Not After Everything (3 page)

Dad trashed the kitchen before he passed out last night, and now I'm stuck cleaning all the shit off the burner before I can make myself a decent breakfast. At least he turned off the stove.

I would normally keep the noise down—no use poking the sleeping bear and all that—but his car's not in the driveway. Which means I have to take him to the bus before school. I need to wake him up in the least confrontational manner, hence all the excessive pot-banging.

Dad finally stumbles out of his room looking like he hasn't combed his hair, and I'm pretty sure he slept in the clothes he wore yesterday and didn't bother changing. I ignore the barrage of inventive names he mumbles at me as he snatches the bacon and egg sandwich I made for him out of my hands and heads to my car. He's still pretty drunk from the night before. This will be a fun drive.

With all the booze wafting from his pores, it smells like I soaked my seats in a bottle of whisky. He's unusually quiet. This makes me more anxious than if he were ranting at me the whole way. Silence means he's thinking, and nothing good ever comes from that.

I think we'll make it all the way to the park-and-ride without speaking, but about five blocks before my turn, he's finally managed to put his thoughts together.

“You know? She never wanted a kid.” He's watching me, waiting for a reaction. I can feel it. “Everything was kind of perfect before you came along and fucked it up.”

He's said these things before. I refuse to play into it.

“You hear me? She'd still be here if it weren't for you. I'm sure of it.”

I tighten my fingers around the steering wheel imagining it's his neck.

“She was going to be a big-shot lawyer. But then she had to worry about taking care of an ugly little bastard.”

I consider informing him that they were, in fact, married, thus, I was not technically a bastard, but that'd just give him ammunition.

“You think you're so fucking smart, don't you? You got everything figured out.” He laughs bitterly. “You don't know shit. You never know when an ugly little bastard might pop out and ruin your life.”

“Well, at least I've provided you with a valid excuse for becoming a raging, psychotic drunk,” I mutter.

My cheekbone feels like it's exploded and my ear starts to ring. I swerve and practically hit a blue minivan that lays on its horn. I didn't even see his hand move.

“You trying to kill me too, you little prick?” he asks.

I focus on the throbbing in my temple and block out his vitriol. When I reach the park-and-ride, I slam on the brakes so hard, his head almost hits the dash. Unfortunately, his reflexes aren't as slow as I had hoped—his hands stop his head from making contact.

“You better watch yourself,” he says. Then he gets out and staggers to the bench, leaving the door open. His boss has the patience of a saint. Or maybe Dad's got something on him. Or just maybe when your face is buried beneath a welding helmet no one gives a shit.

I shove my foot down on the accelerator. The sudden forward movement slams the passenger door shut. I'm shaking, I'm so pissed. Punching the dashboard helps a little.

• • •

I reach school late and have to park way in the back of the lot. About halfway to the entrance, I reach for my phone in my pocket out of habit. It's not there. It's probably in the car, but I'm almost all the way to the door. Screw it.

All my morning classes are as pointless as ever. I seriously consider not coming anymore. I almost have all the credits I need for a diploma. The only reason I didn't graduate last year was because I was short a gym credit and an elective credit. So this year I was going to pad my GPA and play football so I'd be sure to impress Stanford. But that scholarship's probably off the table now that I'm not playing, so why the hell am I here?

• • •

“Where were you?” Sheila shoves me from behind just outside the cafeteria at lunch.

I turn, taking a deep breath. “What?”

“Where were you this morning?” Her eyes and nose are red. She's been crying. And it's because of something I did. But I have no clue what.

“Good thing I called Shee before school,” Cara, the one friend of Sheila's I can actually stand, chimes in.

“Shit.” I remember now and I feel like an asshole. “Sheila, I'm sorry. My dad left his car at work so he could get trashed last night, and I had to take him to the bus this morning.”

Sheila used to live down the street from me and has been witness to several blowups on the front lawn with my very drunk dad and my very hysterical mom and me. So her look of pity doesn't bother me as much as the others. At least she has a frame of reference.

She hurries over and wraps her sun-kissed arms around my neck. I pick her up and kiss the side of her head. “Sorry I forgot,” I whisper.

I can feel her forgive me with her whole body before she says, “No. I'm sorry. If I had known . . . It sucks that you always have to deal with his crap. I'm here if you need to talk.”

And then she looks up at me with bated breath, like I'll just start pouring my heart out right here in the fucking hall. In front of all these fucking people so she can make sure they all know how great she is for being there for me.

• • •

Roger's assisting one of the regulars—a man with a disgusting beard that always has something stuck in it. It physically sickens me to watch Roger's level of ass-kissery today, so I head to the back room to chop some more damn onions.

Somehow I must have zoned out, because I'm stunned back to life when Roger snaps his fingers in front of my nose.

“I know you're going through a really tough time right now, Ty, but I need you to focus, m'kay?” He's leaning so close that I have no choice but to breathe in his rancid garlic breath. “Julie's out there working the rush alone. D'ya think you can rally it up and give her a hand?”

I nod, because if I say anything, it'll involve too many swear words, and then I head out to help Julie with the “rush.” There are two people chatting in line behind the old man that Julie's currently helping.

I put my brilliant sandwich-making skills to use, and Julie, who might be more uptight than Roger, if that's even possible, rings them up. When she's finished, she sighs passive-aggressively in my direction. I'm left to stare at the bearded man eating at one of the tables, while Julie takes her break and Roger makes a personal call. Too bad our storefront faces east; from out back we have an almost unobstructed view of the mountains, and even from this side I can tell there's a pretty spectacular sunset going on.

I'm checking the time on my phone when Julie comes back out.

“You can't be on your phone in front of customers,” she says in this infuriatingly condescending voice.

“Don't get your panties in a wad. I was just checking the fucking time.”

Her eyes widen and her face turns tomato red, swear to god. She spins around and storms into the back.

Once the bearded man clears out, Roger comes around the corner, his face plagued with concern.

“Tyler, I'm gonna need you to follow me to the back and apologize to Julie, then I'm gonna send Julie home, and you'll close up alone tonight. Okay?”

Jesus.

When Julie comes into view, her face is splotchy, her eyes are red, and she's sniffling.

“You can't be serious,” I mutter, but not quietly enough.

“Now that's enough of that,” Roger says in his
manager
voice.

“You see?” Julie says through a sob.

“Please apologize, Tyler,” Roger says.

“For what exactly?”

“Tyler . . .”

“No, really. I have no clue what I've done tonight that warrants an apology. I was checking the time on my phone when Julie had a fit for no reason.”

“Tyler . . .”

“This is ridiculous. There is no earthly reason she should be crying over something like this.”

“She says you directed offensive language at her.”

“Offensive language? Seriously?”

Julie sniffles and wipes her eyes all dramatically and I can't do it anymore. I snap.

“You want offensive? How about this, Roger? A fucking monkey could do this job, and you treat it like we're curing cancer or something. And you should seriously consider seeing someone about removing that stick up your ass.”

“That's it. You—”

“And you.” I turn to Julie. “You seriously need to get laid and soon, otherwise you better be sure to get the number of his ass-stick-removal guy.”

“Tyler!” Roger looks like his head might explode.

“Don't worry. I'm fucking out!” I slam the back door open and make my break for freedom. I was right. The mountains look fucking amazing.

• • •

It doesn't hit me until the middle of the night that I actually needed that goddamn job.

Dr. Dave doesn't put up with my bullshit. That's the only reason I come back. At first it was because it was mandated by Social Services, but now I actually don't hate his freaking guts. Sometimes he even offers good advice. But not today.

“How did you feel after leaving like that?”

I glare at him. I hate it when he's like this. “I told you. I didn't have a choice.”

“You felt you didn't have a choice?” He tosses his yellow legal pad and pencil on the coffee table and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He's in his we're-just-a-couple-of-pals-having-a-talk mode.

I learned early on that if I don't speak but maintain eye contact, Dr. Dave will usually change the subject. He's probably in his late twenties but he only looks a few years older than me. I'm much bigger than he is, and I'm pretty sure I remind him of the guys that bullied him when he was in high school.

“We always have a choice, Tyler. You didn't have to swear in front of Julie, so what do you think made you choose to do it?”

I just stare.

He shifts. Makes a big show of checking his imaginary watch.

I stare.

He runs a hand through his dark hair and down the back of his neck. He tilts his head slightly and stares back.

I continue to stare.

His lips lift at one side. He raises his eyebrows slightly. He crosses his arms.

I stare.

“We can do this all day if you want, Tyler.”

I stare.

“We can talk about something else if you like. Football? Your dad?” The smile in his voice makes me want to punch him. “Or we can just sit here for another”—he checks his pretend watch again—“forty-two minutes and stare at each other.”

“Are you coming on to me, Doc?”

“Is that what your dad does? Deflect with humor?”

My hand balls into a fist before I can even think.

“Okay.” He motions toward my fist with a tip of his head, then picks up his notebook and scribbles something down.

Screw him. I swallow hard, deciding that football is the lesser of the two evils. “Marcus keeps bugging me about football. But I don't miss it. I mean, I should miss it, shouldn't I?”

“Should you?”

“Can we not do the psychobabble answering questions with questions bullshit today?”

“Is there anything you do miss about it?”

I trace the edge of the leather cushion with my middle finger. “No.”

“Nothing?”

I shake my head.

“Not the rush of adrenaline before a game?”

“Not even that.”

“The camaraderie with the team?” He's being sarcastic. He knows how I feel about most of the guys on the team.

I manage to smile. “I never thought I'd be one of those people, you know? Those people who don't know what the hell they want to do with their life. Those people who don't have a
thing
. But here I am. I am thing-less.”

“Or maybe you just haven't found your thing. You have time. That's what college is for.”

“I'm not doing the whole college thing.”

“Why not?”

“That was my mom's—”

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“I said that's bullshit. You wouldn't have busted your ass as much as you did if it wasn't something you also wanted. I've seen how your eyes light up when you talk about Stanford.”

“Well, without football, there's no way Stanford will still want me. And I can't do football, because I need a job to make money to spend on frivolous things like socks. And food.”

“Food?” He leans forward looking a little alarmed.

Shit. “I'm exaggerating. You know what I mean.”

I know I should tell Dr. Dave everything, but unfortunately, he's obligated to go to the authorities about stuff like that.

“I could try to talk to your dad about—”

“Yeah, that's not happening. He wouldn't talk to you anyway.”

“All right, fine.” He holds his hands up in defeat. “Tyler, you say Stanford wouldn't want you without football, but I think you're wrong about that. I think you
know
you're wrong about that.”

“Grades and SAT scores only go so far, Doc. And even if they'd still take me, I can't afford it. Academic scholarships don't come close to football scholarships, which speaks volumes about the state of our country, wouldn't you agree?”

“Then check out other schools. Stanford isn't your only option.”

“And then what?”

“And then you go to school. You meet girls. You have lots of sex. You figure out what you want to do. You enjoy life.”

“What the hell kind of shrink are you? Telling me to go have lots of sex?”

“The kind that wishes he had that option when he was in your shoes. So, on behalf of all the schlubby Jewish boys who couldn't get girls to give them the time of day, go have fun. Be safe, but have fun.”

“And by fun you mean . . .”

“I mean sex,” Dr. Dave says.

“Do they know you give this kind of advice?”

He shrugs. “But it's good advice, am I right?”

I laugh. This is why I come here.

“So what's your plan for this week?” he asks.

“No clue. I guess I have to find another job, so I'll probably head to the mall or something.”

“That's good. Now, what about the journaling? How's that going?”

“Dear Diary, today Sheila wore green nail polish, and it made me feel sad.”

“You make fun, but I think it might be helpful. You don't have to write about your girlfriend. You don't even have to write about yourself. You know what? I have an idea.” He heads over to the cabinet behind his desk. “While you're out looking for a job, I want you to watch some people interact and write about it. Specifically what their interaction evokes in you. Do you pity them? Envy them? I think this could be good. Let's reconnect you with your feelings.” He sits back down and tosses a spiral notebook to me. It's black with a big yellow smiley face on the front.

“Did you seriously just say that? Reconnect me with my feelings? That may be the shrinkiest thing I've ever heard.”

“That may be the shrinkiest thing I've ever said, but I still want you to do it.”

“And is there some significance to this?” I hold up the notebook, smiley face out.

He grins. “It was on sale.”

• • •

“That asshole boss of yours called. Said something about your final paycheck. You get fired or something?” Dad sounds exhausted. He's lying on the couch with a beer resting on his chest and about five empties lined up on the floor. The TV's off, but he stares at it like he's watching a riveting episode of
CSI
. There's a wadded-up ball of tissues on the floor. I really hope he wasn't just watching porn.

He blows his nose and tosses the used tissue next to all the others. Oh. He's sick. Perfect.

I turn back toward the kitchen. “I think there's some NyQuil—”

“Did you? Get fired?” he interrupts, still staring at the blank screen.

“I quit.” Not that it's any of his business.

“I'm not paying for any of your shit.”

“Yes. You've made that perfectly clear. I'll go get the NyQuil.”

“I don't need NyQuil, I need whisky.” He tries to get up and trips on one of the empty beer bottles on the floor. I grab him just before he falls into the glass coffee table, and am rewarded with a chest full of beer. Great. Now I need to shower. Unlikely I'll get a job smelling like him.

“Jesus, Dad. Sit down. I'll get it.”

When I return with a glass of Jack (and the NyQuil), he's lying on the couch again, with his back to me. He's shaking; I think he might be crying and I seriously can't deal. So I
set th
e glass on the coffee table and go back up to the kitchen for
the bottle.
I leave it for him next to the glass, and hear him murmur something about “that stupid fucking lock” as I let myself into my room.

Once I'm safely in my dungeon, I pull my shirt over my head, throwing it into the hamper on my way to the bathroom. I twist the shower knob all the way up, and I stare at myself in the mirror, gripping the countertop like if I let go I'll evaporate into the steam. It would be nice to just sort of fade away like that. I wonder if that's what Mom thought.

• • •

The mall. Kill me now.

Not only is it filled with stupid people, but it's also filled with stupid people I have the misfortune of knowing. And now I'm slogging through this hell looking for a reason to make coming here a regular thing. I only make it to the Colorado-
ski-chalet
-themed food court before I decide having a job here is absolutely not an option. Some of the guys from the team and their girlfriends sit around the hearth of the giant fireplace in front of Sbarro. Brett's brother works there and likes to give his older brother's cool friends free stuff so they'll like him. It makes me sad for Brett's brother that he wants so desperately to fit in with a bunch of worthless assholes.

I hide behind a large Mormon family to sneak past the guys from the team and head for my car.

I drive around aimlessly, stopping at a few places to fill out applications: a bagel place, a dry cleaner claiming to be “Denver's best,” and Home Depot. I'm kind of rooting for the Home Depot job. At least I probably wouldn't see people from school. Plus it's next to a Taco Bell, and that's a place I can still afford.

I'm practically out of the sprawl of suburbia when I consciously realize where I'm driving. I've never been here before. It's not that it's far from home; it's just the opposite direction from anywhere I ever go. It's a new subdivision and things are still under construction. But there's one strip mall. Sorry, not a strip mall. An “outdoor shopping experience,” according to the sign. This place, the stores under construction—it's clearly trying to resemble an upscale mountain town. Telluride, maybe? There are a few boutiques you'd normally find in a mall and several chain restaurants, or at least they will be once they're finished. So far the only active businesses appear to be a Pilates place, a barber with an old-timey pole in front, a cafe that looks like it might actually be locally owned, and, of course, a Starbucks. At the end of one of the streets, around the corner from the Starbucks, is a photography studio with a
HELP WANTED
sign in the window. I decide to parallel park along the fake street and explore further.

The chime of the door alerts an empty waiting area to my presence.

“Hello?” I call to the back.

I'm pretty sure the place is completely deserted until I hear something clatter against the ground, followed by a string of curse words.

“Hello?” I call again. “Is everything okay back there?”

A bearded man who looks like he should be hunting in the mountains and living off of whatever he kills comes out from behind a red curtain that separates the waiting area from the picture-taking area—the, uh, studio, I guess.

“You here for senior pictures? My girl will be back in a few to schedule times if you don't mind waiting.” Grizzly Adams gestures for me to wait on one of the velvet couches against the wall, which is filled with dozens of framed photos of kids, families, and dogs.

“No. I'm, um . . . are you still hiring?” I nod toward the
HELP WANTED
sign in the window.

Grizzly Adams straightens up and a huge smile spreads across his face. At least I think it's a smile; it's hard to tell under all the gray facial hair. He thrusts his hand out at me. “Henry,” he says, his eyes going from my worn sneakers to my jeans to my button-down shirt that's a little too tight in the arms to my eyes. “I could use some muscle around here.”

“Tyler,” I say, shaking his giant paw. “Tyler Blackwell.”

“Well, Tyler Blackwell, what do you have to offer this fine establishment?”

“I . . . What would you need me to do?”

“Oh. I guess we need phones answered, uh, computer stuff, like scheduling, I think. My girl takes care of all that. She's the one who needs help, really. Can't do everything herself. She's getting us some coffee right now. Oh, getting coffee, that's another skill we need.”

“Um, well, I can definitely do that.” Is this a job interview?

Henry runs a hand over his beard and nods his head. Neither of us speaks for a very long, very awkward minute.

“Do I need to fill out an application or something?” I ask.

Henry waves his hand. “Nah. I like you. Let's do this. If you fuck up, I can always fire you.” He pats my shoulder in a fatherly way and turns back to the studio. “Follow me.”

The back studio is basically just a massive warehouse filled with tons of very expensive-looking lights and stands and rolls of material, backdrops probably. The setup is currently a black backdrop with a black table. The camera is mounted above the table, pointing straight down, wired up to a laptop.

“Shooting a jewelry advertisement for a friend,” Henry says, adjusting one of the lights as he twists his head toward the monitor. A rainbow dot moves across his chest, and I wonder if he's shooting diamonds.

The door chimes, followed immediately by the voice of a girl. “I have your venti Caramel Macchiato with extra whip—” She stops when she sees me. And here I thought I'd escape run-ins with anyone from school. But no, it's the goth chick from the other day.

“Thank you, my dear. You can take down the
HELP WANTED
sign. I hired Tyler Blackwell,” Henry says as he raises the large white cup to his lips.

The goth chick is not happy. She stares at me like she wants to rip my throat out, like the vampire she wishes she was.

“Don't be rude. Say hello.” Henry nudges her.

“Hello.” Her voice is like ice slipped into your jock.