Empty (13 page)

I head into the living room and turn on the TV. After two commercials for fast food make me hungry again, I turn it off and sit in silence for a while. I even try watching some magic videos on my phone, but quickly abandon that because I can’t stand the people and their confused smiles.

I allow my head to fall back and stare at the ceiling. Everything is pretty messed up right now. After a few minutes, the quiet gets to me. I grab the remote to turn on some background noise. My head won’t shut off, worrying about what school will be like tomorrow and how many people saw that cow drawing. The next thing I know, I’m walking into my mother’s bedroom. The storage box labeled
softball pics & movies
is in my grasp in no time. I close her door behind me and head back to the living room.

The box is heavy—full of me. I’m glad I only have two paces until I can put it down on the coffee table. I sit on the sofa and wring my hands. This box represents my life back when my father loved me. Skinny me. Happy me. The me with two parents who kissed me good night and kissed each other over scrambled eggs in the morning. Complete me. The me I liked.

I reach up and tuck my hair behind my ears.
softball pics & movies.
How could my father have left all of this? He didn’t take a single photo or movie with him. Not one physical memory of our years together accompanied him to his new life. It’s all been sealed away in this box, like a mummy encased in cardboard and clear packing tape. I peel off the tape and remove the lid. A waft of musty paper hits my nose. It reminds me of when we used to decorate our house at Christmas and I’d rummage through the boxes, deciding what decorations my mother and I would hang up next. Stale odor or not, it still smells of living and happy.

I pull out a stack of photos. The first image is of eight-year-old me in my red-and-white softball uniform, both of my arms wrapped around my father’s waist. I’m looking up at him, and he’s looking down at me. We’re both smiling. I’m missing a few teeth. I hold the photo closer to my face. He looks like he loves me. I turn it over. Printed neatly in my
father’s handwriting, it says: Softball Champs—Adele hit winning run.

Maybe my father loved my athletic ability, not me. How could a man love his child and then abandon her? That’s not love. That’s bullshit.

Seeing this photograph fuels my desire to understand my relationship with my father. I search through the box. I read the meticulously labeled DVD cases and grab the one I want:
adele—freshman year—average performance.
This was the last game that my father came to. Two weeks later, my family collapsed into chaos. Even though I’ve never seen this video, I’m confident it is going to prove my theory right.

I push the DVD in and press play. The first thing I hear are the birds. My father must not have known that the camera was on, because all I see is grass and, occasionally, the side of his sneaker. My mother’s voice asks me if I have my water bottle. Still grass on the screen.

Then the shot goes haywire because my father is walking, but the sound is still crystal clear. “Adele, remember, if they move their fielders out toward the fence, hit a grounder. Don’t mess up today. My boss is coming, ’kay?”

That bit of dialogue is an unexpected bonus. Dad definitely didn’t know he was being taped. The screen switches to the field—he is holding the camera.

I watch the whole game, which doesn’t take too long, since my father only videoed when I was up at bat. I struck out once, hit a fly ball to center field for the out, and got an RBI. Not a great game for me. Not my most memorable times at bat. But I remember every single second. I can still smell the fresh-cut grass and see the smoke rising from the neighbor’s yard next to the field as he burned his grass clippings.

“Not your best game, Adele,” I hear my father say. He is zoomed in on my face for reasons unknown.

“Sorry, Dad.” I squint because the sun is in my eyes. Then I smile at the camera. My mother stands next to me. She has a little bulge in her sweatpants. That’s unborn Meggie in there.

Mom asks the camera, “Lenny, is Mr. Thomas coming over for dinner?”

“No, I’m taking him out. I told you that already. Why do I bother talking?”

I study my face carefully to see if my parents’ bickering affects me. I roll my eyes. I appear to be uncomfortable, nervous even, as they go back and forth a few more times about talking and listening. I press stop and lean back on the sofa.

Not once did my father hug me. There was no high five, no compliment. Just a single line of critique.

My theory is correct. My father didn’t love me; he loved my athletic ability.

My eyes dart around the room as I search my memory for more proof. I recall game after game that my father showed me love—but only when I played well.

I toss the DVD back in the box and slam the lid. This was a bad idea. Why am I torturing myself? I put the box away so my mother won’t know that I was in her room, then plop back on the sofa. I wonder if my father would’ve left if Meggie had been a boy. I don’t think he ever wanted me, either. This makes my lips quiver. How shallow and disgusting can one man be? How can this shallow and disgusting man be my father?

I stare at the wall for at least an hour and shift my weight because something is poking my butt through my jeans.

The wad of cash. I forgot about the money for my mother.

“Dell?” my mother calls. She’s home now from wherever the hell she was. I really don’t want to know the details. I’d like to sneak past her and disappear underneath my covers, but I have to give her this money.

I meet her in the kitchen. “I have something for you,” I mumble under my breath.

She stops riffling through the mail and looks at me with a frown. “Speak clearly. Say it again.”

“I said, I have something for you.” I wish I had it in me to get all excited like Cara does. Smile. Squeal.

She raises her eyebrows. Her skin is pale. If she weren’t standing there scowling at me, I’d think she was dead.

I hand her the cash.

“W-what’s this?” she stutters.

“It’s for you.”

She squints. “Where did you get this?” She counts it. “This is a lot of money here. Where did this come from?” She sounds worried—angry, almost.

“It’s all yours. That should help, right?”

She puts the money on the kitchen table and whispers, “Adele, where did that money come from?”

Wow, this is so not turning out how I envisioned it. I imagined my mother hugging me and tears and some oh-you-are-the-best-daughter-a-mom-could-ever-have shit. Not scowls and suspicion. I can’t win.

“Mom, seriously, calm down. I didn’t steal it or anything. I . . . ” I go quiet because I don’t want to tell her I sold the clothes. They’re the same clothes she pesters me to wear every day.

“You what?” she prompts.

I blurt out, “I sold my clothes.”

My mother pounds the counter and throws the mail at me.

I duck and yell, “Oh my God, Mom. You’re acting like I sold crack or gave hand jobs on the corner. What the hell?”

“Hand jobs? What are you talking about?” she yells back.

The moment is officially ruined, so I blabber out the whole story all at once. “I felt bad about last night and how much money Daddy owes you. I thought I could sell the clothes in my closet to help out with bills. So that’s what I did. I sold my clothes. They didn’t fit anyway. There, are you happy now? I’m not some drug-dealing whore. Does that make you happy, Mom? Because all I wanted to do was make you happy.”

I can’t hold back my tears, and this aggravates me. I hate when I’m the only one crying. This makes me fume even more. Before I can stop myself, I punch the wall next to the refrigerator. It makes an indent in the drywall.

“Adele! Stop it! Stopitstopitstopitstopit!” my mother screeches.

“Why is this MY life?” I scream at the top of my lungs. Then I run the five measly steps to the bathroom and slam the door so hard that my towel, which had been hanging on the hook, falls to the ground. I kick it. It is completely unsatisfying, which makes me want to punch something again. I slam down the toilet lid and sit. After rocking back and forth a few times, I realize that I can’t stay in here all night. I need to let the rage out.

I fling open the bathroom door, ready to stomp across the hall, when I hear Meggie whimpering in our room.

“Damnit.” I cringe and turn my head, fully expecting my
mother to come flying down the hallway, furious that I’ve woken Meggie up.

She doesn’t.

I wait a few minutes to see if she will fall back to sleep on her own. My hand hurts from punching the wall. I rub it as anger bashes my insides—my heart, my brain.

I can’t stand here another second. I need to do something.

I tiptoe into my room and slide into my bed. I want to kick my feet and curse and go completely nuts, but I can’t. Meggie’s settled herself, and I don’t want to wake her again, so I clutch my pillow and silently scream into it. I press my face down into my pillow, deeper, deeper, deeper.

My mother doesn’t come to apologize or comfort me, and I guess I fall asleep, because when I open my eyes it’s pitch-black. My first thought? How could she not have checked on me? How could she let me melt down alone? Doesn’t she care how I feel? My answer is: no.

My mother is a zombie. Her heart is dead. Her soul is withered.

My alarm clock says it’s 2:46. I sit up and blink a few times. My stomach growls, and my eyes hurt. My eyelids feel like I put Novocain in them. You know, like when you come from the dentist and your lips feel like you shoved a football underneath the skin? That’s how my eyes feel.

I walk down to the bathroom. My skin is red and blotchy, and my eyes are swollen to slits. I splash cold water on my face and let it run down my neck. I’m hoping it’ll wake me up. My whole body feels numb. I puff my cheeks with air a few times and check the mirror to see if I look more alive. I look the same. I brush my teeth and pee.

I check my reflection again, and it’s just as awful.

•  •  •

The next day in English class, I’m focused on getting my stuff organized on my desk and ignoring that Sydney’s behind me. Mrs. Salvatore has her back to us, writing discussion questions on the whiteboard. The sound of her squeaking marker blends with that of student voices. We’re allowed to talk to each other, but only until she stops writing and starts class with her usual “Game on, people, game on.” Then we all have to shut up.

Sydney taps me on the shoulder.

I just turn my head. “Hey.” I don’t want to talk to her, be interrogated by her, or have her tell me things I’m not supposed to know—like how Taryn’s got the hots for Jacob. I look back up front.

She taps me again.

“Dell?” She sounds nervous.

I swivel in my seat this time.

Her eyes drop, and she leans forward, her hair touching
the desk. I’m waiting for her to start talking, but her face twists into a weird frowny wince.

“Are you all right?” I ask. She looks constipated.

“I have to tell you something,” she whispers through clenched teeth.

Right away, two thoughts cross my mind:

1. Sydney told Taryn that I went upstairs with Brandon at Melissa’s party, and they both assume that I had sex with Brandon.

2. Sydney drew the cow and taped it to my locker.

“Game on, people, game on!” Mrs. Salvatore announces from the front.

“Forget it,” Sydney says. “Never mind.”

As my heart slows down a little, I raise my eyebrows and shrug. Sydney closes her eyes. She is acting so bizarre. I face front and leave her to her thoughts.

I WANT A LOT OF THINGS I CAN NEVER HAVE: A
different body, my virginity back, for Brandon and whoever taped that drawing to my locker to explode like watermelons stuffed with dynamite, a best friend who would die for me, way less math homework, and cute clothes to wear for the talent show on Friday.

At yesterday’s rehearsal, I decided I’m lucky to have a friend, and let Cara talk me into sticking with the talent show. Now I am sitting in the cafeteria, pushing dressing-soaked salad around on my tray. I’m back on a diet and gave myself a verbal lashing in the mirror this morning
before school. I really let myself have it for eating those cookies and chips.

Cara says, “You have to smile at the end, Dell. You looked scared up there yesterday. Just smile, and it’ll make the audience think you’re a pro.”

“I’m not a pro, Cara. What’s the opposite of pro?”

“Amateur.”

“I’m below an amateur.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s what I’m talking about. You don’t have to let the audience know that. Will you listen to me for once? What are you wearing? You haven’t said a word.” She grimaces. “I’m worried.”

With my fork, I roll a cherry tomato from one side of the tray to the other. “You’re worried? Way to have faith in me.” I shove a bite of lettuce into my mouth so that I don’t have to say anything else.

“You’re avoiding the question! You are not wearing jeans, are you? Look me in the eye and tell me you have something to wear tomorrow night. Don’t embarrass us.”