I end up lying on the table for about an hour, watching the green numbers on our cheap microwave change every minute. I count to pass each increment, but it changes just after I hit “sixty mississippi”, so I don’t know whether I’m off or the microwave is. I wouldn’t be all that surprised either way. However, I am amazed that I don’t take a single bite out of my toast. I suppose after one is beaten by Bone-hand Bañer, it’s easy to lose an appetite. It’s really unfortunate, albeit funny in a way, how this black eye can really bump me up in the ranks at school. Sure, it’s sore as heck, but I can still say I got the shiner in a fight.
Mom is really opposed to the idea of fighting, but when it comes down to it, sometimes you’ve got to, sometimes you’ve ought to. But Karen, in all of her righteousness, won’t tolerate me throwing a punch, even in self-defense. So, “got to, ought to” briskly turns into a “shoulda, woulda, coulda” in this house. But, God, it’d be nice to be recognized for something, anything. Don’t get me wrong, I realize how easy it must be for a person to misjudge me and assume that I’m some… Some popularity-crazed seventeen year old who will pick any fight he can get his hands on and take the brunt of it for bragging rights. Notice the term “misjudge” and familiarize yourself with it. If you are judging my character as stated previously, you are in fact, misjudging. There, I may have just expanded your vocabulary. You’re welcome.
Let me explain something. I may be ornery, dyspeptic, sarcastic, a geek, generally unattractive (though compared to Earl Bañer I could pass for an enhanced, high-definition portrait of Liam Hemsworth painted by Jesus himself) a self-centered hothead, you can even call me a dimwit. But I am not a crybaby that’s going to suck up to knuckleheads, like Bañer, so that I can get punched in the face and dance around school with a trophy wound just to get a girl or two to glance my way. God, I’m not that desperate! I’ve actually come to accept that to be an individual is darn near equal to freedom, and if I had a girl on my arm it’d just be added weight. So what’s the big deal about holding additional mass, anyways?
Oh, only the satisfaction of not being doomed to paranoia and eternal loneliness. That’s all. Don't’ forget the other important fact that comes into play here - guys were made to carry extra weight.
Who am I kidding, freedom sucks.
It doesn’t take long for the microwave to bore my craving for good conversation - I did just go off on an internal rant after all. The sun is yelling at me through the kitchen window just above the sink. I’m tired with cold toast - such an unfortunate combination. Not really even lifting my head entirely off the table, I sort of grunt upward so my chin nearly meets my clavicle, trying to peer down the hallway in a vain attempt to get a glimpse of my overworked parent. Sadly, to no avail.
Using as much effort that is possible for me to muster at the moment, slowly I push my hands flat against the tabletop so I can propel my body upwards. Nearly instantaneously, my headache returns with a blistering heat pronounced ever more so by the rhythmic throbbing. Placing one hand on the side of my head, (for some unexplained reason believing that it will conclude my suddenly aroused pain) my toast to dinner slides down from my stomach and nearly cascades over my knees. With an unintentional instinct I lurch forward, scrambling to find a grip on the thin paper plate. My neck jolts and the plate falls. My poor toast-to-dinner suffers the same trauma as my face - it collides with our rough, scratched up linoleum flooring.
Since I’m up I might as well check on Karen. It’s odd to feel my feet again since they’ve been dangling over the edge of the table for so long, when my bare toes spread across the semi-smooth floor that’s been heated by the invading sunlight. It almost feels like learning to walk again. Now that’d be something.
She tries so hard - too hard really - to be my everything to make up for all of the missing pieces. That's so much work though, I can't figure out why she's taken that upon herself. I would never ask something like that of Karen, yet here she is attempting to provide that outrageous grandeur of sorts for me. That is a luxury that I really don't want and clearly don't need.
My father left my mother back in ‘98, taking me with him. I guess his idea of the whole situation was that "I'm not stealing my wife's child, just taking without permission." Uh, I suppose that he was too ignorant of a person to realize that stating the exact definition of what you're doing doesn't change it in the least. To both Karen and my own dismay, I had to stay with that douche bag for three years before the divorce was filed and my mom received a court-ordered (in other words "legal") custody of me, thank god. Basically my dad was terrified of being arrested when Karen threatened to call the police - we don't talk about why she had to dial those three digits - he took off to Vancouver, Canada.
As of right now, my old man is a full-fledged resident and citizen of Toronto and is pretty much ready to head for the hills to some other foreign country if life ever decides to catch up with him. So far, he hasn't had to move a single muscle. Since the divorce between him and my mother, he has successfully gone through two wives and is currently engaged to a chick young enough to date me to make up for the cash he lost while gambling at just about every known casino in Canada. From what I have gathered, the only reason he even married the first woman was so that he could have money for a lawyer in court when I was around three, the second wife was his solution to the court case. You see, to be a citizen there he had to marry a woman who was already a citizen of Canada. And now he has this girl who really should still be drawing Mickey Mouse ears on Disney Channel. So, yeah I know a thing or two about my paternal, biological "father" - he's still not my dad.
"How are the bills coming?" I don't want to know, really, because in all truth I already know the answer. Yet, I pry in a rather sad attempt to begin a renewed conversation with her.
Without hardly even looking completely up at me, she monotones a typical response. "Oh, they're coming," she sighs, her pen not even once lifting from the pale green checkbook. "And coming, and coming, and coming." She and I both roll our eyes, of course life just had to be harder on us, give us the short end of the stick and my father some sort of sick and twisted praise for all the wrong that he's done in the world. Life gave us bills and him a supermodel with a mansion. Now I don't believe in karma, but it does make sense - oh, what's that saying? What goes around, comes around? Then again, if that were true, Bañer would be torn between the decision of returning to his old pal's in juvy, or actually finishing the third grade. "At least they keep me busy; I don't have time to worry about stupid things. Count your blessings, dear."
"I have been, and so far I’m at negative one." She smiles without allowing her eyes to notice me in the least and shakes her head. "You don't have to pretend like we're in a good position, Karen. I think that we both know that the only actor I'm technically related to is Charles." My dad. There is a long pause between the two of us as soon as my sinful words are uttered. I guess we have this silent, internal and unofficial agreement to never say his name. Oops.
"Do you ever... Miss him?" There should be a rule book entitled Top Ten Things NOT to Say as a Single Parent - Trying To Break the Silence. I so call dibs on writing that. I look up from twiddling my thumbs before she can even back up her question.
"What the heck are you on?!" It just popped out. I can't quite decide for myself whether I should laugh or go on a rampage. What kind of a question is that, anyways? Do you ever miss him? God no! Karen almost appears hurt at my little outburst, but I can't backpedal now.
"Calm down, you failed attempt of a warrior." The words come out in a chuckle - a chuckle.
"Gladiator." I huff under my breath, not able to resist correcting her at the heat of the moment. I can quite literally feel my face turn blotchy and red.
"Right." Taking off her glasses and finally giving her poor pen a rest, she sits upward, tucking her legs underneath herself. Much quieter, she gently leans across the bed and places her hand atop of my own, stroking her thumb up and down in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Her eyes sag and gracefully swoop into a dark line beneath them. Nevertheless, they have the energy to meet my own with some sort of renewed life - and pain. "I just meant, do you ever think about him? Or even how things could have been?"
When it comes to that man, I have no impulse whatsoever to even consider the "what if's". "No." I say affirmingly. "Do you?" She almost seems surprised - why?
"No, no of course not." Her hesitant fingers abandon my hand and desperately try to tuck the loose strands of her stressed, blonde hair behind her ear, but it keeps slipping out - just like every word in this conversation. She wouldn't just bring this up for no reason, after all. Why has she been thinking about him? He left us, he left her and stole the child that she gave birth to. The only time that it is even remotely acceptable for us to even begin to picture that shrewish face that has forever been branded into our brains is when the bad memories decide to haunt our nightmares. He's the kind of man you don't just think about without some sort of negative correlation.
"You still can't act." I press her forward, this is beyond just being annoying or anything of a similar liking, this is wanting an answer. Karen's face loses most all color as she gestures for me to sit up and pay close attention.
"He called," she whispers, avoiding his name, "about two weeks ago." She won't even look at me, and slowly, the room almost seems to become grey.
"How does... Why does he have your number?" There is no intention to seem frustrated, but the fact that I am coupled with knowing that I still don't have an answer seems to reveal my inner tension.
After the restraining order was filed and placed, we made sure that he couldn't contact us - not even giving him the information to address letters to us. I still believe that was the right choice with every fiber of my being.
"I don't know." The pen returns to her hand and she pretends to continue working on sorting through papers and envelopes. Noticing that I am on the verge of pressing her for more information, she swallows hard. You can almost feel what she feels by her strained expression, her feet going numb, her hands growing heavy, air becoming scarce. Her current state much resembles how she looked in the courtroom, fighting for the rights of my custody when this whole thing had first unraveled. "He wanted to let me know that he got himself a new lawyer through his new fiancee, Tracey."
"What the heck does he need a frickin' lawyer for?!" Though it isn't a yes or no question, she nods as if to answer it.
"He is trying to get full or shared custody of you. We are supposed to appear in some court next month over by the border since we are residents of separate countries." She doesn't cry, that attribute is just against her nature - yet tears threaten her eyes.
"Charles knows that we can't afford a lawyer - we probably can't even afford the gas money to go to whatever courthouse!"
"That's exactly his reasoning. He's just gotten engaged to a top model with a pocket full of cash and a bra full of whatever-the-heck they use to fill fake boobs these days. If I can't provide for you; you're as good as his already." She deadpans in one remarkable breath.
"I am almost eighteen, can't I represent myself? Or don't we have the reasoning that you aren't responsible for an eighteen year old?" I wonder.
"They aren't going to overlook technicalities with this. The fact that you're not eighteen yet... That's what he is going to look at, you aren't an adult for two more months." God, I hate it when she is right when I am the one that needs to be.
"Then we postpone it for two months!" I argue - my brilliant reasoning.
"Court doesn't work like that."
"Court doesn't have to work like that - the man doesn't have a case! He abandoned us leaving us with no income, you were a stay at home mom, so you had to find a job and change our whole lives. He stole me from you before the government even got involved - he doesn't have a case." I say, hoping that something will light.
"Grey, we just -"
"He hit you!" And that was final. She returned to her paperwork - for real this time - and I returned to the kitchen. We are doomed.
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