Out of My Mind (3 page)

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks.

“Yep, thanks.” I need to get out of here.

I shove the shirt into my bag and turn to J.D. Up close he’s taller than I remember. I catch a glimpse of his eyes, a brilliant shade of turquoise. I figured they’d be black.

I refuse to be intimidated by this jerk.

“You should be in jail.” I shoulder my way past him.

“But I’m not, thanks to you.”

I freeze and slowly turn around, rage burning my throat. “Yeah, how do ya’ figure?”

“Because you were partially responsible for the accident.”

Liar. He was reckless, driving too fast, not paying attention.

I fight the urge to lunge at him, rip his eyes out and stomp on his chest. Like
that
would convince the world I’m back to normal?

“
I’m
partially responsible?” I repeat.

“You know it.” He leans against the counter, analyzing a display of stickers.

“Bastard,” I let slip.

He shoots me a taunting smirk. “My, such language from Miss Perfect Prom Queen.”

Prom. I would have gone with Greg if I hadn’t been strapped to a hospital bed, a breathing tube shoved down my throat, a shunt inserted into my skull so my brain wouldn’t drown in excess fluid.

Tears sting my eyes. No, I will not cry in front of him.

Clinging to self-control, I walk away from my tormentor, the creep that destroyed my perfect life.

“You look good,” he calls after me. “You make cheer captain yet?”

A tear slips down my cheek. I hate him in a way that terrifies me. My BP is probably spiking 200/100.

Calm down!
  I don’t need to stroke out in public, in a store where I don’t belong.

In front of J.D. Pratt.

Fake it till you make it
.

I repeat the words in my head and wipe a tear from my cheek. I will not let him get to me. I have to stop crying—from physical pain, emotional pain. It doesn’t matter. I just need it to stop.

“Catherine?” Taylor and Andrea saunter up to me carrying bags from Lush, Macy’s and Forever 21.

Taylor touches my arm. I blink back another tear. I’d give anything to be alone in my bedroom with no one touching me.

“What happened?” she says. Is that concern in her voice or excitement?

“I can guess.” Andrea nods toward the store.

Taylor spots J.D. and hands her bags to Andrea. “I’ll handle this.”

My friend marches into the store to defend my honor. I feel weak and fragile, and I hate that someone else has to fight my battles.

But I don’t have the energy to finish this one. Not yet anyway.

“Uh-oh,” Morgan said to J.D.

He turned, thinking it was Catherine. Instead, her flake friend was marching toward him. He was disappointed. He wished Catherine had come back to shut him down.

“Haven’t you done enough to her?” Taylor said, not getting too close.

They were all afraid of J.D. Pratt, the slacker who cared more about getting high than graduating from high school.

“What did I do now?” he said.

“You like totally upset her.”

“Then she should ‘like’ totally stay in her house so she doesn’t have to see me.”

“Oh, my, God. You are such a loser.”

“At least I’m not stupid.”

The blond took a step back as if he’d flung cat turds at her.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“Get out of my face.” He turned to the display case and eyed a set of skateboard wheels.

“I’m calling the police to have you arrested for harassment,” she threatened.

“You do that.” J.D. looked at Morgan. “Can I see the black Deathwish wheels?”

Morgan opened the case and glanced over J.D.’s shoulder at fluff brain. A few seconds later, Morgan sighed and leaned against the counter. Catherine’s ditz friend must have left the premises.

“What was that about?” Morgan said.

“My charisma can be overpowering.” He shot her a smile.

“Yeah, right.” She chuckled.

He could tell he charmed her, unlike the effect he had on Catherine Westfield.

What did he expect? Princess Catherine blamed him for ruining her perfect life. Yet she looked damned healthy to him, fully recovered and ready to lead the cheer team through another year of rah-rah’s.

He’d always admired that about her. When the Princess set her mind to something you could bet it would happen. She’d will it to happen. Like raising the most money for the cancer walk, or adding organic protein bars to the vending machines.

Organic protein bars. Jesus H.

He wondered what new cause she’d dream up this year other than torturing J.D. That was a given. Girls like Catherine didn’t let injustices go without retribution.

He’d take it, deserved or not.

“Hey, she forgot this.” Snatching a grey beanie off the counter, Morgan rushed to the store entrance. She glanced right then left. With a shrug, she returned to the counter.

“I’ll give it to her,” J.D. offered. “She’s my neighbor.”

“I don’t know.” She eyed him. “Maybe I should track her down through her credit card.”

“Whatever.” A part of him wanted an excuse to see Catherine up close again. To ease the guilt.

“I’ll take two sets of the black.” He pointed to the case.

Morgan rang up the wheels, the only kind he’d be using in the foreseeable future since he’d had his license suspended. At least he wasn’t in Juvie.

“You sure you don’t mind?” Morgan held up the beanie. “She really liked it.”

Catherine Westfield? Wearing a beanie? He’d trade his Animal Collective tickets to see that.

“Not a problem,” J.D. said.

“She obviously hates you.”

Yeah, so what else was new?

“I’ll make an anonymous delivery,” he said, glancing at his phone. He had to catch the bus, get home and check in. Otherwise Detective Ryan would come knocking on his door, waking the old man from a drunken stupor and creating all kinds of hell for J.D.

“I gotta go.” J.D. grabbed his bag.

“Wait, okay here.” She shoved the beanie into a plastic bag and handed it to him. “Thanks.”

“Yep.”

* * *

J.D. had planned to drop the beanie off on the Princess’s porch, but the roar coming from his own house changed his mind.

“Damn it, Billy,” J.D. muttered.

His younger brother didn’t know when to back off. Taking the steps two at a time, J.D. whipped open the front door. Dad’s angry voice echoed from the back of the house.

J.D. raced into the kitchen where Dad was pounding on the pantry door with a closed fist.

“What’s going on?” J.D. said.

“That little prick stole my whiskey!”

“I did not!” a muffled voice said from inside the pantry.

Dad grabbed a pot from the stove and pummeled the door. “Come outta there, you pussy.”

“Dad, hang on.” J.D. instinctively reached out.

The old man swung and whacked J.D. in the head with the pot.

Good thing it wasn’t cast iron.

J.D. stumbled, gripping his head. “Dad, stop! He doesn’t have your booze.”

“No? Then you’ve got it. Stole it for one of your pot-smoking parties, didn’t you?”

J.D. scrambled around to the other side of the kitchen table. Dad hurled the pot. J.D. ducked and it hit the cabinet behind him. He reached for his cell phone to call for help.

No, J.D. could handle this.

Dad grabbed a ceramic water pitcher from the cabinet and tossed it at J.D.’s head. He missed again, shattering the pitcher against the wall, which pissed him off even more.

J.D. needed to calm him down before the old man did something really stupid.

His dad ripped open cabinet doors looking for a more effective weapon. J.D. spotted the butcher block of knives on the counter. Adrenalin rushed through his body. No time to waste.

J.D. lunged across the room and yanked opened the cabinet below the sink where dad kept his booze, right next to the drain cleaner. It was well stocked with a fifth of Jack, Southern Comfort and Jameson’s. The old man knew it was here. He was just looking to pick a fight.

“Dad, over here,” J.D. said to distract him from his weapons search.

Dad turned slowly, studying a bronze bear figurine clenched in his hand. J.D. recognized that bear. Mom had bought it on a family vacation to Idaho. Hell.

“This…was hers,” Dad’s voice cracked. “Why didn’t she take it?”

“Dad, your booze is over here, see?” J.D. pointed to the cabinet.

With a scary-as-shit glow in his eyes, Dad glanced up and eyed the liquor. He shuffled toward J.D.

The old man was fat and soft, a few inches shorter than J.D.’s six feet, with a lot less muscle. J.D. could take him, but didn’t. He couldn’t risk his dad pressing charges and getting J.D. locked up. He couldn’t protect his brother from jail.

“You were hiding my liquor?” he accused.

Before J.D. could respond, his dad shoved the bear into J.D.’s stomach. He fell to his knees, gasping from the pain. The bear dropped to the floor with a CLUNK.

Dad grabbed the fifth of Jack, yanked off the cap and glared at J.D. “You’re just like her, you lying sack of shit.”

Every muscle in J.D.’s body tensed. The old man wasn’t done.

The kitchen phone rang. His dad took a few gulps of booze and glared at J.D. The phone continued to ring.

“Answer it!” Dad ordered.

Wincing, J.D. stood and crossed the kitchen, fully expecting his dad to smash the bottle against the back of J.D.’s head.

No, he’d never waste good booze like that.

J.D. slipped the receiver off the cradle. “Hello?”

“You didn’t answer your cell,” Detective Ryan accused.

“Sorry.”
I was trying to keep my dad from killing his sons
.

“You need to answer.”

“Yes sir.”

“Don’t turn your back on me,” Dad shouted.

J.D. covered the mouthpiece, turned and braced for a crack across the face. Instead, the old man was focused on sucking down his whisky.

“Dad, quiet, it’s Detective Ryan.” J.D. hoped that would shut him up.

“Is he finally going to lock you up?” Dad said.

J.D. put up his index finger.

“Don’t you flip me off, boy.”

“We need to talk about your community service,” Detective Ryan said. “I’ve made it my responsibility to make sure you fulfill your court-ordered obligations.”

“I’m goin’ upstairs.” Dad shoved J.D. into the counter as he passed.

J.D.’s eyes watered against the pain. His ribs couldn’t take much more.

“I’ll be stopping by randomly to check on you,” Detective Ryan said.

“Yes sir.” J.D. gasped. The ribs hurt the most. He was pretty sure the old man knew that.

“Damn it, Pratt. You’re smoking weed again, aren’t you?” Detective Ryan accused.

“No sir,” J.D. said, better this time.

“Be ready to pee in a cup.”

“Yes sir.”

CLICK.

With one arm clutched against his ribcage, J.D. went to the pantry and tapped on the door. “Billy?”

“Is it safe?” his muffled voice answered.

“Yeah.”

The pantry door cracked open and Billy poked his head into the kitchen. With his red hair and freckles Billy looked young for a junior. He was tall and thin from Cross Country, basketball, and any other sport that kept him running.

“He’s upstairs.” J.D. motioned Billy out of the closet.

Billy shoved the door open and stepped out. His skin was flushed, his green eyes wide as he scanned the kitchen.

Wielding a switchblade.

“Where the hell did you get that?” J.D. put out his hand. “Give it to me.”

“No.” Billy pointed the knife at J.D. The kid hadn’t come down from the adrenaline rush.

“If you’re caught with that at school you’ll be suspended.” “I need it to defend myself,” Billy argued.

“I took care of him.”

“But you won’t always be here, will you?”

Of course not. Everyone expected J.D. to end up in prison by the age of 21.

“I’m not going anywhere,” J.D. said.

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Yeah, like the day Dad came at Billy with a fireplace poker and Billy took off in the car.

As Billy folded his knife and shoved it into his pocket, a crash echoed from the second floor.

“God damn it!” the old man’s voice echoed through the ceiling.

Billy nervously glanced up. Angry footsteps rattled the kitchen ceiling. Dad was headed for the stairs.

“Get out of here,” J.D. said. “He’ll be passed out in a few hours.”

“Damn you, good for nothing sons of that bitch!” Dad howled.

“What about you?” Fear clouded Billy’s eyes.

“Just go.” J.D. shoved Billy’s backpack at him and pushed him out the back door.

I spent almost an entire day prepping for the first day of school, laying out the right clothes, going through scrapbooks, and writing down names of kids I know and how I know them. Although I remember a lot of stuff, at times I’m confused, unsure which memories are real and which ones are fantasies created by my scarred brain.

Remembering isn’t my only problem.

This morning I looked at our cat and called her a truck. What was
that
about? Hello random brain derailment.

If I do stuff like that in front of my friends I’m screwed. Mom made a joke out of it, but I saw the worry in her eyes.

Luckily I found a small notebook that fits perfectly into the back pocket of my jeans. The first thing that goes in there is my dorky drawing of Peanut, my cat, with the letters “CAT” printed beside it. It’s a start.

Afraid I’ll forget something crucial when I go out in public, I compose a “Don’t Leave Bedroom Without” list:

1) Put on make-up

2) Wear choker

3) IPhone

4) Backpack

I’ll add more as I go.

I decide to wear Yoga pants instead of my beloved sweats. Don’t want to draw negative attention to myself. I slips on one of the bright tanks the girls picked out for me, but grab an Evergreen High hoodie just in case. I can never seem to get warm since the accident. The doctors say it’s because of the meds. I just know I’m cold.