We could eat a
bag in a sitting. Yum.
Zoë has tried to get me into a Mario Brothers or Monopoly game. Nope. I want them
to go away. It’s been two days of this. Leave me the hell alone.
Every now and then, I toss a tennis ball against the wall across from my bed and
catch it and toss it again, but that’s only until it happens to not bounce back very
well and land on the floor, and then I don’t want to get up to get it. Also, I might
find myself lost staring at my huge poster of Kelly Kapowski, from Saved By the Bell, that’s been on my wall since last year’s birthday money splurge. She’s pretty cute
with her long brown hair and friendly smile. The pink halter and too-short cut-off
denim shorts do wonders for her body. She’s hot. Ahh. Another world. I wish I was in fake television land.
Why do we get to still be here, still live and breath, watch our favorite shows,
eat juicy steaks and burgers and sweet Oreos, play Nintendo and Monopoly and Scrabble,
go swimming, watch the White Sox, live life, have laughs, but not Spud? Why is that?
And Zoë? She never even liked him! What a hypocrite sister! How can she pretend to
care? She probably is glad! I bet they all are just freaking fantastically happy!
They all said, so many times, “Spud’s bad news. He drinks, he smokes, he steals,
he will get you in trouble, Jack!” What did they know? Screw ‘em all! I don’t want
their stupid-ass pity. They all suck! I hate them!
Unable and not wanting to move, I’ll keep staring at my ceiling, tossing my ball,
talking to Kelly. Staring at pretty Kelly.
I know, really, that I should shower, should eat a proper bit of food, should get
some movement, but truly, I don’t care what time it is, or what day. Because Spud
s hould still be here, and he’s not. That’s way out of the rules here. So why should I give a flying felony about rules or what’s right? I just don’t want to take part
in the dumb, hot, unfair world. Why anyway? It can all end in a minute! And why Spud?
Damn damn damn! Talk about July of ’95 going into the record books. Spud was right
on the mark with that comment.
A light knock on my door. Leave me alone. Now what? I’m not answering. Let them knock.
“Jack?” Ma’s soft voice is on the other side. It’s hard to be angry with her, but
I’m going to be mad at them all. I ignore her, pretending to sleep. I hate myself.
“Jack?” She opens the door and steps into my oven of a room. I’ve got windows closed,
blue curtains closed, don’t care that there’s no AC in here. The gray carpeting doesn’t
make it any cooler, either. It’s quiet, my television is off, no radio is playing.
Just a quiet, stifling oven. Sweating my ass off, but I don’t care. I can lie in
my undies with my guitar pick necklace, no shirt, all the rest of my life if I have
to.
“We really need to talk, honey. I know this is hard, and I’m so sorry. But there’s
the wake and funeral, and we need to talk about things and get ready.” She’s on the
edge of the bed, stroking my hair that’s wet from sweat, looking at the wall away
from me. She knows, like a mom just always knows, that I’m really not asleep.
“Why don’t you talk, honey? Tell me how you are. I know it’s hard. Cry. Talk. It
might help.”
“I,” I pause because I just can’t yet. “No. Please, can’t this wait, just an hour
or so? Please?” An hour? How about a lifetime.
“Okay, rest. I’ll be back in a while. You want anything?” She gets up. Looking around
the dusty, stuffy, lifeless room. You can tell she’s distressed by the crinkle in
her forehead. Her startling green eyes are full of concern, not twinkling with laughter
like normal. Am I causing this?
“No.” I turn over as she leaves and lets me hear her sigh of distress, and I don’t
even thank her for trying. I’m being rude now, and I cannot help it. I’m so mad at
this whole world. How on earth can life change in just one, carefree moment?
And a funeral. How
bag in a sitting. Yum.
Zoë has tried to get me into a Mario Brothers or Monopoly game. Nope. I want them
to go away. It’s been two days of this. Leave me the hell alone.
Every now and then, I toss a tennis ball against the wall across from my bed and
catch it and toss it again, but that’s only until it happens to not bounce back very
well and land on the floor, and then I don’t want to get up to get it. Also, I might
find myself lost staring at my huge poster of Kelly Kapowski, from Saved By the Bell, that’s been on my wall since last year’s birthday money splurge. She’s pretty cute
with her long brown hair and friendly smile. The pink halter and too-short cut-off
denim shorts do wonders for her body. She’s hot. Ahh. Another world. I wish I was in fake television land.
Why do we get to still be here, still live and breath, watch our favorite shows,
eat juicy steaks and burgers and sweet Oreos, play Nintendo and Monopoly and Scrabble,
go swimming, watch the White Sox, live life, have laughs, but not Spud? Why is that?
And Zoë? She never even liked him! What a hypocrite sister! How can she pretend to
care? She probably is glad! I bet they all are just freaking fantastically happy!
They all said, so many times, “Spud’s bad news. He drinks, he smokes, he steals,
he will get you in trouble, Jack!” What did they know? Screw ‘em all! I don’t want
their stupid-ass pity. They all suck! I hate them!
Unable and not wanting to move, I’ll keep staring at my ceiling, tossing my ball,
talking to Kelly. Staring at pretty Kelly.
I know, really, that I should shower, should eat a proper bit of food, should get
some movement, but truly, I don’t care what time it is, or what day. Because Spud
s hould still be here, and he’s not. That’s way out of the rules here. So why should I give a flying felony about rules or what’s right? I just don’t want to take part
in the dumb, hot, unfair world. Why anyway? It can all end in a minute! And why Spud?
Damn damn damn! Talk about July of ’95 going into the record books. Spud was right
on the mark with that comment.
A light knock on my door. Leave me alone. Now what? I’m not answering. Let them knock.
“Jack?” Ma’s soft voice is on the other side. It’s hard to be angry with her, but
I’m going to be mad at them all. I ignore her, pretending to sleep. I hate myself.
“Jack?” She opens the door and steps into my oven of a room. I’ve got windows closed,
blue curtains closed, don’t care that there’s no AC in here. The gray carpeting doesn’t
make it any cooler, either. It’s quiet, my television is off, no radio is playing.
Just a quiet, stifling oven. Sweating my ass off, but I don’t care. I can lie in
my undies with my guitar pick necklace, no shirt, all the rest of my life if I have
to.
“We really need to talk, honey. I know this is hard, and I’m so sorry. But there’s
the wake and funeral, and we need to talk about things and get ready.” She’s on the
edge of the bed, stroking my hair that’s wet from sweat, looking at the wall away
from me. She knows, like a mom just always knows, that I’m really not asleep.
“Why don’t you talk, honey? Tell me how you are. I know it’s hard. Cry. Talk. It
might help.”
“I,” I pause because I just can’t yet. “No. Please, can’t this wait, just an hour
or so? Please?” An hour? How about a lifetime.
“Okay, rest. I’ll be back in a while. You want anything?” She gets up. Looking around
the dusty, stuffy, lifeless room. You can tell she’s distressed by the crinkle in
her forehead. Her startling green eyes are full of concern, not twinkling with laughter
like normal. Am I causing this?
“No.” I turn over as she leaves and lets me hear her sigh of distress, and I don’t
even thank her for trying. I’m being rude now, and I cannot help it. I’m so mad at
this whole world. How on earth can life change in just one, carefree moment?
And a funeral. How
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