Man Up

Man Up


My school counselor once told me that most teenagers suppress their emotions often, and that it wasn’t healthy. At first I thought he was talking out of his ass, but when you’re in the fetal position, balling your eyes out in the back corner of your algebra room, you often have astounding changes in opinion.

It’s dead quiet in the room and I know what everyone’s thinking, “Oh god, she’s snapped.” Maybe I have. They kept telling me you can’t go back to school three days after your entire family dies, and I said “Watch me.” and they said “You’ll regret this.”, and now I’m rocking back and forth, muttering about how I want my mommy.

Everyone makes mistakes.

Let me explain myself, during this moment of hysteria. Ms. Locket was handing out our worksheets, the ones we did last week, and I saw it. The dried, brown coffee ring Roxanne left on the otherwise impeccable paper. She stayed up all night helping me finish; I’m not very good at math.

Right as the assignment hit my desk, every memory I had of Roxy came flooding back, like one giant tidal wave of nostalgia and vomit. So here I am, in the corner, snotting up a storm, and hoping against hope that Ashton Kutcher will pop up any second, and tell me that Punk’d suddenly got a budget increase and could afford to fake a car crash and funeral. I would have laughed. Honest.

But he’s not.

Screeching joins my crying as one of the few sounds that still hangs in the air, followed by an awkward cough and the clap of sneakers hitting tile. Alex forgot the chairs are connected to the desks, again. I never realized how small I was (denial) or how big Alex was (equal denial), but he picks me up and walks straight out of the class room. But really, who’s gonna stop him.

Soon, the steady rhythm of Alex’s footsteps had lulled me into some kind of calm when the smell of musty wood and old brass hit me. We were in the band room. He sat me down on the edge of one of the rows and for the first time I noticed Haley was there, looking at me with all the love and affection one person could posses in their heart for another, and I wanted to punch her. It wasn’t her fault, not at all, but she was the spitting image of her father; the gun-metal gray eyes, high cheek bones, and thick coffee hair. He was responsible in every which way, and he had the nerve to come to the funeral without a scratch on him, talking on the cell phone, probably the one he was using when he hit them head on.

I remember that day; I mean how could I not. I spent the entire 2 hours mumbling, “I never meant it when I wished I was an only child.”, then I turned and looked at him, dead in the eye, and he looked away. I was kinda hoping he wouldn’t so I could ask him. Ask him if he looked up from his oh-so-important work long enough to see my parent’s faces while he slammed into them. I wanted to tell him that I should have told my parents to buy a Bentley, that it kept him pretty safe, right? But when I opened my mouth all that came out was noise.

Haley smiles a sad smile, maybe cause she knows what I’m thinking about or maybe it’s just written all over my face. She pulls me into a hug and we kinda sit there. Alex pushes himself off the row and turns only the radio. It’s in the dead center of the room, so when Mr. Carves plays the studio versions of the music we’re supposed to be learning we can hear how bad we suck.

He pulls a CD out of his pocket; it’s one of Roxy’s mix tapes. It neatly drops into its designated area and starts playing over the surround sound, now I recall that I hate the kind of music Roxy likes (liked), it alls sounds the same to me and all the band members look too ambiguous, but at this moment I don’t think any of those criticisms are appropriate, maybe I should just enjoy it. So I do, and it almost feels like she’s right there, ya know? Dancing like no one’s watching, singing in that horrible voice, and being alive. Everything she’s not doing right now. For a moment I slump back into depression, but I hear a voice, one I’m very fond, and it says a phrase, one I’m very familiar with,

“Stop being a wussy.”


Big sisters have no sympathy.