Me, Myself, and I

Here's the Thing

I told my dad these journals were a bad idea. He wanted—no, needed—a spark. Something to keep people coming back.

Right after we moved to Delcoph, New York, he asked me to go to this free after-school support group he was starting up at my high school. My grounds to disagree weren't strong, doing everything I could do to stay within the confines of my new bedroom. Turns out it didn't matter too much who came back each session. For about a month or two, one kid showed up. Me.

Then Dad got a call from a single mom in post-divorce distress who had no money and a very depressed son: Austin. He was the saving grace, a savior come from across the school district to ensure the launch of a guilty father's charity project.

For a kid with no friends, Austin was like a magnet. Some of the kids came because of parents, others were my dad's patients, a few even of their own merit. We'd come, talk, listen to Dad spew on about some sort of topic. Like a Bible study, but instead of discussing end times and humanity's sinful nature, we'd complain about our own heads, our parents, school cafeteria food, whatever made our brains happy. Then we'd go home, realize nothing was accomplished, and come back again to figure out what we'd done wrong last time.

Dad wasn't content with this. He needed something for the group to look forward to, a way to make everyone in that room feel important. He drove all across town, found an overpriced craft shop, and made his deposit. The journals were blank back then, leather binding with our favorite colors and creamy pages without lines on them. Austin, who never took a hint and always sat in the desk beside mine (left or right, I don't remember), fell in the love with the thing, put so many notes and decorations on the cover that you could hardly see the camo-green it once was.

Mine was gold. It stayed that way.

The worst part is, I know exactly what brought on the miserable idea. After our move, during night classes for his doctorate, my dad wrote a book about our family tragedy, his fascination with the human mind despite all its failings. (At least, I assume that's what it was about. I'd never read it.) The whole thing certainly aided his post-divorce financial situation, and he seemed a lot happier once he could shove his history in a bookshelf and never see it again.

I guess the journals were supposed to give the impression that someone out there would care enough to listen. As if written form is an affirmation of importance. Unfortunately, I knew the truth. Our words?

empty

meaningless

hollow

That's it. Whatever "divine chosen ones" narrative Dad was going for, we weren't it. We were broken; we didn't have anyone to talk to.

When we got home that evening, I hid mine in the forbidden junk drawer beneath the microwave. Where the recipe books were. My guarantee that Dad wouldn't know of my treachery.

Until now. Now I'm one of them.

If you want to know how I ended up writing in this thing, then I'll have to tell you about a petulant individual who goes by the name Ben Wood. If I'm being honest, I'm not quite sure how to do that. I guess, I'll tell you what triggered the mere idea that writing was more than a mideaval torture device: the night of the phone call.

I wasn't in a very good place that night, in our home's kitchen, nibbling on another one of my burnt pancakes. No amount of syrup buried the bitter sting on the edges. My fork fiddled in one hand, phone vibrated in the another. Three missed calls from my boyfriend, Alex, a voice mail.

Beep. "Hey, Jewels. I'm really sorry, alright? I shouldn't have said that...You've just been acting so weird lately between dinner and classes and...I don't want to see you giving up before we've even started. Call me back, okay?" Beep.

I turned the screen over and stared at my plate, distorted in murky liquid. Every dish in our home was flooded with Gandhi quotes. This dish had the man's frowning, gray face, with curvy lettering around his head, dancing in a taunting fashion as I moved the pancake around.

Mom used to read off the plates when she handed them out at the dinner table. I had every dish memorized. This one had the scratch on top; she'd flipped when she found out Dad had put it in the microwave.

An eye for an eye makes the world blind.

Blindness sounded like freedom right about now.

I shook of the thought, scraped my plate, scrubbed it slowly beneath the warming water. Dad's pacing shadow crept out of his office, grew wider over the kitchen aisle. He spoke quietly into his cell. Thank you. No. She's with me. We'll be there.

I dropped Gandhi into the dry rack. Alex was right. No surprises there. He was always right. I shouldn't be here. Then again, the world would still be out there tomorrow.

"Julia?"

I wrung out the sponge, my fingers already pruning. "Huh?"

Dad hasn't asked me why I'd come crawling back home already. A simple hello and see you later as he tucked away into his office to write another draft of his sequel. I thought I'd dodged the subject completely by now, the pitch-black sky assuring me that the world was sleeping away and I was safe from interrogation until the sun decided otherwise.

His eyes moistened. He placed the phone on the counter, face-down.

I turned to the closest cabinet, searching the tupperware for nothing in particular. The burnt pancakes had done nothing to curb my appetite.

"It's Ben," he said.

Like I said, we need to talk about Ben. What do I even say? That face seemed to shadow everything I did lately, no matter how far I stretched time. A mention at school. A social media post. Election predictions. Friendly reminders that no, I did not leave Delcoph when they moved that tassel (right to left? left to right?), and no amount of pretending would change that fact.

I reached for the dishes in the back of the cupboard. Where I kept the cookie sheets.

"What about him?" I said.

Dad's footsteps creaked and faltered. By the time I faced him again, his forehead had paled out further, his hand covered his stubble chin.

"Ben's in the hospital."

Yes, we should probably talk about Ben. Not because he was in the hospital. Not because I broke his heart. Not because he shattered mine. We are going to talk about Ben, because Ben can help me prove three important facts.

I was right (about everything)

My story is meaningless

No one will ever be interested

I pray I'm right. That I am speaking to empty air. Because, otherwise, this is a narrative, you're my audience, and I'm the speaker, and that's a lot more than I bargained for.