Labeled Love (2 page)

I scramble my words, trying to answer her. “School got out early today.”

She grabs her pack of cigarettes lying next to her on the couch cushion and lights one up. Taking a big pull, I hear it sizzle through the red glow. Turning her head in my direction, she asks, “Why?”

I don’t look at her. I don’t like to lie, so I don’t make eye contact. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a holiday.”

“It’s not a fucking holiday, Jace.” I’m surprised she even knows what day it is, but I keep my mouth shut. “Did you get in trouble?”

For the first time, I really did get in trouble, but what was I supposed to do? Let my friend get hassled?

“I never get in trouble. I told you school just got out early.”

She looks up at me, butts out her cigarette, and closes her eyes. I don’t waste time waiting for her to say more. I go to my room where I don’t plan on seeing her again until the next morning. When I close my door, I fall onto my bed. What the fuck was I thinking? I can’t get in the middle of shit. If it had been any other kid, I would have walked away, but it wasn’t. It was the kid everyone picks on. I’d had enough. I had to step in.

MY MOTHER, GRACE,
doesn’t have any protective, caring qualities. She never has been nurturing. I don’t really even know my mother. I’ve always lived with her, but I’ve never
really
known her. I don’t even think she knows herself. She got pregnant with me as a teen. I think she was maybe sixteen. Her parents weren’t kind people, or so she says, since I’ve only ever heard her say they were judgmental of her. It’s that vicious cycle that continues from one fucked-up generation to the next. She has a sister, Joy, that is only a year younger than her. Grace says she doesn’t even know if she and her sister share the same father.

Sad, right? But typical, seeing as my mom can’t tell me who my father is. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

When Grace told my grandparents she was pregnant with me, they weren’t up for the embarrassment of being labeled “the parents with the knocked-up teen,” so they kicked her out. I never met them. We moved to California when I was a baby. This is the only home I’ve ever known. I don’t know how we got here; all I know is it’s only ever been Grace and me. Whatever family is still left is in Oregon.

Her parents are dead.

At least that’s what she told me. Maybe they’re just dead to her. I don’t even know if she talks to her sister. That’s pretty much all I know about my family, and I only know that much, because in elementary school when we had to do a family tree project, that information was the walk down memory lane Grace provided me. She hated every minute of that project, complaining the entire time I asked questions. When I asked about my father, her words were quick, and her tone was harsh.
“You don’t have a father.”
I was crushed. I put the questionnaire down, telling her that was all the questions I needed to ask.

After that, she went and picked up her pack of cigarettes off the counter. As she lit one up, I watched her inhale deeply. When she exhaled, there was a big cloud of smoke that filtered through the air. Pulling in another puff, she walked to the front door, opened it, and walked out. Probably no more than six years old, I sat staring at the questionnaire. While focusing on the little box that had a space to write my father’s name, I grabbed my pencil and filled in the blank. Even at such a young age, I knew that love should be felt. The problem was, how did I feel something when I didn’t have anyone that cared to show me?

“YOU DON’T HAVE
a father.”

I must have replayed her cruel words over and over again through my head for weeks after she told me that. Birthday. Father’s Day. I would hear that voice again and again.

“You don’t have a father.”

The thing is, everyone has a father. Even kids like me who grew up without one. I just never met him.

I always wondered about him, though. I must look like him, as I look nothing like my mother. Grace is on the small side; she’s not super short, but she’s not tall, either. I’m tall for my age. She already has to look up when she talks to me. We are complete opposites in looks. She has dirty blonde hair and dark brown eyes. Her skin is pale white, and she never really tans. I think if her life had been different she probably would’ve aged much more gracefully than she has. However, years of drinking—and I’m sure taking drugs—have taken their toll on her.

She was pretty at one time in her life. I’ve seen pictures of her when she was younger. She has an album full of photos, but she doesn’t keep it out in the open. I just stumbled upon it one day. Inside it are even pictures of her when she was pregnant with me. Maybe there is a picture of my dad in there, but I’ll never know. She put it away somewhere else after she found me looking through it.

Whoever my sperm donor is definitely has a different gene pool. My long, lean, muscular frame—even at my age—is pretty impressive. I don’t even have to work out, and I already look strong and fit.

The biggest differences between my mom and me are my jet-black hair and my light, pale blue eyes. I’m pretty light-skinned, too, but I have no problem tanning, and by being in the California sun all year long, I have a permanent tan. So, I guess old Pops must not have had any problems with the ladies. I’m not being cocky, but at thirteen, I already have girls knocking on my door.

I’m proud to say that I’m a boy with morals. I’ve seen too many things that make me want to look away. I have no problem roughing someone up if they mess with me, though. That’s one thing I won’t shy away from. I just don’t mess with alcohol or drugs. And girls—I’ve never gone there yet, either. Believe me, pretty much all the guys I know have, but somewhere deep inside me, I want more. I want different. I want what I see in the movies and what I hear artists sing about. I want something real, something I can hold on to. I don’t want anything from this place. Girls are one thing, but I’m talking about the big picture. I want a different life than what I’ve had to grow up with.

I dream.

As stupid as it is, I really do dream about what is out there beyond these walls that surround me. I dream of providing for myself and not living off the government. I dream of what I see in the movies: a mom with loving arms and a dad with encouraging words who would move mountains to be with the woman he loves.

I dream this shit.

Even in my pathetic life full of broken words, overflowing ashtrays, and empty beer cans, I still dream. I fall asleep dreaming of a life full of love.

I RUB MY
eyes from the burn of the wafting cigarette smoke first thing in the morning. Even though I shut my bedroom door at night, it still seeps in. I just want to close my eyes and drift back to the dream I was having where my mom was happy-go-lucky, and I had a dad who loved us both more than anything. As my eyes continue to sting, I’m faced with another day in reality where that just isn’t my life.

My gaze finds its way to the dirty popcorn ceiling. Hair falls into my eyes, and instead of throwing it back with my hand, I blow it up to see if I can move it out of the way. It doesn’t work, so I try again just to entertain myself, but really holding off on getting up. Nothing happens, reminding me that nothing changes, and everything stays the same.

I live in Los Angeles, where dreamers come to live out their dreams. Little do those dreamers know that there is already a shitload of people here that want the same thing but will never get it. Is it too much to ask for the kid from the other side of the tracks to get the fairy tale like in the damn movies? Why is it only the girls we hear about who get the damn fairy-tale ending?

I laugh to myself.

I’m pathetic.

Settling my thoughts away, I stretch out and run my fingers through my unruly hair while yawning loudly. I didn’t sleep well last night, but what’s new? I should be able to sleep like a baby with how dark our apartment is. I rarely open the metal blinds that keep out the shadow of the outside world around me. I only have one tiny window, and when I look out of it, the only thing I see is a large bush and the other side of the apartment building. It’s dark and gloomy, and even opening the window provides no natural light. I think the blinds are supposed to be white, but the thick dust makes them look gray. Maybe I should wipe them down. I should wear a mask if I do, since I’d probably choke and later get sick from the amount of dust particles that enter my lungs. In all the years we’ve lived here, I don’t think they’ve been cleaned once.

Curiously, I reach over, swiping my finger over one of the metal slats. Just like I suspected. Tons of particles fill the air. Fascinated by them, I watch as they linger around me until I start to cough.

That’s just gross.

I close my eyes, trying to keep the dust out and think about what woke me last night from my half slumber. Not quite the usual event I have to deal with. This time my interrupted sleep was from something a little more exciting—my bed rattling from an earthquake. I have no idea how long it really lasted since it just felt like a few seconds.

Weird.

I don’t think we’ve had one in a long time, not one I could feel anyway. I’m not big on surprises. Nothing good has ever come as a surprise for me. The only things that surprise me consist of, “Surprise! Your mom didn’t pay the rent again.” “Surprise! There are no clean clothes again.” “Surprise! There are no groceries again.” You know, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing exceptionally exciting. So, yeah, my bed shook for a few seconds last night. I’m sure Grace didn’t feel it. She seems to shake all day long.

I wonder if Grace is even home. You can never tell. Sometimes she works at the hole-in-the-wall bar down the street. She tells me she works there to make extra money on the side. It’s under the table because we get food stamps, and she can’t say she works or she won’t get assistance anymore. I don’t know if she’s telling me the truth or what she even does with the money. I never see any of it, and we rarely have enough food. I’m guessing she spends it on alcohol and cigarettes since she’s never without those.