RAGE (3 page)

The closer I got to my house, the heavier my feet became and the slower I walked. I didn’t want to go inside that house and face him. I never wanted to. But there was nowhere else to go. So I crept up on the porch and eased my way into the house. As quietly as I could, I crept to my room. I didn’t know where he was, but I didn’t want to find out.

I made it all the way into my room and managed to shut the door without running into him. I sat on my bed quietly and unzipped my backpack, worried that the zipper - which seemed extremely loud to me - would draw the attention of the man I despised.

I took out my English Lit book and tried to work my way through the sea mariner story. I wanted to get it. I wanted to understand what it meant. But I just didn’t. I kept reading it, and the words kept not making any sense to me.

Then, a loud banging on my door made me jump, knocking the book off my lap and onto the floor, where it landed open, face-down, creasing many of the pages.

I closed my eyes and wished he’d go away.

“Brian,” he yelled through the door. “Get out here.”

I didn’t want to. But I knew that if I didn’t, things would only be worse for me. A hard lesson learned a hard way.

Slowly, I got off the bed and walked across the room. My heart raced. My palms grew damp. Reluctantly, I opened the door and faced him.

Filling the doorway to the top but not nearly to the sides, his long, bony body wobbled. He raised his left arm and put it against the doorframe, bracing himself. His shoulder-length hair looked especially stringy today. He’d obviously attempted to straighten his goatee, but in the process had made it uneven. It must be difficult to function when you were always drunk.

He stared at me for a minute, swaying. His dark eyes were glassy, and when he spoke, his speech was slurred.

“Get your ass in here.” He turned and stumbled his way down the hall toward the living room, keeping one hand on the wall to steady himself.

I followed.

“Make me something to eat.” He pointed to the kitchen as he plopped down on the couch. Without a shirt to cover his upper body, I could see every one of his ribs. And every one of his ugly tattoos.

A lump the size of a baseball had formed in my throat and I tried to swallow it. I had no idea what he wanted to eat. I never knew. I just had to make something with what little we had and hope for the best. This rarely worked out well for me.

After rummaging through the cabinets and refrigerator, I found a few pieces of bread and a couple slices of cheese, but no meat to go with it. We had little else, so I made a grilled cheese sandwich, and hoped like hell he’d leave me alone.

I took it to him on a saucer and stood over him, waiting. He lay on the couch, one leg thrown up on the back of the couch the other on the floor, with his right arm draped over his eyes.

“Travis,” I whispered.

He grunted, and then moved his arm from his eyes, trying to focus on me.

“Here.” I held out the saucer for him to take.

He struggled to sit up. When he did, he looked at the sandwich. Then at me. Then at the sandwich. Then at me. Then, he used his G-O-O-D hand to knock the saucer from my hands. I watched the sandwich plop to the floor, gooey cheese spilling out from between the slices of bread.

He stood, angry.

“Do I look like I’m fucking three years old? Well, do I?” he screamed.

I shook my head.

“Then what the fuck are you doing making that shit? I said make me something to eat, not something to nibble on. Goddamn retard.”

“We don’t have anything else,” I managed to say, though it was barely above a whisper. I wanted to remind him that it was his fault we never had any food. My mother gave him money for groceries, but he spent it all on beer and cigarettes. He had no one to blame but himself.

“We have plenty!” he shouted.

Then, he used his E-V-I-L hand to backhand me across the face so hard, I was certain that if I looked in the mirror I would actually be able to see the letters of his tattoo on my face. My right cheek felt as though it had been hit by lightning. I heard my neck pop as it jerked to the side. I stumbled, but managed to not fall down this time.

I fought back tears. I wouldn’t let him see me cry.

“You fucking brat. Clean this shit up and take your ass to your room. And you can forget about supper. You don’t deserve to eat.” He half-plopped, half-fell back down on the couch and added, “Idiot.”

Worse than the things he said to me was the way he looked at me. I knew he hated me. Even if he didn’t do the things to me that he did, I would know just by the look on his face that he despised me. I found it weird that he could hate me so much and still come into my room at night and do what he did to me.

I picked up the saucer, which hadn’t broken this time, and the grilled cheese. I walked them to the kitchen. I put the saucer in the sink and the sandwich in my pocket, gooey cheese and all. Then, I tiptoed back to my room trying to avoid further confrontations.

I took the sandwich out of my pocket, made sure it wasn’t too dirty, then sat on my bed and nibbled on it. He might not care if I starved, but I did.

As I ate, I thought about my mom. I hardly ever got to see her. She was a waitress at Jack’s Diner. She and Jack had an agreement. Since she was a good waitress and she needed two jobs to survive, he let her work sixteen hours a day, the same as if she’d had another job somewhere else. She worked from two in the afternoon until six in the morning. And she did it six days a week, sometimes seven.

I missed her. She wasn’t perfect and she’d made mistakes, but she was still my mom. I still loved her.

We’d been pretty close when my dad was still alive. But after he died, we drifted apart. We were both really sad, and I guess we dealt with it in different ways. Then, she met Travis. Things hadn’t been the same since.

Once, when she was dating him, she asked me what I thought of him. I told her I didn’t like him. I thought maybe she’d stop seeing him, but she didn’t. She told me I’d better learn to like him because he was going to be my new dad. But that wasn’t true. Travis wasn’t my dad. He wasn’t even close. My dad would’ve never done the things to me that Travis did.

Travis didn’t work. He hadn’t worked the whole time he’d been with my mom, and I doubted that he’d ever had a job in his life. But that didn’t stop him from drinking and smoking and blowing the money my mom worked so hard for. One of the reasons I hated him was because if he worked more, my mom could work less and we could spend more time together. But he was lazy and wouldn’t do anything except sit around and drink.

However, he always found enough energy to beat me. It had started out as slaps, but once he saw that he could get away with that, he went for it all. He’d kicked me, punched me, spit on me, slapped me, hit me with his belt - buckle and all, and had even pulled a knife on me once and said he ought to kill me. I looked into his eyes as he’d said it, and I had no doubt then or now that he’d meant it. He wanted to kill me. I wish he would have.

He was always telling me how I should’ve never been born, and that I was the reason my mom had to work so much. He said that my dad had died just to get away from me. I knew these things weren’t true. My mom worked hard because he wouldn’t, and my dad had died in a car wreck when I was six. He’d been hit by a drunk driver. Probably someone like Travis.

Mom didn’t know what Travis did to me. She was never around to see it for herself, and when she asked about any bruises on me she might see, Travis was always there, quick to tell her how clumsy I was.

And then there was the other thing he did to me. I’d only been seven when he and my mom got together, and I was eight when he’d started coming into my room. My mom didn’t know about that, either. I couldn’t tell her because Travis was always around.

I really did hate him. But there wasn’t much I could do about it. I was only thirteen years old.

The rest of the night, I stayed in my room, hungry and thirsty, with the exception of the one time I had to go to the bathroom. I’d held it as long as I could.

It was after midnight when I quietly sneaked across the hall and into the bathroom, and peed as quickly and quietly as I possibly could. Before returning to my room, I bent over and drank some water from the sink faucet.

Then, I tiptoed back to my room and shut the door.

I got back in bed and pulled the covers over me. I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to find me again.

Then I smelled him. Beer breath and body odor. His trademark smells.

I slowly opened my eyes and turned my head to face him. I couldn’t see him in the dark, but I imagined his unshaven face with the lines around his eyes and mouth. I’d spent a lot of years staring at that face, wishing I could make him disappear. It was the same face that haunted my nightmares.

“You know what to do,” he grumbled.

Briefly, I considered not doing anything. I wondered if I just lay there, if maybe he’d go away or pass out. But I knew that wouldn’t happen. I knew what would happen, though. It had happened before. He would beat me, and then it would happen anyway. So my only option was do it with or without a beating.

As much as I hated to, I took off my shorts and my underwear.

After I dressed for school Tuesday morning, I walked out of my room, turned left and crept down the hallway to my mother’s bedroom where she and Travis were sleeping. I slowly pushed open the door, hoping not to wake her.

Watching her as she slept, I wished things were the way they were when my dad was still alive. I’d give anything for it to be my father lying beside her instead of that monster.

I shut the door and left for school, skipping breakfast. We didn’t have anything to eat anyway and I wasn’t hungry now. I’d been starving last night, but after finding Travis in my bed, I had lost my appetite.

At school, I hung my backpack in my locker and headed to Algebra, praying I didn’t have a run-in with Dominic. I kept my head down and made myself as invisible as possible. And it worked.

Shortly after I sat down, Mrs. Schmitz began talking. I tried to focus, but my mind kept wandering. Twice, it wandered so far, I forgot where I was. It was a surprise to look up and realize I was sitting in class. I saw other kids writing in their notebooks while the teacher graded papers at her desk, but I had no idea what our assignment was or what I should be doing. So I just sat there.

It was the same thing in English Lit. I wanted to pay attention, but couldn’t. All I could think about was my mom and my dad, and how things used to be. And of course how they were now. I couldn’t forget that.

For homework, we were assigned a story to read and were told to write a summary about it. Then, the bell rang and everyone scattered to their next class.

I walked to my locker with my head down as always, being pushed along and bumped by other kids as they rushed through the hall. As I wondered what it must feel like to be eager to get somewhere, I opened my locker door, unzipped my backpack to put my English Lit book inside it, and that’s when I saw it.

At first, I just stared at it. I couldn’t be seeing what I was seeing.

I pulled down the flap of my backpack and tilted my head to the left to allow in more light so I could see. Unfortunately, this maneuver also allowed me to smell. I realized that it really was what I thought it was.

Lying in the bottom of my worn backpack was a dead cat.

Suddenly, I heard laughter. A lot of laughter.

I turned and saw Dominic, Taylor, Spencer, and about ten other boys standing on the other side of the hallway laughing and pointing at me. Garrett was the only one of them not laughing.

“Thought you might like a little pussy, Boozer,” Dominic said, creating a whole new roar of laughter from the group.

I said nothing. I stood there like a fool once more, English Lit book in one hand, the other clenched into a fist.

“You like it?” Dominic asked.

“Take it out,” I said quieter than I would’ve liked, but firmly.

“What was that?” he asked, stepping closer to me.

“I said take it out.” I had to fight to keep my voice steady, though it cracked.

“Why? Don’t you like pussy, Boozer? Or do you prefer cocks?”

His audience chuckled.

I trembled inside with anger.

“I just want you to take it out.” Then I added, “Please.”

He turned and looked back at his followers. “You boys hear that? He’s begging me to take it out.” Then, he turned back to me and said, “That’s probably what his girlfriend would say. If he had one.”

More laughter.

Dominic stepped even closer to me. He leaned down toward my face and said, “If I take it out, I’ll shove it up your ass. Do you still want me to take it out, Boozer Loser?”

I shook my head no, still angry but having lost the will to stand up to them.

“That’s what I thought,” he said jabbing my forehead with his finger. He walked back to his group. They were all looking at him like he was a rock star.

I struggled to stop my chin from quivering.

Dominic turned to me and said, “Take it home, Boozer. Have your way with it. It’ll probably be the only pussy you ever get.”

The group roared with laughter as they walked away, some of them fist-bumping Dominic as congratulations.

I unclenched my fist. Feeling a tickle in my palm, I brought up my hand and looked at it. There were four bleeding arches in my palm where my fingernails had cut into the flesh.

Looking down at my feet, I blinked rapidly a few times to clear away the tears that wanted to come. When I had it under control, I turned back to my locker.

I zipped the backpack and put my book on the shelf. I would have to carry my books home. I’d leave the cat in the backpack until I got home and could bury it. What other choice did I have?

Just as I grabbed my History book, the bell rang. Great. Now I was late for class. Everyone would stare at me and giggle when I walked into the room. I hated it, but I was used to it. It had been happening to me for too many years to count.

Just as I predicted, everyone stared and a few kids giggled at me when I walked into the room late. One girl leaned toward another girl and whispered in her ear, never taking her eyes off me. I took my seat, pretending not to notice. The teacher kept on talking as if there’d been no interruption.

It was an uneventful class, other than I failed a test. It didn’t surprise me. I failed most tests. It wasn’t that I didn’t try. History was a dry subject and meant nothing to me. It was boring. Every time I tried to read from the book, my mind ended up somewhere else. It was the same thing when I took the test. I read the questions, but as I read through the multiple choice answers, my thoughts strayed. So I guessed. And apparently, I guessed wrong.

My thoughts didn’t stray in Woodworking, though.

“I’m really glad you’re helping me,” said Carly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I looked at her as she smiled at me. She’d gotten a new haircut and was even prettier today than yesterday. Not wanting to take my eyes off her but not wanting to seem like a creep, I turned my attention back to her shelf.

“I’d probably flunk this class,” she continued.

I looked at her again.

She added, “You know, if it weren’t for you helping me.”

“Flunking isn’t so bad,” I said quietly.

She looked at me for a second, then asked, “You’re flunking a lot of classes, aren’t you, Brian?”

I couldn’t lie. She had most classes with me and knew as well as I did that I wasn’t doing well.

I nodded.

“Why? You seem like a real smart guy. Why are you flunking?”

To keep her from seeing the pain that was surely written all over my face, I looked away from her and shrugged.

“You’re flunking and you don’t know why?” she asked.

I looked back at her. I wondered if I could trust her with anything.

“I just don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?”

“Like the story in English Lit about the bird and the sea mariner. I don’t get it. I don’t know what the bird had to do with the story and don’t get what the story is even about. And in Algebra with the square roots. I hear the teacher talking, but I can’t seem to focus on what she’s saying. It just doesn’t click in my head.”

I looked at Carly, suddenly very embarrassed. I couldn’t believe I’d just told her so much about me. I felt stupid. I looked away from her quickly, hoping she wouldn’t realize how stupid I really was.

“Are you blushing, Brian?” she asked with a smile.

“No,” I said.

“Yes, you are. Why? It’s nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed about. Lots of people don’t get it.”

“Well then how come lots of people aren’t flunking all their classes?” I asked, a little harsher than I’d intended.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they have tutors.”

“Tutors?” I looked at her. She really wasn’t going to laugh at me. She was serious.

“Yeah. You know, they help you with your homework. They help you understand it and stuff. They help you get it,” she said, smiling as she tapped my elbow with hers.

“Do you have a tutor?”

“No, but my mom makes me bring home all my books from all my classes everyday and go over everything we did in class again, just to make sure I get it and understand it. So everything we do in school today, I’ll have to do again when I get home. Nice, huh?” She smiled.

“That doesn’t sound fun at all.”

“It’s not.”

We looked at each other for a few seconds, and then I turned my attention back to her shelf.

She watched me work in silence for a little while. I didn’t mind her watching me. It made me a little nervous, but I liked knowing I was the center of her attention. I never wanted to be the center of anyone’s attention. In fact, I’d spent my whole life doing everything I could to not draw attention to myself. But with her, I loved it.

“If you want, I could help you with your homework sometime.”

I stopped working on her shelf. No one had ever offered to do anything for me before.

My brows crunched together as I looked at her, and she smiled.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I have to do it all over again anyway. I might as well help somebody with it while I do it.”

“That’d be nice.”

She grabbed her notebook and tore off the corner of a sheet of paper. She wrote on it and handed it to me.

“That’s my phone number. Call me when you get started on your homework and we’ll do it together.”

I took the paper, glanced at it, and stuffed it into my pocket. My heart raced. I’d never had anyone offer help, and I’d never had a girl give me their number. And here she was, doing both. Another reason I liked her so much.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her we didn’t have a phone.