Cheated (8 page)

“Is this Mick Salisbury?” a booming male voice asked.

I grunted acknowledgment.

“This is Joseph Snider, Nicole's father.” The edge of the hurricane shouted through the phone. “Stop bothering my daughter. If you call again, I'll call the police. Do you understand?”

Can you actually hear or feel your heart break?

For me, the answer was yes. Although the worst feeling wasn't in my heart, but in my guts. It felt like they were on fire. It was the first day of school, the day after the party at Rex's house, the day my life as I knew it and wanted it to be ended. I knew that Nicole was getting back into town late, so I wouldn't have a chance to talk to her before the first day of school. That may have been one of the longest nights of my life, my head swimming in rum, trying to drown out what I'd done with Roxanne. I kept telling myself that it didn't really happen, that it was a dream or maybe a nightmare. I told myself that nobody saw it or, if they did, nobody would tell Nicole. I told myself to relax, but I couldn't. The heavy burden of the lie was like a weight across my chest, crushing my ribs, which cut into my heart. In the morning, everything was fine. We saw each other before school, made plans to sit together at lunch, and talked about having history class together after lunch. But I was history by then. Nicole was waiting for me by my locker at lunch; she must have gotten out of class early. I could tell she'd been crying, but I refused to believe it until she said, “Mick, I hate you.” Before I could lie, she told me what I had done with Roxanne at the party. Before I could explain or ask who told on me, she said she didn't want to see me ever again. Before I could breathe, she told me that I was a terrible person and she wished I was dead. Before I could agree, she was gone. Gone from my sight, gone from my life. We'd see each other in history class, but we had no future. As I stood by my
locker, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the hallway, filling my ears, no tears filled my eyes even though I felt like crying. Instead, I let the anger flood in: anger at myself, anger at Roxanne, but most of all, anger at the person who told Nicole about Roxanne. What right did they have to ruin my life? What kind of person would do something like that? I didn't have a mirror in the locker and I didn't need one to know what kind of person would do that: a person like me
.

I wanted to hurl the phone through the kitchen window and shatter the glass. I wanted to then roll in the sharp shards, opening a thousand tiny cuts to help the blood leave my body.

I was frozen in my hot rage, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Even slamming the door over and over in time to the cranked up
Dark Side of the Moon
CD offered no release. I called Brody's house, but he was still at school. I left a message to meet up at Space Invaders in an hour. I tried to sleep, but sleep and salvation from pain took different roads. I resolved never to ask out another girl, never to fall in love, never to take the risk. I cracked all my fingers and toes, the snap, crackle, and pop of the joints—liquid exploding, Mr. Gates said—sounded like fire.

I looked at the clock; the square red numbers taunted me. I decided on one more futile act of frustration. I dialed the phone again, but this time there's no machine, only the helpful voice that answered loudly because the background noise was enough to wake the dead and dying: “Thank you for calling Chico's, the premier women's clothing experience featuring exceptional service and one-of-a-kind styles. How can we help you?”

“I need to speak to Linda Salisbury,” I mumbled.

“One moment, please.” The chipper voice clipped off the words, annoyance replacing exuberance. I braced myself to
hear the hold message of sale items and bad music. I thought that was what I needed: to put my life on hold. To not have to go to school or be in love or even hang with friends, just to be in some sort of suspended state until I figured things out.

“She's with customers right now, could she—”

“I'll hold.”

There was no acknowledgment, just the return of comforting sounds. I thought about Mom waiting on people who made five times as much as she does even if she worked five times harder.

“Mick, what's wrong?” Mom sounded out of breath.

I wanted to say,
Mom, everything is wrong right now, can you tell me what to do?
But no words came; I couldn't tell her I just called to hear her voice, to calm me down, to set me right.

“Mick, I'm really busy, what is it?”

“Um, I just wanted to tell you something,” I said, trying to talk fast. “It's an away football game, so I might be home late, that's all.”

There was dead silence.

“Mom, thanks for the cash,” I said as I stopped myself from telling the truth because it was the right thing to do. Let Mom believe I'm going to homecoming. Let her believe I was in love. Let her believe; let the lie live.

“I just want you to be happy,” she said. I hoped she was smiling now. But within me, only dark clouds hovered. I wanted to shout into the phone,
Mom, you know what's the worst of all of this? I feel bad for treating you like this and lying to you. I just want you to love me and be proud of me.
But Mom, I know that you'll always love me no matter what I do, so I guess I can do anything because I know you'll forgive me. You'll never leave or reject me, always protect me. You're powerless
.

“I have to go,” she said, then added a quick “I love you” but I didn't get time to respond—not with those words; they embarrassed me—or even to say, “Thanks, Mom,” before she hung up.

I was getting ready to leave about ten minutes later, when the phone rang again. It was ex-Dad. He never called just to talk, so I knew it wasn't good news, just more of his bullshit.

“Hello, son,” ex-Dad said, like saying the word
son
made the word mean something.

“Hey.” I wouldn't return the father-son serve.

“Listen, Mick, something's come up,” ex-Dad started. “So, I don't think we'll be able to get together this weekend, but we have the Lion's game next Sunday.”

I just grunted, not caring about missing the court-mandated father-son bonding ritual at all.

“Like I said, it's a work thing.” I recognized the untruthful tone in ex-Dad's voice.

“Homecoming's next weekend. I need money for a ticket,” I said without a pause, as I thought,
You can lie to Mom all you want, but you won't do it to me, you bastard
.

“You're going?” Since I rarely responded to his constant commentary about women's bodies, I assumed ex-Dad might have wondered if I was gay. So this lie also made everyone happy.

“I need sixty dollars for tickets. Can you mail it?” I knew since my parents never talked, only exchanged e-mails and angry driveway stares, that I wouldn't get caught.

Before the words came, ex-Dad sighed, a sound I've heard most of my life. The sigh reminded me of sign language: The sigh was a shortcut symbol of ex-Dad's frustrated impatience with anything and everything that I said or did. The sigh was the smoke from the angry fire that flared up with each step I took that he disliked. “Did you ask your mother?” he finally responded.

I waited for a second; what's one lie to ex-Dad, when lies were mostly all he knew. “She doesn't have enough money,” I said as I twisted the bitter truth and the guilt knife a little deeper. “Was your check late again?”

Another sigh; more smoke. “Okay, fine.”

“Promise?”

One last sigh. “I promise,” ex-Dad said, and I buried my laughter. I wanted to say,
Dad, is this a promise like the one you made to Mom? Like the promise you make every year about how we're going to go hunting, fishing—anything? The truth is that all your promises are lies
.

“So I'll see you,” I said, then twisted it in deeper. “Unless there's another work thing.” I hung up the phone, slammed every door behind me, then walked out in the fall air, the gale breeze of deceit at my back. Why should I tell the truth to someone who had lied to me all my life?

What's the hardest thing you've ever had to tell someone?

Brody never said a word to me after Dad and the mystery woman walked away from us that day at the mall. He kind of shrugged his shoulders, saying without words, Dude, I don't know what you should do. We went on to the arcade, like nothing had happened. Played pool, pinball, racing games, the usual—even if everything in my life, in just a matter of seconds, wasn't how it used to be. On the way home, I didn't say anything. I was as mute as Brody's mom who didn't say a word while his older brothers teased Brody, pulled his hair, and called him names. Brody took it like a man, so I guess I needed to be a man, too
.

Mom was sitting at the kitchen table wearing a sweater in the summer since the air conditioner was blasting. She was drinking a coffee she must have picked up from Starbucks and making out a shopping list. I didn't get any more than two feet into the room before she knew something was wrong. I told myself if she didn't ask me, I wouldn't say anything. I wouldn't lie for my father, but I wouldn't feel a need to tell the truth. But she spoke. “Mick, what's wrong?”

I tried to leave the room, but she wasn't having any of it. I tried not to talk with her, but she kept smothering me with questions. I tried, but I failed. “Mom, I have to tell you something,” I started, not knowing how I would finish, only knowing it would end badly
.

“You can tell me anything,” she said. And I did. I could almost see her brain working, putting together all my father's late nights at the office with other clues that she couldn't see because she hadn't been looking. We were both crying within a few minutes
.

“I'm sorry,” I said, but she wouldn't have it. She hugged me instead
.

“Mick, you don't need to apologize,” she said through her tears. “You did the right thing. You saw something wrong, and you told me about it.”

“But Dad asked me not to,” I reminded her
.

“He betrayed me, Mick. You don't owe him anything,” she said, tears of shock turning to sadness turning to bitterness in a matter of moments
.

“But—” I started, but had nothing else to say. I felt overwhelmed by emotion. I was a victim of both circumstance and coincidence, like an accident victim finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Only difference was I saw the car coming toward me, and I stepped in front of it. We talked more until our voices were raw and our eyes were dry
.

As I walked into my room, my mom hugged me one more time. “Mick, you did the right thing. You told the truth. Always tell the truth, Mick, no matter what the consequences,” she said, and then kissed me on the forehead for the first time in years
.

I couldn't sleep that night, not just because my brain was racing, but also because of the shouts, door slams, and finally car tires squealing. I had told the truth; I had
betrayed my father, who had betrayed my mother. I can't sleep now, not just because of the stress, but because of the wondering, worrying, and waiting for the last line of the triangle to be drawn
.

Space Invaders was packed with people like Brody and me with nothing better to do. I barely caught the last bus to the mall. Before I left, I called Aaron to arrange for his stepdad to pick us up and take us to the school parking lot. From there, we'd pretend to get on a bus, before heading over to Aaron's sister's trailer.

The sound of old Rolling Stones music crashed through the speakers. “Gimme Shelter” boomed loud. I jingled the change in my pocket I'd drop in the jukebox to kick out Zeppelin. Among the mostly older out-of-high-school-not-in-college crowd, I saw Creek kids who, like Brody, Aaron, and me, lacked school spirit or maybe planned to drink spirits instead.

Brody joined me at the pool table for the ritual slaughter on green felt. Hand-eye coordination was another area where I was cheated. I also couldn't really concentrate with my brain working overtime on the events of the day. I was trying not to let this anger overwhelm me, but it was hard. So I made an attempt at humor, preparing to do one of my trademark mock interviews. Before Brody broke for the last game, I held my pool cue up close to my mouth, like it was a microphone. I found the security camera, then waved for Brody to stand by me. I showed him the camera, then started, “We're standing with Brody Warren, the teen pool wizard. Tell me, how do you do it?”

“Well, Mick, I know how to handle my stick,” Brody said, then winked.

“That's what all the ladies say about you as well,” I replied, then we high-fived.

“And my stick is bigger than anybody's,” Brody cracked, taking hold of the fake mic.

“So you're saying pool is all about your stick, and the balls?” I was trying not to laugh.

“You gotta control your balls,” Brody said, then grabbed his crotch.

“As a matter of fact, don't you—” I started, but Brody cut me off.

“Dude, this interview is so over, look at that!” Brody said as he jabbed his elbow into my ribs then pointed to a hot blond girl standing next to the jukebox. She was wearing an old leather jacket and a brand new kiss-me, bloodred lipstick smile. “I bet she's a filthy first timer.”

I was uncomfortable with Brody's macho male bonding, even if I was more than used to it. “Why don't you to talk to her, Brody?” I told him.

“She's all yours!” Brody shouted over the music, through the dozens of conversations, and all the way to the ceiling. He bumped me out of the way, took the shot, sunk three on the break, and let out a loud yell. All eyes turned to our table, and I locked eyes with the blond.