Something Wicked (10 page)

I don’t know what I’m actually getting out of the whole thing. It’s not like I’ve got some major trauma that can explain me. Sometimes people are just not explainable. Even if your parents are great and you have a nice house, you can still be messed up.

It’s annoying that people like Eric or my teachers keep asking me why I’m making the choices I make. I have no answer for them. I just do. I don’t sit around and think about why. It just happens. I think it’s just that some people are born a bad crop. Born wicked. And there’s not much anyone can do to steer you off the path you’re destined for. Wait—I take that back. Maybe they could nudge you a little from side to side to keep you steady, but generally, I think people are driven by something mysterious inside.

My mom tells me to consider going to Eric like going to a job, that I’m making an investment in myself which will pay off later. Jasmyn tells me to think of it as a stay-out-of-jail card. “Judges like that counselling shit,” she advises.

Usually, Eric and I don’t talk about anything really big. It’s not like in the movies, where you see people lying on a couch and confessing life traumas. It’s normally just about my week or what’s happening with friends or guys. Sometimes we talk about my mom. Once we talked about my father and why I don’t give a shit about his existence. Most of the time, if we talk about anything real important, it’s about my little brother Bradley. I suppose that’s my trauma, if I had to pick one.

Bradley was only six when he died of leukemia. We had spent two years going back and forth to the hospital, and for a while it looked like he was going to be okay. I remember doing arts
and crafts, watching videos, and playing Sorry on his hospital bed. A few times he came home, and things would be fine. But then, just before Christmas, he got really sick. We took him back into the hospital and he never came back out.

Over the two years, my mother spent a lot of nights there with him, sleeping on a squeaky plastic-coated bench in the room. Crystal would stay with me at home. I’d be so jealous he got to spend time with Mom alone. Sometimes, on weekends, I got to sleep in the room too, but the nurses had to keep it quiet because only one person was allowed to stay over. I’d sneak into his bed and curl up next to him, and when the nurses came in to check his vitals, they’d just give this adoring look at the two of us.

Before he got sick, Bradley was a pain-in-the-ass little brat, but as soon as he went into the hospital, he became pale and cute, and I felt bad for being so mean to him all the time. As time goes on, the cuter he becomes in my memory, and the guiltier I feel about giving him such a hard time.

The thing with Bradley was that when he was around, we were a family. It wasn’t just him being an innocent little kid that made our home happy. It was that we were all linked, connected in some way. Grounded, I guess. It didn’t seem to matter we didn’t have a father around. We felt complete. My mom was happy almost all the time, so she didn’t miss work or get fired. And I guess I was happy too. I can’t entirely remember, but it’s like I think of myself then and I can see my face in the memories; I can see my smile. And I don’t know what the hell I was so happy about, except that there was nothing yet to be miserable about. I think that’s just growing up—you grow into misery and complication.

My mother and I don’t talk about what happened next. After Bradley died, she got depressed and began drinking and was a real mess. She couldn’t work. She couldn’t do anything.
We lost our apartment, and we had to live at a shelter for a few months until Crystal got us an apartment in her building and helped my mom get back on track. Except my mom never really went back to “normal,” the way she was before. And I don’t think I ever felt we were a family after that.

So it’s no wonder it’s a time my mom and I just want to forget about. But it’s not like we ever forget Bradley. There are photographs of him all over the apartment. Other than doing something special on his birthday, though, we rarely mention his name. We don’t need to. He’s always there. He’s always here.

So instead of going to see Eric, I meet up with Ally to blaze in the alley behind her house. We sit inside an old wood garage where she and people in her neighbourhood go to chill when it’s cold out. It’s got some plastic jugs to sit on, and a little table made of plywood propped up on milk crates. Usually someone’s in there, smoking or drinking or just chilling, but this time we’re alone. Ally just got her nose pierced and wanted me to see it. It doesn’t look good. Her nose is sort of pug-like and you need a nice pointy nose for a piercing to look good. She says she’s trying to look more girlie because she thinks she looks too much like a guy. Truth is, I think she’s gay but she just doesn’t want to admit it yet.

“It’s ’cause your hair is so short,” I say, which it is. It’s like a boy’s—plain and brown and short. “Grow it. And stop wearing those butch guy jeans,” I suggest.

“Yeah,” she agrees, but she won’t do it.

We stay there for about an hour, while she tells me what’s happening with everyone at school. While she talks, I compose a letter to Michael in my head.

Michael,

Sometimes you occupy everything in my sight and in my mind. No matter what I do, all I think about is you, all I see is you. You’re this heavy, solid mass standing directly in front of me, like a door, and beyond you life is happening. I try to look beyond. I try to strain my neck to peek around, or stand on my tippytoes, or slip underneath. But it’s hopeless. You block everything I experience, everything but the edges.

“It was hilarious in class today. You know Aiden, right? He’s friends with Mark? He’s always causing shit, but in a funny way, you know? And so …”

Other times, you’re not so solid. During those times it’s like I’m living two lives at once, and I can easily pull myself in and out of them. It’s like looking out a subway window when you’re stuck in the tunnel. I can see what’s on the subway behind me, but I can also see through the window. It’s like I’m simultaneously looking backward and forward. It’s like that with you. All I have to do is slightly change my focus and you’re there.

“… then the whole class went silent, and I was like, ‘Shit’ …”

No matter what, you’re there. Every thought is brought back to you. While waiting for the bus. While sitting in class. While watching TV. While doing my homework. While sitting here, in the alley, talking to Allison.

“… Mr. Burns walked up to the desk and held his hand out. Aiden was so busted.
So
busted. And he pretended there was nothing in his lap. I think he was trying to get rid of the Baggie …”

How was your day? What did you eat? Do you feel better? Who did you talk to? Do you miss home? Do you miss me? Do you think of me?

“… and he just jumped up and knocked over the desk and went out the fucking window! … Melissa? Melissa?” Ally jabs me in the arm.

“Hah!” I respond, pretending I’m laughing at her bullshit story.

“Fuck.” She abruptly blows her smoke out. “It’s like talking to a fucking corpse.”

“Sorry. I
was
listening … He took off out the window and …?”

“Don’t pull that Echo shit with me,” she says.

“I’m not. It’s not that.” I try to bring myself back into this miserable, boring world, but I just can’t fake it. I just can’t fake I care. I know she’s angry about me going to another school, but I’ve got other problems to worry about. “Sorry. Fuck. My head hurts.”

“Well, your head hurts a lot lately. You probably have a fucking brain tumour.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Listen, I’m gonna split,” I say, butting out my smoke and picking up my bag. I walk away, knowing she’s staring at my back. Probably hurt or some shit, but I can’t really be bothered to care. Then, on my way home, I start to feel bad about it. I should have made her feel better. I should have at least pretended to be interested.

Eighteen

In a way, Bradley was lucky to stay a kid forever, immortalized in perfect
kid-ness
. The world is much easier to understand when you’re young, because everything is black and white: good and bad, nice and mean, beautiful and ugly. You learn this in fairy tales. And it’s comforting to know exactly which category everyone falls into.

But then you get older and it’s like the black and white merge into this murky grey. There’s confusion and anger because no one fits perfectly anymore. You start to see people as whole beings, lovable and hateable at the same time. And this messiness comes along with a whole new frustration. The stepmother who was a bitch suddenly seems sort of smart. Mr. Howard, the nice grade-four teacher, is starting to look like a bit of a pervert in the school photo. And the mother you blindly defended for so long suddenly starts to seem a little irresponsible.

And that’s a hell of a lot to deal with, when all you want to do is come home, eat chips, and watch TV.

Take for example my uncle Freestyle (whose real name is Brian). Growing up, I could see he was clearly an asshole—an irresponsible, obnoxious drunk, a bad father, and a cruel man who would come to our apartment every week or so to terrorize my mother. I used to slam the door in his face and throw the TV converter at his head. All I knew was what my mother told me—“He’s a deadbeat loser”—and all I saw was my mother in a crying, pathetic heap when he left.

But then Uncle Freestyle became sort of good. When I was about thirteen, he started to talk to me out on the balcony. We’d share a spliff and he’d ask me about guys and school and Mom. And he actually listened. It felt as if he cared. And he didn’t judge me, like I was a kid. He just seemed to get it. So we started doing this more and more, smoking weed together. And then he’d give me a big bag of it, for free at first, and I started to sell it to my friends. Not like a real dealer, but I make a bit of extra cash. It’s all sort of unspoken, but I think he feels good for helping me out. I’ve been saving the money for university. He said I’d never get there with my mom being such a financial wreck.

“If you want to walk on water, you need to get out of the boat, Melissa,” he’d say. Which basically means if you want success in life, you first have to take risks.

Uncle Freestyle always says these little bits of wisdom. I write them down in my journal, and sometimes I draw them out in coloured bubble letters and tape them on the wall around my bed. That saying is my favourite. I stare at it while lying in bed trying to fall asleep, which sometimes takes hours.
Get out of the boat, Melissa. Get out of the boat
. I know the saying actually has something to do with Jesus, but when I’m drifting off to sleep I imagine myself lying down in this Lady of Shalott wooden rowboat. I imagine I’m wearing a puffy white dress, with those lace-trimmed long-underwear pantaloons
underneath. My hair is long and is tied back with purple satin ribbons. Above me is blue sky. I stretch a foot out over the edge of the bed and imagine it dangling over the water. The boat rocks. There’s hesitation. I look over the edge. Black depths. A deep breath. And I think to myself,
Get out of the boat. Get out of the boat.