Chapter 6
LACHLAN
Uncle Norm is out at his club when I get home from school, so I get to have a nice dinner with my mom and grandma and then play with Quinton for a while once Ivy comes back from picking him up from her ex.
It’s not until he’s been put to bed and Ivy and I are watching TV that Uncle Norm staggers in, stinking like booze.
How he makes it home when he’s in this state, I’ll never know.
The scene on the TV screen just then is, unfortunately, two guys kissing, and he looks at it with disgust. “I don’t understand why they have to put it in our faces. ”
I sigh and exchange a look with my sister. Are we going here again?
My uncle burps, then hiccups. “Why do they have to make it all about them? Can’t they leave well enough alone? Do their thing without letting us know?”
There are so many things wrong with that sentiment, I’m not even sure how to start.
But I think I need to say … something. I stare at the little Frederic Remington replica bronze statue of a man on a horse that sits on the coffee table.
“You campaigned on gay rights,” I say evenly. “Your office organized a Pride day—”
“Yeah, because they have money. But it’s disgusting. Men touching other men like that.”
I always feel like I’m walking a fine line around my family, trying not to veer into any territory that will make anyone upset. I scrunch into myself, trying not to be too much. Then, maybe, I can survive.
My sister takes the opposite approach: direct confrontation. “You’re such a fucking bigot, you know that?”
“Ivy,” I warn. She’s going to make this worse. My heart is starting to palpitate, my blood pressure rising. I hate how often and loudly my family fights.
I really hate how they don’t ever listen to my attempts to calm things down.
And I absolutely hate the uncertainty of how this is going to end. Will it be like nothing happened, or devastation?
She turns on me. “You’re going to let him get away with saying shit like that? The politician saying what everyone wants to hear in public, but in private, he’s a dick.”
Uncle Norman’s already puffy face turns even redder, and I can smell the alcohol seeping out of his pores. “Don’t talk to me that way in my own house.” His voice holds an edge of danger.
“What?” Ivy challenges. “I can’t call you on your bullshit? You’re such a hypocrite.”
I think steam might come out of the top of his head. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m being smothered.
If this only happened every once in a while, it wouldn’t be so bad. But having to listen to some version of it several times a week makes me want to curl up into a snail shell.
“And you’re the harlot who got pregnant at fourteen and dropped out of school,” Norm sneers.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Can everyone please not fight,” I plead.
They both turn on me. “Keep out of this,” Ivy snarls. “Being nice isn’t getting us anywhere.”
Why do I even try? “I just wanted to—”
“I don’t need your help,” Ivy says. “I can handle this jerk myself.”
My chest tightens, and I mutter something at my shoes. I want to slink out of the room.
I leave for college in 308 days. I simply need to survive until then.
I stay, locked in place, as they keep shouting. Then my mom starts in on Norm. Then my grandma joins her.
I can’t do this anymore. “This” being … my entire life.
I close my eyes in the dim hallway and take a slow, controlled breath.
Name a good thing in your life. The voice in my head is from an internet video I saw once about panic attacks.
Football. Long practices. Extended game days. Travel on the bus.
“You fucking asshole!” Ivy screams, then races past me toward her bedroom, elbowing me somewhere between my delt and my lat. “Get the fuck out of my way!” she hisses.
Her door bangs shut. Beside me, framed family photos rattle on the wall. They stop when Ivy is three and I’m four—except for a solitary one of Quinton at age six months.
What’s another good thing?
The one period a day I have with Isak Hammond, the boy next door.
It’s disgusting. Men touching other men like that. That voice is Uncle Norm’s.
I don’t touch, I argue. I’ve never done anything like that. I never will.
Name something else good.
The senior retreat next week.
“Get the hell out of my house,” Uncle Norm yells back, storming down the hallway. I press myself against the wall, trying to make myself as small as possible.
“No!” Her door lock clicks. He bangs on the panel with his fist.
“Can you guys drop it?” I mutter.
Uncle Norm spins on me, his eyes like those of a charging bull. “What did you say?”
I hold my ground, clenching and unclenching my fists.
I work out more than he does and am younger and taller, but he’s at least fifty pounds heavier than I am, and a lot of it is muscle from working as a general contractor …
before he got hurt and went into politics.
I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t want to escalate things.
“That’s what I thought.” He goes back to raging against my sister. She screams at him through the door.
How can I love someone and hate them, too?
Someones.
I’ve got to stop feeling sorry for myself and get it together.
Ivy’s safe inside her room. He can’t do anything but shout at her.
Maybe she can calm down and work on her GED prep.
Mom’s been through hell. I need to give her a break.
Uncle Norm has a lot on his plate, too, what with being mayor and all.
Grandma Belinda’s trying to run the household.
No wonder she’s stressed. It’s hard for Ivy, being a single mom.
“One day, you fucking whore!” Norm bellows.
“Shut the fuck up!” Ivy hollers back.
I want to save her, but she won’t let me. I want to get us all away from him, but where could we go?
I realize I’m shivering. I feel dizzy. I’m going to puke.
I want a different family. Any family. Any way that can get me out of here, I’ll take. I wish my family were … normal. I wish they didn’t fight. I wish we could eat a pleasant dinner and joke and enjoy each other’s company.
Giving up on beating down Ivy’s door, my uncle storms past me, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
My breathing is so fast. Am I hyperventilating?
Stop. Calm down.
I fall into my room, click the door, and lock it. The hardwood floor is cool under my bare feet until I reach the small rug by the bed.
I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay—
Nausea bubbles in my stomach as they continue screaming at each other. Even when it’s not directed at me, I hate it.
Am I going to pass out?
Fuck. No.
I make it to the desk chair, sit down, and hold my shoulders tight, trying to stop my quaking. Then I rock in place for what feels like an eternity.
The house quiets.
Maybe it’s all going to be okay. Maybe—
Uncle Norm roars again.
Ivy yells back.
I need to stop … stop everything. I can’t breathe. I can’t handle this anymore. It’s too much. My nervous system can’t take it.
I let out a frantic laugh, because what nervous system? I’m only a nerve. One big mass that flinches and can’t do anything to stop everyone around me from destroying themselves and each other.
I can’t get Ivy to calm down. I can’t get Uncle Norm to treat anyone with respect. Grandma and Mom are just as bad. No one gets along.
It hurts too much.
No quiet. No peace. No safe place.
I reach inside my desk drawer and grasp the X-Acto knife that sits with the pens and pencils in a neat row.
It’s heavy, like a pen. Cylindrical metal handle. Clear plastic cover over the blade.
I uncap it with fumbling fingers but still make the effort to put the cap down carefully.
I shove my red athletic shorts up and stare at the hair on my bouncing leg. I’m jittery, and my muscles flex. My hands shake.
Lines upon lines mark the skin of my inner thigh. Mostly healed. Have I been able to go ten days without doing this?
I’m holding my breath. My heartbeat’s racing.
The blade sings to me.
I draw the knife just below the last cut, watching the blood bead up. Feeling the sharp sting.
I focus on the pain rather than thoughts of my family.
Release. I’m open and bleeding.
A little better?
I close my eyes and exhale.
Another breath.
Two.
Three.
I open my eyes.
What’s something good?
He’s something good. That smile. Those freckles. That hair. Those clothes.
No, you can’t ever have him. Uncle Norm’s voice reinvades my head. Never touch a man like that.
Shit. Fuckfuckfuck. I can’t breathe again.
One more cut.
Yes. Just one more.
I rock back and forth.
I bow my head.
I make another slice in my thigh, watching my skin part, the blood now dripping.
Good thing my shorts are red.
I let my head fall back, and my mouth gapes open.
Relief.
This is my unhealthy coping mechanism. But it’s effective.
I can’t sing in the car all the time.
I concentrate on the pain and let the blood flow a moment, then stanch it with tissues, wad them up, and flush them down the toilet before taking a shower and bandaging the wounds. When I’m done, I climb between my cold sheets and stare at the ceiling.
How many days left until I can leave this place? I check my phone. Since it’s after midnight, now I’m down to 307.
College can’t come fast enough.
Nor can next week’s senior retreat.