And they don't have much use for me.
Chapter 7
Despite the cold shoulder from the general high school populace, I wasn't ready to trade in my cargo pants and sneakers for black leather pants and platform shoes. At least I had someone I could talk to and sit with, even if they were a bit touched in the head and on the creepy side. Then again, that described me perfectly.
As I left the lunchroom I ran into a meat wall, bounced off it, and fell onto my butt. I looked up at Nathan Spelman.
"Oh, excuse you," Nathan said. I tried to get up, but he put his hand on my head and pressed me into a sitting position. "Well, well." He crouched, keeping his sweaty palm on my head while other students walked past with wide eyes and/or smiles, depending on their current opinion of me.
"I want to make something crystal clear, stalker boy. You get within a hundred feet of Katie Johnson, and I'm going to smear you from one end of the hall to the other. Won't be enough left of you to put in a bucket."
"You get to stalk Katie but I don't?" I couldn't believe what I'd just said. Something was wrong with my mouth today. I needed to get it checked before someone punched my teeth out. Although that moment might be upon me.
Nathan popped me on the side of the head. For him it was probably a love tap. I felt my brain hit the side of my skull and stars danced in my eyes. "You better keep your mouth shut about things you don't understand."
Anger pounded in my chest and the next words just shot out of my mouth. "You're probably right. I don't understand rapists."
Next thing I knew, I was face down on the floor looking at a smear of blood on the tiles. My glasses were gone. Someone shouted. An authoritative voice roared for everyone to shut up and move on. I pushed myself to my knees and saw a blurry figure standing over me. I found my glasses a few inches from the blood smear and put them on. The blur resolved into the face of Ted Barnes, the Vice Principal.
"Go see the school nurse," he said in an impatient tone.
I looked around for Nathan but he was gone. "Nathan Spelman just beat the crap out of me."
"Funny, looks like you just slipped and fell. Now go get cleaned up."
"Are you kidding me? I'll bet he has one of my teeth lodged in his fist."
"You want to get suspended, boy?" I shrank back as Mr. Barnes and his gleaming bald head invaded my personal space. "I suggest you listen to me."
It didn't take long for the gray porridge I call my brain to see where this was going. Mr. Barnes was a member of the Quarterback Club, the biggest group of supporters of the football team. I hadn't made too many friends by uncovering Nathan's womanizing tendencies. Mr. Barnes wasn't about to cut me a break, especially when it involved a football player.
I pressed my lips together so I wouldn't say anything else stupid. My upper lip hurt like crazy, but my jaw seemed intact. My tongue traced my teeth and didn't find any unexpected gaps or wiggly ones. I skipped the nurse and went to the bathroom instead, halfway expecting a biker gang to jump me the moment I went inside. After washing off the blood I took a good long look at myself. Lank greasy hair hung past my shoulders. Scratched and battered glasses teetered crookedly on my nose. My split lip looked like the king of all cold sore outbreaks. My chubby, ashen face needed a tan. I was ugly. Worthless. Everyone hated me. I pulled off my glasses and wiped my eyes furiously to keep the tears away. That'd be just swell, walking around with red teary eyes for everyone to make fun of.
Mr. Turpin raised an eyebrow when I entered English class. "Did you have an accident, Mr. Case?"
"I tried to beat the crap out of someone's fist with my face."
"I see." He regarded me for a moment longer before starting the lesson.
I wondered how a guy could go from boxing one day to teaching English the next. Maybe he hadn't taken too many blows to the head, or maybe English was something you didn't need many brains cells to teach—or learn for that matter. When the bell rang, Mr. Turpin motioned me to his desk.
"I take it Mr. Spelman and his ilk are the cause of your bloody lip?"
"More or less."
"Remember that it doesn't matter how big they are if you knock them down first."
"Uh, thanks," I said, edging toward the door. "I'll remember that." I walked down the hallway shaking my head. How in the world was I supposed to knock them down? What did that even mean? Crazy old boxer dude. What he should have told me was to work out until I had muscles as big as his and then smack Nathan in the nose with a set of brass knuckles.
Somehow I made it through the rest of the day. When I got home, I went to my computer and thought about Googling for "How not to be a complete loser." Instead, I found an envelope taped to my computer monitor. My name was on the front of the envelope in my mom's handwriting. I figured it might be a birthday present a few days early. A birthday party seemed like a moot point unless I invited only the Goths. Or maybe they were emo. I didn't really know the difference, come to think of it, and hadn't even asked.
I tore open the envelope and pulled out a letter.
Justin,
You mean the world to me and it agonizes me to have to do this, but your father and I have decided to go our separate ways. Remember when I told you about tough decisions? This is one of those. I love you so much but there's another person out there who needs me more than you and your father. I have to do this. I have to make right a mistake I should have never made. I already hate myself for it and I pray you won't hate me too.
But if you do, I'll understand.
Please don’t blame your father and especially not yourself. I'm the one to blame.
I love you. Always.
Mom
I stared in shock at the letter. My mind stopped working. My body froze. This—this couldn't be true. I mobilized my muscles and ran into the den. Dad was snoring on the couch. Empty beer and liquor bottles littered the coffee table. He hadn't shaved and he smelled like a medicine cabinet. I slumped into the easy chair next to the couch and stared at the mess. At the mess our lives had become. She had practically told me she was leaving and I hadn't done a thing to stop her. A ragged gasp tore from my throat. Who else in this miserable world could possibly need her more than me and Dad? How dare she leave us like this? Was she running into the arms of another man?
The thought made me sick. The woman who gave birth to me had no right to be out gallivanting around like a slut. She needed to be here. I yelled something incoherent and swept the empty bottles off the coffee table and onto the tile floor where they clattered, bounced and broke. I grabbed the table by the edge and flipped it. The table smashed against the floor, breaking even more bottles.
I hated her.
Dad jerked awake. He looked at me with glassy bloodshot eyes and burped. "It'll be okay, son." He pushed himself up and staggered down the hall to my parents'—his bedroom.
I ran after him. Grabbed his arm. Jerked him around. "How could you let her leave, you stupid bastard?" I screamed in his face. "What kind of an idiot are you?"
Rage contorted his face into an inhuman snarl. He punched the wall with a thunderous crack that seemed to shake the house, inches behind my head. Family pictures rained from the walls, the glass shattering. I yelped and fell on my butt. Tears cascaded down Dad's face as he stared with disbelief at the fist embedded in the drywall. He wrenched it free and held it toward me as if to help me up. I scooted away on my butt through the broken glass until I was back in the den and pulled myself to my feet.
Dad opened his mouth to say something then turned and shut the bedroom door behind him.
I stood there panting while grief knotted my throat. I stared at the broken glass and torn pictures on the floor, trying to derive some meaningless analogy from it. Broken bottles, broken lives. Except I'd been the one to break the bottles. If a lesson waited in those shards of glass, I was hard pressed to find it. I went to my bedroom and slammed the door shut as hot tears flooded my vision. Anger and resentment toward my dad boiled over. He must have done something to lose Mom. I know they say most kids blame themselves for their parents' problems, but I was a master at deflecting blame.
Obviously, Dad's lack of steady work and laziness had contributed to pushing Mom away. She was a successful accountant. Why should she have to support a deadbeat artist husband? I wasn't exactly the most adoring or thankful kid in the world, either. Or maybe she'd fallen in love with someone else and couldn't stand to be without him. Could be that was the tough decision she had to make. Anger coiled up in me like a snake, ready to lash out at anything breakable. But what else was there to break? I was already broken.
I took a deep shuddering breath. At this point, going emo was the only avenue left to me that made sense. I could dye my hair black and cut myself to feel better. Or, I could try to dig my way out of this hole. Stop feeling sorry for myself. Get off my lazy fat ass and take charge for once.
Something had to change. Since the world wasn't about to do me any favors, I decided I had to be the one to take action. Real action this time.
Chapter 8
Change is an easy word to say but a pain in the rear to follow through on. So I started off easy and made a checklist on my computer:
Haircut
Join Gym
New Clothes.
The tiny list looked pitiful on the vast expanse of empty computer screen, but at least it was a start. It was particularly pitiful in light of the fact that I had stayed up most of the night alternatively making that list and resisting the urge to punch holes in the walls. I'd once heard someone on TV say, "It's all about the G-T-L. Gym, tan, and laundry." At the time, it seemed awfully shallow advice. But maybe they were right. I looked like a shaggy overweight slob and felt horrible. Why should anyone else like me?
To do anything on my list I'd need money so, I sneaked into Dad's room while he snored away and found the shoebox he and Mom used for storing their rainy day funds. I'd looted from it before and since I was having a hurricane month, I took all of the cash—several thousand dollars—and stuck it behind a fake panel I'd built into the drywall in my closet a couple of years ago. Considering what my parents were putting me through I didn't feel guilty one little bit.
