Page 7 of Quiet Rage
Instead, I grab handfuls of paper towels from the dispenser and run them under the faucet before trying to clean myself up. It’s depressingly useless. I have two classes today—am I supposed to sit through them with dried-up goop all over me?
What’s the alternative? Going home? Tucking my tail between my legs and running like a coward? That’s the same as letting them win. I can’t do it.
That doesn’t mean I’m in any hurry to leave the bathroom. It’s only when I have absolutely no choice, with five minutes left before my next class, that I force myself through slinging the backpack over one shoulder and leveling a hard, unblinking look at myself in the mirror. I can do this. I have to do this.
I’m so tired of everything Ihaveto do. I have to get out of bed in the morning. I have to go through the motions of being a normal person. I have to leave the house, look people in the eye, raise myvoice above a whisper when I talk to them. I have to pretend the massive hole in my heart doesn’t exist. That I’m not broken.
And that every time a car rolls by just a little slower than it seems like they should, I’m not bracing myself for the sound of gunshots.
Drive-by shootings aren’t exactly an everyday thing around here, not even on the poorer side of town where I’ve lived all my life. But for the hundredth time in the past year, I can’t help wondering why the shooter chose my brother over everybody else on the sidewalk that night. Was it random?
If it was, who’s to say the same thing couldn’t happen to me?
Of course, there are other ways to be hurt while a person is only trying to go along with their normal life. It seems like today is my day for learning that firsthand. The stares and snickers I get when I walk into my Calculus class almost make me wish somebody would drive by and deliver a bullet with my name on it. It would have to be better than this. Fighting to hold my head up, knowing I’m hated or at least resented, all because I exist in a world I don’t belong in.
It’s a good thing I’m not moving too quickly, since the guy sitting in the desk behind the one I choose kicks it to the side not a second before I’m about to settle into the chair. I’m lucky I didn’t hit the floor ass-first.
“Oh, this isn’t your day, is it?” he mutters, while the girls sitting on either side of him giggle.
I scoot the desk back into place, deliberately staring straight ahead so I don’t have to look at any of them. Maybe I should’ve gone home, after all.
“The oatmeal is an improvement,” somebody on the other side of the room decides. “Do they not have regular stores where you live? Or do you have to dumpster dive for those rags?”
Yes, I should’ve gone home.
No, on second thought, I never should’ve come here at all. These vile, disgusting people only know what’s been obvious to me all along. I don’t belong here.
Thankfully, they let me leave after class without any more than a few catcalls and whistles, but I can live with that so long as it means getting the hell out of here and off campus for the rest of the day. Forget sticking around for Psychology. Instead, I go straight to the lot, where my car starts on the first try. Finally. Something went my way.
I don’t understand people. Maybe I’m the problem. Believing it’s possible to live and let live. I mean, would it have killed them to leave me alone? Like the people who decided to make fun of me in class. Why? What did they get out of it? Do they feel better about themselves now? I guess I should be glad I don’t understand, since if I did, it would make me just as heinous as they are. Not that I’m perfect or anything, but it would never occur to me to hurt somebody on purpose like they went out of their way to do.
Driving home should be a relief. I should feel a sense of peace and safety as I pull up in front of the house, right? I did a long time ago. Back when I had a living, breathing brother. Back when I had a mom who wasn’t completely checked out all the time, trapped in a world of deep pain. She’s locked herself so far away, I don’t know if I or anyone else will ever be able to reach her.
Maybe it would be cruel if we did, because where she is, Jason is alive. In the past, when things were good. Every day, she takes a trip back there, a bottle of vodka her ticket.
The way I’m feeling right now, I kind of wish I could join her. But first, I can’t move from behind the wheel. Dad’s minivan is here—he’ll want to know why I’m home so early. He desires my success much more than I do. Sometimes, I think it’s all he has left. The house is uncomfortable enough when only one of them is home, but when they both are? The air is thick enough to suffocate me.
Closing my hand around the doorknob, I take a slow breath, brace myself—then open the door.
The TV is on, as always. Mom is wearing her bathrobe over the pajamas she’s worn for at least the past three days. Her hair used to be so pretty, shiny and golden, but now it sits in a dull bun on top of her head. Next to her on the end table is her usual vodka on the rocks.
If she thinks there’s anything strange about me coming home at this time of day, she doesn’t show it. Instead, her head swings slowly back toward the TV, where a black-and-white musical plays. She likes them most of all. They make it easier for her to escape.
We don’t live in the nicest house, but it’s nicer than most on this side of town—or it was back when my parents had the time and the energy for upkeep. The downward spiral that started the night somebody gunned Jason down snowballed in no time, and now everything around here is dingy and cluttered no matter how much time I spend straightening up whenever I get the chance. Mom is a zombie, and Dad can’t bring himself to care, even on the good days.
He’s in the kitchen now, working on his laptop. He never explained why he came home with a black eye and a split lip on Monday. First, he would have to acknowledge the fact that he’s wounded. Instead, he’s been acting like nothing’s wrong. We do a lot of that around here.
He looks up, scowling at the sight of me. “What happened? Why are you home?”
“My professor didn’t show up for class. We waited fifteen minutes, then left.” I can barely hear my excuse over the pounding in my head. I have to go back there tomorrow. How am I supposed to go back there tomorrow?
He turns his attention back to the laptop. “That gives you more time for your studying.”
Yes, because in Dad’s world, things are that simple. So simple, he never even noticed the stains on my clothes. He would have to pay attention to things in order to do that. Little by little, he’s disconnected like Mom has. His way of coping.
Even though I really should eat something to silence the cries of my empty stomach, I leave the kitchen and go up to my room instead. It’s not like I’ve never gone without food. Not like there haven’t been entire days when I couldn’t get out of bed. I had my share of dark days before the drive-by, but afterward? The regular, functional days became rarer.
And forget good days. There’s no such thing anymore.
