Chapter 5 #2
She nods slowly. “OK. And how are you feeling about that? Do you want to see him?”
I shrug. I should probably feel happy; this is my father we’re talking about.
Actually wanting to see me. Not drunk, for the first time in who knows how long.
I should be excited, right? But I don’t really feel anything at all.
“Yeah, I guess.” She half smiles again, but her eyes look concerned.
“You know it’s your choice, right, sweetie? ”
I nod, studying the math assignment in front of me.
I can feel her waiting for me to say something else, I can feel her sitting on everything she wants to say—to me or to Dad, I’m not sure.
He clearly didn’t tell her he texted me, but for some reason I feel like I’m the one who did something wrong, who ratted him out.
“I’m here if you need anything,” she says, and I nod again. I don’t want to talk about this anymore, in case I say something else I shouldn’t.
After a moment, she pushes the chair back and goes into the kitchen.
The fridge door opens, followed by the sound of a can of sparkling water cracked and poured into a glass.
I wait for her to say something else, but it doesn’t come.
She putters around in the kitchen, getting plates out of the cabinet for us, clearing a space on the counter for the pizza boxes.
I stare down at the math problem in front of me.
The numbers might as well be a foreign language, that’s how much sense they make to me right now, but I don’t want to ask her for help.
If I do, it might make her worry about my progress, whether I’m really doing as well as I seem.
And then it’ll be Helicopter Mom all over again; check-ins every night, a tutor multiple times a week, maybe even making me quit the presidency.
I can hear it now: The presidency is interrupting my focus, or taking up too much time, or distracting me from what’s important.
Sometimes it feels like no one takes the club as seriously as I do.
And it’s not just that. If I tell her, I’m adding another worry on top of everything else she has to do: managing that important client at work, wrangling Dad and his complete inability to be a functional adult, and probably other things I don’t even know about.
In the year after Mom and Dad separated, she had to work three jobs to keep our apartment after he moved out to crash on one of his drinking buddy’s couches.
She’d drop me off at school, and I’d come home to an empty place, where I’d sit doing homework or watching TV, eating frozen meals for dinner before going to bed.
She’d come home late from her hostess gig at a local restaurant, and if I was awake, I’d hear her crying.
So I always tried to fall asleep before she got home, even though it was hard to do when I was alone; I’d get all these mental movies about intruders breaking in, horror film scenarios with knives and kidnappings where my mother comes home to find only my blood on the floor, or a ransom note, or the door off its hinges.
But hearing her cry was scary in a whole different way, like my whole world was unpredictable and out of my control, instead of just my thoughts.
The doorbell rings and I blow out a breath, shaking my head to get the thoughts out, but when Mom goes to the door the person on the other side isn’t the delivery person but a man with a gun, eyes wild, forcing his way through the door as she screams and tries to close it—
Stop. Stop. Stop.
Stop. Stop. St—
“Thankyouhaveagoodnight!” Mom says brightly to the delivery person, grabbing the boxes and letting the door swing shut. At the counter, she sets out plates, and Brekky meows as he circles her leg, hoping for crumbs.
“Relentless,” Mom murmurs, reaching down to pet him. “Two slices?” she asks me.
I nod, but it feels like I’m itching inside, like my skin is about to split open. I didn’t finish the mantra. If I don’t finish the mantra, my brain is going to start screaming again, and I might accidentally scream out loud, and then Mom will think I’m crazy, and then—
“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” I say, as naturally as I can, and get up, forcing myself to walk a normal pace away from the table. I can feel her eyes on me until I shut the door behind me and sit down on the closed toilet.
I close my eyes and begin my first set of three.
At lunch the next day, I emerge from the crowd to find Forrest waiting at my locker.
He lifts a hand as I approach, and I nod at him.
The morning was stressful; a pop quiz, a complicated chemistry experiment, the history group project, and in English class, the final draft of the essay was due.
I stayed up late to finish it last night, after I finally got my brain to leave me alone.
Handing it to Ms. Lundahl felt like dropping a rock into a pool and watching it sink.
And right on cue, here’s Forrest, as if I didn’t have enough to deal with.
“I thought we could talk today,” he says.
“Now?” I ask. I have to step uncomfortably close to him to get to my combination lock, and I can smell something woodsy on him. It’s his deodorant maybe, or cologne.
“I mean, tomorrow is Queer Alliance, so it’s kind of our last chance. Unless you want to meet up after school.” He shoves his hands deep into his hoodie pockets, glancing around as if he’s scared his cool friends will see him talking to me.
Hanging out with Forrest after school is the last thing I want to do. “Fine. Let’s talk.” I grab my lunch out of my locker and turn to him. “What do you want?”
He blinks. “Do you want to like . . . sit down? We can go to the library?”
“You said it could just be a few minutes,” I say. “So. Let’s talk for a few minutes.”
He snorts. “I should have known.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m here trying to make the club work, and it would be nice if you did the same,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows. “What are you talking about? I’ve done nothing but try to make this work since we got elected.”
He crosses his arms. “By shooting down every single idea I have?”
“Your ideas are—” Stupid, I’m about to say, but I catch myself just in time. “They don’t make sense. For our budget.”
“The Coming Out Party will help our budget,” he says. “And then we can do more of the shit you want to do.”
“How is it going to help our budget?”
He sighs. “We can have a raffle at the party. People come to the party, they have fun, they buy raffle tickets, we get money.” He speaks slowly, enunciating every word, as if I can’t understand him. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to kick him.
“You didn’t say anything about fundraising last week,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s because you kept interrupting me before I could.”
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes, so I won’t scream.
When I open them, he’s still there, but now he’s smirking.
He can see it, how he’s getting under my skin, and I hate that I let him.
We’re silent, facing each other in the hallway as people chatter around us.
“I interrupted you because I had important information to tell you,” I say icily. “Like dietary needs. Those matter.”
“I know they matter, my sister has celiac disease. I’ve been eating gluten-free bread since I was ten years old.” He spreads his hands. “Look, just give me a chance. I care about the club too.”
No you don’t, I want to say. Not like I do. His face at our table freshman year pops into my mind, lips curled back in a sneer, telling me my home, my life at this school is pointless. Until it wasn’t, conveniently, when he decided he wanted to be part of it. When it benefited him.
“I thought you just wanted something that looked good on your transcript,” I say.
He shrugs. “I mean, it will, not going to lie.”
I glare at him. “I’m hungry. I’m going to go eat with my friends,” I say. “Good talk.”
“Just think about it,” he calls after me, but I ignore him, speeding up until I’m around the corner.
“You OK?” Jayden asks when I arrive at our table, slightly out of breath, hand clenched around the handle of my lunch box.
I let out a huge sigh as I sit down. “I just talked to Forrest.”
“You willingly talked to Forrest?” Anna puts a hand on my forehead. “Who are you and what have you done with Sidney?”
“Semi-willingly,” I say. “He offered to meet before Queer Alliance every week. To hash things out so we don’t ruin club time.”
“That’s . . . mature of him,” Anna says, sitting back.
“Oh no, he just tried to convince me to support his idea for the party the whole time,” I say. “I can’t believe people actually voted for him. I can’t believe I have to deal with him. He is so infuriating.”
“Maybe if you give him something he wants, it’ll get him off your back?” Jayden shrugs.
I groan, pressing my hands to my eyes under my glasses.
I don’t want to give Forrest anything, not one single inch.
This was supposed to be my year. I had so many ideas: discussion panels with important people from local nonprofits, a library exhibit during LGBTQ History Month in October, a documentary film series with Q&As afterward, things that would connect the rest of the school with our club and educate people at the same time.
It felt like this was the one thing in my life I could count on, something I knew I would be good at, somewhere I knew I’d feel safe, no matter what else was happening.
If I had Queer Alliance, if I could be president, if just one thing in my life was under my control, everything else would feel a little easier.
And now everything is crumbling, no matter how hard I work to keep it together.