Sleeping Handsome
Copyright © 2011 by Jean Haus
Smashwords Edition
All rights
reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form
or by any electronic or mechanical means including information
storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the
author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short
excerpts in a review.
~1~
His mother gestures for me to go in first and I force myself to cross the threshold. I walk into a room that smells like medicine and sounds like death between the whoosh of air and a constant beep. My eyes scan the wall shelves full of trophies, the posters of athletes and girls, the computer desk covered with medicines, the plaid lazy boy chair in the middle of the room, and the machines near the window, anything but the body on the bed.
Mrs. Wallace motions to the wooden shelves next to the bed, too close to the bed. “These are his books, his favorites. Any of these will do. Just…if you start one, please finish it.”
I nod and force a closed lipped smile. Yesterday, during our long phone conversation—I suppose interview—she had put me at ease with this odd situation, but today the stillness of the room has my stomach pinching.
“I’ll be here today,” she steps into the hall, “but usually I’m at work. If you come back, the nurse will let you in.”
Scared to speak, let her know how much this is freaking me out, I run a hand through my long hair before I nod again. She pauses just outside the doorway and her gaze rests on the bed. After a slight shake of her head, she leaves me alone with the body.
I finally look with her gone. Though the shape under the blanket is thin, the face under the breathing tube is swollen and fat. A wide swath of medical tape covers the nose. Dark, brown hair cut in a neat buzz frames the face. A hospital gown raises and lowers over the chest in a beat matching the whoosh of air from the machine. Tubes and wires go from him across the tan carpet to the machines. Other than those machines, the room is silent and motionless.
A dry lump of yuck forms in my throat. If only he were older, not near my age, this would seem a little normal. Not so creepy.
I catch my expression of revulsion in the mirror above the dresser. The face I didn’t want his mother to see. Geez, my tan skin is almost as white as his. The brown of my eyes and the pink sheen of my lip-gloss are the only color on my face. I slowly set my favorite purse on the dresser and move even slower to the shelf of books. Without looking, I grab one and fall into the chair. My French manicured nails tap the cover while I think of the repercussions of escaping this tomb of a room.
Possible expulsion from school.
For both Amanda and me.
I open the book and begin to read. My mouth forms the words, pauses when necessary, but my brain doesn’t totally connect to the historical story about a man in France. I’m sure I sound monotone, even robotic, but it’s all I can do at this moment. Beyond saying the words, I’m thinking of how I got here.
~~~
“Paige, I know you wrote the paper and did the project,” Mr. Block said from behind his desk.
I shook my head, gave him my most honest expression—practiced in the mirror, tried and true not only on both of my parents, but in auditions. “I helped her a little, that’s all.”
He let out a long sigh. “You may not be aware of this, but you have a certain writing style. It’s very distinctive. I compared it to your previous works and showed Amanda. She admitted it this morning, even said you offered.”
Anger shot through me as I snapped my mouth shut and swallowed my denial. One because she lied, she had begged, almost ordered me to do the project for her. And two because she could have told me he knew, could have texted me a warning during first, second, or even third hour.
“Cheating on such a large project is possible grounds for expulsion.” The reality of that E-word floated through me and landed with a thud in my stomach. I’ve never stood up to my best friend, but at that moment I wanted to strangle her. “However, Amanda has agreed to redo the paper and board presentation. She has also agreed to join Future Leaders and do several weeks of community service. Would you be interested in such an agreement?” He gave me a pointed look. “Because otherwise, I’ll have to turn you both in.”
I twisted the silver charm bracelet on my wrist. “Community service? Like cleaning up parks?” Not my style, but then neither was expulsion.
“Sort of. But with your talent in drama, I have a different assignment in mind for you.”
That word different had me apprehensive. “Like what?”
“Well, it has to do with reading…”
~~~
And so I read. For over an hour. In between the whoosh of air and the beep of the machine that must monitor the sleeping brain, I read about a man wrongly imprisoned, a crazy monk, and a lost treasure until the sound of a throat clearing breaks the forming of syllables.
“You read well,” Mrs. Wallace says from the doorway.
“Thanks,” I say genuinely surprised by the compliment because I hadn’t really been trying. Shelving the book, I make sure to catch the title, The Count of Monte Cristo, for tomorrow. The title sounds familiar, has me recalling fried bread, raspberries, and ham. A sandwich? My empty stomach gurgles at the thought, but I will not eat until dinner. What’s the point of working out if you’re always snacking?
“I suppose you want to know about the accident, what happened to Zach.”
Noooooo, not really. “Sure. I mean of course I’m interested.”
She twists her hands and leans against the doorframe. “In May, he and some friends were hiking, but he got separated from them and fell from a cliff into a ravine. Though the bruises and gashes are long gone, he’s been in a coma since then. Over four months.” She rubs the corner of a wet eye. “He’ll turn eighteen next month.”
“I’m so sorry. That’s an awful thing to happen to him and you.” Being so freaked, I’m surprised the sadness in my voice feels real, not acted out. I can’t help but respond to the pain in her face, the anguish in her voice.
She waves a hand and forces a smile. “There’s only hope now. They say the more interaction, the better chances he’ll wake up. So you’ll be back tomorrow?”
“Of course,” I say with a fake conviction not the resentment I have for Mr. Block making me do this. I reach for my purse on the dresser.
She moves aside, lets me out of the room that feels like living death and I step in the hallway. She touches my arm. “I can’t thank you enough for donating your time. After moving him here and paying for the extra nurse care that insurance won’t cover, there’s not enough to pay for such services, but I wanted him to be home.”
Donation? More like a bribe. Not that she has anything to do with that end of it. “No problem. I love to read.” Yeah, while trying out for parts. “And it’s for such a worthy cause. I don’t mind.” I do mind. I missed my nail appointment, now I’ll be getting late home from the gym, mostly I missed after school hang time at the beach. I dig in my bag for my sunglasses. “Same time tomorrow?”
She nods and smiles. “Nancy, his nurse, will let you in. She’ll still be here taking a break downstairs while you read, just in case something happens.”
“Okay. Yeah, that’s good,” I say before descending the stairs that lead to his second floor bedroom. Why couldn’t I be talented in science or even math? No one would want someone to crunch numbers to their son in a coma.
~2~
“Hello Zach.” I set my non-fat vanilla latte on the dresser. “How’s your day been going? Mine been positively, gloriously awful,” I say in an exaggerated British accent and reach for the book I’ve been reading for the past five days. The dang thing is never ending. “Senior year isn’t starting out as cracked up as it’s supposed to be.”
I’ve been doing this, talking to him when I come and go. Though I still won’t go close to the bed or him, I’m hoping this will make me feel like he’s a person instead of a body kept alive by machines. With the breadth of inner thoughts I reveal to him—I’d never tell a real guy the stuff I tell him—that doesn’t seem to be the case. If anything, it’s just helps me understand myself. Something I’ve never tried to do before.
“Carson asked Amanda to homecoming. Like I didn’t see that was coming. I’m getting a little more than pissed at how she goes after every guy I like. Well, I’m attracted to. With her around, I never get to know them long enough to find out if I really like them. She fits that saying, you know the one, with chicks like her who needs enemies.”
Refusing to look at his motionless body, I notice the table on the far wall. Littered with toothpaste, soap, and sponges, I realize the nurse uses that stuff to—ew—keep up his hygiene. My eyes quickly find the cover of The Count of Monte Cristo. That’s another reason I like to talk. Too much looking always freaks me out.
I force my thoughts back to our, well my, conversation. “Maybe I should pretend to hate the next guy who catches my interest.” My fingers find the last page folded over from yesterday. “She never does it to Kelly. Though I must say, Kelly has bad taste, likes the ones who treat her like crap.”
The book waits on my lap. “Which is kind of funny. Not the getting treated like crap part, but Kelly’s better looking than both Amanda and me. You know the all American look, blonde hair, blue eyes, and tall while Amanda looks like…one of the Kardashian sisters. Yeah, that’s probably it. All tits and ass, that’s why all the guys fall for her. While I’m just brown. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin—too much sun my mom says, but who doesn’t like to lounge around the pool? Though I do have a great smile,” I say with a cheesy grin and tap my front tooth. “I’ll admit when I’m not with those two, I feel somewhat attractive, notice guys checking me out. But with Amanda’s boobs around, what guy can see past her D cups?”
I lean forward, pretending he can hear me. “I also have to admit, it gets real annoying. Being obsessed with how I look all the time. Dieting all the time. I’m thinking next year out of high school, except when I do auditions, I’ll dress like a bum, won’t wear make-up, and keep my hair in a ponytail. Eat ice cream and cheeseburgers. In moderation of course. I’m expecting it to be liberating,” I say with a sweep of my arm and lean back into the cushioned confines of the chair.
“Okay,” I bring the book up to eye level, “where were we?” I expect to finish this lame story today. I have been putting more drama—changing my voice for the characters and changing my tone in times of suspense—into it since that first day. Though at times the story’s all right, most of the time it just drags in melodramatics. It’s shocking that a seventeen-year-old sports nut—if I were to judge him by his wall of posters and trophies—would shelf it with his favorites. It’s not girly or anything, just so old-fashioned, the language so ancient. I pretend I’m auditioning for a historical role while I read to keep myself interested.
Over halfway through the hour, I finally come to the end, the last paragraph.
"Darling," replied Valentine, "has not the count just told us that all human wisdom is summed up in two words? -- `Wait and hope.'”
Air rushes into the otherwise silent room as the body lies still as always. Wait and hope. His future explained in three words. His mother’s too. How sad. I feel for both him and his mother. But it’s a hollow feeling. I know nothing of this boy other than stillness, nothing of his mother other than sadness. My fingers absently twist the four-karat diamond in my ear. I don’t like how the hollow feeling makes me feel empty.
My thoughts of emptiness halt and my hand drops when a tall man stands in the doorway. He’s gray haired and wearing a tie and dress shirt. The book drops in my lap. “Ah…hello.”
With narrowed eyes, he nods but doesn’t say anything, just looks skeptically at the form in the bed with an expression of distaste then to me before he turns and the sound of his descending footsteps on the stairs mix with the whoosh and beeps.
As The Count of Monte Cristo slides onto the shelf, I’m guessing I just met Zach’s father. Mrs. Wallace had warned me he works from home sometimes and I might meet him, but she hadn’t warned me that he wasn’t supportive of her reading idea. And from his cold look that was more than evident. What a jerk, I think shaking off the encounter.
I crouch down and take a look at the titles on the spines this time. There has to be something I know here. My eyes scan the first row. The Spy Who Loved Me. Nope. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Nope. The Time Machine. Never heard of it. The Complete Works of Shakespeare. Okay, with my love of drama, I know Shakespeare, but I hath not the patience to read it aloud. Finally, my fingers hover at the spine of Frankenstein. Though I’ve never read it, I’ve heard of it. The idea of reading a story about a man built from science to a boy staying alive because of science has me reaching for a book with Poems in the title.
While the words are nice, even lyrical, the poems are meaningless to me. It’s hard to dramatize them. Within a few pages, I close the book, pull out my phone, and read Amanda’s text asking if I’ll drive to Nate’s party tonight.
“Hey Zach, there’s only about ten minutes left. How about we just talk? Sorry but I can’t read those poems. I’m kind of impressed that you read them and like them, but they’re nothing like reading a script.” I text Amanda back yes—her asking is a formality since I always drive—and ask what time I should pick her up.
After standing and stretching, I walk around the non-medical edges of the room, far away from the bed in the middle. His stillness still has me leery. “I’m going to a party tonight, which may sound fun, but it will probably be lame. Amanda will get drunk and flirt with every half way decent guy there. Kelly will get into a fight with her current boyfriend. We’ll all be bitchy to the other girls there. That’s standard. It’s how we stay on top. Even the cheerleaders bow to us.”
I scan the pictures tacked to a corkboard. Senior pictures, various sports teams, kids hanging out at the beach, a large group in front of a roller coaster, and several pictures of kids with their arms around each other stare back at me. Only knowing him in his current state, I can’t even guess which one matches the boy in the bed.
“And then I’ll have to listen to their crap all the way home, because I’m the designated driver, always. Even though it’s a BMW Kelly’s car is old, like six- years-old, while I got a convertible last year for my sixteenth. My parent’s guilt present for me since they’re never around. My step-dad’s always working. My mom’s always with my little sister, well half-sister. Ballet, swimming, soccer, play dates…”
My phone buzzes and I pause my inane chatter to read Amanda’s text. She wants me to pick her up at eight and I’d better not be late. Her threats are so ridiculous. What’s she going to do? Steal another guy from me?
“Hmm…I wonder what I should wear tonight. A skirt and heels? Or maybe shorts and wedges?” I grab the book of poems from the chair. “Maybe I’ll have enough time to pick up something new? Something to give me a reason for going.” Lost in thoughts of stores on Rodeo drive, I try to shove the poems in between the other titles and the entire line of books fall like dominoes. The last ones teeter on the edge of the shelf before thudding to the floor.
The large Frankenstein volume lies open on top, but the words inside are not standard text. The words are long pen scratches. Confused I pick the book up and flip through it. Dates are scribbled on the top of pages. Drawings and doodles line the edges. Some words like BITCH and DAD and NEVER are written in capital letters. Confused, I flick to the front page and read the first line.
I’ve decided to give in and keep a journal.
I drop the book like it’s a hot curling iron.
Private thoughts tumble onto the carpet while my hand comes to my chest. Hidden inside another book, those thoughts were never meant for someone else to read. But my fingers itch to pick the volume back up. All that’s left of Zach, the real Zach, lies at my feet.
I take a deep breath. Okay I’m acting like a moron spooked out over a journal. I force my mind blank and quickly reshelf all the books, including the one that has me freaked out. With my purse under my arm and the cold latte in my grasp, I rush toward the door.
But I can’t help glancing at the bed before I go. “You have a…good weekend, okay?” With one last look at the puffy face with the breathing tube—thud—I run into the wall and miss the door.
“Ugh,” I say, turning red even though no one, not even the boy in a coma witnessed my clumsiness. Rubbing my forehead, I feel the need to make a graceful exit. “See you Monday then,” I murmur as I sweep through the doorway like I’m on the red carpet.
~3~
Okay, I’ve thought about this all weekend. I thought about it at Nate’s lame party. I thought about it while I took my sister out for our ritual Saturday night—the only time my mother lets her out of her sight. I thought about it Sunday while I floated in the pool. How much more interaction can there be than hearing about your own thoughts, your own past? Wouldn’t that wake a person up more than anything?
At least that’s what I’m telling myself sitting in the lazy boy and clutching Zach’s journal. But I’m having a hard time opening it. I glance at his pasty profile for a quick second before my gaze quickly finds the window and the blue of the sky. “So my weekend was all right. The party wasn’t too hot. Kelly got in her fight, but Amanda only flirted with one guy, Carson, of course. They even disappeared upstairs for a while, and I must say that was the final tack in my crush.”
My fingers move to the cover but I don’t lift it. “Saturday night was the usual. Dinner with my sister. That’s my one weekly chore, babysitting on Saturday night so the parentals can go out. We went out for Sushi. Yeah she’s seven and already hooked on the stuff. Lucky me. Cause I love it. Before that, we went to the pet store. She likes to play with the puppies and the bunnies. But I guess that’s not too surprising for a seven-year-old. So I let her do it for about two hours. The store manager didn’t look too happy but too bad.”
My fingers grip the cover, but I can’t seem to open it. I remind myself this will be good for him. It will also staunch my overwhelming curiosity, but it will be good for him. Right?
“Sunday, I did home work and pool lounged. Same as always. So it was a pretty normal weekend. Yeah, I know. My life’s just an earthquake of teenage excitement.” I push the flap open, take a deep breath, and don’t look up. “Here we go,” I whisper to myself and begin reading.
October 30,
I’ve decided to give in and keep a journal.
Mrs. Gains bugged me about it last year. I kind of, well totally, blew her off. She asked me about it again after creative writing on Tuesday. She said my writing’s still some of the best she has ever seen throughout her thirty years of teaching, but it needs more emotion. I need to learn how to get emotions on paper.
I’m not sure if this is going to help.
I’m a seventeen-year-old guy, not a ten-year-old girl.
However, it’s not like anyone is going to see this shit, and the writing sample for a scholarship and application to UCI is due in mid-January. I need the scholarship because if I go to UCI, I can guarantee my parents won’t be helping with tuition.
Which gives me sixty some days to do some emotional digging.
So today’s emotions…
(drum roll)
I’m tired, pissed, and tired.
I’m not sure the first and the last constitute emotion, but it’s how I feel after school, football practice, dinner with my parents, and over an hour on the phone with Melanie talking about nothing. After a year, it’s starting to feel like I’m paying dues with her. Deal with her crap and get laid. And I’m starting to wonder if the crap is worth the lay.
The middle one? My dad tries to control my life, plans on me getting a sports scholarship. Expects me to make it to the pros. The more games we win, the more he talks, the more he dreams. The more I get pissed. Pissed at him for planning my life. Pissed at myself for not standing up to him. For lying to him. For not telling him I plan to be a writer, an author.
But my dad has dreams for me. Dreams of professional football.
Ten more months though, and I’m out of here.
Free.
Finally, fucking free from my old man and his stupid dreams.
My eyes rise to my silent audience of one. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what I just read. In his current state, I could never imagine such resentment coming from him. Lying there, he seems so calm, so blank. So emotionless.
But the proof, his words, lies in my lap.
The writing thing, just from the wide array of volumes on his shelves, I get. But the anger seems so foreign.
My gaze finds the ever-present rise of his chest. Okay to be honest, I haven’t imagined much about him at all. This entire reading thing has kind of freaked me out. But now, even after only reading just one entry, I want to know more about this guy lying silently before me every afternoon.
Finally he can speak.
I turn the page
November 4,
Who knows why we like certain things or are attracted to certain people. Most people would think I’m nuts to turn down a full ride football scholarship. But I love writing. I only like football.
Football is fun, while writing is a challenge. When I work hard at a piece, editing it, re-working it, finding the right words, communicating what I’m exactly trying to say, and it all comes together, I feel such a sense of accomplishment. A win in football doesn’t inspire much beyond a quick rush of euphoria. With writing, the euphoria comes back each time I re-read the piece. And each time I’m amazed at what I’ve created.
My dad would never understand and that’s why I don’t know how to tell him I’m turning down the full ride.
But I am.
My eyes find the boy in the bed. “Your dad sounds kind of like a bully. I mean my parents want me to go to college, but I haven’t made my mind up. I want to be an actor. I’m not sure college is necessary. They’re willing to let me skip it as long as I keep going to acting classes, keep auditioning, and keep working hard. If it doesn’t pan out in a few years, they’re expecting me to go the college route. And I’m okay with that because they’re giving me choices. Your dad wouldn’t do that would he?”
Of course, he doesn’t answer.
In the next several entries there are a few more complaints about Melanie, lots more dad bashing, tons more self-loathing about not being able to confront the man, more inner turmoil—I’m thinking this guy really likes to whine—until…
November 22,
Okay I’m going to try to write about something other than my dad or my girlfriend or my somewhat secret ambition of being a writer because it seems like I just keep rehashing the same topics, which has me getting pissed at myself.
So today in fourth hour, JM stared at me again for almost the entire class. Now girls checking me out or flirting with isn’t new. (Okay that sounded a bit egotistical.) But the whole hour? I’m not sure if she’s staring to get my attention or if she’s crushing on me so hard she doesn’t know she’s doing it. With how shy she seems, I’m going to guess the latter.
So other than getting tired of being stared at all the time, how do I feel about it?
My reaction is mixed.
Of course, my ego doesn’t mind. (Fuck. Maybe I am egotistical.) Each time she blushes and looks away, it flares like a white head pounding to get free—now that’s a great simile. But then logic breaks through. How well does JM know me? So I’m the star running back. So I’m popular. We’ve spoke about ten words in over three years of high school. She might as well stare at the posters on her wall—I’m going to assume she has them—of actors or rock stars because that’s about how well she knows me. Finally, the whole thing’s kind of… depressing. I’d like to be the kind of guy who deserves that kind of attention. I even like the idea of returning her feelings—though there’re not real and I don’t—and falling into some movie or fairytale where everything’s perfect.
But perfect doesn’t exist.
I should know.
Like JM, I stare at him. My eyes narrow on his form. “Guys,” I say in a hiss. “Why didn’t you try to talk more to her? Give her a chance? It’s not like you’re head over shoes in love with Melanie. From less than ten journal entries, even I can see that.” I shove the thought away that JM sounds like someone Amanda, Kelly, and I terrorize daily. Yet strangely, her crush reminds me of my own stupid ones. “And you do sound egotistical.” I snap the journal shut and nearly slam it in between books on the shelf.
I pull out my phone from my purse. My time was up over five minutes ago. “Well I’ve gotta go. I don’t like leaving like this.” I yank my purse from the floor with a violent tug. “But you’ve got me upset, calling that girl’s feelings unreal. How do you know her feelings aren’t legit? It’s just like you said earlier. Who knows why we like certain things or people? Why do guys think they know everything? Especially when most of them are idiots,” I say under my breath before standing.
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” Without looking back, I move—more like stomp—toward the door. I had feared that I might want to take the journal home with me and read ahead, but right now, I want nothing to do with it or him.
~4~
I drop my make-up bag on the dresser and face the bed. “Okay Zach, I’ve been thinking you were kind of an egotistical jerk to that JM girl, but I have to admit I can be a bitch sometimes.” Recalling how Amanda, Kelly, and I treat the girls and even some of the loser guys in our class, I add, “Well maybe a lot of the time. So I guess I shouldn’t throw blocks or whatever that saying is, and it was kind of wrong for me to judge you.”
My apology has me feeling lighter as I pluck his journal from the shelf. “Last night was wonderfully boring. I stayed home and played checkers with my little sister. But tonight, a bunch of us are going out for tapas. Amanda’s idea of course. We can’t just go to a pizza joint it has to be some fufu thing. She invited Carson, probably thinking it will be fun to watch me get jealous. So I’ll have to act like it, which is going to be fun. I’m going to keep my next interest top secret.” My lips tighten in a frown. “Well at least until I have him wrapped around my little finger.”
I twist a long strand of hair in between my fingers. “This boyfriend thing is driving me a little crazy. I haven’t had one since freshman year. I’ve been out on dates since then, but every time I get close to some guy, Amanda somehow sabotages it. Really, I’m not boy crazy or anything. I’d just like to have one dang relationship in high school past the year fourteen.” I let my hair go with a tug.
“Anyway, this,” I lift the journal up, “is far better than a boring old book don’t you think? I mean books are okay, but you’re way more interesting.” I flip through the pages. “So where were we?” I find the end of his JM entry. “All right, got it.”
November 25,
Today should have been cool.
No school. Lots of turkey and mash potatoes. But I spent most of the day watching football with my dad and my uncles. It’s expected.
And it was hell.
Though I usually like watching football, when I have to hear comments like; ‘One day we’re going to be there watching Zach,’ or ‘Zach’s better than both of those running backs,’ or ‘Zach, could out run that guy.’ It gets a little more than annoying. Even more so when I have to pretend to enjoy the comments. Like what does Turkey Day Football have to do with me?
So sick of the remarks and my uncles’ questions about my undefeated team and our upcoming game to states, I went up to my room and read (my dad thinks reading is for pussies unless you’re doing it for homework) after dinner.
But reading Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was far better than listening to their shit.
I’ve read it before, but the duality of his nature makes sense more than ever. Dr. Jekyll hiding his evil side. Me hiding myself. Dr. Jekyll becoming corrupted by Mr. Hyde. Me becoming corrupted by my loserness. Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde eventually committed suicide. While I haven’t resorted to such thoughts, my life sure does seem to be on the slide.
The suicide comment has my heart beating faster. “You wouldn’t do that, right?” I don’t say didn’t because that tense makes the idea even more frightening with him lying in a bed across from me in a coma. “I mean, I know your dad’s an ass, but you don’t seem like the type of guy who would just give up.” What am I saying? I really don’t know him at all. Did he fall from a cliff or jump from it?
With slightly trembling fingers, I turn the page. Reading the journal and finding its secrets feels more important than ever. But before continuing, I let my irritation at him loose. “Why couldn’t you just tell your dad? Why did you put yourself through all this drama?” I demand even though I’m not going to get an answer back. “Geez, a year later and it’s even making me crazy.”
He just keeps breathing with the whoosh of the machine as I let my irritation fizzle out of me. I’m not really sure why I’m letting his journal rile me up so much.
November 30,
So I’m trying to stay off the topic of my father, but he went overboard today. I get home from practice and there’s some guy from CSSU in the living room. He invited a fucking recruiter to dinner. Though super pissed, I have to admit it didn’t totally surprise me. CSSU is my dad’s Alma Mater and he’d like nothing more than for me to go there. To relive his past, minus the injury, minus the never getting drafted.
And I just sat there listening to the guy even though I don’t want to go to CSSU, even though football’s not my life.
Ever since I was little my father’s programmed me for football. Of course, I don’t remember my first birthday, but I’ve seen the pictures. A wide-eyed baby holding a football from an aunt. Tiny cleats from an uncle. A jersey from a grandparent. And the picture that still hangs on our family room wall. My father placing a miniature helmet on my head. He’s young. His smile’s wide and full of hope while my little eyes are surprised saucers.
And no matter how many times I form the words in my head, I can’t say them aloud because I’m picturing myself saying it to that man in the picture, that man who has found a way to fulfill his dreams again.
During dinner, he laughed and smiled just like in that picture.
Needless to say, I felt like vomiting more than eating.
Well, at least he didn’t write anything about suicide. But I now understand why he’s having a hard time telling his father and crushing the man’s dreams. A man whose own injury crushed his own dreams. But on the other hand isn’t leading him along just as bad?
I glance at his silent form and try to tell myself none of this matters with where he is now. But it somehow does matter to me.
Ugh. I flick the page over instead of trying to figure that last thought out.
December 5,
Melanie keeps texting me about going to some stupid ass volleyball game. Maybe if she played or even if her best friend played, I’d consider it. But she only wants to go hang out, act like a couple, and show me off or something.
And I don’t have time for this begging crap. I have homework to do. Grades to keep up.
After a year of going out, she should be over this stuff. But I can’t remember the last time the two of us just went out instead of going to a party or a game or whatever social event is on her calendar. When we first started dating, I imagined our relationship turning into something deeper than a social pile of shit.
Guess that’s what I get for applying my imagination to reality.
My brows rise. Words form on the tip of my tongue into a response. But I bite them back between clenched teeth. I’m really the last person to give advice about someone’s love life.
The next several entries describe his excitement about a possible state championship, hanging out with his friends, and his irritation with his girlfriend (breakup with the chick already!), but at least the dad stuff, which seems to depress him, is missing. Yet, even with his whining about his dad and girlfriend, I’d rather read his journal. He’s way more interesting than that stupid count of sandwiches.
Done reading about Melanie and her social demands, I shut the journal and pull my phone from my pocket to check the time. “I’ve went over again.”
At the dresser, I grab my make-up bag and pull out the compact mirror inside. Though I told myself to keep quiet, I can’t help saying, “I still don’t get why you stayed with Melanie, but then since freshman year I haven’t been able to snag a boyfriend. So what do I know about relationships?” I open a tube of mascara. “As you know, Amanda’s on my turf constantly. Really the more I think about it, I’m just as bad as you. You put up with your dad’s shit,” I wipe a black smudge, “and I put up with hers. But the next time around,” I pull out a tube of lip gloss, “I’m going to beat her at her own game. She’ll see how good I can act.” My lips press together. “Starting tonight.”
I pack up my make-up and grab my purse. I turn toward the bed, but I still only get as close as the chair to him. “Okay then, until tomorrow.” Leaving, I can’t help adding, “Later, Zach.” Just like I would to a real friend.
~5~
“How are you today, Zach? Feeling better?” I almost laugh at my lame joke. I need it because coming here after school—where teenagers move and can talk—and seeing him every day the same just lying there is starting to get to me. I’d like to yell, ‘Get up! Wake up already.’ But that’s not going to happen. So I’ll keep playing along like he can hear me.
“Well,” I drop my gym bag and purse on the floor, “last night went great. From Amanda’s expression of satisfaction, I must have looked green with venom. Or is it envy?” My forehead scrunches. “Anyway, I’m so over Carson. Watching him fawn and gawk at Amanda was almost enough to make me vomit up an array of tapas. But being the consummate actor that I am, I kept my reaction to myself.”
Unzipping my bag, I continue, “Two weeks from now, I’m going to try out for a small part in some cable sitcom.” I pull out a t-shirt. “The girl’s like a serious, shy bookworm or something. Not me, so I need any kind of practice. And who better to practice on than Amanda? But I’m excited about the part. Even think I might have a chance.”
Behind the chair—I feel weird changing in front of him—I begin pulling off my tight halter. It looks good but the thing is way too uncomfortable. “Of course, I got stuck with the ninety dollar bill last night. Who knew tapas were so much? Sometimes, well most of the time, I think Amanda’s just my friend because my parents are so rich, because I have a limitless credit card. Her parents are rich too, almost everyone at our school is, but my stepfather’s beyond loaded. His hands are in everything from movies to property. I’m pretty sure Amanda purposely buddied up to me half way through freshman year because she found out how loaded my step-dad was.” I shrug and pull on the faded t-shirt. “Who knows though? At the time, I was amazed someone like her would want to hang with me. Of course that was before I got to know her.”
I settle in the chair and smooth the cover of Frankenstein with my palm. “You know, I’ve been thinking. We’re kind of alike, you and me. I mean the Amanda thing and the dad thing. Except you were probably doing it because you care about your dad. While I put up with Amanda so I can stay popular, stay on top of the high school food link. Or is it chain?”
A sigh accompanies the opening of the journal. “Obviously, your reason’s way better than mine. So less selfish.” I frown at him. “I don’t like admitting that, but then you’re so easy to talk to.” At least I smile at this lame joke.
“Alrighty, on with your life.”
December 12,
Our trip to the Rose Center was victorious. Being state champions, scoring three touchdowns felt awesome until I saw my dad’s face in the stands.
Euphoria became an anchor weighing me down.
Beyond the happiness and pride on his face, I saw the gleam in his eyes for my glorious football future, which is never going to happen.
Like a vacuum, he sucked the joy right out of me.
Sure I love playing football, love winning. I always enjoy the season, the camaraderie, and the physical exertion. I just can’t imagine doing this for the next twenty years.
It would be hell.
No creativity, no thought, just follow plays and orders.
That’s why covered in cold Gatorade and up on my teams’ shoulders it felt like I’d been punched when I looked at his face. This is going to spurn him on more than before. This is his dream come true.
This makes the truth almost impossible to tell.
So much for victory.
“Wow. Eek. Wow. That’s quite an accomplishment, state champs, but yeah, the dad thing.” I glance out the window, always open to let the fresh air and sunshine in. “I wonder…did you ever talk to your mom? Ask her for advice?” I watch him breathe for a moment. “It just seems like she loves you so much. Seems like she would have understood, would have helped you with your dad.”
My eyes close, shutting out the tranquil vision of him lying so still. “My mom, I know she loves me, but she’s so busy with my little sister and my stepfather. She’s…well sometimes I see her when I’m home for dinner.”
For some reason, I feel like crying. And I hate crying. I open my eyes and the vision of Zach lying there has me pissed at myself. Like I’ve got it bad. He’s stuck in a coma.
The next page is just a sheet of doodling. Swirls and jagged lines colored with black ink. Guess he didn’t feel like writing that day, but the next page has his long scrawl again.
December 14,
Today, we went to the beach. It was a championship celebration. Matt brought the drinks. I haven’t had a beer for over four months. I brought the dogs. Nick brought the snacks. And the girls brought the eye candy. Then between volleyball, grilling, and my new sunglasses (they’re the reflective ones) I noticed something.
Matt’s infatuated (maybe more) with my girlfriend.
He stares at her, like JM stares at me, every second he thinks I’m not looking. Of course, Melanie’s hot, but Matt’s stare goes beyond the normal check out and unlike the absence of a real connection like JM and me, he knows Melanie.
His stare was a mix of admiration, longing, and… tenderness. (Can’t believe I used such a word, but that’s what it was.)
For about half the day, I had the urge to punch him. Slam his face in the sand and beat the crap out of him.
Until I realized something.
I don’t think I’ve ever looked at her like that. I don’t think I ever will.
But my best friend does.
Every chance he gets.
And it bothers me. Being the barrier between her and his feelings.
And it makes me wonder if I’ll ever feel like that for someone else.
Blinking in surprise, I look up at him. “Me too,” I whisper. “I wonder if I’m capable of feeling more than interest, more than attraction.”
My chin rests on the top of the journal. “I never seem to get that far with a guy before Amanda swoops in. Just imagine though if instead of just noticing blue eyes or a tight butt, noticing a person’s likes, their dislikes, their interests, their motivation, their integrity or lack of first. Would they still be attractive? ”
Air whooshes and machines beep while I’m lost in thought, lost in admiration at how he thinks of others. “It’s cool, you know, thinking of your friend’s feelings. I’m just hoping this helped you break up with Melanie. She’s even starting to annoy me.”
Yet in the next couple of entries, he doesn’t break up with Melanie. He complains about her, compares her to a ball and chain—shouldn’t that be cord?—and even describes a long fight, but no break up.
Darn.
~6~
Unable to do anything else I lean against the back of the lazy boy and pant and pant. “You’re not going to believe this,” I pause for air, “but Amanda really did it this time. She just had to impress some college guys at the coffee shop.” I take another huge breath. “She just had to drive my car and back up into truck. How does a semi fit in a blind spot?” I ask in an incredulous screech before gulping air again. “So since my sister had ballet practice, I had to ride my bike here. I haven’t used that thing since I was like twelve.”
Of course, my silent audience of one doesn’t respond just breathes with a whoosh. I could use that machine at the moment.
The water bottle in my hand gets drained before I continue. “Wow. I thought I was in shape, but that six miles just kicked my butt. The gym’s not doing as much as I thought. And, ugh, my car’s in the shop until Monday.” I reach for the journal wedged in between the books on the shelf.
“Anyway, at least I won’t have to go to the college party on Amanda’s agenda for Friday. That’s her new thing, college guys. Hitting sorority parties. We went to one a couple of weeks ago and she’s hooked. Even while she’s kind of seeing Carson. She’ll make Kelly drive since I’m grounded for the weekend. Whoppdie do da. Like I care. Besides those sorority guys kind of freak me out. Since I don’t drink, rather drive it’s pretty easy to see how they work. Ply a girl with alcohol and try and get laid. Like I want to sleep with some drunk guy just because he’s in college.”
For once, I crank the lazy boy’s handle, open the footrest, and stretch out. “You know,” I say, staring at Zach intently over the top of my tennis shoes, “you’d be in college right now if it weren’t for your accident. But I don’t think you’d be like those jerks. You don’t seem like that. You seem so much more thoughtful. You have a conscience. I think that’s why you feel so much turmoil about your dad and Melanie.”
I pull my nail file, slash bookmark, from the journal. “So what’s on the agenda today? You gonna tell your father that you won’t be taking the pro route? Or will you finally break up with Melanie?” I gnaw on my lip. “I shouldn’t talk. It’s not like I tackle issues helmet on. Huh, a football reference. Guess you’re rubbing off on me.” I frown. “Or maybe it’s your dad.”
Not wanting to talk anymore about his dad, I smooth the pages and start where I left off last time.
December 28,
I’m almost done with my writing sample since I spent most of Christmas break working on it. I think it’s good, but I’m going to have Mrs. Gains take a look. I’m a bit anxious about hearing her opinion. Actually I’m scared shitless and I’m hoping that’s because I poured so much emotion in it. Since the short story is about a guy whose father wants him to be a lawyer, but he wants to be a surfer, it kind of mirrors my own life. So it should have some authentic emotion. If she says its crap, I just might cry like a little fan girl. Or jump off a cliff.
(I stare at those five words. Did he really write that? Did I just read that? My fingers shake and the book shakes with it. My eyes rise to his still form. His calm face. No! No! No! Those words just have to be a coincidence. They have to be! I take a deep breath and force myself to read on.)
The rest of the time between going out and talking on the phone with Melanie I read Jane Eyre. Mrs. Gains, after asking us for our reading preferences, assigned us something out of our comfort zone. Since I like spy stories, science fiction, adventures, and a some literary classics, I shouldn’t have been surprised she assigned me a romance, but even more surprising?
I liked it.
Even though Edward was a dick, you could see he was trying to change, trying to become a better person. Yet to try to trick Jane into marriage after he’d been tricked into it…Well yeah, he was a major dick. I found it amazing that Jane still loved him, yet because of who she was and because of their past I found her love believable. Great character development there. The fact that she forgave him, the fact that he did change in the end, kind of gives me hope.
Hope that I can change.
The journal drops in my lap. “Oh, Zach you don’t need to change. You seem like a really great guy. You just need to be more assertive. Hell, who doesn’t? I sure do. But someone like this Jane could love you.”
The journal bounces nervously on my knee. “Melanie’s not the one though is she? I don’t think Melanie’s as evil as Amanda or anything. She just wants so much attention, wants you for all the wrong reasons.” I let out a belittling sigh. “And once again, who am I to talk? I follow Amanda for all the wrong reasons too.”
But no matter how long I read his journal, I’ll never understand Melanie, never get why she wants to go to games, parties, and out with other couples instead of just being with Zach. He seems too awesome to be sharing with everyone all the time.
Glancing at his scrawl, I bite my lip. I want to say something about the jumping off the cliff comment, but somehow it doesn’t seem right discussing that while he’s in a coma, while it might be the reason he’s in one. I ignore the words at the back of my throat and turn the page. I’m a little shocked at the date. He almost skipped a whole month of writing.
January 29,
I gave up writing in this thing, but the New Year has me thinking a lot lately. Thinking about the choices I don’t really make. Thinking about how about how fucking spineless I am. I’d planned to just get through this year. Just going with the flow, but it’s getting so bad I can hardly look in the mirror at myself.
I have to face up to my father. I have to tell him the truth. I’m not going to take a sports scholarship. I’m not even going to play football in college. But just the thought of saying those words to him has me ill. He’s going to be so hurt, so mad, so defeated. I wanted to tell him after I found out about the writing scholarship, even if I don’t get it. Yet, meanwhile the pretending is gnawing at my gut and tearing into my conscience.
Then there’s Melanie. I’m leading her on too. She’s just a convenience and I’m using her. But it’s so much easier to play along. Except when she grates the shit out of my nerves, which is happening far too much. I don’t want to hurt her and while there’s no way this relationship will continue after high school, I keep using the excuse that she’d want a boyfriend throughout her last year, through prom and graduation. Even though I really know the longer we’re together, the more it’s going to hurt her.
Fuck. I feel like Edward the dick.
Okay here we go! I think turning the page, but the following entries are just as spineless. Parties, fighting with Melanie, realizing Matt is still beyond infatuated, guilt, and more guilt until I slam the journal shut.
The lazy boy snaps back into its original form with a force stronger than necessary. My fingers itch to shake some sense into the boy lying quietly on the bed. And that would probably not be a good thing.
But then maybe I should shake myself too. I’m just as bad as him.
I yank my backpack onto my back—since on a bike it’s the only easy way to carry stuff. Mad at him, mad at myself, and afraid of my own anger, I say, “See you tomorrow,” and stomp out of the room.
~7~
My backpack hits the side of the plaid chair and rolls under the corkboard of pictures on his wall. “All right, I realized I can’t get upset with you if I’m just as spineless as you. Probably more so.” I face the bed and step closer to him. He’s motionless of course, and although I know he can’t hear me, I have to force myself to voice my fears. “I’ll admit I’m scared shitless too. If Amanda’s this bad as her friend, what will she do to me if I break out of our so-called friendship? My life will most likely be hell. I’m not sure dealing with her fury is worth gaining integrity.”
I let out a long breath. “Like you, it’s just so much easier playing this out until the end of the year.” I fall into the lazy boy with a thud. “So how can I judge you?”
Beeps and the whoosh of air are all that answer me.
“Well I can’t. We both know that.” I’m aware this is getting weird. Me talking to him as if he can hear me, but ever since I read the first journal entry, he’s become more real to me. I feel like I know him, even understand him. I’ve grown to like and respect him. And he’s even helping me understand myself. “Somewhere along the way of my illustrious high school career I traded my humanity for a prison of popularity. And now I’m stuck.”
My fingers dig at my temples. “You know, the more I think about it, the more I realize the last three years have been like one long audition, and I’m not sure who I am anymore.” I let my hands fall. Buck up bitch, I tell myself and my fingers reach for the heavy spine of the journal. Sick of my thoughts and myself, I pull the nail file out and begin reading.
March 7,
I tried to break up with Melanie today. She threw a crying shit fit.
Big fat tears and loud sobs destroyed my resolve.
While my head pounded with the forming of my lies, I told her I didn’t mean it. Things at home have just been crazy. My classes hard. My dad in overdrive. The pressure of it all too much.
Still crying, she stumbled toward me and I took her into my arms.
She doesn’t fit there anymore, at all.
Worse, my resolve is slowly becoming calloused over by indifference.
My eyes narrow on his swollen face in thought. “After pages and pages of whining about Melanie, I think you do care about her. You’re just smart enough to realize staying with her is going to hurt her more. But what’s with guys and crying?” I ask with a smirk. “You can never handle it. Can you? The water works break and you all turn to pliable Play-Doh. Well you tried. It’s something isn’t it?” I let out a puff of air. “More than before, more than I’ve ever done.”
My page flip is a bit harsher than usual.
March 15,
I finally did it.
(Halleluiah, good-bye Melanie.)
At first, he didn’t believe me.
(Oh, wait. I sit up. This is way bigger stuff than Melanie.)
Then he tried to argue with me. Called me a fool. Couldn’t believe I would give up a full ride. But once it was out, I couldn’t stop. I just kept repeating, “I’m not playing football in college. I’m going to get a MFA. I’m going to be a writer.” Finally, comprehension entered his eyes and he almost hit me. Pulled his hand back and stared at me for the longest two minutes of my life before walking away.
Part of me felt deflated. The other part, relieved.
I don’t have to pretend anymore. I don’t have to live his dream.
He hasn’t talked with me since. Won’t even look at me.
I’d been so fearful so long of hurting him, but inside…
I’m guiltless.
My hands are shaking as tears well in my eyes. I want to compare my tears to crying at an uplifting movie, but my reaction feels far more real than that. I’m just so happy. And for once crying doesn’t bother me. “Oh, wow Zach. You did it.”
I jump out of the chair with the journal hugged to my chest and do a stupid dance over to him. “I can’t believe it. You really told your dad!” Once my feet settle down, I brush his knuckles with my fingers. “I’m so proud of you. You’re so the opposite of a spineless. So the opposite of me.”
My fingers freeze when I realize I’m rubbing—more like caressing—his wrist. I slowly step away and sit in the chair. After a calming breath—I’m still floored at what I read—I lay the journal on my knees and wipe the wet corners of my eyes. “I hope your Dad comes to accept your decision. Yes, that’s what I’m hoping to read next,” I say and lift the journal up.
March 24,
I broke up with Melanie today.
Of course, she had another crying shit fit.
This time I didn’t crack. Just said I was sorry. Told her the truth that she deserves someone better than me. She cried harder and I mumbled something about how she should find someone who cares about her more.
Not the best thing to say.
The tears ended. Her face twisted into something from a horror flick. She then slapped me across the face and told me off with the F-word.
The rest of the day, she walked around red eyed and it ate at my gut even with her posse giving me dirty looks.
Yet, between my dad’s animosity and hers, I feel lighter. I feel free.
Weightless.
I feel like I’m finally doing right.
Without a thought, I’m back at the side of his bed. “Wow. You. Are. Awesome.” I stare at him. “Back to back even…”
I’ve never really looked at him this close. His long lashes lay against the almost white skin of his cheeks. A slight shadow of stubble covers his jaw. I glance at the table across from me filled with shampoo and toothpaste and shaving gel. I usually ignore that table. Between that stuff and the growth of hair on his face, I become very aware that he is alive.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-32 show above.)