Jesse

1: The Name's Jesse

 1: The Name’s Jesse

I never did care too much for school, but then again what eighteen-year-old did? I was never the most popular guy, nor the best athlete, or even the class clown for that matter.

   But I did without fail seem to mess everything up, or according to Harold, my wonderful father.

    I did distribute the best drugs the entire high school, considering I basically had no competition to begin with, but I didn’t tell you that, okay? You know nothing. Nothing. Good.

   I did have friends, but I wasn’t sure if you’d called them “friends.” More like walking dollar bills. Because that’s why anyone would ever associate themselves with me, was to use me to get to their next high. Joy.

    And every day I sat in the same chair, at the same table during lunch, since my freshman year, alone. Off near the corner, at my own circular table. But I preferred it that way, being alone. Simply because: I was a loner.

   But that did nothing to stop the feeling of being an outcast, in a place I could never belong.

   Occasionally, I would see their glances, manage to catch their whispers spoken a little too loudly. The curiosity. The usual talk. The unstoppable. I tried to block out all of that, and just do what I knew he could do the best: be invisible. Just keep it all in, and pretend that all was okay. Pretend. That you were best-looking, most-popular guy in the high school, and everyone was your friend.

   Pretend that you were always picked first. That everyone wanted you on their team. That everyone in the whole entire school knew your name, and every girl sighed longingly after saying it. That you actually had friends. Not just the guys you sometimes dealt drugs to make enough money to not get evicted of the house. Pretend that life was normal, and you were the son your drunk, abusive father always wanted, instead of being the weak, clumsy boy that no-one actually knew—the one who went by “Oh, that guy,” or the other more popular one “you mean, him, the druggie?”—

   Fuck! I was a drug dealer, but that didn’t define me. Yes, I did sell them. But that didn’t, or would ever make me who I was. As a person. Not just some stereotype.  It wasn’t my entire life. It was means to an end. Nothing more, nothing less.

   Just pretend. It was easier that way. Just pretend and it all would go away, for awhile at least. Before the dream ended, and you woke up. And life slapped you in the face, mockingly. Like it all was just some sort of twisted joke. On me.

   Even with all this, I knew there were worse things in life than school. Beginning with, the life before and after it, since…Since well, Mom died.

   It had been a brain aneurism that had taken her from us. That had been three years ago. Three years ago. The Dad figure went off into the deep end; it changed him, and for the worse. He wasn’t who he was before. Drinking all the time. Yelling all the time. Nothing was done right, unless he did it. And no longer appreciated anything that was done for him. Complete opposite. Day to night. Heaven to hell. Death did crazy things to people, I realized. But Mom’s kind of death—that terrible word—made it even worse. It struck her all of sudden, cold and limp on the floor in a matter of seconds. The last image I had of her, Sharon—that was her name—was in the kitchen, sprawled on the linoleum floor with the stirring spoon still in her hand, unmoving, unconscious. We had thought she was fine—she had us believe she was fine, nothing was wrong. Just awful migraines, that was all the doctor diagnosed. Some shitty doctor, I thought. I didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye.

   After an unexpected trip to the ER—but it hadn’t been my first time there—we got the news from white-coat wearing specialist who walked into the waiting room, after what seemed like an eternity of a wait, every second a lifetime. He said, holding tentatively to his clipboard:

   “I’m very sorry, sir. She didn’t make it.”

   That was the first time I saw Dad, Harold, cry; crumple on to his knees before the doctor and weep, trembling, moaning, sobbing softly.

   I didn’t know how to take it, at first. I couldn’t breathe for a moment. Then I too began to cry. That was three years ago. I didn’t cry anymore. Well, not in front of anyone. Just when I was alone. He made sure of 

   I fiercely clenched my eyes shut, feeling the tears well again. Every reminiscence tears the old scars open, and the never-ending pain bleeds out once more.­ He needed to suppress those horrifying memories again. Like always. The night after she had died had been the worst; the father, snapped then.

   You stupid, skinny lil’ bastard! You took her away from me!—You did! Didn’t you? Why’d you have to go and do that? I’ll beat the shit out of you!

    PLEASE NO!!! Don’t—I—I didn’t—

    Oh, don’t you dare stand there and lie straight in my face! DON’T YOU DARE! DON’T YOU

   LIE TO ME, YOU LITTLE CUNT! LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKIN’ TO YOU! JUST TELL W-WHA—JUST TELL ME W-WHY!!

    I—I—I didn’t—please, God no—

    OH YOU’VE DONE IT NOW!!—

   My eyes were snatched open, and I clutched my stomach remembering the pain. That bruise that had taken forever to go away. I realize the bus had come to a stop, finally. His    

   The red-headed girl named Janice, who sat across from me, was gazing at me like I had eight heads or something. My lips curled, and I stand up awkwardly, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

   “Piss off,” I breathed as I passed her by; I barely caught her outraged glare from the corner of my eye.

   I didn’t pay any attention to the dispersed murmuring as I ambled down the middle aisle of the school bus. As I was walking, I felt my foot unexpectedly hit against something hard. Cringing, I stumbled catching myself with my hands against the back of the seats. Flustered, I looked back and saw the gloating, blue eyes that belonged to none other than Tyler Averyson, a popular school jock, who unlike myself was impossibly incredible at everything. Everyone liked him, and all the girls wanted him.

   He sneered over me. For a split second I glared at him with a fiery hatred, and then looked away, as he clumsily stood to his feet. I pressed my lips firmly together, feeling the tears sting my eyes, and blustered my way toward the ugly, fat bus driver. The bitch didn’t even say anything about it, I thought to myself. Probably thought I just happened to fall. I huffed in disgust.

   When I reached her, Mrs. Lira, she casually glanced toward me, behind a pair of rimmed glasses, while smacking her gum. She lifted a meaty arm, where her fat just hung dangling, jiggling, and slowly pulled the lever to open the door. Ms. Lira blew a massive bubble. It popped, and she sucked in the gum with such an obnoxious amount of volume. I snapped my vision elsewhere, and headed down the steps and out of the school bus. My dirty sneakered foot slapped against the sidewalk pavement, and I gazed out to the sunlit outside of Breckenridge Hills, Missouri. The same place I had seen for every thousand of my steps off of a school bus, since I was a kid.

   The bus stop was at a rounded, hedged corner, where two giant trees stood, their branches wavering in the soft wind, their green leaves breaking the hot, August sunlight, shadowing everything below. Beyond, was a small white house, with dark shutters and gray roofing. An old lady lived there. I wished I had known her name. Sometimes, I would see her outside gardening, or just sitting in one of her porch chairs in the afternoons. Today she was nowhere to be seen. In fact I didn’t remember seeing her all week…

   Creak. Pop. Shudder. I heard the rumbling of the school bus start again, and I looked back to see it begin to drive away. No one was returning my stare, except for the guy who was sitting next to Tyler, and he was making obscene gestures. The idiot. I just shook my head, and looked away downcast. Pocketing my hands, he started walking along Breckenridge Road toward the house where I would eventually go to sleep, and wake back up, and start this all over again. Not home. It was home three years ago. Not now. Now it was hell.

   But more, I had never felt truly at home. But some things were better left unsaid. Because speaking them, made them real. And some things you don’t want to be real, even though they are. You want to just pretend. Look to the sky. Spread your wings.

   And just fly away.