What Happens Next (11 page)

It’s Monday morning and I am in luck. It snowed twelve inches overnight and shows no signs of stopping. So, lucky me, snow day. Even luckier, I’m home alone. Liam spent the weekend with his dad and stayed an extra night. My mom went to work at her job because the concept of “adult snow day” only exists in warm, tropical locales like Cincinnati and Dayton.

I spend the whole day shoveling. First the driveway, then the sidewalk, then the neighbor’s porch. Every two hours, the snow is back. The menial nature of the job is a relief from having to think too much, and I enjoy the backbreaking pain of it. I look over at Mr. Snowblower three doors down and stifle the urge to yell “Hey, pussaaay! That all ya got?”

I start to get woozy around noon and realize that I haven’t eaten. The hunger strike has to end. I go inside and stuff my face with anything I can get my hands on. Dried cereal, Pop-Tarts, a whole stack of bologna. It’s like I haven’t eaten in weeks. Wait, that’s right, I haven’t really eaten in weeks. And suddenly I’m so freakin’ hungry, I can’t cram it in fast enough. Who knew cold SpaghettiOs right out of the can could taste so heavenly? When my belly is stretched to capacity, I stumble to my room and lie down to enjoy it. I close my eyes, and at first it’s kind of awesome, like I’m floating in a warm, quiet ocean. But about five minutes into the groggy haze, the room starts spinning. My stomach cramps up and my mouth goes all watery and metallic-tasting. I run to the bathroom and…

… blagggh… out it all comes.

After a few minutes, when the heaving stops, I get up and rinse my mouth with mouthwash. I splash my face with cold water and look in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, but I feel so much better that it kind of weirds me out a little. I shake it off and go back outside to give Mother Nature another ass-kicking. I shovel fast and hard and try to push the images of food vomit out of my brain. I shovel and shovel and pretend like the whole thing never even happened.

It’s eleven p.m. and I’ve been lying here for over an hour. I went to bed right after dinner, exhausted from shoveling all day. Now I’ve woken up and there is no hope of getting back to sleep anytime soon.

Also, I’m starving.

It’s like my body is catching up with itself after the weeks of not-eating since the ski trip. Like someone stuck cardiac paddles to a really lazy tapeworm that’s been living in the folds of my stomach:
Clear! Zzzzzz! Now eat!

I go into the kitchen and eat the leftover pizza from dinner—three slices of pepperoni with anchovies—along with a shit-ton of other stuff. I start getting that crampy, drunk feeling again. I sit at the table and feel disgusted with myself.

I glance over at the sink.

God, it would be so easy. Just lean over the sink, take your finger and—

But I don’t want to go there. I’m not turning into some walking, talking, bingeing, puking, made-for-TV train wreck. I get up and head back to my room.

I try to read. No luck. I go online and force my fingers, eyes, and brain to just check my e-mail. I force my fingers NOT to perform Google acts of horror and not to go on torture expeditions at gingerbitch.com.

I have a message that Corey Livingston has requested my friendship. I go to Facebook and accept him, but before I can begin a proper stalking of his profile, he pops up into my chat screen.

Hey, Sid. Good news.

Hey, Corey. Oh?

That website was taken down.

I shrink Facebook and immediately race to gingerbitch.com. Instead of me in my bra, there’s only a blank screen that says,
The site you are looking for was not found.
I’m relieved, of course. I mean, Jesus, who wouldn’t be. But then I start wondering how it is that Corey knows the website is down, unless he went trolling the Internet in search of cheap Sid Murphy thrills. I write him back.

How did u know it was down if u werent on the site? Going 2 gawk or something?

NO!

Long pause.

Then he writes:
I know b/c I’m the one who contacted the server and made them take it down. Thx a lot, Sid.
And he’s pasted a copy of the letter.

Attention Blogpal, I am writing because I am the father of the girl in the pictures on gingerbitch.com (see link). She’s a minor and if you don’t shut that blog down immediately, I’m going to call the authorities and then sue you for every last penny you’ve got. Signed, Ivan A. Kegman, Attorney-at-Law.

And I feel like a total jerk now.

Sorry. I didnt mean 2 say that.

U were upset. Its ok.

Thx. I really appreciate that u did that.

No prob.
Then he writes,
But dont think Ive forgotten the dr pepper incedent. Ur still totally screwed on that one.

Gotcha. Bring it.

Then we both just sit and stare at our screens. I mean, that’s what I do. He could be sewing curtains over there for all I know.

Finally, he writes:
Well. Its late and ur prob tired. Ill let u go.

I pause and try to think of something funny to say. But everything I come up with sounds stupid so I just write:
Thx again. Really.

No prob. Cya at AV Irish.

I write,
Cya Corey
, then I pause, backspace, and leave it at
Cya
.

Then I click myself offline so he won’t know I’m still on Facebook. His user name drops offline, too, and I wonder if he really left, or just fake-left, like me. I look back over our exchange, reading it a few times through. I resist the urge to cut and paste the lines into my BEST IMS OF ALL TIME file, something I often do when I have a really memorable or funny exchange with someone. If we’d chatted about something other than Starsha’s horrid website with pictures of my enormous half-naked breasts on it, I would have saved it. But I don’t want to remember why Corey and I were chatting, just that we were. So I click out, shut it down, and head to the living room to watch late-night TV shows in hopes they’ll make me sleepy. And on my way through the house, I try not to think about how Corey Livingston is not stupid at all. I try not to think about how he was smart enough to write that fake letter, something I was too stupid to think up when I carry a 3.7. I try not to think about how Corey Livingston only misspelled one word during the whole chat—
incident—
and how that’s better than most guys, even with spell-check.

I go to the living room, where my mom is sacked out on the couch. I look at her, all relaxed and dreamy. She’s probably dancing through a meadow with pink butterflies or floating in a gondola with a hot guy feeding her grapes. Doing whatever it is she does when that second layer of Ambien kicks in.

The TV is running, so I sit down on the love seat and pick up where my mom left off.
Iron Chef America
is just starting on Food Network. I settle in to watch our local Cleveland boy, Michael Symon, take a Parisian-trained charlatan to the Kitchen Stadium woodshed. I usually get kind of pumped up watching this show, especially when Iron Mike is swinging the spatula, but my enthusiasm takes a nosedive when, sadly, the mystery ingredient is revealed.

Okra. Bleck.

All those anchovies go darting around my stomach like they’re fighting in a bucket.

I flip up one channel—QVC—Southwest Treasures. Joy. I watch Mary Beth do her chipper best to sell me the most god-awful turquoise nugget necklace ever crafted. Yep, this is it. This should bore me right through the Sandman’s front door.

And an hour later, it’s two o’clock in the morning and I’m still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. All that pizza-anchovy-swill is still slopping around inside me. I turn off the TV and pull the blanket up around my mom. Then I grab my tennis shoes and coat and sneak out the back door.

I’ll run it out of me, this sick, gross feeling. I won’t puke it out. I’ll run it out.

I mean, running is good for you, right?

The snow has finally ceased and it’s a bit warmer than it was a few days ago, but I bring a hat and gloves anyway. The running-until-frozen-solid thing worked great on Friday after Kirsten and I had it out on her porch, but when I actually got home? Not so much. I was raw and wind-burned. I looked like I’d stuck my head and hands in the microwave. My mom was pissed when I came rolling in after dark, heaving and sweating, my face lit up like a jack-o’-lantern. She made me soak my hands in warm water and took the blow dryer to my face, then bitched me out for leaving my phone behind and not calling her for a ride. Thank god she didn’t notice that I had no actual books or paper on me. I’ll have to be more careful about running in bad weather; bundle up, buy some running pants or running tights—or whatever the hell it is runners wear.

Ronan peeks out of his door in the garage and stares at me as I leave the drive. I run around the neighborhood for about an hour, using the street because the sidewalks are knee-deep in snow. I cut down some side streets until I reach The Diner. Shelley Keep It Green is not there, but another girl is working. She is sitting at the counter like a customer and is watching a
Seinfeld
rerun on a TV mounted in the corner. I keep going and pass Johnny Malloy’s Irish Pub, where a drunk comes waddling out, yelling profanities to no one in particular. He nearly knocks me over, and then yells, “Watch where yer goin’!” I cross the street quickly and he yells again, “Ah, I was just joshin’! Don’t be a-scared. Hey! Wanna go fer a drink?”

I run the whole way home. Ronan is still waiting for me in his pen. He rarely gets walked anymore because Mrs. O’Leary’s knees are shot. Her nephew has to come over twice a week to clean his run and cusses like a truck driver the whole time.

I pet Ronan through the fence and tell him that next time, I will take him with me.

11

I am pure exhausted.
I spend most nights with my eyes popped open like dinner plates, jogging the streets with a monstrous-looking dog loping alongside me. I keep pepper spray at the ready because I think Ronan would sooner lick his balls than bite someone, but he is good company and enjoys the late-night adventures. It feels good to run. Not that suicidal, ugly, no-hat-or-gloves type of running I did that one time, but just regular, head-up, well-clothed, bouncy type running that says, “Look at me! I’m a jogger! I heart jogging!”

It feels good, healthy. It’s like this whiteout comes over me and strips everything away until all I can feel and see and hear is the running, my feet rhythmic on the pavement, the burn in my legs and lungs, the road ahead. Plus, the new running shoes I picked up at Geiger’s are kind of cute. I don’t mind occasionally looking down at them. They match my hat and gloves: navy with pink stripes.

My mother has no idea I run at night, sometimes for two and three hours at a time. If she knew, she’d freaking kill me because a)
What sane female jogs at night, Sid?
; b)
You have to get up for school, so get your ass in bed, already
; and c)
You already ran after dinner for two hours so just what in the hell is going on here, young lady?

Ugh. I do. I run after dinner sometimes, too.

I know it sounds crazy—like what kind of nutcase runs four or five hours a day?—but it’s not like I do it all the time. Just on days when I’m really anxious or stressed out. Anyhow, my mom would flip out if she knew about the night running.

Katherine, she’s a sly one. Not a whole lot gets by her. Thankfully, she pops that Ambien at ten forty-five every night, so I just sit and wait for the sleep fairies to whisk her away, then out the door I go.

The downside to all this late-night exercise is that it doesn’t bode well for daytime learning. I’m beat at school. I play catch-up with naps on the weekends when my mom is at open houses and Liam’s at his dad’s. And sometimes after school, before my mom gets home, I’ll lay in Liam’s bed with him and doze while he plays video games or watches cartoons. Mostly, that’s all I do anymore—doze. Deep, uninterrupted, dreamy sleep used to be a must for me, but I don’t like staying still and quiet for that long anymore. One, maybe two hours at a pop, several times, spread out over a twenty-four-hour period, works better now; because when I stay asleep for more than a couple hours or so, my mind gives in. My mind sinks deep down and starts dreaming. It turns into a very vulnerable place, a blank canvas where horror comes to fingerpaint and play. So, no thanks, you can keep the dreaming.