Page 23 of Unhinged

Maybe I should see a shrink. Mom could hook me up. She’d be all over my shit.

Gritting my teeth, I open my closet. I don’t know why since I didn’t hang up anything from my suitcase. Totally unlike me. The only things hanging in my closet are Christmas and Hanukah rejects I’ve left here. Glancing at my suitcases, I’m fully aware anything I brought will need ironing or hardcore rounds in the dryer. Sighing, I turn back to the idiotic bargain-bin dress pants and Walmart button-up shirt with a fucking vest—complete with a silk back and floral upholstery comprising the front—hanging with it like it’s 1993, and I just got kicked out of a failing boy band. No doubt an Eden pick, and she’s laughing her wheezing ass off. Bitch.

Cringing, I remove the clothes, throwing the vest to the back of the closet. The rest will have to do. It’s not like I’ll impress anyone in this lifetime.

I skip the mirror and run my hand through my wet hair, hoping I don’t look totally ridiculous. Then again, I’ll be out in public with my mother, so too late.

I retrieve my watch and black bracelet before picking up my black boots. I look like a snobby prick with my black dress pants, white shirt, and black leather jacket. I’ll fit right in.

Before leaving my room, I see Eden’s diary and feeling the urge, I pick it up and find a pen.

Dear E,

You’re enjoying my suffering. Sit and spin, hag. I hope you trip and fall into the seventh level of hell, Staples, for eternity.

Enjoy the afterlife.

G

I watch for Amos’s Range Rover while driving into the country club parking lot. If I see him here, I will turn around and leave this state. I hear Alaska is a great place to live.

As I go up the stairs, I yawn. Shit. I need more sleep. Jimmy Don had better watch it. Chicken nuggets are in high demand.

Walking into the lobby, a hand pulls on my arm, and I turn to see my mother yanking me back outside. “Hello to you too,” I gripe but let her drag me to the porch.

She continues to lug me until we’re at her car in the parking lot. When she lets go of my arm, I complain, “Damn, woman. You bruised me.”

“Tell me about your senior year of high school.” Her matching brown eyes are teary and fearful. What the hell?

“Uh, I aced English but failed economics. I mean, come on. Why does it have to be so complicated? Geometry was way easier. I didn’t do so bad at psychology, which made you and Dad proud. I think. I hated sociology, though. Who cares about people, really?”

“I think you know what I’m referring to, Gregory Richard.”

I lick my lips. “Um, I don’t.” Fuck. No.

She nods like a bobblehead on a dashboard heading down a gravel road to a whorehouse. “I know classmates attacked you. Don’t you lie to me.”

“What?” I whisper, unsure I heard her right. Please, no. But the way she looks at me with pity and shame, it’s clear I did.

Her voice shakes as she grabs ahold of my wrists. “My poor baby. Oh, my God.”

“Where’d you hear this?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Through gritted teeth, I insist, “Yes, it does.”

“Did they sexually assault you?” Tears streak her cheeks, and I yank my wrists from her hands.

“I don’t know why you’d ask such a vile thing.”

“Of course, it’s vile! Why didn’t you tell your father or me?”

“There’s nothing to tell!”

“Greg! Stop lying about it! You don’t have to live with this alone anymore!”

Bitter tears fill my eyes, but I blink them away. “You know nothing about what I’ve lived with.”

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