Blazed by Jason Myers Page B

mildly red. “Hi.”
    â€œCool.”
    â€œIt’s just . . .” He stops and shakes his head. “I mean, here you are. You’ve grown so much. I can’t believe it.”
    I roll my eyes. “It’s what happens, dude. The last time you saw me, I was one and you were hurting my mother.”
    â€œHey,” he starts.
    But I cut him off. “I’m fourteen. People fucking grow a lot in thirteen years.”
    The doctor, my father, and the child welfare lady all look horribly uncomfortable after I say this. And they should.
    They should feel more than uncomfortable. They should feel shame and guilt for what they’re doing to me right now, and what they’re doing to my mother.
    My father sighs. “You’re right. Kids grow up. It’s somuch different, though, when it’s your own family. Your own son.”
    â€œI’m not your fucking family.”
    â€œJaime,” the doctor snaps. “Let’s keep this civil.”
    Me and my father, we lock eyes and stare at each other.
    We look so much alike, too.
    â€œI’m really happy to see you, Jaime. I know this has to be incredibly hard for you right now, but I want you to understand that we’re excited for you to spend a week with us. I think you’ll really enjoy it. San Francisco is a great place for you to get your mind off of what’s happened.”
    â€œYou think I’m gonna start hanging out, and stop thinking about finding my mother lying in that shitty bed?”
    â€œThat’s not what I meant.”
    â€œYou think I’m going to enjoy myself while my mother sits in a mental hospital?”
    â€œOh, come on,” my father snaps. “You’re my son too. I’m your father.”
    â€œYou’re a fucking sperm donor, dude. I don’t have a father.”
    â€œThat’s not fair.”
    â€œRight,” I sigh. “Right . . .”
    Pause.
    â€œPlease go on, man. I’d love to know what you think is fair.”
    He doesn’t say anything.
    â€œI’m betting my mom would love to hear it too.”
    â€œOkay,” the doctor says. “That’s enough. You two have a plane to catch. I’d suggest you accept that, Jaime, and make this as easy on yourself as you can.”
    â€œPiss off,” I go. “I’ll be outside when you’re done signing all the paperwork, Justin.”

20.
    THE MOST IMPORTANT THING I’M taking to san Francisco besides my laptop and notebooks and camcorder are thirty baby blues. I take them from a safe under my mother’s bed, along with five thousand dollars (she has more than a thousand Oxys and twenty thousand in cash in this thing).
    My father stays in the car. He said he had to make some important phone calls.
    â€œGreat for you,” I said back. Then, “I bet it must be neat being you and stuff,” before going into the house.
    I dump the Oxys into a Tylenol bottle, and then take the last three from my own stash and put them in the tiny pocket of my jeans.
    After I’m done stuffing my backpack, I grab a fairly large black suitcase from a closet in the hallway and pack it full of cut-off jean shorts, tank tops, tight black jeans, flannels, slip-on shoes, and a green parka.
    Holding a piece of aluminum foil in my left hand, I chase the dragon. I don’t smoke it all, but I smoke enough.
    Not even my stupid fucking father sucks enough to leave a stain in the lovely glass castle I’ve just built.
    In the kitchen, I slam a beer.
    I’m numb.
    I look around the house and it means nothing at the moment.
    This is what really matters. Feeling nothing.
    I put my headphones on and play that Angus and Julia Stone song “Big Jet Plane.”
    It seems kinda fitting, even though I’m not taking some gorgeous girl I’m in love with on a trip.
    I walk outside. My father is leaning against the car, smoking a joint. I laugh.
    He quickly puts it