Page 54 of My Debacle with De Lorenzo

She shrugs as if she can’t understand why I’m raging right now. “None of this is your concern, anyway. You don’t need this drama, so don’t get involved in it.” She glances at her phone. “And would you look at that? Our ten minutes are up. Time for me to be some other guy’s problem.”

She walks away, and I let her because...because she’s right. I don’t want drama. I don’t want to be dealing with this girl and her substance abuse problems. I just have to keep reminding myself of that. So, every time I think of David’s grimy hands on her and my blood starts boiling beneath my skin, I’m just going to brush it off. And when the thought of those sexy lips pressed against mine creep into my head, I’m just going to push it aside and tell myself that she’s not worth the trouble. And when I remember the hurt in her eyes, and the guilt starts eating at me, I’m just going to have to convince myself that losing her is a blessing in disguise.

I mentally go through my plan of action and groan when I realize that I’m never going to be able to execute it. Shit...what have I done?

* * * * *

MY KNUCKLES ARE NUMBand swollen by the time I’m done with my session. My biceps are on fire. I skipped practice after school today and opted for the bag instead. I didn’t want to be around anyone, though being alone with my thoughts isn’t helping either. Lust and guilt are a deleterious combination. The memory of her kiss is still fresh on my lips, and I can still hear her moaning my name, feel the heat of her body rubbing against me and I just...

I grip the bag with both hands and drop my forehead against it. Shit, she has really anchored me to that moment. I just need to move past it. Pushing it out of my mind, I shower, then head downstairs to get something to eat. I’m starving.

I walk into the kitchen, and I’m surprised to see my mom. Is it five o’clock already? How long was I beating the bag?

I find her hunched over the counter, crying again. Trying my best to ignore it, I walk over and stop on the opposite side of the island counter. “Hi, mom.”

She quickly straightens and wipes the tears off her cheeks. “Hey, sweetie.”

“What’s for dinner?” I ask, keeping it casual.

“Nothing!” she screams, and the high pitch shocks me a little. “I’m not making dinner. Why should I make dinner? I’m the worst mother in the world and bad moms don’t fucking cook dinner!”

Shit! It’s a bad day. Tears run twin tracks down her cheeks, and she’s distraught, on the verge of hyperventilation. Our carefully balanced scales are about to tip, and I need reinforcements. No way am I handling this by myself.

“Dad,” I call out. I wait a few seconds, then yell louder. “Dad!”

He rushes into the kitchen. “What?”

I point to my mother. “Please deal with this.”

He takes one look at her and shakes his head. “Goddammit, Lorraine! I can’t leave you alone for a second.” He crosses the kitchen in three quick strides and pulls her into his arms. Clasping her head to his chest, he holds her tight. I just watch as she breaks down in front of me. He waits for her breathing to slow and for her body to stop shaking before he pulls away slightly. “Now, what happened?”

“Dana doesn’t want to talk to me. She hung up on me when I called her earlier and I tried again when we got home and she’s not answering.”

“It’s another trauma tantrum, mom. You know how she gets. She goes through phases. By next week, she’ll be fine. Don’t take it to heart.”

“You didn’t hear her earlier.” Her tears start up again. “She’s so angry because we sent her to...to...”

“To boarding school,” I fill in before she throws the scales completely out of whack.

“Yes, to boarding school. She begged me to bring her home today...and when I said no, she just lost it.” Her voice cracks as she hiccups through her sobs. “She started screaming...and crying. She told me she hates me and I’m the worst mother in the world.”

“You know she doesn’t mean that,” I reassure her. “It’s just her anger talking. And we’re doin’ it for her own good.”

“Is it for her own good?” She wrings her hands together, looking up at my father as she begins to doubt this decision for the millionth time. “What if...what if she would be better off here...with us? She’s only fifteen, Giorgio. She needs her family...and...and I just want my baby to come home.”

“We all want her to come home.” Dad rubs her shoulder, pulling her closer to kiss her temple. “But she’s out of control here. She’s violent and unpredictable. At least she stays clean there. She’s not trying to sneak off at night or steal our wallets. When she stops doing things like that, we’ll bring her home, okay?”

She nods, but it’s still tearing her apart inside. “Okay.”

My dad gives her one more squeeze. “Now, will you stop your whining and incessant crying? Dylan happens to think you’re a great mom.”

I shrug when she looks over at me for confirmation. “Sort of.”

She humphs. “Well, you’re only my second favorite child, so your opinion doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“You’d be my favorite parent if you weren’t such a wuss.” I point to my dad. “Why can’t you be more like this guy? You don’t see him crying over this shit.”

“That’s because I’m a MAN!” He deepens his voice and slaps both hands against his chest. “And men don’t cry.”

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