hauled me up the walk and I didn’t hear her engine start until he shut the front door behind me.
6
Inside the dim room, a rug covered the wood floors between the couch and some chairs. Miguel slumped on the couch, alone, a soda balanced on his stomach.
“You remember Miguel?” Jackson asked.
I nodded. “Who could forget him?” But the Miguel at Lucy’s house seemed a different person from the clown I knew from school and church.
Jackson laughed, but his mirth died quickly. “We’ve got a tiny bit of a crisis in the other room. Shannon had a big fight with her mom, and now she’s doing the meltdown. Would you mind letting people in for us?”
Without waiting to hear if either of us agreed, Jackson left. Poor little Shannon, I thought. Poor, lucky little Shannon. She has a fight with her mother, and the whole world shores her up. I have a fight with mine, and no one knows. I wondered what Shannon would do if she had to deal with my mom.
I wandered around the room, watched Miguel’s soda rise and dip with his breathing. I edged to one of the chairs and perched on the seat. “Are you all right?” I whispered.
He shrugged. “My dad’s hitting the bottle again.” His voice came out flat, like he’s been working hard at feeling nothing, and succeeded. “Had to get out before he started hitting me.” He laughed and took a drink of soda while I froze, shocked.
Why was he telling me ? Because he didn’t know me? Maybe Jackson, the take-care-of-the-world-guy, should have stayed. Everybody turned to Jackson. Everybody but me. I wondered what Miguel would do when he realized he’d been talking to me, or if he’d learned not to care.
“This is the first party you’ve ever come to, isn’t it?” Miguel asked. “I mean, with the group.”
So he knew who I was, after all. “Yeah.”
“You’ll like it. Really.” He laughed again, as though I ought to understand the joke. “Usually we’re a lot more fun than this.”
He stood and walked around, stretching his back and finishing off his soda. “I hate my dad. What’s the point of quitting when you know you’re just gonna start again? He never means it. Makes all kinds of promises, but he never means to keep them.”
He paced, and I couldn’t find an answer. He didn’t seem to need one.
“Sometimes I think he does that so he can knock me and Mom down, you know? ‘Cause we start to hope, and we think everything’s gonna be normal. And then, nothing ever stays good, not around my house.”
Or mine. Panic picked up my heartbeat’s tempo. “It’s stupid,” I said. “Hoping is stupid. It never does any good. Just wastes time.” Until everything crashed.
He grunted, and he looked as if he saw me for the first time—saw me and not my shadow. I wished I’d never said a word then took the wish back.
Miguel held out his empty can. “You want another one?”
I said, “Sure,” even though I hadn’t had a first one.
When he brought it back, cold and moist and something to keep my hands busy, he sat down, leaning close. “Your dad?”
“What?”
“Your dad’s a drunk?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He stared at his can, wiped a ring out of the frost. “I saw your mom Sunday, and she looked OK.”
“She is.”
He laughed softly and in the back of his throat. He didn’t believe me, and I could tell I’d hurt him. He’d been open with me, after all. But how could I say anything more? And yet, before I could stop them, words poured out, words that I’d always heard in the silence of my head, when I cried to my Dad. I’d never even said them to the imaginary Jackson who cared.
“For right now, she’s OK. I guess. She says she is, anyway.”
And he nodded. “How long?”
I swallowed. “A week and a half. I think.”
“Is that long for her?”
I nodded. Please, no more questions, no more words, no more hurts, no more.
“Is she in a program?”
“A program? You mean like AA?”
He
6
Inside the dim room, a rug covered the wood floors between the couch and some chairs. Miguel slumped on the couch, alone, a soda balanced on his stomach.
“You remember Miguel?” Jackson asked.
I nodded. “Who could forget him?” But the Miguel at Lucy’s house seemed a different person from the clown I knew from school and church.
Jackson laughed, but his mirth died quickly. “We’ve got a tiny bit of a crisis in the other room. Shannon had a big fight with her mom, and now she’s doing the meltdown. Would you mind letting people in for us?”
Without waiting to hear if either of us agreed, Jackson left. Poor little Shannon, I thought. Poor, lucky little Shannon. She has a fight with her mother, and the whole world shores her up. I have a fight with mine, and no one knows. I wondered what Shannon would do if she had to deal with my mom.
I wandered around the room, watched Miguel’s soda rise and dip with his breathing. I edged to one of the chairs and perched on the seat. “Are you all right?” I whispered.
He shrugged. “My dad’s hitting the bottle again.” His voice came out flat, like he’s been working hard at feeling nothing, and succeeded. “Had to get out before he started hitting me.” He laughed and took a drink of soda while I froze, shocked.
Why was he telling me ? Because he didn’t know me? Maybe Jackson, the take-care-of-the-world-guy, should have stayed. Everybody turned to Jackson. Everybody but me. I wondered what Miguel would do when he realized he’d been talking to me, or if he’d learned not to care.
“This is the first party you’ve ever come to, isn’t it?” Miguel asked. “I mean, with the group.”
So he knew who I was, after all. “Yeah.”
“You’ll like it. Really.” He laughed again, as though I ought to understand the joke. “Usually we’re a lot more fun than this.”
He stood and walked around, stretching his back and finishing off his soda. “I hate my dad. What’s the point of quitting when you know you’re just gonna start again? He never means it. Makes all kinds of promises, but he never means to keep them.”
He paced, and I couldn’t find an answer. He didn’t seem to need one.
“Sometimes I think he does that so he can knock me and Mom down, you know? ‘Cause we start to hope, and we think everything’s gonna be normal. And then, nothing ever stays good, not around my house.”
Or mine. Panic picked up my heartbeat’s tempo. “It’s stupid,” I said. “Hoping is stupid. It never does any good. Just wastes time.” Until everything crashed.
He grunted, and he looked as if he saw me for the first time—saw me and not my shadow. I wished I’d never said a word then took the wish back.
Miguel held out his empty can. “You want another one?”
I said, “Sure,” even though I hadn’t had a first one.
When he brought it back, cold and moist and something to keep my hands busy, he sat down, leaning close. “Your dad?”
“What?”
“Your dad’s a drunk?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He stared at his can, wiped a ring out of the frost. “I saw your mom Sunday, and she looked OK.”
“She is.”
He laughed softly and in the back of his throat. He didn’t believe me, and I could tell I’d hurt him. He’d been open with me, after all. But how could I say anything more? And yet, before I could stop them, words poured out, words that I’d always heard in the silence of my head, when I cried to my Dad. I’d never even said them to the imaginary Jackson who cared.
“For right now, she’s OK. I guess. She says she is, anyway.”
And he nodded. “How long?”
I swallowed. “A week and a half. I think.”
“Is that long for her?”
I nodded. Please, no more questions, no more words, no more hurts, no more.
“Is she in a program?”
“A program? You mean like AA?”
He
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