Dimples

Every September the Hugs Not Drugs Foundation returns to West High School to insure that every student attending the assembly wishes to commit suicide following or even during the presentation. Naturally, I wanted to make sure that I didn’t get stuck in the gymnasium with the freshmen who don’t know any better and the goody two shoes that are worried they’ll get caught.

And yet I’m sitting in the stinky, hot dungeon with Cara and Pee Wee practically sitting on my lap in the second row of bleachers in the sophomore section. Since there have been considerable security measures taken to ensure that every student attends this event, Phil and the rest of the security squad are cruising all around campus in their golf carts, ready to drag kids back inside.

After Spanish which Cara and Pee Wee and I all have together, we planned to make an escape route through the doors in the art room. However, once we got out there, we saw several unfortunate kids riding back in the hordes of gold carts.

Needless to say, we didn’t even try our luck.

So now, here we are, in the smelliest, most horrible room in the whole school, waiting for methamphetamine raps done by people who are too white to rap, handouts with badly written poems that talk about how cocaine ruined a girl named Jenny’s life, and a power point that our varsity football coach, Coach Esparza, narrates it—poorly I may add. We recently got a new sound system in here though, so the music isn’t so bad, and our school mascot—TJ the tiger—and the cheerleaders hurl beads at all the students. Cara caught some beads a few minutes ago and claimed it was the best day ever. I’ll never understand girls.

And then the waiting is over, our vice principle comes out with his microphone, shushing into it and spitting all over the place as he does so. “Quiet down, students!” A few other teachers join in and then we’re all down to a dull roar. “Great! Thank you! Now you all know that this day wah wah wah wah… Hugs Not Drugs!” And then everyone starts clapping and I just go along with it in the most sarcastic and rebellious manner possible without actually not clapping. And so then this pasty skinned girl with frizzy orange hair and pompoms jumps out along with this dude who looks like his pants are up to his nipples. “Hey, guys!” Oh god, it’s unbearable already.

But we suffer through. I don’t how we did it, but we made it through the meth rap. I think Pee Wee’s crying a little. “Save me, Elijah…” he moans. And then I laugh. Good old Sherm.

“What was that?” Cara asks, horrified.

“That, is what meth will do to you.” I nod to the two representatives from Hugs Not Drugs.

“Never.” She shivers. “Not even once.”

And then I laugh again, but the moment is ruined when the vice principle starts speaking once more. “Alright, alright! Now we’ve got something a little different this year. A
parent of one of your fellow students is going to speak for us on the harms of alcohol!”

Now what kid in the right mind would let their parents do that? It would be absolutely humiliating. I remember when my dad helped out at my little league soccer barbeque and he burns everyone’s food to the point where it was pretty much inedible and none of the other dads would talk to him after that. I had to quit because of that.

I plan on just zoning out for this one too because I don’t think I can take much more of—

“Elijah!” Cara hisses, grabbing my arm.

“What?”

“You might want to look up.”

“What are you—“ My mom. My mother. She’s standing up on that goofy podium with the lights shining on her. She’s at the microphone.

“Please welcome Mrs. Goodman!” the vice principle shouts.

My breath comes up short and my heart pounds really fast. What is she doing? Why is she here? She didn’t tell me about this. Why is she doing this?

“Elijah… Are you okay?” Cara asks, as softly as she can for being in a blaringly loud gymnasium.

I shake my head. “No. No I’m not okay.”

“Elijah, I’m sure it’ll be fine—“

“Just be quiet please,” I groan and drop my head down.

“It’ll be okay—“

“Cara. Please.”

And then everyone quiets down again so that my mother can speak. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to be here. I want to scream. I want to hit something. I want to hit her. She’s so stupid. What is she doing?!

“Hello,” she says, using that fake-y phone voice that makes her sound like even more of a bitch. “As many of you know I’m Elijah Goodman’s mom.” She smiles. It looks so fake and cruel.

I knot my fists on the bottom of my shirt, clamp my jaw shut, feel that little vein pops up in my forehead.

She clears her throat. “But as many of you may not know, Elijah’s dad is an alcoholic.”

She… no. No. She couldn’t have said that. She couldn’t have said something so personal, so… It’s not something you tell to your kid’s school. It’s not something you share. It’s not something you use as an offhand remark. It’s not something you do if you’re a good, decent person. But then again, I guess good and decent can’t really describe her.

“And it has really affected this family. You see, alcohol can have very damaging effects on families and relationships and—“

I’m not listening to this. I duck my head down so it’s between my knees, my cheek pressed into my backpack and don’t listen to what she’s saying. I don’t want any part of it. I wish she wasn’t here. I wish she hadn’t done any of this. I wish she was dead.

Pee Wee puts his hand on one of my shoulders and Cara puts her hand on my other. And we three stay like that until I hear my name. “—Elijah? Could I get you to join me up here, please?”

No. Never. I will not.

“C’mon, Elijah. Don’t be shy.”

I jerk up, lifting my backpack with me.

“There he is.”

As I walk down the steps of the bleachers I think about my options. I could go stand beside her and let her fingernails sink into my shoulder while she rasps straight into my ear about how Dad has a disease and how he’s hurt us and how he’s hurt himself. I could listen to her tell all the people in my school I would never want to know anything about me, how I have a bad daddy because he’s a drunk and she’s the perfect mother because she’s deflected it all from me. She hasn’t done shit. She’s the worst part of my whole childhood and she doesn’t even know it.

So instead of joining my mother on the stupid podium, I take a left and run out the doors of the gym.

Somewhere along the way, I imagine hearing Pee Wee and Cara rooting for me.



“She made me go to lunch with her afterwards, Sherm,” I say, approaching Pee Wee’s desk in our Language Arts class.

“What? No ‘hello’, no ‘how are you’? If you were wondering, I’m doing just fine,” Sherman says smugly.

“Good. Great. I’m glad.”

“You should really say it like you mean it—“

“Shut up, Pee Wee. Just cut the crap for a second.”

His eyes widen and then narrow again. “Okay, okay. Tell me what happened.”

“She took me to Burger King—“

“Ooh, gag me. Burger King. Their buns are horrible.” He sticks his tongue out.

“Ugh, Pee Wee. It’s really not that bad. But what was bad is that she was lecturing me on how she’s like, the best Mom ever and my Dad sucks monkey balls and how he’s a really bad influence on us and that she doesn’t think Marney and I should ever see him again. ‘Oh, Elijah, is that okay with you, honey?’ Are you kidding me? ‘Is it okay if you never see your father again? It’s okay with me because I’m a huge bitch!’”

I’m now realizing it’s really quiet in here.

Like, the bell just rang, quiet.

“You might wanna go to your seat, ‘huge bitch’…” Pee Wee murmurs.

I turn around and Mrs. Hinge is standing there smiling that horrible ‘you’re pushing my buttons’ teacher smile.

I drop my eyes to the floor and shuffle to my seat.

I swear Luisa laughs as I sit down.

“Great! Okay, guys! Who wants to read their poem first?”

Pee Wee raises his hand.

Mrs. Hinge points at him and jabs her thumb at the front of the room. “Come on up, Mr. Sherman.”

And so he does.

And this is one of the times that I’m embarrassed that he’s my friend.

He recites Green Eggs and Ham, like he said he would, and then explains to the class that one time he refused to eat a cow tongue sandwich, but ended up trying it and it’s now his favorite food.

One of the girls left the room to throw up.

It was that bad.

Pee Wee wasn’t embarrassed in the least and even bowed before he sat down.

After that, most everyone in the class goes, including Luisa who recites this art piece that I can’t remember the name of and says that she relates to it because she feels the same way, missing her home. But if I recall correctly, the poem was about a fish. Mrs. Hinge thought it was brilliant though. Maybe I’m just stupid and didn’t get it.

And then eventually everyone has gone but me.

“Okay… Hm… I don’t think Elijah has gone yet, have you Elijah?” Mrs. Hinge smiles.

I take a shaky breath and stumble up to the front of the room.

Public speaking has never been one of my strong suits, but it’s mandatory in here.

I take another breath and begin reciting Hug-O-War by Shel Silverstein.

And then it’s over.

“Alright, Elijah. How do you relate to that?”

“Cause he’s a creep!” An asshole named Doug yells from the back of the room. It’s not even a good insult, but everyone laughs.

“Mr. Luis, would you like to go to the office again?” Mrs. Hinge says, peering over her reading glasses.

The class goes silent once more.

“Continue, Mr. Goodman.”

“Well… It’s just something that I used to read to my little sister all the time… So… Yeah.”

And then a large majority of the girls in the classroom go ‘aw’ and then I leave the front of the room feeling pretty good about myself.

“Shel Silverstein?” Luisa whispers in a pretty condescending way once I’m back at me seat. She eyes me carefully, yet casually, but I don’t want her to stop.

I stare back. “Uh… Yeah.”

She shrugs and turns back around.

And even though it may not seem like a huge victory or anything, it feels like my day has gotten increasingly better.