Becky’s lungs burned. Before they’d seen the accident, she’d been running hard and fast down the sidewalk, desperate to escape her home, her mother, and especially June.
The two had ambushed her in the kitchen while she’d been making her breakfast—whole wheat English muffin with cream cheese and boysenberry jam. There was a seed from her first— and only—bite still stuck between two of her bottom teeth. Standing there on the corner, watching as the EMTs covered the bodies of the four boys who didn’t survive the crash, she attempted to free the seed with her tongue.
June stood a few feet away, and Becky could feel her eyes burning into her neck—a heat so intense she tilted her head and pressed her shoulder up against her ear. She wrapped her long, insect arms around her body—the first hug she’d received in years.
June called her “grasshopper.” She’d be ok with it if she believed the name was meant to describe her awkward teenage limbs and jumpy demeanor, but Becky knew it was because all June saw her as was a pesky insect she’d like to squash.
“You aren’t wearing shoes,” June now said, her voice thick with distaste.
Becky looked down at her bare feet. Both of her big toes were stubbed at the ends, the blood making tiny pools on the cold cement, and she could feel something sharp digging into her left heal.
“Looks that way,” she replied softly.
A police officer came jogging over. “Ladies, if you’ll just hold tight we’ll get someone over here to take a statement from you both.” When he noticed Becky’s bare feet, he added, “And an EMT to take care of those cuts.”
“She’s fine,” June told the officer. “She does it all the time, don’t you Becky?”
Becky knew June wasn’t referring to her bleeding toes, and she uncrossed her arms to pull the long sleeves of her nightshirt down tighter (she was still in her pajamas), clenching the wadded ends into her fists.
June and her mother had come into the kitchen to inform Becky they’d be taking her to a psychiatric facility for observation. Her stay would be indefinite, and she would need to eat, shower, and pack quickly because they had a baby shower to get to later that afternoon.
Lock Becky up in a padded room…check! Becky thought, imitating the way her mother crossed things off her to do list, never giving them a second thought.
June had hung back a little, hovering behind her mother just inside the kitchen’s archway. While Sharon’s face attempted to display concern, June’s wore a sneer and Becky thought for a minute she saw a twinkle in her eye.
Becky watched as one of the dead boys was being lifted onto a gurney and loaded into the back of an ambulance. She silently wished that she were the one in the body bag. If only she’d come to the corner a few seconds earlier, she might have been. She could tell June knew this too, and was just as disappointed that Becky hadn’t been fast enough.
“We’re definitely going to miss the shower now,” June sighed. “But don’t worry, there is still plenty of time to get you to the asylum.”
Becky didn’t have to look at June to know she was smiling. She blinked back the hot, salty tears that were beginning to form in her eyes. For a moment she wondered why she had been so focused on hurting herself rather than hurting June. If she’d run out of the house and down the street a minute, rather than seconds, earlier it could have been June’s soft, round body smeared across the asphalt.
Just like a squished jelly doughnut, Becky thought, and caught herself before laughing out loud.
It wouldn’t take much thought or effort on Becky’s part to retaliate when June made one of her nasty, awful comments. What stopped her was that part of her—a very small part—felt sorry for June.
June and Becky didn’t have the same father. June’s was much older than Becky’s 46-year-old dad, David was. He was also much larger, sweatier, and smelled like wet baloney. He didn’t come around much—and contributed nothing financially—but when he did, all Becky could do was stare and wonder how in the world her mother could ever find herself in bed with a man like that. Money would have explained it, but he’d never had any.
“He wasn’t like this when we were dating,” was all her mother would ever say on the subject.
June got her looks—and gland problems—from her dad, and therefore became the recipient of all their mother’s attention. It was like Sharon knew how hard June was going to have it with girls and boys alike, and so made her life at home as easy as possible. Becky, on the other hand, could always do better according to her mother.
But even with all of their mother’s love and attention, June still despised her little sister and wanted her gone.
“It’s not going to change things the way you think it will,” Becky whispered.
“What was that, grasshopper?”
Becky took a deep breath, straightened and squared her shoulders, then looked her fat sister square in the eye hoping June could feel the same heat she had moments ago been searing into Becky’s neck.
“I said it’s not going to change things the way you think—the way you hope—it will. You are still going to be fat and sweaty with a deadbeat dad and mom as your only friend!”
June’s eyes widened and her jaw went slack. But before she could say or do anything, the police officer returned.
“Ok ladies, we are ready to take your statements. Who wants to go first?”
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Friendship (3 A.M., #32)
Everyone thought that Zoey and Bryne were the best of friends… even Bryne. But in actuality, Zoey did not care all that much for Bryne and kept her close only because she reminded Zoey of all she never wanted to become.
They met in college through their then boyfriends, now husbands. The boys, who were real and true best friends since middle school, set up the whole “double-date” scenario that becomes obligatory once you know the women in your life are there to stay and must therefore fit into your little circle of friends, and, of course, family.
Zoey had thought Bryne was nice enough, but picked up in her right away a need for female guidance that comes from a very obvious lack of self-confidence.
There was no lack of confidence on Zoey’s part. She lived life in a way that screamed to the world, “If God had a sister, I would be it!” She was a self-proclaimed “people person,” without a single doubt that she knew what a person would think, say, or do before they even did, regardless of how long she’d known them. It was just a feeling she got, and most were not surprised—but at times extremely irritated—to find that her predictions were very often right.
She always knew when Bryne was going to call and what the reason for the call would be. And she knew that all the advice she’d spend giving during the two hours Bryne would keep her on the phone would just go in one ear and out the other—especially if the advice wasn’t what Bryne wanted to hear. When this was the case, the two wouldn’t speak for three days.
And it happened quite often, because Zoey never said what Bryne wanted to hear. If ever asked her opinion on a matter, by anyone, Zoey gave just that, her opinion—without a spoonful of sugar, but rather a nice big handful of salt rubbed hard into the festering wound. It was the only way a person was really going to learn… in her opinion.
Zoey knew that there were many people out there who had their own opinions about the way she did things, but she hardly cared. All she had to do was make a mental list of all she had accomplished, which often added up to a hell of a lot more than those passing judgement on her could account for. And the main difference, as Zoey saw it, was that she had never asked any of them for their opinion in the first place. It was other people that she was constantly finding on her doorstep asking for hers.
“If they really don’t want to know, then it’s very simple—don’t ask,” she rationalized to her husband, mother, and sister—all who thought that, at times, she could be a bit too harsh.
But Zoey knew Bryne, despite sometimes getting angry at her for her direct approach, didn’t regard her as harsh. Bryne thought Zoey was powerful—a modern day Joan of Arc who’d continue to scream the truth as she saw it despite her body slowly burning on a stake.
While flattering, it actually made Zoey a little sad to have this woman place so much value and belief in her rather than in her own self.
Tonight Bryne was calling because she’d “finally had it” with her husband’s “job.”
Bryne’s husband, Travis, was a lawyer. A non-practicing one, which meant he had his law degree and had passed the BAR exam, but chose instead to sell a family recipe BBQ rub and the marijuana he grew in their garage.
If Zoey were in Bryne’s position, the marijuana would be her main issue. Zoey stayed far away from drugs and alcohol and would not permit any man she was with to use such substances, even recreationally, because in her mind they made a person extremely unmotivated and useless to society.
Travis, who’d been smoking pot since high school, self-diagnosed himself with anxiety disorder and talked his doctor into issuing him a medical marijuana license. The license permitted the growth of one plant in the home, but since Travis didn’t really have an interest in being a lawyer anymore, he had harvested twenty plants so he could distribute and make money to pay the living expenses his rich parents weren’t already footing the bill for.
What made Bryne so angry wasn’t how baked her husband was getting every day, or that what he was doing was illegal. Bryne’s problem was that she didn’t like having to get up and go to work everyday while he sat at home with their dog watching t.v. and playing on the computer. Bryne also didn’t like having to come home and clean up his messes and then cook him dinner. Zoey sensed that if things were the other way around and she was the one getting to stay home while he went to work, there wouldn’t be an issue.
“I’m really tired of hearing you complain about this all the time, Bryne,” Zoey said, cutting her off in the middle of her rant. “My advice is to leave him or send him to rehab—but I know you won’t do either because you never take my advice. You just want me to sit here and listen to the same drama over and over again in hopes that one day I will say what it is you want to hear, which I’m not ever going to do by the way. And never once do you ask, ‘How are things with you, Zo? Is there anything you’d like to get off your chest?’”
It didn’t bother Zoey that no one ever took an interest in the goings on of her life— because to be blissfully unaware of her good and bad days is what allowed the people in her life to function. Anything good that happened in her life only made them jealous, and anything bad only made them scared that it if it could happen to her—this Wonder Woman they’d made her out to be in their minds—it could happen to them.
But Zoey was far from perfect, and though she wished she had a friend in her life she could share all her joys and concerns with, she knew that “friendship” really didn’t exist. That was obvious by her relationship with Bryne. A “friend” was merely a person you had in your life you could use to make something of yourself—and when they were no longer of use to you, you dumped them and went out and found yourself a new one.
Zoey had Jesse, her husband, who, she guessed, was kind of the same—only sex was involved. And Zoey really liked sex. She also liked children, and a friend couldn’t give you those.
So Zoey made a conscious decision not to be as invested in the people in her life that were so invested in her. She said and did what she wanted, and didn’t care who commented on, judged, or approved of it. She’d always done things her way, and her way had resulted in her having a pretty nice life.
A lot nicer than Bryne’s, to say the least.
They met in college through their then boyfriends, now husbands. The boys, who were real and true best friends since middle school, set up the whole “double-date” scenario that becomes obligatory once you know the women in your life are there to stay and must therefore fit into your little circle of friends, and, of course, family.
Zoey had thought Bryne was nice enough, but picked up in her right away a need for female guidance that comes from a very obvious lack of self-confidence.
There was no lack of confidence on Zoey’s part. She lived life in a way that screamed to the world, “If God had a sister, I would be it!” She was a self-proclaimed “people person,” without a single doubt that she knew what a person would think, say, or do before they even did, regardless of how long she’d known them. It was just a feeling she got, and most were not surprised—but at times extremely irritated—to find that her predictions were very often right.
She always knew when Bryne was going to call and what the reason for the call would be. And she knew that all the advice she’d spend giving during the two hours Bryne would keep her on the phone would just go in one ear and out the other—especially if the advice wasn’t what Bryne wanted to hear. When this was the case, the two wouldn’t speak for three days.
And it happened quite often, because Zoey never said what Bryne wanted to hear. If ever asked her opinion on a matter, by anyone, Zoey gave just that, her opinion—without a spoonful of sugar, but rather a nice big handful of salt rubbed hard into the festering wound. It was the only way a person was really going to learn… in her opinion.
Zoey knew that there were many people out there who had their own opinions about the way she did things, but she hardly cared. All she had to do was make a mental list of all she had accomplished, which often added up to a hell of a lot more than those passing judgement on her could account for. And the main difference, as Zoey saw it, was that she had never asked any of them for their opinion in the first place. It was other people that she was constantly finding on her doorstep asking for hers.
“If they really don’t want to know, then it’s very simple—don’t ask,” she rationalized to her husband, mother, and sister—all who thought that, at times, she could be a bit too harsh.
But Zoey knew Bryne, despite sometimes getting angry at her for her direct approach, didn’t regard her as harsh. Bryne thought Zoey was powerful—a modern day Joan of Arc who’d continue to scream the truth as she saw it despite her body slowly burning on a stake.
While flattering, it actually made Zoey a little sad to have this woman place so much value and belief in her rather than in her own self.
Tonight Bryne was calling because she’d “finally had it” with her husband’s “job.”
Bryne’s husband, Travis, was a lawyer. A non-practicing one, which meant he had his law degree and had passed the BAR exam, but chose instead to sell a family recipe BBQ rub and the marijuana he grew in their garage.
If Zoey were in Bryne’s position, the marijuana would be her main issue. Zoey stayed far away from drugs and alcohol and would not permit any man she was with to use such substances, even recreationally, because in her mind they made a person extremely unmotivated and useless to society.
Travis, who’d been smoking pot since high school, self-diagnosed himself with anxiety disorder and talked his doctor into issuing him a medical marijuana license. The license permitted the growth of one plant in the home, but since Travis didn’t really have an interest in being a lawyer anymore, he had harvested twenty plants so he could distribute and make money to pay the living expenses his rich parents weren’t already footing the bill for.
What made Bryne so angry wasn’t how baked her husband was getting every day, or that what he was doing was illegal. Bryne’s problem was that she didn’t like having to get up and go to work everyday while he sat at home with their dog watching t.v. and playing on the computer. Bryne also didn’t like having to come home and clean up his messes and then cook him dinner. Zoey sensed that if things were the other way around and she was the one getting to stay home while he went to work, there wouldn’t be an issue.
“I’m really tired of hearing you complain about this all the time, Bryne,” Zoey said, cutting her off in the middle of her rant. “My advice is to leave him or send him to rehab—but I know you won’t do either because you never take my advice. You just want me to sit here and listen to the same drama over and over again in hopes that one day I will say what it is you want to hear, which I’m not ever going to do by the way. And never once do you ask, ‘How are things with you, Zo? Is there anything you’d like to get off your chest?’”
It didn’t bother Zoey that no one ever took an interest in the goings on of her life— because to be blissfully unaware of her good and bad days is what allowed the people in her life to function. Anything good that happened in her life only made them jealous, and anything bad only made them scared that it if it could happen to her—this Wonder Woman they’d made her out to be in their minds—it could happen to them.
But Zoey was far from perfect, and though she wished she had a friend in her life she could share all her joys and concerns with, she knew that “friendship” really didn’t exist. That was obvious by her relationship with Bryne. A “friend” was merely a person you had in your life you could use to make something of yourself—and when they were no longer of use to you, you dumped them and went out and found yourself a new one.
Zoey had Jesse, her husband, who, she guessed, was kind of the same—only sex was involved. And Zoey really liked sex. She also liked children, and a friend couldn’t give you those.
So Zoey made a conscious decision not to be as invested in the people in her life that were so invested in her. She said and did what she wanted, and didn’t care who commented on, judged, or approved of it. She’d always done things her way, and her way had resulted in her having a pretty nice life.
A lot nicer than Bryne’s, to say the least.
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