The Burn Journals (28 page)

“Okay.” I laugh at Dad's accent, but I am actually scared.

Dad drops the tennis ball and we both jump back before it hits. The possum screeches, and my dad and I yelp too.

“What do you think, Brenner?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, he's still alive.”

“Yeah, what's he doing?”

“He's pretending to be sick so we'll leave him alone. I'm not going to have a possum living in my trash can.”

I follow Dad down into the basement. He grabs a wood splitter, which is just this heavy metal triangle you're supposed to use for chopping wood.

I say, “What are we going to do?”

“Get rid of it.”

“Why?”

“So it doesn't get Rusty. And so it doesn't get you guys.”

I pick up a bunch of weights that we have lying around. I don't think we've ever used these things for anything except maybe holding down science projects while the glue is drying.

We carry them up and stand on the railing with the weights and the wood splitter. The possum is still there. He hasn't moved. I wonder what he's doing.

Dad holds the wood splitter over the possum, lines it up, and lets it go. I pull my head back before it hits, but I can tell by the sound that he missed. It just bounced off the bottom of the trash can.

“Missed it.”

“Give me a weight.”

I hand him a five-pounder, which is pretty heavy, especially if you drop it on something's head.

Dad drops it. This time it hit. The sound is terrible.

The thing is squirming around in the bottom of the trash can. We hurt it. Oh God, we hurt it. We should stop. We should stop.

“Dad, shouldn't we leave it alone?”

“We can't stop now, Brenner, we already hurt it. We've got to put it out of its misery.” He picks up the ten-pounder, holds it over his head, and lets it drop. I hear a squish, but no squealing. It's over.

Craig's home for the weekend. We're all sitting around the table, eating Dad's famous pancakes. He always makes breakfast on the weekends. His pancakes and his French toast are so good, and he makes the best coffee cake.

We each have a section of the paper. Dad is reading the front page. Mom is reading the
Parade
magazine section. Craig is reading sports. I like to read the comics on Sunday because they're in color.

I see something out of the corner of my eye. The silver Get Well Soon balloon just came out of my room. It's at the top of the stairs. Now it's drifting down the stairs.

I say, “Look.”

They all look up from their sections of the newspaper. Craig says, “Weird.”

The balloon comes down the stairs, turns the corner, and comes straight toward me.

I feel so calm. I can't explain it, I feel so calm all over my body right now. I know what the balloon is going to do. It's just going to circle around my head and go back upstairs, that's all. Nothing else. It's okay.

It looks so alive the way it's gliding along, moving in slow motion, working its way over to me.

It's coming around the breakfast table, not touching anyone else. It finally gets to me. The string circles around my head. I can feel it lightly touching my hair.

And then the balloon goes back around the table, back up the stairs, and into my room.

Mom looks at me and says quietly, “That was your guardian angel checking up on you, making sure you're okay.”

“No, it wasn't.”

I run up the stairs and into my room. The balloon is there in the corner, just sitting there, not doing anything. There must have been a draft that carried it downstairs. Maybe it's leaking air. It could have been anything.

I'm sitting at Hardee's with the other kids from Dominion. They're so pathetic. All of them are total drug addicts, it's all they ever talk about. Christina says, “We were at this party and this guy was there. He was totally burnt out. I mean, like, totally gone. Somebody told me he went out into the rain with about forty hits of windowpane in his pocket, and it sank into his skin, and he's been tripping ever since.”

Owen says, “That's awesome. Before I got busted, I was hanging out at a friend's house, and this guy had the biggest bong. Dude, it was so big, you had to stand on a chair to take a hit.”

Calliope says, “If I could, I'd smoke pot forever and lie underneath the stars listening to the Dead.”

I think they know that I'm not like them. At first, they asked me questions about what happened to me. I told them I was in a house fire, but I don't think they believed me. Now they pretty much just ignore me. I don't care. I don't really have anything to say. Steve's getting released on Friday, and Owen might too. Christina just has to pass her drug test and then she's gone. I don't know about Calliope, I think she might get released sometime soon.

I've been working on a new card trick. It's a cool one because it always works and you don't really have to do anything.

I ask Michael Mager if he wants to see the trick. He does.

“Okay, now, I want you to pick a card from one of
these three piles.” I can hear my voice shaking. Shit, that's embarrassing.

He says he's chosen the card. I say, “Okay, now, tell me which pile it's in.” He says the center pile. I grab the center pile and pull it toward me, but my hands are shaking. Why are my hands always shaking?

I turn all the cards over. The nine of clubs falls out of my hands. Fuck, I'm such a spaz.

I lay all the cards facedown on the table in four piles. I say, “Okay, now, point to two piles.”

He does, and I take them away. There are two piles left. I say, “Point to one pile.”

He does, and I take that one away. Now I say, “Point to two cards.” He does, and I take those away. There are two cards left. “Point to one card.”

He does. I say, “Turn it over.”

He does, and I can tell by his face that it's his card. Yes. Fucking yes.

All the other kids have been released. It's weird because no one made a big deal out of it. One day they just didn't show up. There's a new kid named Nick, and he's dressed like a skater, so I figure he's here for drugs. He's shy, so that's a relief. At least I won't have to talk to him.

Actually, he might be here for attempted suicide. It's hard to tell, but I noticed some bandages on his wrists. Maybe that was just a skateboarding injury. But there's something about him that's sad. I think it's the way he uses his hair like a screen to keep people from being able to see his eyes. I can relate to that.

I've been here at Dominion for one month and Michael Mager says that after a few more weeks, I'll be able to go back to regular high school. Jesus, that'll be scary.

I'll see all the people I know. And all the ones I don't know, and they'll all want to know what happened to me. Someone will probably shut me in a locker because I'm a freshman or beat me up, and then my skin grafts will break down and I'll have to go back into surgery and start the whole thing over again.

I'm lying on the bed in the basement. I notice a blue
thing underneath the pool table.

Oh my God, it's a Smurf. We got these when we were little kids and they're still hanging around in the basement. That's so awesome. Look at him, it's Papa Smurf, the one with the beard.

My friend Jake and I used to come down here and hold matches under his head. God, poor Papa Smurf. One side of his face is all black and melted. Sometimes we used to light a can of Lysol and spray him with fire, like a flamethrower. And now look at him.

We also tore the arms off of Cobra Commander and put his head in a vise. We took Duke, from G.I. Joe, and twisted him around until his spine snapped. Now he's in two pieces. And then we set them on fire too.

Why did we do that? I can't remember why we used to always be so mean. It seemed like fun at the time, but now I can't remember why.

Every Wednesday, at Dominion, we do a big group therapy thing. Mom and Dad, and sometimes Craig, come and sit around with the other kids and their families. There's only one other kid here now, Nick, who's got the worst haircut I've ever seen. His bangs are so long he can almost fit them in his mouth, but the rest of his hair is shaved like a buzz cut.

His dad comes to the meetings with him. Last time he came, he was completely bald, and now he's got a big fat toupee on his head. I want to say something to him about it, like, I like your hair, but I probably shouldn't.

Michael Mager is starting up the meeting. He's so funny. He's always got a little grin on his face like he's laughing at a joke or he's about to play a big trick on everybody.

“Thanks, everyone, for coming. I, uh, wish we had more patients here, but, um, I guess that's the way it goes. Okay, so, where shall we start? Runyons? Got anything you'd like to discuss here?”

Fuck. Why does he always have to pick on us?

Mom and Dad don't say anything. Neither does Craig. Thank God.

Michael keeps talking. “Well, I was wondering if you'd thought at all about Brent going back to high school. How does it make you feel? Are you concerned?”

Before anyone can say anything, I say, in the world's most sarcastic voice, “Well, I think it's the best thing since sliced bread.” Craig smirks.

Michael looks at me. “You think it's a good thing, or are you being sarcastic?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know?”

“No.” Fuck you, don't put me on the spot.

He says, “Well, Brent, you know, it's difficult to figure out what people mean when they're being sarcastic. I've noticed that your family communicates with sarcasm quite a bit.”

“Oh really? I hadn't noticed.” How's that for sarcasm?

I can tell Michael's getting annoyed. Good. “Let's change gears. Anyone ever read the book
When Bad Things Happen to Good People
?”

No one has.

“Well, the interesting thing about that book is that it outlines what happens when a family goes through a ter-rific trauma, like when a member of the family dies or almost dies.” He gestures at me.

“I didn't almost die.” Now everyone's looking at me.

Michael says, “Really.”

“Yeah. I didn't almost die.”

“Well, do you think you would have lived if, say, no one had called the ambulance and you'd never been taken to the hospital?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, you wouldn't have.”

“Whatever.” He's so full of shit. Even if I did almost die, he doesn't have to say it.

Dad came in a separate car from Mom and Craig because he came straight from work, so I go home with him.

“Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we go to the sporting goods store?”

“Sure. Why?”

“I want to look at some stuff.”

I know exactly what I'm looking for. Two sets of red lightweight Everlast boxing gloves. That is exactly what I want.

At home, Dad and I strap on our new gloves and start bouncing around the room. These things are heavy. Jesus, they're heavy.

Dad says, “No hitting on the head, okay, son?”

“Okay. Round one.”

Dad covers up his stomach, and I take a couple of cheap shots at his belly. He's making noises like I hurt him, but I don't think I really did.

How about this? How about this? Did that hurt? Did that hurt?

He's not punching me back. How come he's not punching me back? Come on. Hit me. Hit me. I'm not made of glass. Hit me.

He's just covering up and letting me hit him in the stomach. Come on. Come on.

Jab. Jab. Right cross. Left cross. Uppercut.

Jab. Jab. Right cross. Right hook. Uppercut.

He's still not hitting me back. Hit me back. Hit me back. I'm not made of glass. Hit me back.

Right cross. Right hook. Uppercut. Uppercut. Right hook.

Oh shit, I knocked him down.

“Are you okay? Dad, I'm sorry, are you okay?”

“I'm okay.”

We're both breathing heavy, and I'm standing over him. I'm standing over him. And I can't help it, I raise my hands over my head. I'm the champ.

Mom and Dad and I are going to the Falls Church Racquet Club to play Wallyball, which is exactly like volleyball except you play it indoors in a racquetball court, and the ball is blue and bouncy, and you can hit it off the walls.

We're playing with a bunch of their friends, including my old den mother from Cub Scouts. I'm the only one under forty.

I'm on the team with Mom and Dad. Bruce and Sandy and Chuck and Annette are on the other team. Mom gets so competitive at these games. Dad does too, but you don't expect it as much from Mom. Dad's wearing some shirt he got at a conference and an old pair of gym shorts, and Mom's wearing her fortieth birthday shirt tucked into her shorts.

Jesus, I hope I don't look that stupid.

Dad serves overhand and Bruce bumps it to Sandy. She gives him a set and he floats it over the net, right to me. Shit. I can do this. I get my arms above my head and send it back to their side. They can't get to it. It drops. Yes.

Everybody is clapping and hollering for me, like I just won the Olympics.

After the game, we go out to Sign of the Whale and get burgers. The meat is nice and juicy and drips down my hand into my Jobst glove. Good thing we can wash these. Nothing like a burger. Nothing like it.

I'm feeling pretty good. I didn't think I'd do so well at Wallyball. I mean, I know they took it easy on me and everything, but still, I was good, I think. I wonder if Wallyball will be an Olympic sport one day. Isn't Ping-Pong an Olympic sport?

I start playing the drums on the table. Pounding out a hip-hop beat. I'm pounding out a little beat.

Okay, so I can use my hands, arms, and legs. I can think. I can walk. I can talk. I'm fifteen. I'm alive.

Life's pretty good. It's pretty good.

Dad and I drive home together because he came straight from work. His car has seat warmers. I love seat warmers.

“Oh, Dad, on the way home can we stop at the bookstore?”

“Sure, sonner.”

We go in together and I go right for the fiction section. Oh yeah, here it is,
The Godfather
. That's such a cool design on the cover, the guy holding the strings. Cool.