Dismantling Evan (7 page)

Barking this argument at Mom and Dad was pointless, like beating my head against a brick wall. “The doctor said,” or “the nurse said”, was the mantra in our house from that moment on; it still is.

The week I was out of school, mom conferenced with my principal, counselor, and teachers via phone and email. She told them I had been very stressed and needed to decompress; doctor’s orders. The counselor and my teachers agreed, I would be allowed time to make up all the work when I returned to school. It was a relief. I did care about my education and didn’t want to screw up advancing to the next grade due to this ‘need for decompression’.

Feeling better than I had in days, I chose to work on the assignments I had missed so I wouldn’t have so much catch up work. I was able to get a lot of it done, but I still had a few more assignments to complete.

Monday morning, as I walked through the main hall and into the attendance office, it was evident the confidentiality of my absence was breached. I shouldn’t have expected anything different. I mean, everyone knew everyone else’s business in our community and if they didn’t, they found out from someone who did; bottom line, people talk and somebody talked about my decompression and stress.

When I walked into first period Algebra, my classmates’ whispers and my teacher’s dodgy eyes were more than obvious. My teacher carefully chose her words as she welcomed me back. It was evident they had their own perception of why I had gone missing for a week. I would bet money their thoughts weren’t as simple as stress. Murmurs of mental case, psycho, and freak from under my peers’ breaths were accompanied by giggles and snickering that carried on throughout the day. Did they really think I couldn’t hear them? OF COURSE NOT! They knew and it made them feel powerful, in control, like an alpha in a pack of wolves.

The first week back, before school and during lunch hour I sat in Ms. Stewart’s office, working on the rest of my assignments. The work wasn’t all from her class, but she was the only teacher I felt comfortable with after returning with my diagnosis.

During my time with her, I worked up enough confidence to apologize for screwing up the interviews and the piece for the paper. She accepted it with very little discussion, but I could see her curiosity stirring. She wanted to ask what happened to me, why I acted the way I did. She never asked though. My mom had already talked to her so she must have known everything. But, telling her face to face was me admitting my failure and I wasn’t strong enough to do that; not with Ms. Stewart.

Each morning, I worked on my assignments as she sat at her desk grading papers. One day, I imagined her telling me I was so much stronger and braver than I gave myself credit for and everything would get better for me. That was the last day I worked in her classroom. She was the first and only connection I made in all my years of school and in a weird way, I thought distancing myself would keep our connection frozen in time and unscathed by my flaws. I would be strong and brave Evan in her mind; not broken.

That night Dad got home and announced the opportunity his firm gave him in Braxton Springs. I begged to finish out the last few weeks of school from home, not wanting to step foot in the halls of my school one more day. Surprisingly, everyone agreed to it; especially Mom and Dad. I completed my assignments from home. Mom delivered them to my counselor, who distributed them to my teachers. Thus I was no longer a strain on my high school’s fragile society, who let me disappear in peace. Mom and Dad let the search for a specialist on my ‘condition’ fall by the wayside and said they would look into a specialist once we settled in Texas.

I spent the last week of school in the counselor’s conference room, taking my final exams. In passing conversation at dinner one night, mom said Ms. Stewart had a hand in making the decision for me to work from home happen. Flaws and all, she was on my side until the very end.

I GRAB THE WHITE PLASTIC trash bag off the floor and toss in the excess packing paper along with my three year books from Paramount High School.

August 2014

Journal Entry #1

Not sure if this is how I do it, but here it goes. Dr. Elliot thought I should try journaling. He said to just talk about my day, something good that happened, or even as simple as a quote from a favorite book. He called it something social, but not social.

He asked me to do this when I started seeing him, after what happened at school in April. I saw him two weeks ago and he said even though he wasn’t going to be seeing me weekly any more, he wanted me to keep a journal to help with self-counseling. I didn’t know that even existed until he told me. Mom said I had to stop seeing him because the insurance wasn’t covering it anymore. I have ignored his suggestion, until now... obviously.

This is harder than I expected. Okay, I’m doing my journal on my 17.3” HP Pavilion Laptop. It has an Intel Core i3 and 4GB of memory and a 750GB hard drive. Brody bought it for me last Christmas. Mom got me some gaming software to download to it also. Starship 1 and Starship 2. Both are pretty cool.

Next door neighbors moved in at 12:32pm Central Standard Time today. A father, mother, and daughter. Daughter’s age is unknown.

Her name is Evan.

I was reciting Hamlet and I got stuck when she approached me. “Stuck” is when I have this strange thing happen; it’s a seizure. My mind just freezes up. Anyway, I was standing in her driveway, but I felt like she was intruding on my space at the time. She asked me what I was reciting. She actually knew what I was doing. I didn’t feel like speaking to her though. Didn’t trust her. I mean, I don’t even know her.

Then, she did the worst thing she could have ever done; she touched me. The touch was warm and sticky, and a feeling of a heavy, oily residue remained long after her hand left me. Brody came up to us and all I remember is running home. I shouldn’t have ran. It was stupid. I hate that I feel it this way.

Next time I see her, I have to remember to ask her how old she is and if she has read Hamlet. Maybe tell her I’m sorry for running. Time for dinner.

-G.F

“HEY EVAN.” MOM KNOCKS SOFTLY and calls through my closed door.

“Yeah.”

“You awake?” she asks, rhetorically.

I lift the full plastic trash bag off my bed and carry it over to the corner of my room where I have broken down all the unpacked boxes.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

Mom opens the door slowly and looks around. “Wow, you have been busy in here. Burst of energy, huh?”

She leans against the door smiling and a wave of guilt for spiraling earlier hits me again. I pretend to busy myself by shifting the boxes from one wall in my room to the other. “Sorry about earlier,” I mutter.

Mom tilts her head to rest on the door and waves her hand, lazily. “It’s all right. Today was a stressful day for us.”

My mood lightens a little.

“We saved you some food,” she says.

Food? I just ate lunch.
I look out my window and see it is dark. “What time is it?” I ask.

There is glow shining behind the blinds of the next door neighbor’s window. For a millisecond I wonder who occupies it, Gavin or Brody. I secretly hope it is Brody.

“It is nine thirty,” says Mom. “We had Mexican food. Enchiladas, quesadillas, charro beans. I called for you about an hour ago, but I guess you had your music on.”

I take the earbuds from around my neck and unplug from my iPhone, placing it on my bureau. “It helps me work.”

Smiling excitedly now, mom says, “Take a break honey. I made you a plate. Come down and have a bite.”

I’m not hungry, but I don’t want to get into an argument. “Can I bring it up?” I open my hands to show evidence of the state of my room. “I would like to work a little more on this.”

“Looks like we may have to get you a desk and chair in here. You have so much room now,” she comments as I pick up my camera from the bureau.

Noticing it in my hand, she steps into the room and toward me. I figure she is going to say something about her memories of using the camera and how it has taken so many pictures, but she doesn’t. She places her hands on top of mine and asks, “You tired?”

She asks every night without fail; she worries too much.

I move around her, toward the door to head down stairs. “No,” I reply

She follows behind me and says, “I’ll get you something to help you sleep after you have eaten.”

The insomnia is back with vengeance. It doesn’t bother me too much. I sleep every night, but sometimes as little as two hours and never more than six. Plus, I don’t want to become dependent on a pill to make me sleep when I was doing fine. “No, it’s all right. I’m good.”

“You need to sleep Evan. You tossed and turned all night last night in the hotel.”

I thought I had disguised my sleeplessness by laying there awake quietly and as still as humanly possible, but I guess she was up listening.

“Sleeping in a new place is hard for everyone,” she continues with her efforts to convince me to take the Xanax.

I don’t respond as I walk into the kitchen. Dad is sitting at the table with random stacks of unpacked boxes around him, eating a bowl of ice cream. He looks up and asks me, “Been busy?”

The remnants of take-out Tex-Mex is evident; foil wrapped flour tortillas, Styrofoam bowl of beef fajitas, a side of rice and beans, chips and salsa, and a small bowl of guacamole. My stomach rumbles, contradicting my thoughts of not being hungry. It smells delicious and I quickly make up a taco with a side of rice and beans. “Yeah all the boxes are unpacked,” I respond.

“We need to get her a desk, Aaron. She has so much room in there,” Mom says as she transfers a stack of plates from a box into the cabinet.

“We can pick one out tomorrow. A good break from unpacking,” comments Dad between bites. “What do you say, Evan?”

I want one, but I really don’t feel like looking for a desk. I chew quickly and swallow a bite of my taco and shift on my feet before I answer, “You guys go. I will like whatever you pick out.”

They eye each other with a cautious look. That look means they aren’t comfortable leaving me alone. I look from Dad to Mom. “I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m an invalid.”

Dad wads up his napkin, wipes his mouth, and sits back in his chair as he says, “We know you aren’t an invalid, Evan.”

I take another bite of my taco and drop my gaze to my plate as mom chimes in, “Evan, it isn’t that we don’t think you can handle staying here alone.” She stumbles a bit over her words, solidifying the onslaught of a lie in progress. “It is a new place, a new home. What if...”

Annoyed by her tiptoeing around the fact that they don’t trust me by myself, I snap at her. “What if I what? What if I lose it, have a breakdown while you are gone?”

Dad warns, “She didn’t say that, Evan.”

I grimace as I turn, open the refrigerator door, and grab a bottle of water. “Whatever. She didn’t have to,” I mumble.

I close the door to the refrigerator, pick up my plate with only the remaining edges of the tortilla left, and toss it into the waste basket. I look from Dad to Mom as they stare at me silently, waiting for my next move, my next psychotic spiral.

“I’m going to bed,” I say, which surprises to both of them.

Mom reaches into her purse and pulls out a brown transparent medicine bottle. “Take something to help you sleep, will you?”

I shake my head. “I told you that I’m tired. I don’t need them.”

Without waiting for an argument to start over the damn medication, I quickly mumble “Good night,” to them and take the stairs two at a time before disappearing into my room.

Lying in the dark, staring at the wall above my bureau, I watch the headlights of passing cars cast shadows of tree limbs from the oak tree outside; it’s beautiful. I get out of bed, grab my camera and slide back in, like moving too quickly will ruin the moment. Removing the lens cap and placing the lens on the camera, I continue to watch the grey tree limbs stretch repetitively on my wall. I bring the view finder to my eye and pinch the other one closed as I adjust the shutter speed to catch the moment. I press the shutter release, hear the click of capture, then pull the camera back from my eye, thumbing the film advance lever. Caught it; a moment in time that may never be repeated or may be repeated every night in this room for the next fifty years. The point is this one moment is captured right here in this camera for me to see anytime I want and remember how it made me feel the first time I saw it. I am indulging in the moment when I hear voices coming from the window closest to my bed.

I walk over to the window and see Gavin’s lanky frame standing in the middle of his backyard, the back porch light illuminating his army cap as he speaks to someone.

“I’m not tired,” Gavin says, chuckling a little as he kicks at the grass beneath him.

Who is he talking to?
I try and angle myself against the window to see who is with him, but I can’t see anything. What if he is alone out there like earlier? I should check on him. I mean, what if he got out of the house with no one else knowing.

I look down at myself. I’m dressed in baggy boxer shorts and one of Dad’s old hand me down Beatles t-shirts. I’m decent enough. I grab a pair of flip flops and open my bedroom door a crack. I listen for Mom and Dad’s voices, nothing. They must have already gone to bed. Suddenly, I hear Dad’s snoring muffled by their closed door. Good, already asleep. Closing my door behind me, I tiptoe to the staircase. I hope this isn’t one of those creaking staircases. As I take the first step, I cringe. It doesn’t creak though and I step down another, then another; no creaks. I walk through the kitchen toward the back door. I shouldn’t be doing this! But I need to check on Gavin.

The debate doesn’t linger as I unlock the double locks and turn the knob. Stealthily, I pass over the threshold and into the warm and muggy night air. I haven’t been back here before, so it is a surprise to see how many trees there are in our yard. At a quick glance I count at least six, but that isn’t including the trees behind our house. There are no houses behind us and it looks like it is just green space with more trees. I glance to my right through the shrubs lining the chain link fence between the yards. Gavin is walking in wide circles, murmuring a chain of incoherent words with his eyes closed.

“Hey,” I hiss at him, but he doesn’t respond. Maybe he doesn’t hear me.

I step off our small porch and into the yard toward the fence to get closer to him. “Hey, Gavin.”

“He can’t hear you,” a deep voice calls from Gavin’s porch, startling me.

I peek between two shrubs and see Brody dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, leaning back in a chair, his black boots kicked up on the edge of the small table, and his hands casually cradling the back of his head. He looks me up and down as he says, “He has headphones on.”

After feeling his eyes invade me, making me blush, I realize I have invaded their privacy. “Oh, sorry. I was worried he was out here by himself,” I say timidly.

I turn to head back into the house, but Brody calls to me. “What are you doing up so late?”

Did he ask me or Gavin? “
Me?” I ask, looking at him again.

“Yeah you, who else?” A smirk plays on his lips.

His curt response reminds me of my last encounter with him;
asshole
.

I respond with equal curtness. “Well, I was trying to, but I heard Gavin and I was worried.”

“Yeah, you already said that.” He shakes his head then looks out into the yard at Gavin.

I didn’t need to stand here and listen to him snap at me. As I turn to go back into the house, he asks, “Where are you going?”

Is he serious? I turn back and notice he has risen from his seat and is walking across the grass toward me.

“Inside,” I say simply.

He stops just shy of the fence and tucks his hands in his pockets. “Why? You can’t sleep, right?” he asks, furrowing his brows around his deep set hazel eyes.

Feeling the pressure of him looking at me and being closer than he was before, I respond nervously. “No, but I shouldn’t be out here. I don’t want to bother you all or scare Gavin like I did earlier.”

He folds his arms across his chest, making it look even broader. “You didn’t scare him,” he says, impassively.

“Yeah, well it seemed like he was pretty freaked out by me,” I say.

Brody glances over his shoulder at Gavin then back at me. “No, he just gets stuck sometimes. Then you went and touched him.”

I look over at Gavin as he continues to circle the same spot in the yard, head bowed; his gait shifting from side to side like it did earlier.

“Come over?”

Brody’s question is a surprise.

“What?”

“Come over through the gate. You aren’t going back to sleep, I can tell.” The way he says, I can tell, is kind of sexy. It makes it hard for me to think... until I remember his asshole behavior earlier.

“You called me an idiot and you think I want to come over and hang out?” The sarcastic query flows from my mouth before I can really think. It was a good dig though for sure.

He gets a look on his face, like I have slapped him or something. “What? I didn’t call you an idiot,” he challenges.

What is wrong with this guy? Does he suffer from short term memory loss or something?
My voice rises a little louder than I expect. “Yes you did!”

I look back at my house cautiously, hoping no lights turn on or back doors open from my raised tone.

When I look back at Brody, I lower my voice. “Earlier... after you told me Gavin doesn’t like to be touched, you called me an idiot.”

Brody’s furrowed brow relaxes and he smiles coyly as he shakes his head. “I wasn’t calling you an idiot. Look, just come over through the gate, I will explain, all right? Please.”

Frustrated, but also curious, I exit our side gate and enter theirs, latching it behind me. I have to admit, Brody’s looks were making it really hard to stay angry with him. I step into the light of their porch. Brody is sitting back in the chair he occupied earlier. He meets my gaze and says, “Pull up a chair.”

He takes hold of the top of the chair next to him and pulls it evenly next to his. Unhurried, I step up onto the porch and sit down next to him. He flexes his arms back and pins his hands behind his head as he looks out at Gavin, who is still circling the yard. I try to glance sideways at Brody without appearing like I’m staring. His white t-shirt isn’t so white. He has a couple of grease stains on it, like from a car or something. With his face lit by the porch light, his unshaven jaw line is prominent now. The unshaven thing looks really good on him. Where did he get the grease stains from? Was he working on his car or something?