind of ignoring where you jut out your chin and hope that everyone notices you ignoring them. I ignore them like we’re not even in the same universe. I ignore them because it’s easy: I’m not even here. My goal is to get through the whole school day without anyone talking to me. I decide once I do that, I’ll become a superhero. I’ll become Donnie Disappeared.