Read Online Blazed by Jason Myers - Free Book Online Page A

year, if that. And when he does, she says he never wants to talk to me.
    This is so gross.
    I need to be away from him.
    I walk into the bathroom and lock the door. Then Igrind an Oxy and snort the whole pile with a one-hundred-dollar bill.
    Splash cold water on my face repeatedly.
    My mother warned me about my father. She’s always said he’s manipulative and a liar. It’s how he got her to go along with their plan after they found out she was pregnant. She was going to take a year off from dancing after she had me, then he was supposed to quit his job in the financial world and go back to freelance carpentry so she could focus on getting back into shape to join the ballet again.
    It never happened, though.
    She said he never intended to leave his posh job and was lying to her the whole time. That’s when she said she knew she’d married a monster, and he couldn’t be trusted.
    â€œHe’ll lie to get what he wants,” she’s told me so many times. “He’s selfish like that, Jaime. Never believe anything he tells you.”
    â€œI won’t,” I always said. “I’ll never meet him.”
    â€œI’ll make sure you never have to.”
    â€œI know, Mom.”
    â€œHe’s a bastard, Jaime. He doesn’t even ask about you when we talk. He’s never wanted anything to do with you or me.”
    I dry my face off with a couple pieces of toilet paper.
    Like fuck that guy out there thinking he can just say whatever and I’ll believe it.
    Just fuck him.
    I won’t listen anymore.
    When I sit back down, my father starts to say something else, but I turn to the window and put my headphones on.
    I play the Lamborghini Dreams album Mulatto .
    I don’t talk to my father the rest of the flight.
    The only time I speak is when the stewardess asks me if I need anything.
    And I don’t.
    I’ve got my baby blues and my music and my notebooks.
    What more could anyone ever need anyway?

22.
    IT’S ALMOST FOUR IN THE afternoon when we land in San Francisco. I take a photo of the sunny runway surrounded by this perfect blue water and tweet it, tagging my school, and writing, What you seen today, you bald, creepy fuck?
    By the time I’m walking off the plane, it’s been retweeted thirty-seven times.
    Sixty-one people have favorited it.
    I smile cos I’m proud of that, but fuck all the kids who liked it and passed it along.
    Just fuck all of them.
    Those fakes.
    Those goddamn phonies.
    My father spends every second at the bag claim on his phone. He’s going on and on about some amazing artist chick painter named Savannah.
    It’s annoying.
    And it’s interesting.
    And he keeps barking at whoever is on the other end of the call to make sure she’s got everything she needs to work this week and be comfortable.
    â€œShe gets whatever she wants,” I hear him say. “Anything Savannah needs, she fucking gets.”
    A black town car with tinted windows picks us up.
    The driver tries to take my bag to put in the trunk, but I refuse to let him do this and put it in myself.
    â€œIt’s his job, Jaime,” my father says.
    â€œIt’s my bag,” I say back. “Plus, it’s not hard.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI can put my own bag away. Nobody needs to do that for me.”
    â€œBut it’s his job,” he says again.
    â€œNot with my stuff it isn’t.”
    The car speeds down the highway. My father is wearing sunglasses. He taps his fingers nervously against his legs.
    â€œWho’s Savannah?” I finally ask as the car begins to merge into traffic and the cityscape appears in front of us.
    My father looks over at me and pushes his shades to the top of his head. “Savannah is an extraordinary artist. She’s so immensely gifted,” he says.
    â€œWhat kind of art does she make?”
    â€œShe paints,” he says slowly. “Her work is stunning, Jaime. It’s on the