Not me. Dad’s the one who hurts the people I love. That’s his role. Not mine.
Dad rushes into my space, his breath hot on my face. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.” Adrenaline pumps into my bloodstream. I crave to hit him. He’s jonesing to hit me. The air is thick and tense with violence. It’s practically crackling with the shit.
“I’m tired of dealing with you and your temper.” Dad pulls back, his face flushed red. “I’ve enrolled you at Eastwick. You start there on Monday and you’ll finish your senior year there. After that, I don’t care what you do. It’s time you learn how to clean up your own messes.”
That’s right. Dad’s great at playing this game. Get pissed at me, mess with me, then my anger explodes and I’m the one still in trouble, but not this time. If he’s pushing me, I’m pushing back. “Did you find something you couldn’t fix with your money? Could you not pay off the board of trustees at school to keep me from being expelled? Or did you decide to finally put out the trash?”
A vein on his forehead pulsates. “Do you have any idea how many chances that school has given you? How many chances I’ve given you? Your sister is here and she’s in pain, and you go out and party and fight and get expelled from school! I don’t understand you! I don’t get you at all.”
“No,” I shout. “You don’t.”
He hasn’t seen who I am in years. But I see the line. Hell, I’m stomping on it and because I hate the man in front of me, I cross it. “I’m impressed to see you here. Was this the afternoon you usually spend golfing or did your business partners take pity on Rachel and cancel the meetings themselves?”
His lips thin out. “Don’t do this, West.”
The warning is out and I should listen, but I get a strange high seeing him squirm. “You missed Little League games, middle school graduations, fuck...you don’t even have a clue if I’m home most the time. Who knew in order to get your attention we’d have to wrap our car around a semitruck?”
Dad rakes a hand through his hair and angles his foot toward the door, but I’m not done with him yet. “When you stalled out Rachel’s car, were you on your cell? Because, let’s face it, your business has always come first.”
The ice-cold glare he shoots me kills a portion of my soul. I struck a nerve that’s real. Too real. I meant it to needle him. I meant to rub against that constant I’m-better-than-you bravado. I had no idea I’d be right.
“Dad,” I start. “I didn’t mean—”
“Go home, pack a bag and get out of my house.” Spit flies out of his mouth as he points out the door. “Get out of my sight. Get out of my life. If you’re there in two hours, I’ll call the police and tell them to drag your ass out and send you to a group home.”
Dad leaves and I follow him past the first couple of ICU rooms. He can’t throw me out. There’s no way he meant what he said. My vision tunnels and a low buzzing noise fills my ears. He’s not serious—he can’t be. “Funny. So what, I’m grounded? Two weeks? Three?”
Dad keeps walking straight ahead. “This isn’t a joke. Get out of here. It’s obvious you don’t feel like you belong.”
Fuck me, he’s serious. “Where do I go?”
He doesn’t even look at me as he responds, “I don’t care. That’s what happens with trash, West. Once you toss it on the curb, you don’t care what happens to it.”
My body grows cold and I can’t think clearly. Every thought I have splits apart and drifts into nowhere.
“Isaiah!”
I flinch at the terrified sound of my sister’s voice and my hand rises as if to block the sight of the room to my right. Rachel. She’s worse than they described: black-and-blue bruises over her face and arms, her exposed skin scraped and cut, her legs completely immobilized. Like in a bad sci-fi movie, wires and tubes run from my sister to beeping machines.
My mind wavers and the floor trembles beneath my feet. Since entering the hospital, I’ve never made it past the waiting room. Never. Because I can’t handle this. I can’t handle seeing Rachel broken.
The bastard that led Rachel astray leaps from his chair and catches her hand. He wipes her tears away and murmurs to her. Tattoos mark his arms. The guy hasn’t even shaved. He hovers over her, one hand grasping her fingers, the other smoothing back her hair. My fists curl at my sides. He’s touching my sister.
“She has nightmares,” says Ethan from behind me.
I glance at my brother, then slide away from the window, not wanting Rachel to spot me. Who the fuck am I kidding? I can’t stomach witnessing her like this.
My mind can’t process what’s happening. It’s too much: seeing Rachel, my dad kicking my ass to the street, being within feet of the bastard who’s responsible for all of this destruction. “Why is he in there?”
“She wants him, and Mom and Dad aren’t in the arguing mood.” Ethan sags against the wall. “Isaiah can convince her to sleep and she’ll force herself to stay awake if he’s not there.”
Ethan resembles Dad with dark hair and eyes, which means we appear nothing alike except for our height. If I ever wondered what hell on earth looked like, Ethan would be the prime example. Days without sleep can turn anyone into a zombie. At least he’s not sobbing like he was the other night. Hell I can deal with; crying I can’t.
I can’t hug him again and tell him it’s going to be okay. That would require me to be stable, and stable isn’t my strong suit. There’s a disconnection of emotion inside me as I step back...step away. It’s a dream. All of this is a bad dream.
Feet shuffle behind me, footsteps of people walking into Rachel’s room. I can’t go in there. I can’t. Gravity draws me and it’s not in the direction my family prefers. I move toward the pull and Ethan slams a hand onto my shoulder. “She wants to see you.”
I yank my shoulder out of Ethan’s grasp. “No, she doesn’t.” It’s safe to say no one here wants me.
My brother says nothing more as I head for the elevator. As I said before, Rachel deserves better...including better than me.
Haley
“Haley Williams chooses, once again, another form. Could this be the one, ladies and gentlemen?” Jax mock whispers beside me. “A hush rolls over the crowd as Miss Williams glances over the wording. Her eyebrows furrow. Is this it? Will this be the one?”
My cousin spiked his whitish-blond hair into a Mohawk this morning, meaning he’s feeling ornery. If he keeps up the running commentary, he’ll discover how ornery I can be.
From over the open bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, I glare at Jax. “Don’t you have something better to do?”
Jax and I sit on the floor, tucked away in the corner of the main office. We’ve been here for an hour and the receptionists forgot we exist, so they gossip freely. The stench of cafeteria coffee transforms into a film over my clothing. I shudder with the knowledge that I’ll smell like this for the rest of the day.
He cracks a wide grin. “Yeah. If you tell me what’s doing then I can go do my thing.”
The ghetto to English translation of “what’s doing”: what am I hiding about Friday night. I didn’t spill this weekend and I don’t plan on spilling now.
It’s Monday morning and I woke early and took the city bus to school so I can, once again, peruse the filing cabinet full of scholarship applications. I use the internet at the library, but trying to find applicable scholarships on there is like trying to search for a lost ring in a sand dune.
“Nothing’s doing, so go do your thang.”