Authors: Jean Haus
~3~
Okay, I’ve thought about this all
weekend. I thought about it at Nate’s lame party. I thought about it while I
took my sister out for our ritual Saturday night—the only time my mother lets
her out of her sight. I thought about it Sunday while I floated in the pool.
How much more interaction can there be than hearing about your own thoughts,
your own past? Wouldn’t that wake a person up more than anything?
At least that’s what
I’m telling myself sitting in the lazy boy and clutching Zach’s journal. But
I’m having a hard time opening it. I glance at his pasty profile for a quick
second before my gaze quickly finds the window and the blue of the sky.
“So my weekend was all right. The party
wasn’t too hot. Kelly got in her fight, but Amanda only flirted with one guy,
Carson, of course. They even disappeared upstairs for a while, and I must say that
was the final tack in my crush.”
My fingers move to the
cover but I don’t lift it. “Saturday night was the usual. Dinner with my
sister. That’s my one weekly chore. Babysitting on Saturday night so the
parentals can go out.
We
went out for
Sushi. Yeah, she’s seven and already hooked on the stuff. Lucky me. Cause I
love it. Before that, we went to the pet store. She likes to play with the
puppies and the bunnies. But I guess that’s not too surprising for a
seven-year-old. So I let her do it for about two hours. The store manager
didn’t look too happy but too bad.”
My fingers grip the
cover, but I can’t seem to open it. I remind myself this will be good for him.
It will also staunch my overwhelming curiosity, but it will be good for him.
Right?
“Sunday, I did homework
and pool lounged. Same as always. So it was a pretty normal weekend. Yeah, I
know. My life’s just an earthquake of teenage excitement.”
I push the flap open, take a deep breath, and
don’t look up. “Here we go,” I whisper to myself and begin reading.
October
30,
I’ve
decided to give in and keep a journal.
Mrs.
Gains bugged me about it last year. I kind of, well totally, blew her off. She
asked me about it again after creative writing on Tuesday. She said my
writing’s still some of the best she has ever seen throughout her thirty years
of teaching, but it needs more emotion. I need to learn how to get emotions on
paper.
I’m
not sure if this is going to help.
I’m
a seventeen-year-old guy not a ten-year-old girl.
However,
it’s not
like
anyone is going to see this shit and the
writing sample for a scholarship and application to UCI is due in mid-January.
I need the scholarship because if I go to UCI, I can guarantee my parents won’t
be helping with tuition.
Which
gives me sixty some days to do some emotional digging.
So
today’s emotions…
(
drum
roll)
I’m
tired, pissed, and tired.
I’m
not sure the first and the last constitute emotion, but it’s how I feel after
school, football practice, dinner with my parents, and over an hour on the
phone with Melanie talking about nothing. After a year, it’s starting to feel
like I’m paying dues with her. Deal with her crap and get laid. And I’m
starting to wonder if the crap is worth the lay.
The
middle one? My dad tries to control my life and plans on me getting
a sports
scholarship. Expects me to make it to the pros. The
more games we win, the more he talks. The more he dreams. The more I get
pissed. Pissed at him for planning my life. Pissed at myself for not standing
up to him. For lying to him. For not telling him I plan to be a writer, an
author.
But
my dad has dreams for me. Dreams of professional football.
Ten
more months though, and I’m out of here.
Free.
Finally,
fucking free from my old man and his stupid dreams.
My eyes rise to my
silent audience of one. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what I
just read. In his current state, I could never imagine such resentment coming
from him. Lying there, he seems so calm. So blank. So emotionless.
But the proof, his
words, lies in my lap.
The writing thing, just
from the wide array of volumes on his shelves, I get. But the anger seems so
foreign.
My gaze finds the
ever-present rise of his chest. Okay to be honest, I haven’t imagined much
about him at all. This entire reading thing has kind of freaked me out. But
now, even after only reading just one entry, I want to know more about this guy
lying silently before me every afternoon.
Finally he can speak.
I turn the page
November
4,
Who
knows why we like certain things or are attracted to certain people. Most
people would think I’m nuts to turn down a full ride football scholarship. But
I love writing. I only like football.
Football
is fun while writing is a challenge. When I work hard at a piece, editing it, re-working
it, finding the right words, communicating what I’m exactly trying to say, and
it all comes together, I feel such a sense of accomplishment. A win in football
doesn’t inspire much beyond a quick rush of euphoria. With writing, the
euphoria comes back each time I re-read the piece. And each time I’m amazed at
what I’ve created.
My
dad would never understand and that’s why I don’t know how to tell him I’m
turning down the full ride.
But
I am.
My eyes find the boy in
the bed. “Your dad sounds kind of like a bully. I mean my parents want me to go
to college, but I haven’t made my mind up. I want to be an actor. I’m not sure
college is necessary. They’re willing to let me skip it as long as I keep going
to acting classes, keep auditioning, and keep working hard. If it doesn’t pan
out in a few years, they’re expecting me to go the college route. And I’m okay
with that because they’re giving me choices. Your dad wouldn’t do that would
he?”
Of course, he doesn’t
answer.
In the next several
entries there are a few more complaints about Melanie, lots more dad bashing,
tons more self-loathing about not being able to confront the man, more inner
turmoil—I’m thinking this guy really likes to whine—until…
November
22,
Okay,
I’m going to try to write about something other than my dad or my girlfriend or
my somewhat secret ambition of being a writer because it seems like I just keep
rehashing the same topics, which has me getting pissed at myself.
So
today in fourth hour, JM stared at me again for almost the entire class. Now
girls checking me out or flirting with me isn’t new. (Okay that sounded a bit
egotistical.) But the whole hour? I’m not sure if she’s staring to get my
attention or if she’s crushing on me so hard she doesn’t know she’s doing it.
With how shy she seems, I’m going to guess the latter.
So
other than getting tired of being stared at all the time, how do I feel about
it?
My
reaction is mixed.
Of
course, my ego doesn’t mind. (Fuck. Maybe I am egotistical.) Each time she
blushes and looks away, it flares like a white head pounding to get free—now
that’s a great
simile
. But then logic breaks through. How well
does JM know me? So I’m the star running back. So I’m popular. We’ve spoke
about ten words in over three years of high school.
She might as well stare at the posters on her
wall—I’m going to assume she has them—of actors or rock stars because that’s
about how well she knows me. Finally, the whole thing’s kind of… depressing.
I’d like to be the kind of guy who deserves that kind of attention. I even like
the idea of returning her feelings—though there’re not real and I don’t—and
falling into some movie or fairytale where everything’s perfect.
But
perfect doesn’t exist.
I
should know.
Like JM, I stare at
him. My eyes narrow on his form. “Guys,” I say in a hiss. “Why didn’t you try
to talk more to her? Give her a chance? It’s not like you’re head over shoes in
love with Melanie. From less than ten journal entries, even I can see that.” I
shove the thought away that JM sounds like someone Amanda, Kelly, and I
terrorize daily.
Yet strangely, her
crush reminds me of my own stupid ones. “And you do sound egotistical.” I snap
the journal shut and nearly slam it in between books on the shelf.
I pull out my phone
from my purse. My time was up over five minutes ago. “Well I gotta go. I don’t
like leaving like this.” I yank my purse from the floor with a violent tug.
“But you’ve got me upset by calling that girl’s feelings unreal. How do you
know her feelings aren’t legit? It’s just like you said earlier. Who knows why
we like certain things or people? Why do guys think they know everything?
Especially when most of them are idiots,” I say under my breath before
standing.
“I guess I’ll see you
tomorrow.” Without looking back, I move—more like stomp—toward the door. I had
feared that I might want to take the journal home with me and read ahead, but
right now, I want nothing to do with it or him.
~4~
I drop my make-up
bag on the dresser and face the bed. “Okay Zach, I’ve been thinking you were
kind of an egotistical jerk to that JM girl, but I have to admit I can be a
bitch sometimes.” Recalling how Amanda, Kelly, and I treat the girls and even
some of the loser guys in our class, I add, “Well maybe a lot of the time. So I
guess I shouldn’t throw blocks or whatever that saying is and it was kind of
wrong for me to judge you.”
My
apology has me feeling lighter as I pluck his journal from the shelf. “Last
night was wonderfully boring. I stayed home and played checkers with my little
sister. But tonight, a bunch of us are going out for tapas. Amanda’s idea of
course. We can’t just go to a pizza joint it has to be some
fufu
thing. She invited Carson probably thinking it will be fun to watch me get
jealous. So I’ll have to act like it, which
is
going to be fun. I’m going to keep my next interest top secret.” My lips
tighten in a frown. “Well at least until I have him wrapped around my little
finger.”
I
twist a long strand of hair in between my fingers. “This boyfriend thing is
driving me a little crazy. I haven’t had one since freshman year. I’ve been out
on dates since then, but every time I get close to some guy, Amanda somehow
sabotages it. Really, I’m not boy crazy or anything. I’d just like to have one
dang relationship in high school past the year fourteen.”
I let my hair go with a tug.
“Anyway,
this,” I lift the journal up, “is far better than a boring old book don’t you
think? I mean books are okay, but you’re
way
more interesting.” I flip through the pages. “So where were we?” I find the end
of his JM entry. “All right, got it.”
November
25,
Today
should have been cool.
No school. Lots of turkey and mash potatoes.
But I spent most of the day watching football with my dad and uncles. It’s
expected.
And
it was hell.
Though
I usually like watching football, when I have to hear comments
like:
‘One day we’re going to be there watching Zach,’ or
‘Zach’s better than both of those running backs,’ or ‘Zach could out run that
guy.’ It gets a little more than annoying. Even more so when I have to pretend
to enjoy the comments. Like what does Turkey Day Football have to do with me?
So
sick of the remarks and my uncles’ questions about my undefeated team and our
upcoming game to states, I went up to my room and read (my dad thinks reading
is for pussies unless you’re doing it for homework) after dinner.
But
reading
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
was far better than listening to their
shit.
I’ve
read it before, but the duality of his nature makes sense more than ever. Dr.
Jekyll hiding his evil side. Me hiding myself. Dr. Jekyll becoming corrupted by
Mr. Hyde. Me becoming corrupted by my
loserness
. Dr.
Jekyll/Mr. Hyde eventually committed suicide. While I haven’t resorted to such
thoughts, my life sure does seem to be on the slide.
The suicide comment has
my heart beating faster. “You wouldn’t do that, right?” I don’t say didn’t
because that makes the idea even more frightening with him lying in a bed
across from me in a coma. “I mean, I know your dad’s an ass, but you don’t seem
like the type of guy who would just give up.” What am I saying? I really don’t
know him at all. Did he fall from a cliff or jump from it?
With slightly trembling
fingers, I turn the page. Reading the journal and finding its secrets feels
more important than ever. But before continuing, I let my irritation at him
loose. “Why couldn’t you just tell your dad? Why did you put yourself through
all this drama?” I demand even though I’m not going to get an answer back.
“Geez, a year later and it’s even making me crazy.”
He just keeps breathing
with the whoosh of the machine as I let my irritation fizzle out of me. I’m not
really sure why I’m letting his journal rile me up so much.
November
30,
So
I’m trying to stay off the topic of my father, but he went overboard today. I
get home from practice and there’s some guy from CSSU in the living room. He
invited a fucking recruiter to dinner. Though super pissed, I have to admit it
didn’t totally surprise me. CSSU is my dad’s Alma Mater and he’d like nothing
more than for me to go there. To relive his past. Minus the injury. Minus the
never
getting
drafted.
And
I just sat there listening to the guy even though I don’t want to go to CSSU.
Even though football’s not my life.
Ever
since I was little, my father’s programmed me for football. Of course, I don’t
remember my first birthday, but I’ve seen the pictures. A wide-eyed baby
holding a football from an aunt. Tiny cleats from an uncle. A jersey from a grandparent.
And the picture that still hangs on our family room wall. My father placing a
miniature helmet on my head. He’s young. His smile’s wide and full of hope
while my little eyes are surprised saucers.
And
no matter how many times I form the words in my head, I can’t say them aloud
because I’m picturing myself saying it to that man in the picture, that man who
has found a way to fulfill his dreams again.
During
dinner, he laughed and smiled just like in that picture.
Needless
to say, I felt like vomiting more than eating.
Well, at least he
didn’t write anything about suicide. But I now understand why he’s having a
hard time telling his father and crushing the man’s dreams. A man whose own
injury crushed his own dreams. But on the other hand isn’t leading him along
just as bad?
I glance at his silent
form and try to tell myself none of this matters with where he is now. But it
somehow does matter to me.
Ugh. I flick the page
over instead of trying to figure that last thought out.
December
5,
Melanie
keeps texting me about going to some stupid ass volleyball game. Maybe if she
played or even if her best friend played, I’d consider it. But she only wants
to go hang out, act like a couple, and show me off or something.
And
I don’t have time for this begging crap. I have homework to do. Grades to keep
up.
After
a year of going out, she should be over this stuff. But I can’t remember the
last time the two of us just went out instead of going to a party or a game or
whatever social event is on her calendar. When we first started dating, I
imagined our relationship turning into something deeper than a social pile of
shit.
Guess
that’s what I get for applying my imagination to reality.
My brows rise. Words
form on the tip of my tongue into a response. But I bite them back between
clenched teeth. I’m really the last person to give advice about someone’s love
life.
The next several
entries describe his excitement about a possible state championship, hanging
out with his friends, and his irritation with his girlfriend (breakup with the
chick already!), but at least the dad stuff, which seems to depress him, is
missing. Yet, even with his whining about his dad and girlfriend, I’d rather
read his journal. He’s way more interesting than that stupid count of sandwiches.
Done reading about
Melanie and her social demands, I shut the journal and pull my phone from my
pocket to check the time. “I’ve went over again.”
At the dresser, I grab
my make-up bag and pull out the compact mirror inside. Though I told myself to
keep quiet, I can’t help saying, “I still don’t get why you stayed with
Melanie, but then since freshman year I haven’t been able to snag a boyfriend.
So what do I know about relationships?” I open a tube of mascara. “As you know,
Amanda’s on my turf constantly. Really the more I think about it I’m just as
bad as
you
. You put up with your dad’s shit,” I wipe a
black smudge, “and I put up with hers. But the next time around,” I pull out a
tube of lip gloss, “I’m going to beat her at her own game. She’ll see how good
I can act.” My lips press together. “Starting tonight.”
I pack up my make-up
and grab my purse. I turn toward the bed, but I still only get as close as the
chair to him. “Okay then, until tomorrow.” Leaving, I can’t help adding,
“Later, Zach.” Just like I would to a real friend.