Wishful Thinking (14 page)

“You don’t get it do you?"

“Get what? What in the world am I supposed to be getting?"
 

“Forget it, I have to go." Summer slipped on her jacket her blond hair falling back over her shoulder. The smell of strawberries fluttered across my nose. Ugh, I hated this. Part of me wanted to push her out the door and slam it closed on this drama, but another part of me wanted her too much to allow that.
 

I grabbed her hand, "I’m sorry."

She stood in the doorway for a second, making me believe she might actually be considering my apology as lame as it was.
 

She didn’t look back when she said, “I’ll see you later,” and hurried down the hall.
 

Summer slammed the front door behind her and I watched her run to her car from the loft window. As I watched her Infinity speed down the road around a curve and disappear, I was certain we’d just broken up and part of me didn’t care.

By Friday I was back at school. My dad couldn’t spend another day working from home and I couldn’t handle another second in my bedroom. First half of the day wasn’t too bad, practice exams for SATs started next week so teachers went light on homework. This meant not a lot of catching up for me and extensions on the few assignments I missed.
 

A few players on the rugby team––mostly Ian and Caleb––hassled me about the concussion saying I was better suited to cheer than to play Lock. Which, after hearing Dean’s detailed account of MPA’s town hall meeting and the fate of inter-scholastic sports, it sounded like the whole rugby team would be cheering.
 

“It was a sorry turnout,” Dean said, “fifty people showed up and of them only fifteen argued in favor of continuing rugby.”
 

And, of course, Jefferson High’s deceased student’s mother showed up and made a plea against continuing rugby. When she finished talking there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. I’m sure there wasn’t, just listening to Dean recount her story was making me tear up. I couldn’t imagine her pain, but rugby didn’t cause his death a bad heart did.

 
Anyway, they were supposed to have a decision a week from Monday. Dean didn’t think our chances were good we’d continue playing for school. I assured him that if they canceled we could start our own local chapter if need be. This idea brightened his worried eyes.
 

“I hadn’t even thought of that,” he’d said slapping a hand to his forehead in fourth period. He leaned across his desk and whispered, "Maybe that blow to your head knocked sense into you. Is that possible?”

Now I was leaning in towards Dean, trying to avoid Ms. Perry’s gaze as she walked down the aisle toward her desk lecturing about Tell Tale Heart.
 

“Don’t count on it," I said.
 

Dean leaned back in his seat and Ms. Perry called on him, "Mr. Kingsly why don’t you tell me what the distinction between Tell Tale Heart and A Haunted House, are?”Even if Ms. Perry’s brown eyes, were hidden behind a pair of thick bifocals and lots of bangs, they missed nothing.
 

Dean straightened, a sly smile crossing his lips, "Well, one is about love while the other is about fear …" He continued on while I laughed quietly to myself. He never missed a beat. It would take a lot more than a pointed question and a disdained look from a watchful teacher to ruffle Dean. He worked more efficient under pressure, it was one of many qualities he possessed that I envied. Where I became a stuttering, stammering idiot under pressure, Dean was poised like the pressure was a drug for him.
 

I feared for anyone who tried to stand in his way. I stared back to my desk and my open textbook. If only I had a slight inkling of where my life should head. A flash in my peripheral caught my attention.
 

To my right a little girl came skipping down the aisle. The same little girl who’d been haunting my dreams. Her dark brown pigtails bounced along with her yellow dress. She stopped when she reached me her brown eyes peering up at me. No one else noticed her. Around me, my classmates continued along with the lesson as though this little girl weren’t even here. How could they ignore her as she tapped her feet and twirled next to me?

She had to be real, didn’t she? Blinking and rubbing my eyes didn’t make her disappear.

She cupped a chubby hand around her mouth and whispered, “Franklin,” to me.
 

 
I gripped my desk with both hands hoping to still their shaking. It didn’t work and worse I couldn’t catch my breath.
 

“Who’s Franklin?” I asked.

“James, raise your hand if you have a question,”Ms Perry said.
 

 
The doctors warned me this may happen, hallucinations and all, "The brain deals with trauma in different ways, how an injury can affect it is still vastly uncharted,” they’d said, but could you smell hallucinations? Because I could smell her bubble gum, grape.

It had to be my imagination but it felt so real. Ignoring her didn’t make her go away either she continued to twirl and blow bubbles.
 

Ms. Perry began reading a quote from Poe and I tried to follow but words started to draw together intensifying the pain in my head and I pushed my book away. Familiar white hot pain shot through the right side of my head.
 

I raised my hand, I had to get to the nurse and lay down. Ms. Perry took one look at my face and sent me straight away. I waited outside the steps of the admissions building until a familiar black Escalade pulled up.
 

Maureen Kingsly rolled down the window, "Hey your dad was in court," was all she had to say.
 

Maureen, Dean's mother, was stunning. She was all pouty lips and full breasts with the longest waviest jet black hair and olive colored skin. She was the first woman to make me understand that boy parts did more than pee. I thought about her a lot in my younger days. Until Dean’s fourteenth birthday when after blowing out the candles Maureen leaned over and ruffled his hair. It was then I noticed the striking resemblance between them, the realization made the boners stop. Anyway, I lumbered down the stairs and opened the door as Maureen tucked her briefcase behind my seat.
 

“Not feeling well?” she asked as I shut the door and settled into the passenger seat.
 

“My head is killing me," was all I said before shutting my eyes.
 

“You’re staying with me until your dad gets home," she said, "so I can keep an eye on you sweetie." With that she pulled away.
 

Maureen sent me out to the family room to lie down and once I was comfortably splayed out on their couch she came in with a glass of water and two ibuprofens. “Thanks,” I said. My head was splitting in two.
 

Maureen sat down on the edge of the couch next to me, staring. There was something in the way she was looking at me that had me squirming.
 

She reached a hand up to my forehead and placed her wrist along it. She seemed to be debating something inwardly and then finally pulled her wrist away. Why was she still staring at me, but not saying anything? Another few seconds of awkward silence passed between us. She grabbed my hand and I noticed a tear at the corner of her eye.
 

What the hell?

“I’m sorry," Maureen finally said, “you keep …” She patted my hand. "Did you eat lunch?"
 

“No,” I said. Dean wasn’t kidding about his mom acting weird lately.
 

“You have to eat sweetie." Maureen shook her head and stood up, "I’ll make you a sandwich." She was half-way to the kitchen when she said, "No wonder you don’t feel well, not eating. I didn’t think boys ever missed meals."

I took another sip of water. The pain in my head was lessening and I stood up noticing the framed pictures on the wall. There were dozens more than there had been last week. The photos ranged in varying degrees of silliness. From family photos of all the Kingsly’s (the best being Mr. and Mrs. Kingsly dressed as Herman and Lily Munster and Dean, Teá and Becca dressed as zombies trying to eat them) to pictures of one lone Kingsly kid dressed in a different sports uniform and posing for a picture. And then there were photos of the Kingsly’s extended family. There were grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews.
 

I felt the jealousy churn in my stomach. Why couldn’t I have been born to a big family like this one? There were like zero photos of immediate or extended family hanging on our walls. I could barely recall what aunt Bernice looked like I was so young last time I saw her, or Grandpa Jojo, who used to carve me all matter of wooden figurines.
 

I missed grandpa Jojo. The last time I saw him was when I was nine. During that visit Grandpa’s health was failing so he didn’t do much but sleep for most of the visit. My dad wasn’t coping with an ailing Grandpa Jojo, the fact there was still an unresolved issue they were still fighting about troubled my dad.
 

On one particularly bad day for grandpa during our visit, he couldn’t even get out of bed, dad couldn’t take it and ushered me and mom down to the pier. We road the merry go round, played a few carnival games, and ate enough cotton candy to make a nine year old sick. Best part my parents held hands the entire time and smiled. It was one of the best memories I had of all of us together. For that one day we were happy. More than once my mom hugged me, and dad rustled my hair. Sadly most of my good memories were eclipsed by the memory of finding my mom on the floor.
 

I looked away from the photos and headed to the kitchen. Maureen hummed as she finished making my sandwich and handed it to me.
 

My stomach grumbled. “Thanks,” I said and took a bite. God I missed home cooking. Dad cooked but it was only spaghetti and not very good spaghetti. Most of our meals came from takeout menus or Lean Cuisine.
 

She smiled and poured a glass of orange juice before sitting down in the chair opposite me. She slid the juice my way. I took another bite trying to ignore her green eyes appraising me.
 

"Thanks," I said between bites.

She leaned onto her elbows her chin resting on her clasped hands, "Better?"

I nodded.
 

“Skipping lunch," she rolled her eyes, "never thought I’d see the day a boy skipped lunch.”
 

I opened my mouth to say something and she silenced me with a wave of her hand, "I know I know Dean has made it quite clear you’re men not boys."

“Thanks for picking me up," I said and gulped down a mouthful of juice.
 

“No problem I was leaving the office early anyway Becca has an early out today, and you know how persuasive your father can be."
 

She was regarding me with those teary eyes again. “Though I’ll always see you as nothing more than a little rugrat who destroyed my Begonias every year with your sword. You grow up so quickly."
 

A small laugh escaped my lips. Dean wasn’t kidding when he said his mom was getting all sentimental. Dean and I have the same birthday and since his parents and my own were close we usually celebrated them together. On our seventh birthday Mr. Kingsly hand tooled two identical light sabers for Dean and me. They were detailed right down to the grip marks and on/off switches. Mine was blue, Dean's was red and we played with those light sabers all the time. We played with them so much that for our following birthday my dad bought us each authentic looking Jedi costumes. Dean and I really believed he would be the next Obi Wan and I’d train with Yoda on Dagobah.

“You know as I recall you two were pretty good. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the rebellion had recruited you." Maureen leaned in, "Dean still sometimes sleeps with that sword."

I choked on a mouthful of turkey and cheese. "It’s a light saber," I added after I’d swallowed.
 

She was smiling and waving her hands in the air, "Forgive me, light saber. Still have yours?"

“No, mom threw mine away after I put a chip in the living room wallpaper.”

Her smile faded. “Oh, well, your mom kept a tight ship I suppose."
 

I swallowed hard and looked down at my sandwich. “Do you think my mother was always sad?"
 

Maureen shrugged, “I don’t know, looking back on it the signs were everywhere, but at the time—I couldn’t see it, or maybe I didn’t want to see it."

“Why does everyone blame themselves but not her? She could have reached out, asked for help, but she didn’t."

Maureen’s brow furrowed, “It’s hard for people to admit they have a problem." The way she was staring at me made me think she was no longer talking about my mom.
 

I pushed the last of the sandwich away unable to finish it.

“James––” Maureen started but was interrupted by the slam of the door to the garage. We looked up to see Dean's dad, Ben Kingsly’s, gruff face appear.