“Chillaxin’.”
“A’ight.”
“So I hear Mr. Principal Man gave you some inhumane treatment today.”
“And on school grounds, Dirk.”
“That’s just wrong.”
“Extremely wrong.”
“Profoundly wrong.”
“Could not have
been
more wrong.”
“Will you be reporting him to the school board?”
“Hmm. You know, I think I might! Do you think he’s listening?”
“Oh, I
know
he’s listening.”
“Oooh, let’s talk about him some more!”
“Now, now, Kelvin. That would be stooping to his level. Someone has to be the adult around here.”
I love it. I mean, I guess there’s a chance some technological enhancement could be going on and Kelvin really is Dirk, but I don’t think so. And I don’t think anyone will ever figure out who Dirk is. He’s obviously covered his tracks really well. Which I totally respect, but at the same time I’m wondering if he’s okay with never getting recognition for being who he actually is. But maybe that’s not his goal. Maybe his goal is to help other people in whatever way he can, just doing this. Maybe that’s enough to make him happy.
44
I magine this. You’re married to the love of your life. You have two kids and a great job and everything seems too perfect to be true. And then you realize it is.
The person you were married to for almost twenty years has been having an affair. Your kids aren’t in your life the way they used to be. And the house you’ve lived in all this time is a distant memory.
Dad’s condo complex looks exactly like an enormous pair of dice. They’re these two big, blocky buildings, painted white with black circles here and there. Who designs something like this? Didn’t they realize they were designing a big pair of dice? The whole thing is warped. And the fact that my dad lives here now is beyond warped.
Visiting Dad has gotten less strange, but it still feels like I’m in a movie or something, playing the role of the girl whose dad moved out. Sometimes Sandra and I both come over, but today it’s just me. Sitting on his new couch, I’m impressed that he obviously cleaned for my visit. But underneath the sunlight and colorful couch pillows, there’s something cold and lonely. It’s sad that he has to live here, away from us. All closed off in this impersonal box while everything he used to love is twenty minutes away.
“Do you want something to drink?” Dad asks from the kitchen, which is actually the other side of the living room.
“Okay. What do you have?”
“What
don’t
I have?” He whips open the refrigerator door to reveal an abundance of beverages. “We have apple juice, grape juice, iced tea, Jones soda, orange soda—”
“Why do you have so many drinks?”
“I get thirsty sometimes.”
“Obviously.” I scan the endless rows of bottles and cans.
Dad goes, “Thanks for coming over.”
“Thanks for wanting me over.”
We go down to the beach and walk to the lighthouse. It’s this thing we’ve been doing for as long as I can remember. There’s a quote I heard a long time ago, something my dad told me. It’s about how you’re like a lighthouse, always searching far into the distance. But the thing you’re looking for is usually close to you and always has been. That’s why you have to look within yourself to find answers instead of searching beyond.
I cuff my jeans and take off my flip-flops so I can walk in the water. It’s way too cold, so I retreat to the dry sand. Dad walks on the wet sand.
“How are things at home?” Dad asks.
“Bad.”
“You shouldn’t blame your mother.”
That’s even sadder than his apartment. Dad calling Mom “your mother.” That’s what one parent says when they hate the other one.
“How can you be so nice about this?” I go. “Aren’t you mad?”
Dad picks up one of those smooth, black stones he likes. He still collects the black ones and I still collect the white ones.
“I was mad at first,” he says. “But not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“It wasn’t really about forgiving her for her benefit. I needed to forgive her so I could move on. And time helps.”
I know he’s right, but I don’t get it. How can things go away and feelings change so drastically just because some time passed by? How can time change what happened?
We walk some more. I find three white stones. I put them in my pocket, where they’ll be safe.
“Your mother’s trying,” Dad says. “You should give her a chance.”
I want to be the kind of person who can do that. Move on and forgive people and be healthy and happy. It seems like an easy thing to do in my head. But it’s not so easy when you try it in real life.
45
This life thing is just too hard. Like right now? All I can do is lie here on my bed, staring out the window. I can’t make myself do the simplest things anymore. Like get out of bed, go to my desk, and start my homework. I can already tell tonight is going to be a total failure. Just like every other night this week.
I haven’t been doing my homework. Sometimes I do some of it, the easier assignments and stuff, but most of it isn’t getting done. And it’s like there’s nothing I can do about it. Somewhere under all this pain I want to do my homework, but that wanting is a tiny light far away that I can barely see. I’m slipping and there’s nothing to grab on to. It’s a scary, horrible feeling to be trapped in your own body when all you want to do is get out.
Every night, I sit in front of the TV for hours. It’s all I do now. I’ve only seen Derek one day this week. The rest of the time he’s stayed after for yearbook or whatever. So I stare at the TV, ignoring the homework I know I’m going to feel awful about not doing tomorrow. I can feel the depression pulling me under and it’s way easier to drown than to fight it.
I’m tired. Really tired. The kind of tired you can feel in your bones. I’m sleeping eleven or twelve hours a night, sometimes more on weekends. The first thing I do when I get home from school is crash on my bed and sleep until dinner. Then I watch TV until it’s time to go to sleep again.
My mom’s in her own world and can’t see how things are changing around her. She gave up on convincing me to forgive her, which is how she always reacts when I give her attitude for long enough. Dad can take it for as long as I can bring it, but Mom crumples under that kind of pressure. I’m sure she’s happier now, not worrying about me anymore. It gives her more time to focus on Jack. And most nights she gets home really late, so she doesn’t know how bad I’m feeling. Or maybe she can sense it and she’s avoiding me on purpose. Maybe she thinks depression is contagious. So Mom’s being more distant when I need her the most. But I’m too tired to clue her in. And I just don’t have the energy to talk to Dad.
I’m fading away into my nap. Except this time, just when I’m drifting off to sleep, I snap my eyes open. This is no way to live. I have to fight this if I want to survive. There’s no way I’m sinking back into the darkness.
I swing my legs over the side of my bed and sit up. My head hurts. Plus I’m dizzy. Maybe I have a brain tumor. I probably have a brain tumor and only two more days to live. What would you do if you only had two more days to live? Then again, if you’re going to die anyway, what’s the point? It’s not going to matter what you did before if you’re dead.
There’s a pink fluffy thing on my wall. I don’t even remember putting it there. I hate pink fluffy things. I want to burn all pink fluffy things.
My room looks like someone else lives here. Did I seriously hang up all of this junk on my walls? It’s making me even dizzier, seeing all of the collages and writing and posters and photos and . . . what
is
all this?
I start with the corner of one wall that has the most collage action. I start ripping everything down.
Sandra’s like, “What are you doing?”
“Go away.” Oh, that’s another thing. I’m in this perpetual stank mood. It’s like I’m annoyed with everybody, even when they’re just trying to help.
Sandra is unfazed. She goes, “Why are you ripping your stuff down?”
“Don’t you ever knock?”
“Maybe when the door’s not already open.” She watches me yank a collage apart. “But it took you so long to do that!” she yells.
“I can hear you. You don’t have to yell.”
“You’re crazy! Why are you doing that?”
“I’m redecorating.”
“Are you repainting? Because Mom already asked you if you wanted to repaint when I—”
“When you redid your room last year, I know.” Sandra’s still bitter because she picked out a color that she supposedly loved and then she decided she loved a different color way more after her walls were already repainted. But Mom wouldn’t let her change the color because the paint was expensive. So whenever she doesn’t get her way, Sandra still brings up the travesty of how she wasn’t allowed to switch from Tropical Breeze to Valentine Pink.
“She said it was your last chance if you wanted to change your room,” Sandra reminds me.
“I know.”
“So then why are you allowed to redo it now?”
“Because I’m special.”
“That’s not fair.
Mom!
” Sandra stomps down the stairs. She’s such a drama queen. I didn’t even say I was repainting. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.
I keep ripping stuff off my wall. I’m not throwing everything away, though. There’s some stuff I want to keep, so I pull the tape away carefully from around those things. This is going to take a really long time.
A few minutes later, Mom comes in. “Sandra tells me you’re ripping your room apart.”
“I’m
redecorating.
”
“It would appear so.”
“Why is everybody freaking out? I’m just taking some stuff down. It’s not a big deal.
God
.”
“You’ve been sleeping a lot lately,” Mom goes. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m just tired.”
“I know the divorce isn’t—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You have to talk about it sometime, honey. You can’t just—”
“I don’t want to talk about it!” I scream.
This shocks Mom into silence. I never scream.
Then she says, “What about our deal?”
Our deal was this: As long as I’m doing okay, I don’t have to go back to therapy. I felt like I got everything I needed from it last year and it bothered me to keep talking about the same things. But if I’m not okay anymore, I’m supposed to go back.
“I don’t need to go back,” I say. “I’m fine.”
I can feel it. This familiar flood of despair, like in those nightmares where you know you’re going to end up falling. And I know, no matter how hard I try to fight it, that the downward spiral has me.
May-June
46
When I got to Derek’s house, his mom told me that he wasn’t home yet but I could wait in his room. He was supposed to be here. We had plans to go to Andrea’s May Day party.
I guess he forgot. Again.
So here I am, alone in his room. A room with answers just waiting for me to find them.
The clay sculpture I made for him during the pottery unit in art is sitting on his nightstand. I pick it up and all these memories come rushing back. The first day Derek sat at my table. Asking me out when I had almost given up hoping that he liked me. Derek kissing me at Shake Shack. Taking the blurry picture of him at Cosmic Bowling. All of those intense nights, kissing him for hours.
I drop the sculpture and bend down to pick it up. There’s a Rocket Dog shoe box sticking out from under his bed. I immediately want to see what’s inside that box. Maybe the answers I’ve been looking for are right there. Or maybe I’m creating all of this drama for nothing. Maybe there’s nothing serious inside. Maybe it’s just a Boy Scout manual and some shells from vacations down the shore when he was eight.
But I know this story has a different ending. I know there’s something going on with this box. And I know I need hard evidence so I can finally move on. I hate how jealous I am and it’s making my depression worse. I can’t feel better until I know the truth.
There’s a chance I could get caught. Derek could come home any second and find me going through his stuff. But if he was going to be here, he’d be here by now.
I slide the box out a little and flip the lid off. There’s a bunch of envelopes tied together with twine. My stomach immediately churns. This is them. The letters. From her. The ones Sierra wrote to Derek while she was away the summer they were going out. I heard that she sent him a card or a letter every single day for a month. And now here they are right in front of me and I can read them if I want to. I can read them and he would never know.
If I really want to.
If I read them, I’m just going to get upset and cry and be mad at Derek for something that happened before he even knew me. If I don’t read these letters, I’m always going to wonder what they said. I’ll be mad at myself for missing my chance to find out.
So I decide to risk it. I slide the first letter out from under the knot of twine. It has his name in hot-pink pen.
Hot-pink pen?
How third grade is hot-pink pen?
I only end up reading a few letters, just in case Derek suddenly comes home. They’re all the same, so I doubt I’m missing much by skipping the last twenty. They’re all about how Sierra misses Derek and can’t wait to see him again and other assorted gooey hoo-ha.
That wasn’t what I was looking for anyway. I really need to know about what’s going on with them
right now
. Why didn’t I think this through before? Okay, focus. Where would recent info be? Stuffed in a shoe box under your bed? Or out on your desk?
There’s Derek’s computer. Just sitting on his desk, sleeping. And he’s still not home. And his mom is downstairs. And if Derek comes home or someone starts walking up the stairs, I could totally hear.
If Derek did what I’m about to do to me, I’d be wicked furious. But I really don’t care.