The Downside of Being Charlie (27 page)

We pull into our driveway and Dad wakes up Mom, who starts crying when she sees our house. I can't tell if it's because she's happy to be back home or because she'd rather be anywhere but here. Maybe it's both. I can't decide either.

Our house is dark and cold when we get inside, and I get this crazy urge to yell at the top of my lungs because it seems so empty. All I want to do is fill it up with something.

Dad takes Mom upstairs to their room and puts her in bed. We both sit down on the bed with her. What do we do now? Dad takes a deep breath and tells Mom—us—that we're going to get some help. Mom doesn't say anything, but at least she's there. Her eyes register understanding and I think . . . maybe, relief. Then we all stay put for a long time. I lie down at the foot of the bed and stare at the ceiling and hear the unmistakable hiss of a school bus. I wonder what day it is, and wait for what we do next. Find help.

H
elp—it turns out—is Mom going to some sort of facility called New Day Treatment Center. I don't exactly know what it treats, and when we make the two-hour drive a day later to take Mom there, I keep looking around wondering if everyone I see is crazy. The staff is dressed in regular clothing, not white scrubs or anything like that, but they do wear cards around their neck that they slide through black slots on the walls to open doors. Besides that, it seems like a nice place, and the people who work there all have nice smiles and kind eyes that make you feel choked up.

Mom's room is small, and the walls are a buttery yellow that feels like you're in someone's living room. It's nice and I'm glad it's not blue or green or some other color that's supposed to be calming but is really just very cold and hospital-y. There are two beds, but Mom doesn't seem to have a roommate. That seems funny to me, Mom having a roommate, but then I feel bad that Mom might have to share a room with some stranger.

A lady comes in and tells us we can visit for an hour and walk around the facility even, but then we have to leave. Dad looks at her and nods, and Mom fidgets nervously with her hair. My parents suddenly strike me as
very clueless, and it seems weird to me that they should have to listen to this woman, that they need direction and they don't really know what to do. My parents have never been those perfect parents, but it's weird that they are still so human and messed up.

We follow the suggestion of the lady—whose name is Kelly, the program facilitator—and go outside for a walk. It's cold and gray and although there are a lot of trees along the path, they are bare with long leafless branches. I'm glad when Kelly comes to the family area an hour later where the three of us are sitting, and gently tells us it's time to go. Mom and Dad hug for a long time, and I suddenly realize that despite all the incredible crap we've been through, they still actually love each other. Then it's my turn, and there's so much I want to say to her like I'll miss you and we'll be back and we're not leaving you. I want her to understand we're not leaving her. But for now all I can manage is
love you
as I hold her tight. And then Kelly is leading Mom down the hall, and we watch her go.

When Dad asks the girl at the front desk for information on therapists in our area, I'm relieved. Maybe you're not supposed to want to talk to a therapist and maybe I'm weird because I do, but I just want to tell someone about all this crazy stuff in my head and get it out. I want to tell someone who doesn't know me and who won't sit there feeling sorry for me. Who knows, maybe it will suck, and maybe there's a reason why most people get uneasy around therapists. But I hope it doesn't because I think I'm ready to stop bottling up everything and carrying it around with me.

The girl gives Dad some business cards, which Dad tucks carefully into his wallet. He looks over at me and says, “Good.”

And I think, yes, this is good.

H
ere's what I know:

I haven't been to school in a week. It's wild. I feel like I haven't been back in years. Dad spoke with Ms. Sheldon about what happened, and she apparently told my teachers so they wouldn't go and yell at me about not doing my schoolwork. Some pretend like nothing's happened and treat me the same. Then there's Ms. Stephen, my sociology teacher, who is old and looks like she wants to take me home and bake me a cake. She gives me a little pat on the shoulder when I come to class and looks at the scrape on my face with genuine concern from when I fell. I don't mind. It's kind of nice. Then there's Mr. Killinger. He asks me to stay after class.

“You should've told me,” he says once the last student has left.

“I know,” I say.

“I could've helped. I told you to talk to me whenever.”

“Yeah, I know, but . . .” My voice trails off. I shrug my shoulders.

“Yeah,” he says, “I know. But, you gotta know when to ask for help. I mean, that's a lot to deal with, Charlie.” He looks really concerned, and I feel bad that I didn't talk to him. “We talk, regularly, from now on. Okay?”

I nod. “Okay.”

“All right, so long as we're clear.” He looks around and changes the subject to spare me the lecture. “So, you ready for the exhibit on Friday?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I guess.”

“Well, I know you don't really need this now, but Dr. Hoyt wants all of you to have some kind of speech prepared in case you win.”

“That sucks,” I say.

“I know.” He laughs, and I laugh, and laughing feels sort of good again.

I go to lunch and Ahmed is telling me about how Samantha Kineski, who we've known since the sixth grade, got her nose pierced while I was gone, and now she has this huge earring in her nose that he finds oddly attractive. But I'm only half listening because I notice Tanya sitting in the corner of the cafeteria eating a bagged lunch and reading some kind of fantasy novel by herself. And I know it's because of all the stuff with Mom and maybe it'll blow up in my face, but I kind of
want to, I don't know, not see Tanya shoved in that corner alone anymore.

“You ready to commit high school suicide?” I ask Ahmed. His eyes go wide at the word suicide since he knows everything that went down and I realize my poor choice of words.

“I mean, do you care about being branded a social misfit for the remainder of our high school career?”

“Dude, look at me,” he says, and I laugh at this as I take in Ahmed's latest purple blazer and matching wing tips. I have no idea where he got purple wing tips, but he's got them.

“Anyway,” I say, “maybe we should, you know, try to be friends with her or something.” He follows my gaze toward Tanya.

“Yikes,” he screeches as he realizes what I'm proposing, “you weren't kidding.” He takes a deep breath and rationalizes that while we do have six months left in the school year, most of his time will be spent scoping out the local community college in hopes of establishing some serious social ties with college chickie-babes. So, “No, my man, I don't care,” is his final answer.

We walk over to Tanya, who looks at us suspiciously as we approach her.

“What do you want?” she asks.

“Tanya, act human,” I say.

“Go to hell,” she answers.

“No, seriously. I mean, you said it yourself. I'm just like you. You're just like me, and I can vow for Ahmed, he's like us, too.” We both look over at Ahmed who pretends to smoke a cigar. “Well, kind of,” I say. “Anyway,
we thought we'd come over here and talk to you.” She looks at us funny, and for the first time I can remember, Tanya doesn't seem to know what to say.

“Just accept it, Tanya, okay?” I tell her. “Move over.” I plop down next to her. Ahmed sits down across from us, and she looks back and forth between me and him as Ahmed continues his conversation of the new chickie in ceramics.

“You're such a sexist,” Tanya says, unable to resist the urge of telling Ahmed how such labels on women are degrading and disgusting and continue to contribute to the overall inequality of men and women in modern-day society. I side with her, and Ahmed looks like I've just stabbed him in the back but keeps defending his lingo. And pretty soon the bell rings, and we all go our separate ways, but when I ask Tanya if same time, same place tomorrow works for her, she rolls her eyes and says whatever but that she's not eating anything I bring, which I take as a yes.

When I get to drama, Charlotte asks me where I've been and what happened to me as soon as she sees the scrapes on my face. She seems genuinely concerned and worried, and I don't want to lie to her, but I also know I can't tell her the truth right now because it just doesn't feel like the right time or place. So I just shrug my shoulders and tell her not to worry about it.

She looks confused and hurt, and I know she's probably frustrated that I won't say more, especially since things are already weird because of the way we left everything that night. I wish we were alone so I could come clean because even though I might have to resist
the urge to kiss her every time I'm near her, I'd rather have her friendship than nothing.

I look over at Charlotte and tell her I just had lunch with Tanya Bate. Her eyes go wide, but she looks happy to have something to talk about, so she asks me to tell her more. I do, letting her know that there was no sinister plan behind it, but that it was actually cool. Then I start rambling about how certain people seem scary to others, which prevents them from really getting to know them or reaching out to them. Then that makes me think of how fear breeds intolerance and insensitivity, which leaves Charlotte with her mouth hanging open and looking at me like I'm a lunatic. But this time I don't care. What is there really to lose?

When we have to shut up because Mrs. C is starting class, I catch Charlotte glancing periodically at me with a funny look on her face and I suddenly realize that to Charlotte VanderKleaton, I am as hard to figure out as she is to me.

The morning of the exhibit, I wake up with the heaviest feeling in my stomach. I try to shake it off and tell myself it's just nerves, which is mostly true, but I keep looking around, searching for something I don't see.

I'm up before Dad, so the house is silent and still. I sit at our breakfast bar, my thoughts wandering to Mom, while I drink a glass of orange juice. I think I hear echoes in the house, I think they're of Mom and Dad and me. I try to conjure up sounds of us laughing,
but it's hard. Did we ever laugh? I feel like I'm in a dream, and actually wonder if maybe I am, if maybe I'm still upstairs in my bed, sleeping. I take the last swig of orange juice and try to block out the ghosts of us. The juice is extra tangy. My senses seem like they're on a hyperacute setting. And then I remember, while we waited at New Day, how I had told Mom about the exhibit tonight.

I don't want to worry because it makes me seem like a traitor, but I do. I worry that she might actually remember, or worse, will decide to show up and surprise me and fuck everything up. I start panicking, even as I rationalize that she's two hours away and she probably doesn't remember. But even if she did remember, I'm sure her program facilitator wouldn't let her come. But if she did come, if she saw those pictures, what would happen?

I get ready for school, the sweet citrus of the orange juice quickly turns into an acidic, bubbling mess that seems to be eating away at my stomach. I belch burning burps the rest of the day, and with every passing hour, minute, and second, I get more and more worried that Mom will show up.