the same time. I lick my index finger and turn the page at the upper right hand corner and read a personal essay on cutting, a disorder where people cut their skin in order to feel. The article cites the disorder as a serious form of depression. I flip back to the picture of the women holding hands, jumping off the cliff. The tag at the bottom of the tampon ad reads: NO FEAR . I turn back and forth, looking at the women jumping off the cliff and the article on cutters. Then, I go on autopilot and flip through each page like a machine counting cash—fast and without hesitation. Before I finish, I’m at my closet, sorting through the two-dozen board games stacked inside, finally opening one—
Stratego
—and lay the September
InStyle
inside. I pull down
Battleship
filled with more of the same magazines, but also my backup locker combination,which I slide into my shoe. I ease
Stratego
and
Battleship
back into place and step back, admiring my collection.
Each box—void of game contents.
Each box—filled with women’s magazines.
I didn’t always do this.
When Mom left, she had her mail forwarded to her new address where she was living with her boyfriend, Zeke. Mom left and her magazines kept coming to the house. I found them stacked high in the recycling bin when I dragged it to the curb on trash day. There was nothing more important to me in that moment than preserving them.
Bon Appétite. House & Garden. Oprah. Body & Soul. Marie Claire
. When I finished reading them cover-to-cover, I found inserts offering discounts and deals on other magazines and sent in subscriptions under Corrine Barker. Soon all kinds of chick mags came to the house.
Good Housekeeping. Allure. Parents. Cosmopolitan
. They’d come in the mail and I’d grab them before Dad found them, or if he got home early, I’d save them from recycling. This continued for some time until creditors began calling to collect the subscription fees and Dad swore it was Corrine playing a trick on him and canceled the magazines. Now I steal them wherever I can find them and keep them in my closet, hidden away and out of sight.
Barefoot and back at my window, I search for Tricia. Her blinds are closed, but I wait. My toes curl into the carpet. I picture her walking across her room in a bra and panties. I picture her in nothing but a T-shirt. I picture her lifting her hand holding an imaginary phone, lifting it to her ear and mouth and asking me to call her.
When Mom remodeled our house two years ago, she ordered carpet for my room. She picked out a forest green because it was my favorite color back then, but when the carpet guys arrived to install it, they had brought an industrial gray. Mom and Dad argued. They argued about everything. After the men finished installing the gray carpet and left the house and with the furniture moved back into my room, Mom took me out for ice cream. She let me order a triple scoop, hot fudge brownie sundae with all the toppings, the one I always asked for and was never allowed to get. We ate in thecar—Mom with her tiny cup of orange sherbet. When we got home, Dad had disappeared. Mom let me stay up that night and watch the late night talk shows. She took pills and we slept in my room—me in my bed and Mom curled up on the new gray carpet with my green fleece blanket wrapped around her.
The carpet is thin and the same industrial gray as when it was installed.
I look for Tricia. I have to have the image of her—smooth skin, soft and sweet—except her blinds are still closed, so I take it into my own hands.
I sit on my bed and picture her here in my bedroom. She tells me that I’m not ready. She tells me that I am confused about things. Tricia stands in front of me wrapped in a red kimono pushed off her shoulders. And as my belt comes undone and my pants drop, she says, “Jeremy, let me show you what I learned over summer vacation.”
17
T oday is unlike any other day because today I stopped taking my pill.
Dad hunts me
Stratego
—and lay the September
InStyle
inside. I pull down
Battleship
filled with more of the same magazines, but also my backup locker combination,which I slide into my shoe. I ease
Stratego
and
Battleship
back into place and step back, admiring my collection.
Each box—void of game contents.
Each box—filled with women’s magazines.
I didn’t always do this.
When Mom left, she had her mail forwarded to her new address where she was living with her boyfriend, Zeke. Mom left and her magazines kept coming to the house. I found them stacked high in the recycling bin when I dragged it to the curb on trash day. There was nothing more important to me in that moment than preserving them.
Bon Appétite. House & Garden. Oprah. Body & Soul. Marie Claire
. When I finished reading them cover-to-cover, I found inserts offering discounts and deals on other magazines and sent in subscriptions under Corrine Barker. Soon all kinds of chick mags came to the house.
Good Housekeeping. Allure. Parents. Cosmopolitan
. They’d come in the mail and I’d grab them before Dad found them, or if he got home early, I’d save them from recycling. This continued for some time until creditors began calling to collect the subscription fees and Dad swore it was Corrine playing a trick on him and canceled the magazines. Now I steal them wherever I can find them and keep them in my closet, hidden away and out of sight.
Barefoot and back at my window, I search for Tricia. Her blinds are closed, but I wait. My toes curl into the carpet. I picture her walking across her room in a bra and panties. I picture her in nothing but a T-shirt. I picture her lifting her hand holding an imaginary phone, lifting it to her ear and mouth and asking me to call her.
When Mom remodeled our house two years ago, she ordered carpet for my room. She picked out a forest green because it was my favorite color back then, but when the carpet guys arrived to install it, they had brought an industrial gray. Mom and Dad argued. They argued about everything. After the men finished installing the gray carpet and left the house and with the furniture moved back into my room, Mom took me out for ice cream. She let me order a triple scoop, hot fudge brownie sundae with all the toppings, the one I always asked for and was never allowed to get. We ate in thecar—Mom with her tiny cup of orange sherbet. When we got home, Dad had disappeared. Mom let me stay up that night and watch the late night talk shows. She took pills and we slept in my room—me in my bed and Mom curled up on the new gray carpet with my green fleece blanket wrapped around her.
The carpet is thin and the same industrial gray as when it was installed.
I look for Tricia. I have to have the image of her—smooth skin, soft and sweet—except her blinds are still closed, so I take it into my own hands.
I sit on my bed and picture her here in my bedroom. She tells me that I’m not ready. She tells me that I am confused about things. Tricia stands in front of me wrapped in a red kimono pushed off her shoulders. And as my belt comes undone and my pants drop, she says, “Jeremy, let me show you what I learned over summer vacation.”
17
T oday is unlike any other day because today I stopped taking my pill.
Dad hunts me
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