Read Online Read Between the Lines by Jo Knowles - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jo Knowles
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school. In mediation every time I got in a fight.
You need to be more tolerant, Dewey. Do you know what that means?
I see myself sitting at a conference table being talked at. My arms are crossed. I’m wearing a black T-shirt. My hands are curled around my biceps. I flex them and feel the muscles tighten. Back then, I thought I was pretty strong. I had no idea what my full potential was. I like to imagine
that
me in the body of
this
me jumping across the table and punching the principal in the face.
Are you listening, Dewey? Do you have anything to say?
I did, but I never bothered to share. No one would believe me anyway.
Loser.
That’s what Mr. Weidenheff used to call me. I’d stare at the stupid motivational posters on the wall telling me to BE A READER because IT WILL TAKE YOU ANYWHERE and wonder who they were supposed to inspire. Not me, that’s for sure.
Why don’t you just quit school now? You’ll never amount to anything.
That’s what he liked to say to the non-college-track kids. It wasn’t just me. I think telling us we were losers made him feel tough. I showed him what tough is.
It’s wrong to punch your teacher. You could get expelled. So I ended up punching a lot of other poor assholes instead.
There was a lot of crap about breathing slowly. Counting backward. Removing yourself from the situation. Staying away from people who cause you to have strong feelings. Like I had a choice.
No one knew about the Heff’s secret messages to me and the other losers. Unless you count the janitor, who one time was cleaning in the hallway after the Heff kept me late. When I came out of the room, he muttered “asshole” under his breath. I choose to believe he was talking about the Heff and not me. But the janitor wasn’t going to help me. No one was.
The principal and the counselors didn’t know I couldn’t stay away from the person who caused me to have strong feelings because he was my teacher.
But then my teacher shot himself in the head.
Sometimes I wonder if it was the losers like me who pushed him over the edge. But then I force myself not to think about it.
Instead, I practice keeping my cool.
Remember to breathe.
Count backward.
Remove myself from the situation.
Stay away from people who cause me to have strong feelings.
For the most part, this is easy. Except when I get to work. And except when I see our dickhead next-door neighbor boy, who doesn’t lift a finger to do the yard work their house desperately needs. All the houses on our street are neat and tidy. All but the damned house next door. The mom works all the time, and the two kids don’t do crap to help out. I don’t know where their father is. Every Saturday, instead of going outside to mow their lawn or trim their hedges, the little bitch boy races out the door and jumps in his friend’s car to go waste time all day doing who knows what. Sometimes I want to kill him.
The sister is no better. She does the same thing. Always going off with her friends. At least she’s hot and likes to give me a show when she walks down their front steps. Shaking her ass when she sees me watching. Slut.
Breathe.
Sometimes, on the weekends when the brats are off with their friends, I see the mom carrying stuff from her car into the house. Once she left the front door open, and I saw inside the front hall. It was filled with boxes and trash bags all the way to the ceiling. When she caught me looking, she slammed the door like
I
was the weirdo.
Count backward. Ten
. Breathe.
Nine.
Breathe.
Eight.
Breathe.
Seven.
Breathe.
Six.
Breathe.
Five.
Breathe.
Four.
Breathe.
Three.
Breathe.
Two.
Breathe.
One.
Breathe.
At approximately 7:55, I get out of my car. I hold my breath, knowing what’s coming. When I can’t hold it any longer, I relent and try not to gag on the greasy restaurant smell waiting to violate my lungs. I fight the urge to puke.
I press the lock button on my key chain. The car chirps good-bye. I admire the shine my dad and I gave
You need to be more tolerant, Dewey. Do you know what that means?
I see myself sitting at a conference table being talked at. My arms are crossed. I’m wearing a black T-shirt. My hands are curled around my biceps. I flex them and feel the muscles tighten. Back then, I thought I was pretty strong. I had no idea what my full potential was. I like to imagine
that
me in the body of
this
me jumping across the table and punching the principal in the face.
Are you listening, Dewey? Do you have anything to say?
I did, but I never bothered to share. No one would believe me anyway.
Loser.
That’s what Mr. Weidenheff used to call me. I’d stare at the stupid motivational posters on the wall telling me to BE A READER because IT WILL TAKE YOU ANYWHERE and wonder who they were supposed to inspire. Not me, that’s for sure.
Why don’t you just quit school now? You’ll never amount to anything.
That’s what he liked to say to the non-college-track kids. It wasn’t just me. I think telling us we were losers made him feel tough. I showed him what tough is.
It’s wrong to punch your teacher. You could get expelled. So I ended up punching a lot of other poor assholes instead.
There was a lot of crap about breathing slowly. Counting backward. Removing yourself from the situation. Staying away from people who cause you to have strong feelings. Like I had a choice.
No one knew about the Heff’s secret messages to me and the other losers. Unless you count the janitor, who one time was cleaning in the hallway after the Heff kept me late. When I came out of the room, he muttered “asshole” under his breath. I choose to believe he was talking about the Heff and not me. But the janitor wasn’t going to help me. No one was.
The principal and the counselors didn’t know I couldn’t stay away from the person who caused me to have strong feelings because he was my teacher.
But then my teacher shot himself in the head.
Sometimes I wonder if it was the losers like me who pushed him over the edge. But then I force myself not to think about it.
Instead, I practice keeping my cool.
Remember to breathe.
Count backward.
Remove myself from the situation.
Stay away from people who cause me to have strong feelings.
For the most part, this is easy. Except when I get to work. And except when I see our dickhead next-door neighbor boy, who doesn’t lift a finger to do the yard work their house desperately needs. All the houses on our street are neat and tidy. All but the damned house next door. The mom works all the time, and the two kids don’t do crap to help out. I don’t know where their father is. Every Saturday, instead of going outside to mow their lawn or trim their hedges, the little bitch boy races out the door and jumps in his friend’s car to go waste time all day doing who knows what. Sometimes I want to kill him.
The sister is no better. She does the same thing. Always going off with her friends. At least she’s hot and likes to give me a show when she walks down their front steps. Shaking her ass when she sees me watching. Slut.
Breathe.
Sometimes, on the weekends when the brats are off with their friends, I see the mom carrying stuff from her car into the house. Once she left the front door open, and I saw inside the front hall. It was filled with boxes and trash bags all the way to the ceiling. When she caught me looking, she slammed the door like
I
was the weirdo.
Count backward. Ten
. Breathe.
Nine.
Breathe.
Eight.
Breathe.
Seven.
Breathe.
Six.
Breathe.
Five.
Breathe.
Four.
Breathe.
Three.
Breathe.
Two.
Breathe.
One.
Breathe.
At approximately 7:55, I get out of my car. I hold my breath, knowing what’s coming. When I can’t hold it any longer, I relent and try not to gag on the greasy restaurant smell waiting to violate my lungs. I fight the urge to puke.
I press the lock button on my key chain. The car chirps good-bye. I admire the shine my dad and I gave
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