to hate him. What else do I say? That I’m sick of the way people look at me? That I know they see it in me? Because they do. I know I’m a loser and I know they can feel it coming off me in waves.”
“You’re not a loser. You’re a victim of circumstance.”
“I’d rather be a loser. I don’t want to be a fucking victim of anything.”
“I think you should go back to Dr. Nelson,” she suggests and I push my face against the window, hoping the cold frosty glass will balance the heat inside me. Dr. Fucking Nelson. The fuckwad who somehow thought it was a good idea to give antidepressants to a 15-year-old before trying therapy. Like it was just a chemical imbalance that made my mom turn to drugs and my father become a lunatic. And as if the smartest move was to get the teenaged kid of a junkie hooked on prescription drugs. Fuck him, fuck his meds, and fuck his phony therapy.
“I know you’re an adult now and technically, I can’t force you. Unless there’s another incident-”
“There won’t be. I have been incident free for nearly two years,” I remind her.
“I just worry that the people at that school can’t treat you.”
“I don’t need to be treated. Fuck. Why am I such a case that everyone needs to fix?”
She shakes her head, but it shuts her up. Considering my life, I think I turned out fairly okay. I have a decent job that I’ve held down for years and I’m on a full scholarship to an awesome school. So I get drunk more than I should and I treat sex like a hobby. I’m not hurting anyone and I’m certainly not the only college guy who does those things. I know she doesn’t see it, though. She’s afraid I’ll regress to the way I was in my senior year of high school, but it isn’t going to happen. I’m too close to the end and too close to escape to give it all up now. At least most days. But no one needs to know about the exceptions.
When we get to the house, I excuse myself and call Alana. She doesn’t answer, so I leave a voice mail, a little pissed off since she knew I was coming back tonight. I leave my phone on the nightstand and start working on a new song. I think about earlier tonight, sitting on the grass, seeing Strawberries and her happy relationship. It aches – and I hate the ache. She doesn’t have the right to make me ache like that. I scribble fast, both thinking about her eyes and about how angry I am that I’m thinking about her eyes.
The lyrics are rough, but the song has potential. I’m about to start on the music when the phone rings. It’s Alana.
“Yeah?”
“Sorry. Mom wanted me to go to dinner with the new boyfriend.”
“And?”
“Well, he didn’t hit on me when she went to the bathroom.”
“Progress.”
“Yup. So you’re back?”
“I am.”
“Whatcha doing?”
I put down my notepad and lean back on the bed. “Writing a song.”
“Yeah? About what?”
“Strawberries,” I say.
“Strawberries? Like the fruit?”
“Sort of.” I don’t want to talk about her. I don’t want to face the fact that I’m obsessing over a girl who will never even notice that I exist. I’m the type of guy who lives in the periphery of girls like her and that’s just how things go.
“The princess?” Alana isn’t dumb. She knows me well.
“Sure. But I don’t want to talk about her. Are you coming over?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m horny and my grandmother bought me a bottle of Jack,” I tell her.
“Yeah, that’s an amazing pick up line, but I don’t know, Jack. I was thinking…”
“Don’t do this. Please don’t do this.” I sit up and grip the phone tighter. I want to snap it, to break it into a hundred pieces, to go back to before I told Alana anything.
“It’s just – if you’re moving on, you’re leaving me behind, right?”
“No. You’re my best friend. You’re the only person I love this much. You’re the one who was so fucking worried about being abandoned and now you want to fucking walk
“You’re not a loser. You’re a victim of circumstance.”
“I’d rather be a loser. I don’t want to be a fucking victim of anything.”
“I think you should go back to Dr. Nelson,” she suggests and I push my face against the window, hoping the cold frosty glass will balance the heat inside me. Dr. Fucking Nelson. The fuckwad who somehow thought it was a good idea to give antidepressants to a 15-year-old before trying therapy. Like it was just a chemical imbalance that made my mom turn to drugs and my father become a lunatic. And as if the smartest move was to get the teenaged kid of a junkie hooked on prescription drugs. Fuck him, fuck his meds, and fuck his phony therapy.
“I know you’re an adult now and technically, I can’t force you. Unless there’s another incident-”
“There won’t be. I have been incident free for nearly two years,” I remind her.
“I just worry that the people at that school can’t treat you.”
“I don’t need to be treated. Fuck. Why am I such a case that everyone needs to fix?”
She shakes her head, but it shuts her up. Considering my life, I think I turned out fairly okay. I have a decent job that I’ve held down for years and I’m on a full scholarship to an awesome school. So I get drunk more than I should and I treat sex like a hobby. I’m not hurting anyone and I’m certainly not the only college guy who does those things. I know she doesn’t see it, though. She’s afraid I’ll regress to the way I was in my senior year of high school, but it isn’t going to happen. I’m too close to the end and too close to escape to give it all up now. At least most days. But no one needs to know about the exceptions.
When we get to the house, I excuse myself and call Alana. She doesn’t answer, so I leave a voice mail, a little pissed off since she knew I was coming back tonight. I leave my phone on the nightstand and start working on a new song. I think about earlier tonight, sitting on the grass, seeing Strawberries and her happy relationship. It aches – and I hate the ache. She doesn’t have the right to make me ache like that. I scribble fast, both thinking about her eyes and about how angry I am that I’m thinking about her eyes.
The lyrics are rough, but the song has potential. I’m about to start on the music when the phone rings. It’s Alana.
“Yeah?”
“Sorry. Mom wanted me to go to dinner with the new boyfriend.”
“And?”
“Well, he didn’t hit on me when she went to the bathroom.”
“Progress.”
“Yup. So you’re back?”
“I am.”
“Whatcha doing?”
I put down my notepad and lean back on the bed. “Writing a song.”
“Yeah? About what?”
“Strawberries,” I say.
“Strawberries? Like the fruit?”
“Sort of.” I don’t want to talk about her. I don’t want to face the fact that I’m obsessing over a girl who will never even notice that I exist. I’m the type of guy who lives in the periphery of girls like her and that’s just how things go.
“The princess?” Alana isn’t dumb. She knows me well.
“Sure. But I don’t want to talk about her. Are you coming over?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m horny and my grandmother bought me a bottle of Jack,” I tell her.
“Yeah, that’s an amazing pick up line, but I don’t know, Jack. I was thinking…”
“Don’t do this. Please don’t do this.” I sit up and grip the phone tighter. I want to snap it, to break it into a hundred pieces, to go back to before I told Alana anything.
“It’s just – if you’re moving on, you’re leaving me behind, right?”
“No. You’re my best friend. You’re the only person I love this much. You’re the one who was so fucking worried about being abandoned and now you want to fucking walk
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