Not After Everything (2 page)

“Hey, buddy.” I lean down and let Captain lick my chin while I give him some pats. If you didn't know him, you might think he was threatening me, baring his teeth and all, but his tail's wagging so fast, he almost throws himself off balance. His teeth are just too big for his mouth, so he looks like he's aggressive when he's excited. I like to think he's smiling.

“Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?”

Captain tilts his head like he's trying to understand me. He's an Australian shepherd mix but looks mostly Aussie, only with a long, thick tail. He's brown and white, and he has one black leg and a black patch over his brown eye, which offsets his light blue one. Hence the name: “Captain Jack Sparrow.” Even though Jack Sparrow didn't have an eye patch or a peg leg. Mom named him. He was the only pirate she could think of. And she loved Johnny Depp.

“Should I give you two some privacy?” Dad thinks he's hilarious when he's in that in-between, not-quite-drunk condition. I do not. “At least I know you won't go knocking the dog up. Just do something about his hair all over the goddamn floor first, that's all I ask. Or are you testing me to see if I'll make good on my word?” Dad loves to threaten to get rid of Captain. It's all talk. He's too lazy to actually follow through.

I slowly get up and start past him toward the closet, leaving my backpack on the living room floor.

“Where the fuck are you going?” He grabs my arm. My muscles flex involuntarily. I know he'll take this as a challenge and immediately wish I could take it back.

He shoves me as hard as he can. I reach out to catch myself but I'm not positioned right and I fall into the closet. My head hits the doorframe on the way down. These are the nights I resent my mother most.

“Answer me.” Dad kicks the back of my leg. It's not meant to hurt so much as humiliate. And that he has done.

“I'm getting the vacuum for all the goddamn dog hair,” I mumble as I pull myself up and remove the vacuum from the closet.

He smacks the spot on my head where it hit the doorframe. “Wanna say that again?”

I shake my head. My face is on fire and I'm torqued inside from how much I just want to go off on him. At six feet, 210, I have a few inches and about fifty pounds on him. I could do serious damage. And he knows it. Sometimes I wonder if that's what he really wants.

He snorts at me and turns back out of the room. I think we're done, but then just before he reaches the stairs, he kicks Captain in the ribs hard enough for him to let out a high-pitched yelp. I lunge at Dad without thinking. Knowing how I'd react before I did, he easily steps out of the way, and then, using my own momentum, shoves me so that I almost land on Captain.

When I look back at him, he stares me down with a smug smile. He knows I won't try anything else. Asshole.

When I finally hear his bedroom door shut, I feed Captain, vacuum the floors, and lock myself away in my cellar.

Okay, my room's not a cellar. It's a converted basement. With scratchy industrial carpet the color of old oatmeal, and shitty, scratched-up wood paneling halfway up the walls with white drywall above it covered in small holes because I use it as a corkboard. The focal point of the room is a mattress sitting only on the box spring, which I hate, being as tall as I am. And there's a do-it-yourself-quality bathroom next to the wall of bars hung with clothes that would normally be hidden behind the doors of an actual closet.

It's not great but it's mine. Mom let me put a lock on the door when I turned sixteen, like it's my own private apartment or something. Dad hates that. He thinks I'm hiding stuff. Which I am. Only not stuff he would be interested in.

I pull some loose paneling from the far corner and feel along the floor until my hand makes contact with a metal box. I carefully pull the box out and take it to my bed.

Captain jumps up and circles about five times before finally settling in next to me.

I take off the key I always wear on a chain around my neck and unlock the box, like I do every night. Then I pull out the plastic divider holding my secret emergency fund and set it aside.

Six photos stare back at me.

Mom on her wedding day—I cut Dad out of that one.

One of her when she was my age; she was so beautiful: long, shiny dark brown hair and light brown eyes that are full of life. She looks happy. I look a lot like her.

The two of us in Halloween costumes: She's a black cat and I'm a ninja. I think I was ten.

One I remember taking when she finally went back to school. She was getting in her car and I raced out after her with the camera and said, “First day of school! My baby's all grown up.” And she laughed. She's mid-laugh in the photo.

The two of us hiking my favorite running path up in the foothills near Red Rocks. Captain was all muddy and jumping on her. Again she's laughing.

And the last one: just the two of us at an awkward angle, slightly out of focus because she's holding the camera out in front of us. We're lounging on the couch after school let out last June. Dad wasn't home and we were watching a
Die Hard
marathon and eating popcorn. She made a big deal about taking that picture of the two of us because it would probably be the last time we'd ever be like that. I was getting too old, she said, and soon I would think it was lame to hang out with my mom. I'm practically rolling my eyes in the picture, but Mom's smiling away.

That's part of what makes it hurt so much. I just never saw it coming.

I set the photos aside and reach for the one last thing Mom ever left me. And no, it's not a note. She couldn't even be bothered to leave an explanation. Oh, no—can't give Tyler closure. Can't leave him a note telling him I'm sorry. Nope. The only thing left of hers is the razor blade that ended her life. Nothing flashy, nothing special. Just a little silver rectangular
straight-razor
replacement blade.

I don't know why I grabbed it. I'm not even sure if it really is
the
blade or just one of the others in its pack of ten or whatever. The protective plastic container was on the edge of the tub, which, in the chaos of pulling her out and trying to stop the bleeding while dialing 911, I stepped on, scattering all the others in the mess of blood on the floor. It still had her blood on it. I wish now that I hadn't cleaned it off. I know that sounds morbid, but it's all I have of her.

I run my finger along the blade lightly enough so it doesn't cut me. It's still sharp. Probably its only use was to tear through the flesh of her wrists.

Exsanguination.

That's the term the EMT used. It sounds so much better than: “She slit her damn wrists and bled out.”

I'm intercepted by the school guidance counselor before I even make it to first period. I follow her bouncing yellow ponytail to her little office area, past all the pitying looks from the office staff.

Mrs. Ortiz sits across from me, her head tilted caringly to one side, her eyes practically welling up. My stomach churns. I think my sausage and eggs might make a reappearance all over her desk. The thought forces the side of my mouth to pull up.

“How are you, Tyler?”

“‘Full of vexation come I,'” I mumble.

A look of confusion briefly overtakes her look of pity.

“
A Midsummer Night's Dream
? It's really good. You should totally read it. It's by some British guy.”

She smiles, tolerating me. And then presses on. “Are you seeking help?”

As if you're in any position to help, lady.
I shrug.

“Tyler, honey”—her pity-face is back—“it's okay to ask for help. I can recommend—”

“I already have a shrink.”

She tilts her head the other way. She doesn't believe me.

“David Adelstein,” I say.

She pulls her eyebrows together like she's deep in thought, like all shrinks, therapists, and fucking high school guidance counselors know each other and she's trying to place him.

“I would give you his number, but . . .”
You'd have to torture it out of me.

She straightens in her chair. She's obviously annoyed but trying to keep her concerned-for-a-student-whose-mom-killed-herself face.

“I understand Mrs. Hickenlooper asked you to leave class yesterday.”

I nod.

“Would you like to elaborate?”

“Can't say that I would.”

Her jaw clenches ever so slightly. “Well, with your, um, situation, we're willing to be a little more lenient than usual, but please try not to push your luck.”

“Understood,” I say, like
sir, yes sir
.

“Tyler, why don't you tell me a little about what happened with . . . you know. Maybe it'll help me understand how to better help you.” She has the stupid caring look in her eyes again.

“My mom killed herself. I don't know what more you want to know.”

“Where were you when she . . . ?”

Jesus. She can't even say the words. “Football. Summer training.”

“How did you find out?”

“My dad.” This is a lie. But I'll never tell her that I came home from training to grab my knee brace and some Advil but I was out of Advil and went up to Mom's bathroom to grab some when I found her floating lifeless and naked in a tub of pink water, blood still trickling from one wrist to the giant puddle of red on the floor. Nor will I tell her that I scooped my mom out of the tub and tried to revive her. That she was still warm. That the bath water was still steaming. That if I had come home five minutes, or three, or who knows how many minutes earlier, I might have stopped her, saved her. Only one other person knows all this: Dr. Adelstein. Only a handful of other people even know that I found her: the EMTs, the cops, the social worker, and Dad. I can't take the way people treat me now, and if everyone knew I found her, they'd treat me . . . Well, I'd probably just have to kill myself.

Mrs. Ortiz has been talking while I've been zoning out, but I'm done pretending to listen.

“Good talk,” I say, standing. “This was definitely not a waste of time.” I'm already halfway out the door when she calls after me to stop in tomorrow to “touch base.”

Yeah. I'll be sure to do that.

• • •

Coach is walking toward me, and it's too late to pretend I don't see him. Not that I'm avoiding him. Okay, maybe I'm avoiding him a little.

“Blackwell.” He slaps his hand on my shoulder.

“Coach.”

“We sure missed you this summer. McPhearson's not half the running back you are. You been keeping up on your running?”

“Yes, sir,” I say as enthusiastically as I can muster.

“Good, good. You just let me know when you're ready, okay? Is there anything I can . . . ?” He trails off awkwardly.

“Nope. I'm good. Thanks.”

“All right then.” He pats my shoulder again and steps aside so I can get to class. I don't have to look back to know he's watching me. I can feel it.

• • •

“There you are!” Sheila calls down the hall just before lunch, pretending to be upset because I did or didn't do . . . something. There's no escaping her. So I walk toward the herd of short skirts staring into their phones.

“You didn't text me back, mister.” She pouts. She actually
pouts
. She's developed this affinity for drama lately. I can't stand it.

“I was in class.” I lean down and kiss her neck, and all is forgiven.

“I mean last night.” She scratches the back of my neck with one hand and rests the other on my chest. All I can focus on is her ridiculous puke-green nail polish. It looks like fungus. “Hello?” She taps a putrid nail against my pec.

“My dad,” I say as way of explanation.

“I'm so sorry, baby.” She places her palm against my cheek and it almost makes me feel better for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Until I see her glance at the girls next to us to check if they're watching, to make sure they see just how tragic her boyfriend is and how wonderful she is to take care of him.

I wave her off, hoping she'll drop it before I say something I shouldn't.

She does.

“You working tonight?”

I shake my head.

“You wanna meet up at my house after practice? My mom's got a dinner meeting, and you know my dad's clueless.”

“Sure.” I could use a good distraction. As long as she doesn't expect me to talk about everything and get all emotional and shit. She keeps trying, and I get that that's what a girlfriend does, but it's not going to happen.

“Great. I'll wait for you since your practice usually goes longer than ours.”

I open my mouth to remind her that I'm not going to practice, but decide I don't feel like a pep talk, so I kiss her instead. No matter how many times I tell her, she won't let it drop. I wish I knew if it was because she cares about me or because she's worried about the social ramifications of not dating a football player her senior year.

“Shee, come on. We're going to lose our table if we don't go.” This from the other brunette girl who used to date Marcus—Nine, I think. She playfully tugs at Sheila's dark hair until she pulls away from me. “Hey, Tyler,” Nine says, “where's Marcus?”

“Do I look like his keeper?”

Nine giggles. And then she and Sheila turn toward the cafeteria.

Sheila whips around when she sees I'm not following. “Aren't you coming?”

“Not hungry,” I say.

• • •

I actually am hungry; I just need to not be around Sheila and her friends. I don't bother going back to class after downing my Chipotle—I decide my time will be better spent reading at Starbucks. Plus I don't want another run-in with Marcus about practice, especially because I know Sheila told him I wasn't working tonight.

The parking lot has pretty much cleared by the time I return to school. I head toward the chanting-in-unison coming from the upper gym—our gym has two levels, the smaller upper gym for stuff like volleyball and cheerleading, and the larger main gym on the lower level for the real sports. I make myself comfortable on the ground, leaning my back against the wall to wait for Sheila. A few stragglers walk by; I keep my head down so none of them has the urge to strike up a conversation. I'm pretty safe—it's mostly drama and band geeks. None of them would ever bother talking to me.

“Hey, Tyler. You weren't in chem today,” a tinny male voice says.

Apparently I was wrong.

I look up to see a skinny guy with glasses—Jeff maybe?—walking toward me with some Asian goth chick. She drops her pencil and it rolls across the floor coming to a rest when it hits my leg. I hold the pencil out for the girl, who grabs it without bothering to say thank you.

The skinny guy stares, still waiting for me to say something about skipping class, but when he realizes his goth friend has kept walking, he runs to catch up with her. I hear him whisper something about being rude and doesn't she know my mom just died and crap.

“That doesn't give him carte blanche on assholedom,” she says. He shushes her and glances back at me to see if I heard. I laugh to myself.

The gym door hits my foot, so I pull myself up. Sheila practically runs into me as the cheer herd stampedes out of the gym.

“Ty? What are you doing here? I was just coming to find you.”

“Mission accomplished.”

“Is everything okay?” She rests her hands on my shoulders and looks at me with intense concern.

“Everything's fine. Let's go.” I take her bag from her and turn toward the exit before she can play up the “I'm with tragedy boy” thing even more.

As we navigate our way to the parking lot, I can feel how much she wants to ask me about practice, but she knows it'll just cause a fight. And that wouldn't look good for her.

“Where's your car?” I ask.

“Let's just take yours. You can stop by and pick me up in the morning.”

“Fine.”

Sheila cranks the stereo and flips through the stations to find a song she likes. Landing on some irritating pop song, she leans out the window and sings at the top of her lungs at passing drivers. I almost laugh. When we first started hanging out in tenth grade, I had some stupid argument with Coach and she couldn't stand that I was in a bad mood, so she blasted the pop station and scream-sang at the other drivers, getting a variety of reactions, all of which made me laugh. God, we're completely different people now. Sometimes I feel like we don't even like each other anymore. But I guess it's safe. It's comfortable. For both of us. Plus, sex.

Her dad's home, but as she said, he's totally clueless. He's parked in front of his computer and barely grunts an acknowledgment as we pass him on the way to her bedroom.

Before I know it, we're rolling around on her flowery comforter, my hands threaded in her silky hair, her hands brushing up my chest, pulling off my shirt, throwing it over my head to the floor. Then she rolls me over so she's on top and pulls her cheer uniform over her head. I'm still not used to how thin she's gotten. When we first hooked up, there was more to her. She was a little softer in all the right places and I liked it. I know it's a cheerleader thing to be skinnier than the next girl, but it really doesn't do it for me. I swear my tits are bigger than hers; I don't even know why she bothers wearing a bra anymore. Except she's not for long. The thing pops off and she's holding my hands against her perfectly bronzed chest—no tan lines, of course. She groans and grinds her pelvis against me and she goes to kiss me. I'm trying to get into it, but then I begin thinking about how I shouldn't have to try—I never used to. She kisses my neck and sucks at my earlobes. This gets me into it a little more. She moans and rubs against me. And moans. And rubs.

Despite everything that's going on, I'm really not aroused. I mean, yeah, I'm hard, but that's just a physiological side effect of dry humping.

“It's okay, baby. Don't think about anything. I'll make you feel better,” she breathes in my ear. I respond by grabbing her ass and grinding into her harder. She groans and kisses me again. This time it's a light brush against my lips. Against my chin, my neck, my chest.

Her hand plunges under my waistband and she grabs me. “You want me to kiss it?” she says in this goddamn baby voice I've told her I can't stand. I practically go flaccid right then, but her stroking continues and my dick has a mind of its own.

She raises her eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

“If you want.”

She sits up, glaring. “You really don't care if I suck you off or not?”

I shrug.

She shoves me as she rolls off and goes to retrieve our clothes from the floor. “I'm not going to do it if you don't want it. You think I'm, like, dying to put your dick in my mouth?”

“Hey, don't get all pissy. You offered.”

My shirt hits me in the face. I pull it on as I head out the door.