Misdirected (12 page)

 

 

Chapter 23

Is the Definition of Insanity Doing the Same Thing Over and Over While Expecting a Different Result?

It's the night before my science paper is due and I haven't written a word. I'm two weeks ahead on my homework in all my other classes, but this stupid paper is killing me. I've even been doing research on evolution versus creation. On anything at all the Bible says that could relate to the stuff we're learning about now. Nothing. Zip. And I'm supposed to write a paper anyway. How does stuff written a few thousand years ago have anything to do with what we know now? Why can't religion and science just be kept separate?

Tess has fed me a bunch of verses I could use. I'm lucky her parents didn't take away her computer when they grounded her. She even sent me underlined passages from her textbook, but the textbook is just wrong, so how can I use it?

They want me to learn stuff that goes along with the Bible instead of the stuff that there's actual evidence for. I know it's a Christian school but we should still learn about the theories that have actual proof to back them up.

Maybe they worry that if people believe in science, they won't believe in god. People can believe in both. Tess does.

I start writing twelve or more times, but each time I want to say how it's all bull and how Thompson should let me stick to the science. So I start over. I write a paper on why I think it's important to let me concentrate just on the facts. I have science on my side. They've got an old book where god kills way more people than Satan ever did. Probably shouldn't put that in the essay unless I want to fail. Really, knowing the science alone should be enough to get me a good grade.

It turns into a five-page paper. I read it over and take out anything that could be seen as not respecting his religion. I try to make clear that I hope he respects my beliefs the way I respect his.

I get a text from Tess asking to read it.

I respond, “I don't think you want to.”

“Why not?”

“Because I told the truth.”

“Come on, you know what he wants. Just say it.”

“Why should I have to lie about who I am?”

“Because right now lying will help you. Kind of like lying to my parents is the best for us right now.”

“Funny that the good Christian girl wants me to lie.”

“Just because I'm Christian doesn't mean I'm perfect.”

“You seem pretty perfect to me.”

“Don't change the subject. Thompson is going to be furious.”

“He can't force me to believe something I don't.”

“He can give you a bad grade.”

“I'm one of the best students he has.”

“You're being stubborn. Don't you think you're just asking for trouble now? Why can't you just suck it up and say what he wants to hear for once?”

“I've thought about it and I don't want to lie about who I am and what I think.”

“Must be nice to have the choice to be yourself. If I told the truth I'd probably get kicked out of my house.”

“I never said that you should tell your parents the truth.”

“You think I'm a coward because I haven't.”

“Where did you get that? I don't think you're a coward.”

Nothing. No response.

“Are you mad at me now?” I text.

Still no response.

Maybe she's pissed that I won't lie while she has to. But I won't lose my family for standing up for my beliefs. She has to know it's different. Crap.

 

 

Chapter 24

Handing in a Couple Pages of Truth

When I get to school the next day Tess is sitting near my locker.

She waits for the bell to ring and even though I don't think Tess has ever even been late to a class, she doesn't get up. She just watches the last few kids scramble into their classes.

I finally turn to her and ask, “What's wrong?”

“Did you fix your paper?” She asks a little angrily.

“It didn't need to be fixed.”

“Who cares if you don't tell Mr. Thompson the truth? You know what he wants to hear. I worked my butt off sending you quotes to use. And you just blow it off like it's nothing!”

“Why are you so bent on this? It's my decision.”

“Because I know when you get that paper back you're going to be mad at yourself and mad at Mr. Thompson, and it's going to make things worse. Just tell him what he wants to hear. It really doesn't matter. He's not your family. He's not your friend. His opinion doesn't matter. Get a good grade and be done. You know that science and the Bible don't fit together. Knowing that should be enough. It's like you want to take every opportunity possible to tell people that you think the Bible is stupid. So take this. It's a two-page paper I wrote last night that will get Mr. Thompson off your back.”

“You wrote me a paper?”

“You can thank me later.”

“You're the best girlfriend ever,” I say.

“I know. Here, take it.”

“I can't.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“It's not your grade, Tess. It's mine. And I don't want to get it by lying. That's not throwing it in his face. That's telling the truth.”

“But I'm a great liar, huh?” she says, dropping the paper to the floor.

“That's not what I said.”

“You think I don't want to tell the truth too? Like it's fun for me to lie to my family and sneak around? It's hard and it sucks. I do it because I want to be with you.”

“I'd lie to be with you too.”

“You wouldn't lie to my parents.”

“You're bringing that up again?”

“Our whole relationship would have been so easy if you could have just said you believed in God. Or were interested in learning about it. Faked it. For me. You can't even do it for a stupid paper?”

“I know it sucks for you to lie to your family. If you didn't you could get kicked out of your house. It's serious for you. For me it's a choice.”

“If you had lied, my life would have been so much easier. Did you think of that?”

“I thought your parents would be reasonable. If I could go back maybe I would lie. I never meant to make life hard for you. I just want to be with you and be who I am.”

Tess crumbles and suddenly starts crying. I put my arm around her and she buries her head in my chest and sobs. Even though we just had a fight and she's crying, it still feels awesome to say screw it and talk to each other in school.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“But you're still going to turn in that stupid paper, aren't you?”

“Yeah,” I say, kind of scared she's going to start yelling again.

“You are such an idiot,” she says, exhausted.

“He can't give me a bad grade. I used freaking citations on this mother. He can't say I didn't research it and give a good argument.”

“We should go to class,” she says.

“Just a few more minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I really didn't mean to make your life harder. You're the best person I know. And the bravest,” I say.

“I just wish it was all easier. You're the best thing that's happened to me. I just can't lose my family.”

“Do you want to stop seeing each other?”

She pauses. My hearts quickens. I didn't think she'd pause. I thought she'd immediately say
no, that's stupid
. But she's silent.

“Tess?”

“Sometimes I think maybe we should stop.”

“Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“I'm just tired of it being this hard.”

“What could I do to make it easier?”

“Just always be there for me okay? I need someone on my side.”

I kiss her forehead. “I'm here.”

 

 

Chapter 25

Friends Help Friends Do Laundry

For the next week, James and I just hang out at home, do our homework, and visit his mom in rehab. The doctor says she's doing really well. James says that's happened before.

“I don't want to go back,” he says.

“Why?” I ask. Although it seems like a stupid question. Here he gets cooked meals, his laundry done, help with homework, and responsible adults who can get him to school on time.

“She's been sober for a few weeks before. Even three months once. But she's been an alcoholic since before my dad died. It just got worse after that.”

“You know how to handle yourself.”

“It's not just me having to handle myself. We're in the system now. Child Services is going to check on us to make sure she's not a mess. I don't think she can do it.”

“What would they do if she started drinking again?”

“They could put me in foster care.”

“Maybe this time she'll really beat it. I mean, the doctors said it was serious, right?”

“If she keeps drinking she'll need a new liver. And they won't give a liver transplant to an alcoholic who failed rehab this many times. And I think you need to be clean for a year or two to even qualify for one.”

“She hasn't failed this time,” I say.

“No one can fail while they're in rehab. It's right after, when they can't freaking handle the real world. I wish she could just stay there. She's more of a mom right now than she's ever been at home.”

We sit there not saying anything. James looks like he's thinking hard. Like he might cry or punch something. Then he says, “I never thought I could actually be better if I got taken away from my mom. Maybe I'd end up some place like this. Hot meals. A clean house. Someone who doesn't drink herself to freaking death.”

I just sit there not saying anything, because what do you say? Nothing. There is absolutely zero that I could say that would mean anything. For Tess and for James I'm useless. And then it hits me.

“I have an idea. We're going to your house.”

“Why?”

“Just trust me.”

I grab my bike and James grabs Pete's old bike and we ride to his house. It's only a few miles, but James kind of drags behind me.

When we get there James parks the bike and stands in front of the door.

“So really, why are we here?” he asks.

“Just go in,” I say.

“It's just . . .”

“Come on. We're here.”

It takes him a second before he opens the door and walks in.

It's my first time in his house. Now I know why he didn't want me to see it. There is stuff everywhere. Liquor bottles. Clothes. Food.

James goes right over to the window and opens it to get rid of some of the smell. I can feel him looking at me so I try not to react.

“It's disgusting, isn't it?” says James. “She's usually too out of it to notice the mess and I got tired of cleaning up after her.”

He starts picking up some paper plates with crusts and junk still on them and throws them in the garbage.

“So why did you want to come here?” he asks. “To make me more depressed?”

“I just thought we could get rid of the liquor in the house so the place would be okay for your mom to come back to. No temptations, you know?”

“Yeah, okay” he says, relaxing a bit.

I grab the bottles on the kitchen counter and the table. Empty beer bottles, vodka bottles, boxed wine, and some other stuff I don't recognize.

James goes into the cupboards, under his mom's bed, behind the couch and even under the sink in the bathroom to grab bottles by the handful. Most are empty. Some are half full.

He holds up a bottle of something brown and looks at it. I mean really stares the thing down. Then he opens it and drinks some straight from the bottle.

He screws up his face like he's just been fed rat pee and wipes his mouth.

I don't even have to say anything for him to know that I think he's nuts. His mom is in rehab and he's drinking her booze? That's all kinds of messed up.

“Shouldn't I know what makes this crap more important than her own son? Hell, don't I deserve it?”

“You don't drink. You told me that.”

He takes another gulp. This time when he pulls the bottle away from his mouth his eyes are wet.

“I don't drink,” he says. He looks at the bottle. “It doesn't even taste good.”

“So put it down.”

“Try it.”

I want to take the bottle. I want to try drinking it. I've never been drunk. But James looks so angry that I can't do it.

“We should be throwing this stuff out.”

“We will,” he says.

James sits down on the couch with the bottle.

“This is where she sits all day. I've never had friends over. She walks around . . . ” James stops talking for a second and takes another drink. “She forgets to put on clothes. You know what that's like? To be in a house all the time with someone so freaking out of it? With a mom who can't even get dressed?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Just sit down and have a drink. I've earned it.”

“Only if you promise me this is the only drink you'll have. Once you're done we'll clean up and throw all this crap out.”

James takes another gulp and passes me the bottle. I tip it toward my mouth. The second it hits the back of my throat I almost puke it back up.

“That's freaking disgusting,” I say, now knowing why James was gasping for air before.

“It gets less bad the more you drink.”

I hold on to the bottle so that James can't have anymore. We just sit there not saying anything for what seems like forever.

“I hate her.”

“She has a problem. An addiction.”

“It's like she can't stand being sober. When she's clean she looks even more scared than when she's drunk. Like making dinner is some big impossible thing to do. I hope she fails.”

“Dude.”

“It's true. Then I could get out of here.”

James is starting to look kind of dazed. He doesn't even ask for the bottle back. He just sits there looking mad.

“Are you drunk?” I ask.

“Maybe. I've never been drunk before.”

“How does it feel?”

“Kind of like I want to cry, punch my mom in the face, and go to sleep.”

“Why don't you break something?”

“Like what?”

“This,” I say, handing him the bottle.

“Break it?” he says with a hiccup.

“Smash it.”

James grabs the bottle and stands up, maybe a bit too fast because he sways a bit.

“Get me the trash can from the garage.”

I run out and grab the biggest trashcan out there and bring it back.

James stands in front of it, takes another drink from the bottle, then looks at the booze with more hatred than I've ever seen on anyone's face.

“Do it,” I say, putting my hand on his shoulder.

Like he just woke up, he raises the bottle over his head with two hands and smashes it down into the bottom of the can. As soon as I hear the sound I slam the lid down to stop glass shards from flying out. James grabs more bottles from the kitchen. He smashes bottle after bottle, hurling them as hard as he can, getting more pissed off with each one. I try to cover the trash as best I can, but suddenly he lets out a small shout of pain and holds his arm.

“What happened?”

“Glass,” he says, holding his hand over a small gash on his forearm. “And I think I might puke.”

I bring him over to the bathroom where he slumps down on the tile. He holds out his arm, not even looking at it.

“It's not bad. Just a cut. You have Band-Aids?”

“Of course not.”

I grab some toilet paper and say, “Hold this on it.”

James stares off into space but does what I tell him.

“I thought this was supposed to make stuff better,” he says. “I thought drinking made a person less sad or made them forget the crap they have to deal with. It doesn't. It's worse. So why does she do it?”

“I don't know.” He's silent. “You stay here, okay? I'm going to clean up.”

James doesn't say anything. From the looks of it he's going to cry, and he's waiting for me to leave so I don't see him. So I go.

I start with the rest of the bottles. I find more under the sink, behind the bed, and in the laundry room. I empty them all and chuck them in the recycling. Then I start doing something I've never really done in my own house. Cleaning up. I grab dirty clothes and put them by the washing machine. I straighten the pillows on the couch and clean the dishes in the sink. I throw out old food from the refrigerator. I even vacuum.

Once the living room is finished, I open a door to a room neither of us has been in yet. It's James's room. And it's spotless. Seriously. The bed is made. Every pencil and pen is in a cup on the desk. Clothes are folded and put away. It looks like a grown-up's room. Definitely the opposite of mine.

Next to his bed is a picture of James and his dad at a park. James looks like he's only seven or eight years old.

“I don't let my mom in here,” he says, walking up behind me.

James's eyes are bloodred, but he looks a bit better. More in control.

“It's a nice room,” I say.

He hands me some detergent and says, “Mind starting the laundry?”

“Sure thing.”

James grabs the vacuum and starts sucking up all the dirt on the floor. Some glass too from the broken bottles.

We spend three hours in almost total silence, both of us cleaning and taking it very seriously. James only stops once to throw up. He doesn't even look drunk now. Just determined.

When neither of us sees anything else that needs to be done, we sit on the couch and look around.

“Someone could actually live here now,” he says.

“Have you ever drank any of this stuff before today?”

“No. Drinking is for losers,” he says, half laughing. Not like he really thinks it's funny. It's dark. Really dark.

He looks over at the chair in the corner. “See that?” he says.”

“Yeah.”

“That's where she passed out and almost died.”

“Come on,” I say. “Tomorrow is garbage day. Let's bring this stuff out to the curb.”

“Yeah. Okay.”