Complicated

Thanksgiving

8

I spent the rest of the weekend running errands for my folks. I didn’t tell them about Josh. When they asked what took me so long, I said that I had been driving ten—sometimes fifteen—miles per hour slower than the speed limits because of the hard rain. My parents just called me their careful, little driver and let it slide. I wondered if they suspected anything.

The following school week wasn’t as productive as Friday had been—although I managed to get A’s and B’s on every quiz and test. Also, Josh was talking to me again. I still skipped lunch but was more comfortable with being by myself. I was somewhat disappointed when Josh didn’t sit with me, but I let it go. Keeping distance between us was probably the best thing to do, especially since I could experience a mood swing at any given time.

The week was emotionally rougher than Friday. Because of my decking Sarah, kids were teasing me and calling me names to my face and behind my back. They made jokes about me and Josh. I did my best to ignore them.

Monday was Derek’s last day at school and Sarah did her best to remind me. I was on my way to second period when she first told me today was the last time I’d get to see him.

Sarah and Derek were standing outside of Spanish class. I had planned on entering the classroom without even glancing their way. Sarah had planned otherwise.

“Hey, Micky,” Sarah called, “you gonna say good bye to Derek? It’s his last day, you know.”

I hadn’t forgotten that Derek was leaving. I just didn’t think about it. I didn’t want to.

My eyes flickered up at Derek then back down. “Bye.”

“Aw, come on,” Sarah said, “That’s not exciting.”

I sighed and looked at Derek and said, “I’ll miss you. Hope New Jersey is good to you.”

Derek nodded and prepared to reply.

Sarah cut in, “Is that it? After all you’ve done to him, that’s all he gets? Wow, no wonder he dumped you. You suck as a girlfriend.”

My insides boiled. I had punched her for a reason.

Derek quietly told Sarah to stop. I had said my good bye. She needed to leave me alone. I chuckled under my breath. No one could tell Sarah what to do. What was he thinking?

“Naw, you deserve a better good bye.” She patted his chest. “Maybe I should demonstrate for you, Micky.” She pressed her lips to his jaw and began kissing him.

“Oh, cut it out, Sarah,” I said, irritated. “We both know that he’s yours. Leave me alone.”

Sarah turned to me and smiled. “You wanna kiss him?”

I took in a deep breath and tried to say calmly, “Leave me alone.”

Sarah ran a hand through her blond hair and replied, “Give it up, Micky. We both know that you are just pretending. We both know that you’re not troubled. You’re just looking for attention, and I’m offering you one last chance to have it. Once Derek leaves, you’ll be stuck with…Josh.” She sniffed.

I cringed at her words. She really is a bitch.

Derek tucked Sarah’s hand inside his and said, “Sarah, you need to go to class.”

I stared incredulously at him. Derek put up with her crap. He let her stand there and tease me and bully me and didn’t do a thing. I briefly wondered what I ever saw in him.

I shook my head at Derek, tears beginning to build up. I shoved past them and took my seat inside the classroom.

Wednesday, I missed the bus. I had struggled getting my locker open. Once I did, I realized that someone had jammed it shut with a rubber band. I threw the rubber band away and began my walk home.

As I walked past the edge of the school, I heard someone call my name. At first I just ignored them, but they just kept calling after me and eventually caught my arm. I turned to see Ron holding my elbow.

“Mick,” he said, smelling sweetly and faintly of smoke.

“What do you want, Ron?” I asked him.

He closed his eyes and kissed me. Laughter came from behind him. I pushed Ron away and saw several other kids huddling at the corner. A few of them held cigarettes between their stained fingers.

Ron smiled and said, “You should try smoking. It cured my problems.”

I gave him a horrified look. “What do you mean? What problems?”

He shrugged. “You mostly, Mick, you were my biggest problem. I thought that I wanted you, but it turned out that you were nothing more than a dream beyond my grasp. You broke my heart, Mick, and I couldn’t do anything anymore.” He smiled at me through his yellow teeth and said, “Look at me now. I haven’t worried about a girl since.”

I stood there, dumbfounded.

Ron nodded at the kids behind him. “They didn’t believe me. I told them that I used to love you. They just said I was crazy. Especially when I told them that you kissed me once, on Halloween, do you remember that? They laughed even harder and dared me to kiss you again since we’re such good buddies. Well, I told them that you had forgotten about me.” He laughed. “You should have seen the look on your face when I twirled you around just now. You were so pissed to see me…then scared…dunno why. Mick, I wouldn’t harm you.”

“Ron?” I asked wearily.

He nodded, very mellow. “Yeah, babe?”

“I don’t even know who you are anymore!”

He turned his dull eyes to me and said, “You never knew me.”

I fought back the tears and said, “Good bye, Ron, I’ve got to go.”

Ron’s grip on my elbow tightened. “No, I’m not letting you go, never again, Mick.”

I felt the tears rolling down my face. “No, Ron, no, just let me go…let me go.”

Ron kissed me again and I shuddered.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered in my ear.

I twisted in his grip and pleaded, “I haven’t—let me go!”

Ron heard the tears in my voice and asked, “Why are you crying, Mick? Is it me? Am I too much for you? You never could handle me. Now you can’t even handle yourself.” He let go of my elbow. “I’m sorry your life sucks, but, Mick, just grow up. Mine isn’t any better. We could be miserable together.”
I was so scared, staring into his black hole eyes.

He dropped his gaze. “Good bye, Mick. Good bye.”

I walked away from him slowly but when he made no move after me, I bolted, running all the way home. I collapsed on my bed, exhausted and crying.

To add confusion to fear, my parents no longer argued every night. No screaming match anytime someone was unhappy. Instead, the matches happened at irregular intervals. It even set the house on edge. I was all too eager to get out of the line of fire.

Saturday finally arrived. I was almost relieved to go to Saturday school. It was my last punishment session. Mr. Dunwoody’s classroom was clean within forty-five of the sixty minutes assigned to me. Mr. Dunwoody let me go home early and wished me a happy Thanksgiving. I returned the salutation.

The following week was a little hectic. We only had school on Monday and Tuesday. Both days felt like Friday—it messed up my internal clock. In Spanish, my class had a food day. In English, we read snippets of the Canterbury Tales. The teachers were saving new subject matter for our return. Monday and Tuesday were just time to waste.

Although my parents had to work over the break, they had Thursday off. Traditionally, my mom, Amber, and I would prepare the Thanksgiving dinner while Dad watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and played around on the computer. Then around one thirty to two, we would eat dinner. Afterwards, Amber and I would clean the dishes while Mom and Dad pulled out the sparkling grape juice—suitable for all ages. Then my mom would settle down on the couch and call her folks, wishing them a Happy Thanksgiving. Amber, Dad, and I would bundle up and go play in the yard.

This was our first Thanksgiving without Amber. I expected things to be a little difficult. I suggested to my mom to preorder a nice dinner that we could just heat up and serve. Less mess, less stress. As simple as possible.

My mom took me up on my offer and preordered a dinner on Monday afternoon. She would pick it up on Wednesday. I told her that I could do it to help her out, but she refused, saying she’d be in the neighborhood anyway. Wednesday morning, she left for work. Had she been wearing new jewelry?

So much for tradition: Thursday morning started with Dad making eggs and bacon at eight thirty. My mom had a fit, and soon they were tossing shouts back and forth like kids fighting in the school yard. I buried my head in my covers, blindly reaching for my mp3. I found it and drowned them out.

Around noon, my mom started warming up the dinner. My dad was suspicious toward the not homemade dinner and broken tradition. We ate one forty-five. Well, my parents ate. I just rearranged my food, hoping it looked like I had eaten.

After dinner, I silently did the dishes while my mom locked herself in her room and made her phone calls. My dad sat on the brown couch. I didn’t have any homework or anything to do, so I joined him.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Dad,” I said.

I noticed his red eyes. Was he crying? The thought frightened me. What could make him cry?

What was the only thing that I had ever seen to make him cry?

Amber.

I closed my eyes. “You know, she really did love all of us.”

My dad breathed. “I know.”

We sat in silence. The silence was deafeningly heavy. The weight I felt landing on my heart seemed dark. Dark and lonely.

I kept expecting my father to say something comforting or reassuring. He remained silent, still as stone.

It was then that I realized what it was about my parents that had been nagging me for so long. My mom was hiding from the world. My dad was turning his back to the cold.

And me?

I was beginning to drift again. From my parents. From the world. From everything. Because my parents could do nothing. Because the world didn’t care. Because in the midst of everything, I had nothing to keep me here.

And so I drifted. Because my parents didn’t want to do anything. Because the world ignored me.

The past two weeks, I had tried so hard to make it through, busying myself with as many things as possible, looking for errands to run, seeking jobs to be done. What I really was doing was avoiding the inevitable scary limbo that I had been thrust into. I tried to escape into reality, working on my grades.

Every time I managed to escape limbo, something forced me back. Not even my license could undo any of the crap that my life was throwing at me. Saturday school helped give me an outlet for my troubles. It provided me an escape from limbo and reality.

The thought of escaping limbo and reality calmed me. But how?

I didn’t dare go there. Not yet. I wasn’t sure if I could handle the answer. I wasn’t sure if I could handle where I would be sent. Not yet willing to completely let go. One more chance, I told myself. One more shot for my parents, for the world.

For the first time in weeks, my thoughts turned to Derek. I was remembering our last real conversation.

“Don’t do this,” he had pleaded.

But in vain.

“At least I won’t be able to say that I didn’t try.”

At the time, I had thought: will it be enough?

Clearly his effort wasn’t enough.

Whose was?

I spent the rest of the weekend in my room, going through the drawers with her things in them. We used to share a bedroom and bathroom. All my stuff—my bed, drawers, closet—was on the left half of the room, my half. Her stuff was on her half, the right. I hadn’t touched her things since The Day. Come to think of it, none of us had even thought to disturb any of her belongings. Her death really rattled us.

The weekend was the first time. I started with her photo album drawer, taking special care to put everything back just as I had found it. She owned hundreds of photos—some she had snapped herself. Either her friends or I took most of them. If there was one thing that Amber loved to do, posing was it. For a camera, for her life. It was all one big act. I never even saw the signs. Even now that I look back on her last days—I can’t see the signs. She must have been dying for a long time.

Monday came all too soon. I didn’t want to go to school. I didn’t speak anymore than I had to; I didn’t participate anymore than was necessary. I tried to drift and give life another chance. It was just too difficult.

Fortunately, my parents fought more and louder than usual. And at school, kids paid me less attention. Everyone was gearing up for first semester final exams. I followed the stream of students, searching half-heartedly for my savior.

And so, November faded into December, and Georgia’s weather dropped another couple degrees. Not even my hoodie-letter jacket combination could stop the cold from seeping in.

I would have used my license and one of my parents’ cars to get me to school, but both cars were in use. I was stuck, standing in the cold. My license was useless. My license couldn’t even help me curb my returning wanderlust. At least the school bus’ darkness and warmth provided some measure of security.

But not this Monday morning. Some kid wrote a note and had it passed up the bus to me.

It read:

         Hey Micks,
         Do you know what happens this
         month? Other than Old Saint Nick
         of course. How did she go again?
         A gun? Pills? I’m sure you’re all
         too familiar with the procedure.
         Merry Christmas
         Or should I say Happy Hanukkah?
         I never got the chance to find out.

I had a pretty good guess at who had written this. Only a handful of people had ever called me “Micks.” Derek had moved, so it couldn’t be him. The others didn’t ride my bus. Another was a kid named Greg. My sister was his girlfriend when The Day happened, so he would be familiar with the details of the story. Also, Greg rode my bus, seat eleven on the left side.

I knew that I should probably turn the letter in on harassment charges, but I wasn’t completely sure that Greg had written it. The letter was too general, too vague. Anybody could have written it. Besides, it was just one note.

Tuesday morning, I received another one. This one read:

         Hey Micks,
         Only 22 days left. Have you
         chosen your poison yet?
         Merry Christmas
         PS- that top you’re wearing
         makes me salivate

It was definitely written by a guy. I was wearing a hoodie over my long-sleeved shirt, so clearly it was all a fantasy. I decided that if I received another note from my mysterious antagonizer, I would turn the letters in.

The letters were cheap shots, meant to make me uncomfortable and vulnerable. I chose not to tell anyone because they were so low. But they worked. Wednesday’s note was the kicker:

         Hey Micks
         Why do you ignore me so?
         You only have 21 days left.
         Choose wisely.
         Merry Christmas
         PS- I like the purple hipsters.

I was self-conscious for the rest of the day, constantly pulling my jeans up and hoodie down. I needed to turn the notes in. It was the right thing to do. But there was no name. And the chance of the frail school system finding my harasser was very unlikely. His notes would just keep coming. Why waste my energy?

Plus, turning in the notes would just announce my inability to handle the conflict.

But it was the right thing to do.

During lunch on Thursday, I stood in front of the counseling office, undecided on whether or not to enter.

“Hey, Micks,” an alluring voice called to me.

I spun around, clutching the notes. The note from that morning read:

         Hey Micks,
         20 days and counting.
         Personally, I think that pills
         would be less painful for
         you.
         Merry Christmas
         PS- unless you want me to
         make love to you right now,
         I’d find a less appealing
         way to sit.

This note was the note that pushed me over the edge. It panicked me. I sat up straight. My letter jacket was tightly done up at the top. My legs hurt; they were being pressed so hard together. I kept my head down, dark curls on both sides of my face.

Now I was facing the guy who just proved to me that the world was never going to change.

“Don’t be scared,” Greg called sweetly.

I stood frozen. He wouldn’t dare do anything while half the school could see. He sauntered toward me. Yes, he would. He didn’t care.

I became a statue. His rough fingers stroked my hair. He leaned in and inhaled my scent.

“Lavender…just like your sister.”

Greg was a senior; he had been a junior when he dated my sister, a year behind her and a year ahead of me.

I inwardly cringed but had lost all control over my body. I felt a tear slip out of my eye.

“Oh, don’t cry, Micks,” Greg whispered in my ear.

I shuddered at his touch, his hands inside my letter jacket. His sour lips touched mine. If I had any sense, I would have bitten his tongue, but instead, I let him choke me with his ravenous hunger—in front of the whole cafeteria.

The bell rang, and he was done. He removed his hands and wiped his mouth on the end of his sleeve. He joined Sarah and Matt, who were strolling over, hand-in-hand, and they walked off. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Josh watching me. A sharp pain in my palm made me look down. I had gripped the notes so tightly that I had made my hands bleed. I tore the notes up, threw them away, and tugged my sleeve down. I almost went to the clinic, but I didn’t want to explain how I had managed to cut myself with my fingernails.

And so, I went to English—I went to all of my classes. I finished the school day, frighteningly yet calmly aware that I had been sexually assaulted at school, with hundreds of witnesses. And yet no one did a thing. Not a single person even pretended to care. I didn’t ride the bus after Thursday morning. Instead, I walked home, and when my father dropped me off at the bus stop Friday morning, I waited for him to drive off and then walked to school. That way, I walked into my classroom right as the bell rang. My sense of safety, protection, security was squished out of existence in less than a week.