Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
I guess you could say I don’t have a middle ground, either.
I go between memories of screaming and torture and wanting to die to memories of Haley through a window.
It’s going to be over soon. All the shit that happened in the past is going to be taken care of. It’ll be dead and buried, and then these thoughts can go away.
“You alright?” my dad asks quietly. I can feel him watching me.
“Yeah.” I don’t take my eyes off the TV. “Fine.”
He doesn’t say anything for a minute. There’s a weight in the air, like he’s getting ready to break some bad news. Don’t know what bad news he thinks he has to tell me. I pretend I don’t feel it and keep looking at the TV.
“I know,” he starts, then waves his hand at the TV. It’s just the game on the screen. “I heard the news.”
“What news?” My jaw tenses and I wish he’d stop. We don’t have to say anything.
“About the principal.” He drops his hand into his lap and looks me in the eye. “Your principal from that… fucking nightmare.” My dad’s voice cracks.
I look back at him, my expression blank. That’s a habit that came with me from that place, I’ll probably never get rid of it. It’s not smart to let anything show. My default is no expression at all. They taught me that.
My dad’s jaw works, the look in his eyes changing. He doesn’t like it when I look at him like this. He’s said so before. But he won’t like it any better if I try to change my face.
I won’t, anyway. I can’t.
“He’s dead.”
He’s dead. The words land on the worn-out carpet like dust. My heart ticks up a little faster. It doesn’t stay that way. My dad’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. Memories of that man’s face come up like they happened yesterday, but I push them back down. He had the kind of face you could see anywhere, on any guy you passed on the street. That’s the kind of face you can’t get away from, even if you forget what he looks like.
I haven’t forgotten any of it.
My dad hasn’t looked away from me. He’s waiting for an answer, some kind of response. The air between us is tense. He wants something out of this but I don’t know what. He probably wants me to be the same kid I was before he sent me to that place. He’s said it before. How much he regrets it.
“Mr. Jay?” he nudges the suggestion. “The principal of that boarding school you went to?” He tries to get me to remember or acknowledge anything.
I bury more memories of that asshole and the screaming and punishments and sitting up straight. The fact that he’s dead has nothing to do with me.
I bury more memories of the building, and how, when I finally left, I didn’t think the outside world was real. I spent years waiting to be taken back and put in those same rooms and left there for the rest of my life.
“He wasn’t my principal,” I say finally. I want him to drop this. I know he can tell. “It wasn’t a real school Dad, remember?” I tell him flatly, easily. Like I’m unbothered.
He nods and opens his mouth like he might say more, but he doesn’t.
We turn back to the game. I watch dust motes hover in the air and look through the doorway to the kitchen. The same old microwave, plastic all yellow with age, still sits on the counter. The damn thing looks like hell, but it hasn’t died yet. It just keeps living and living, heating up food with a crackling sound and a little rattle where the glass plate isn’t quite even. My dad doesn’t care about that. He won’t buy another one until this microwave burns out and all the wiring melts together.
“Dean.” His voice is thick. The emotion he’s trying to control makes me want to get up and leave, but I don’t.
“Yeah?”
There’s another long silence. Emotion fills the room, but it’s outside of me. It doesn’t make any difference what my dad feels. There’s a twinge, I guess, somewhere deep down, but that’s just as likely to turn into anger.
Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I still expect to see myself at sixteen. I still expect to see him how he was, not this older, grayer version. Some of those years feel like they never went by at all and I hate looking at the evidence that they did.
“Look at me,” he commands and I do.
My dad’s face falls, his eyes shining.
“It has to be—” His voice is even thicker with sorrow. It’s impossible to ignore now. “You know, I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. It’s always easier for him to sound angry rather than sad. That’s fine with me. I don’t need weepy apologies. “I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t know.”