“But this is no game, Ryan, those males that have what it takes, also have the responsibility to pick a female that is like them – equipped. Some girls are just better equipped than others and you can tell by simply looking at them.”
Holy F–ing shit! I look at Luc. His eyes are hard and focused on his plate. He’s not eating, though. His jaw is set firm.
“Let me get this straight,” I say and look my father directly in the eye. “Are you telling me that I’m too good for Paige?”
“I’m not saying her specifically, I’m just saying . . .”
I scoff with raw annoyance. “Have you spent my entire life feeding me full of this bullshit?”
Mom reaches to touch my arm and calm me, but I jerk away from her and keep talking.
“How many years, Dad, have you been drilling it into my head that I’m so much better than everyone else? Making me believe that unless someone is up to my caliber they’d better stay the hell out of my bubble, or I’ll . . . What, exactly, is it that I do to these people that has them so afraid to touch my bubble?”
“Ryan,” he starts, but I shake my head.
“What makes me so much better, Dad? Is it your money? You’re money makes me above someone else?”
“It’s more than money and you know it,” Dad’s voice has risen in volume and firmness. “It’s looks. It’s talent. It’s. . .”
“Looks?” I cry out and stand up. “Look at me!” I throw my hands out. “I’m a shriveled, broken, scar. And talent? If throwing a ball is the only talent I had, then I’m F–ed.”
“Watch your mouth, Ryan, there’s a lady present!”
A lady. I look at my mother. She’s beautiful! Simply beautiful.
“You chose well, Dad. Took your responsibility to heart. Picked an equipped female. You can tell she is just by looking at her. Congratulations, you’ve ensured that your dominant genes were passed on.” My words have made the tears in my mother’s eyes run down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t mean to hurt you, but this is bullshit.” I slide in my chair and turn away from the table. As I leave the room I say, “It’s no wonder Principal Winford said what she said to me. I’m an arrogant asshole. Thanks for the outstanding upbringing.”
TWELVE
It takes me forever to fall asleep – can’t get Dad’s dinner spiel off my mind – but after watching the clock change to 1:00 a.m., I somehow do. I’m awake again at 2:31, though. There’s shouting. It’s muffled, but I still hear it and it calls me to full attention. I sit up in my bed and listen, but I can’t tell who or where. It continues and so I get out of bed, pull on some sweat pants, and step out of my room.
The house is dark. I stop at the end of the short hall and scan the upstairs area. There are no slivers of lights under any of the doors and the sound doesn’t seem to be coming from there, anyway. I move through the great room and then I see them. My parents. Outside on the patio, both of them shouting aggressively at one another.
I watch them from inside until I feel myself being watched and then I notice Luc standing in the kitchen. He’s less dressed than I am and he’s leaning back against the counter with his arms folded. The small nightlight plugged in under the cabinet is the only thing illuminating him.
“What’s going on?” I ask while pointing to them and moving into the room with him.
“What does it sound like is going on?”
“An argument. But what are they fighting about?”
“The only thing in this world that has any importance.”
“What’s that?”
“You.”
His answer inflicts a stab of pain into me, because those two are really going at it, and I don’t like the feeling it’s giving me. I study Lucas as he stares right at me without blinking.
“Is this . . . common? Do they do this a lot?”
“Umm, ever since you busted through the guard rail, wrecked the new car, racked up a million dollars in medical bills, caused Mom to quit her job so that she could spend every waking hour at the hospital with you, and Dad to work overtime then spend his nights sleeping in the chair in your room, yeah. I’d say it’s pretty common.”
Damn. I stand there and watch him watch me. His eyes are hard and unwavering. He’s angry with me, or annoyed at the very least. Like it’s somehow my fault that he’s standing in his boxers at 2:30 in the morning, unable to sleep because the screaming would be right below his bedroom window. And, I guess it is my fault. All of this is my fault.
“Luc, do you just wish I’d have died in that car wreck?”
His answer isn’t immediate. The muscles in his arms and chest flex impressively, then settle again before he says, “No. Because then it would be worse. They’d spend all day, every day, moping around like it was the end of the damn world. I’d rather hear them fight.” He pushes off of the counter and yanks open the freezer door. He removes a tub of ice cream and after grabbing a spoon, sits down at the table and pops off the lid. “Besides, Dad’s all F–ed up tonight. It only gets this loud when he’s been drinking.”
I feel somewhat forgiven and I cross over to him and reach for the spoon he’s just loaded with ice cream. He pulls it out of my reach. “Get your own.”
“Come on, Man.”
“No. Get your own spoon.”
I lean across the table and snatch it away from him and pop the cold chunk of Rocky Road into my mouth. He glares at me and I grin at him. “Won’t kill you to share.”
“You’re an asshole,” he starts to rise from the chair, but I put my hand on his shoulder and push him back down.
“I got it,” I tell him with a chuckle, then grab him a clean spoon. I dig it into the ice cream, heaping it much fuller than he had it, then hand it to him.
“How am I supposed to eat all that?” he complains.
“I don’t know. Open up and shove it in, I guess.”
He rolls his eyes at me, then actually does it. He crams that whole damn thing in his mouth and it makes me laugh.
_____
It was one seriously messed up weekend. Dad was hung-over and ornery as hell on Saturday and Mom spent the night at Grandma’s. She came home late in the evening on Sunday and, after another argument with Dad in their bedroom, she started drinking. She got pretty wasted and yelled at Lucas. He told her where to go, which pissed Dad off. Dad then screamed at him and Luc got mad and left for Jake’s house and stayed gone all night.
Now it’s Monday morning. Dad has gone to work. Jake has brought Luc home to change his clothing and get ready for school, and Mom isn’t feeling so well.
I tell her she should go back to bed, but she tells me she can’t, that “shit needs done.” Then she hangs over a cup of coffee at the kitchen table and rubs at her head and the rest of us, me, Luc, and Jake, try to be as quiet as humanly possible as we finish our breakfast.
But then Luc drops a spoon into the sink and makes her groan and she nearly shouts, “Ryan, go get in the car, I’m taking you to school early.”
That’s when Jake mans up and says, “He can ride with us, today, so you don’t have to go out.”
Luc isn’t thrilled about this, but all he says is, “You’re riding in back, Ryan.”
We pick up Connor, who sits in the back seat with me, and they put on some cool music and talk cars as Jake, who incidentally is the only one of us that has a license, mine having been revoked for reckless driving, drives us to school.
Because they all have two good legs, they make it across the parking lot and into the building before I do. They’re part way down the hall when I enter. Ahead of them, coming my direction is Zane, Scott, and two other guys I recognize as being on“the team.”
They own the hall. They’re walking side-by-side and although physically they only take up half the width of it, their bubbles have fused, creating a large and mighty force field that takes up the rest.
It’s difficult for Luc, Jake, and Connor to get by it. They see it ahead of them and automatically form a single file line and
pull it close to the wall. They don’t make it. One, or maybe all of them, has nicked the bubble.
Zane pushes Luc, knocking him against the painted cinder block wall. He smiles with ill intent then says, “Luc, my man, you can’t come to school looking like this. Doesn’t your momma take care of you at all? I mean, seriously, pull yourself together. Here, let me help you out.” Both of Zane’s hands move to Luc’s hair, and he tussles it roughly. Because Lucas’s hair is still a little damp from his shower, the movement causes the gel he’s used to break loose and reform in a hideous manner.
Zane doesn’t back up to let Luc free from the wall, but he does draw his head back to admire his handiwork. “Oh, a poky-outy! Hang on, I’ll fix it.” He ejects a big, sticky ball of saliva into the palm of his hand then uses it to flatten the mess he’s made of the hair. “And pull up your pants. Damn.”
Luc’s pants are already at a suitable level, but Zane grabs them around the waistband and yanks them up to a painful height. When Luc winces, Zane shows sympathy. “Awe, too high, huh?” He flicks at the button, releasing it, and then yanks Luc’s pants down around his upper thighs. Part of his boxers comes down with them, exposing flesh in front and back, and Zane blocks him from pulling anything back up.
Jake and Connor don’t step in to help Luc out. The reason is simple; they’re dealing with their own set of issues. Scott and the other two have not allowed them to go un-victimized.
“Leave us alone, Zane.” The fire I’ve seen and hear Luc display at home isn’t in his voice or eyes when he says this. He’s scared, and I’m not sure I understand why. He’s as big as Zane. Just as tall and well-built and it’s my guess that if it came down to blows, Luc could well hold his own.
“Did you just talk to me?” The malicious fun in Zane’s voice has suddenly vanished. He’s pissed and he crams the palm of his hand into the butt of Luc’s chin. This causes the back of Luc’s head to collide with the brick wall behind him. It hurts! I can see the pain grab hold even though I’m still a ways away.
Zane presses his face right up into Luc’s and growls, “Ryan laid down the law long ago, you freak. Do. Not. Talk. To. Us. Any of us! You know what happens when you do.”
I laid down this law, huh?
I’m sick.
I look at my brother, hair a mess, bare ass against the school wall, patch of pubic hair showing, a person of the same gender pressed awkwardly against him, people stopping to gawk, and I want to throw myself off another cliff because I’ve laid down a law that has stolen his voice. A law that has left him too afraid to defend himself. A law that has left all of them too afraid to defend themselves.
And now, when I see the error of my ways and want to put a new law into place, I’m too weak to enforce it. I stare at Lucas, and I somehow find myself angry at him. Fight, you F–er. Fight him! Don’t stand there and take that shit! But he doesn’t hear my thoughts and so he does nothing, and I feel the prickle of embarrassment that he’s my brother work its way through me. Zane releases him. He pulls up his pants, then finds me, still walking toward him, and he gives me a sharp, I hate you, look that makes me feel like shit. Then he dips his head in humiliation and leaves the scene with Jake and Connor following.
Zane laughs and approaches me with Scott and the others behind him. “I think it’s time you give him another dose of the famous Ryan Right Hand. The kid’s getting out of line again.”
“Leave him the F– alone, Zane. Don’t ever touch him again.”
Zane raises an eye brow and chuckles.
“I’m not kidding,” I warn.
“Halo is kind of crooked, there, Ry, let me fix it.” He swats at the top of my head but I duck out of his way.
“I’m not F–ing around, Man. Leave him and his friends alone. All of you guys.”
Scott cracks a smile that he shares with Zane and then says, “Aye, aye, Captain.”
I guess Mom is still too messed up to bring my medication, because she doesn’t, and I’m hurting like no one’s business when I show up in the doorway of Coach Stone’s office twenty minutes before school lets out.
I guess he can tell I’m pretty messed up because he takes one look at me, says, “shit, Ryan,” and springs to his feet and helps me lie down on a cot he has in the corner.
I’m shaking and delirious with pain. I remember little more than telling him I’m going to throw-up and him giving me the waste basket so that I can, then him snatching his cell phone off the desk and dialing my dad.
I wake up to an EMT standing over me, an IV in my hand, and my doctor on speaker phone, discussing with my dad and another EMT whether it’s entirely necessary for me to be taken to the emergency room.
They decide to give me a shot of something that makes me feel damn good, and, after standing around watching me for awhile, they all concur that I can just go home.
Mom’s still asleep when we get there, but Dad carries the hostile weekend into today by waking her up and screaming at her for neglecting my needs. She sobs, says she’s sorry about a million times, and all I can do is sit on the couch, giggling like a little girl ‘cause I’m so high.
At around seven, after I’ve come down off the ceiling, when the house is quiet, and Dad has gone back to work to complete what he missed, my mother truly makes up for her mistake.
She knocks softly on my bedroom door and then pushes it open enough to stick her head in. She smiles sadly at me lying on my side on my bed and says, “You have company.” Then she allows Paige in.
I smile.
Mom mouths the words, I really am sorry I forgot you, Ry, then leaves us alone.
“Hi.” I greet Paige and start to get up. She shakes her head, telling me to stay put and sits down Indian style on my bed in front of me. I relax back into my pillow.
“Gaw, Ryan, are you okay? There was an ambulance out front of the building after school and everyone was saying it was for you. I tried to call but you didn’t answer and Lucas didn’t know anything more than the rumors.”
“I don’t know where my phone ended up; hopefully my dad or Coach has it. And yeah, I’m okay, now.”
“It really scared me,” she admits this with deep concern in her eyes and although I don’t want to see her in discomfort, it makes me feel good to know she cares. “What happened?”
I give her all the details and then add, “I told you in art that I was hurting more than usual, but at that point I still thought my mom would be coming. When she didn’t, I tried to tough it out, but I had no idea the pain would get as severe as it did – as fast as it did. If I had, I’d have called my dad to bring me something.”
“Make sure to do that next time.”
“I hope there isn’t a next time,” I chuckle and she finally smiles.
“Hey, wanna watch a movie on my Kindle?” She whips it out of the school bag she has with her.
“Yeah,” I laugh.
“Brought snacks, too.” She produces a party size bag of peanut M&M’s and I frown.
“Allergic to peanuts.”
“You are?”
“No. Kidding.”
She rolls her eyes. “Scoot.” She nudges me, I back up, and she lies down beside me. Then I spend an hour and a half smelling her hair and wanting to touch it.
THIRTEEN
She slips between me and my open locker on Tuesday morning and puts her hands on my hips. Not Paige. Tasha.
“Heard you collapsed in Coach Stone’s office and spent the night in the hospital.”
“Not exactly,” I reach above her head to pull a book off the shelf and she takes that opportunity to slide her hands under the fabric of my shirt. I don’t want them there because of the scars and stuff, but, for some reason, I have a hell of a time denying this girl.
I’ve tried to figure out why. Is it purely sexual? I mean, she’s hot in every way imaginable. What testosterone filled human wouldn’t want that rubbing on him? But there might be more to it than that, because, every time I look at her pictures in the year book, and every
time I try to analyze the memories I have of her, I get this gut feeling that the old me used to really love her.
I just think that, even though I don’t remember my past, on some level, my brain still acts upon it. Like going to Coach for help yesterday. That wasn’t a cognizant decision. How could it have been, I barely knew my own name at the time. But I showed up there just the same and it was probably because, below the damage to my memory, I knew I could trust him – knew he had what it would take to get me what I needed.
So, although I feel little connection to Tasha now, I allow her to run her hands all over my chest, and it’s probably partly because I’ve always allowed it.
She stops her movement very low on the center of my abdomen. “I love this little strip of hair,” she giggles then follows it with her fingertips.
“So . . .” I clear my throat and wonder if I should pull her hand out of my pants before I have this conversation with her. “You’re my girlfriend, right?”
“Of course I am,” she says and lifts her eyes in a manner that is so flirting, it’s all I can do not to kiss her mouth.
“Then how come you think I spent the night in the hospital?”
“Because that’s what everyone is saying.”
“But if you’re my girlfriend, then you should know if that’s true, or not, right?”
She takes her own hand out of my pants. She ignores what she’s done to me and stares at me. I ignore it too, and stare back.
“Well, did you?” she asks.
I shrug. “I just think my girlfriend should have come around to find out.”
“And I think my boyfriend should have shown up at my house Friday night.”
“Oh, so that’s how this thing works, huh? Good to know. I’ve been wondering. I show up to your parties, you check in on me when I collapse. Fair is fair. So, what is it that I need to do in order for you to talk to me at lunch?”
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