The Chronicles of James Pete Smith and Alysia Urie-Ross

“Are we demented or am I disturbed? The space that’s in between insane and insecure.”
-- “Jesus of Suburbia” by Green Day

I laid in my bed, unwilling to get up but unable to fall asleep again. Fucking Saturdays. Fucking sun shining through my tiny bedroom window, conveniently right in my eyes. Fucking Saturdays. And what I really hated about Saturdays is that everyone would be off doing shit without me--not like I had any friends aside from Ally, anyway. But even Ally was doing something I couldn’t attend. Some family picnic of hers--and, apparently, she had her reasons.

They were very good reasons, of course, but at the time she had her reasons for not telling me what said reasons were. Ally was infuriating to me. If there was anything I was good it, then it was figuring out the way a person works. And I could never really tell what Ally was up to--she was far too good at lying and hiding her true intents.

And of course Emma--the 12 year old--had a better social life than me. Every Friday night, she'd talk me into a headache about all of her plans for the weekend (Sunday morning church notwithstanding). Her boyfriend (my 3 years younger “sister” had a boyfriend before me, yes she did), her friends, darting through the mall and sipping too expensive smoothies and looking at the "best" designer clothing. Emma was a stick and Harry got money from his dead parents--she could wear that shit and walk up and down the town dressed to the best of this generation.

But I didn't mind. She was the only one in the whole goddamned house who would talk at me. Harry and Donna? Of course they wouldn't. When they had to talk to me, they never met my eyes. They always stared at my feet. I didn't know my beat-up Chucks were all that interesting. More interesting than talking to the freak (adopted) son who lost his shine after waking up from a year-and-a-half long coma.

I had nothing going for me, according to them. And Emma, their real daughter, had everything going for her. Nevermind that I got better grades than she did and actually studied. I was a good-for-nothing freak by nature of my freaky-ass genetics. They only faulted me for things I had no control over.

I was so pathetic, such a shame to them that they didn't even drag me to church on Sunday mornings. They didn't want this delinquent face associated with their good Smith name.

They even used to tell Emma that I was worthless to talk to. She just said that, "At least he's someone to talk to."

I hated my life.

Eventually, I pulled myself out of bed. Glasses were unnecessary that Saturday. I was glad--frankly, I was too lazy to really clean them that morning. Somehow, just going to school got them dirty. I blamed the terrible air quality around my house and school. The faded digital clock on my bedside table read 1:24 PM. Great. That meant that Emma was out already, and that I was probably alone in the house with Harry and Donna.

Which meant I wouldn't dare to leave my room unless I was certain they were gone. Which meant that I was going to leave my room for two things right then: food and reconnaissance. Fun, fun, fun.

My bedroom door looked entirely too foreboding as I walked toward it. Relax, Jimmy, I told myself. It’s just a fucking door. I loathed the idea of running into Donna or Harry--but mostly Donna--out in those hallways. In those hallways, they’d tell me whatever they wanted to about what they thought of me. In those hallways, Donna could (and often did) tell me off about every little thing. I need to comb my hair more often. I need to wash my clothes (my perfectly clean clothes). Don’t walk around barefoot, Jimmy, you’ll track dirt and Donna just vacuumed. I used too much of their ‘good’ soap last night, be more careful next time. I didn’t flush the toilet (bullshit, that was always Harry). Once my math teacher called home because I fell asleep in class--and that was terrible, she wouldn’t leave me alone for a week. Donna just kept calling me a good-for-nothing slacker.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to get it to calm down and settle around my face. It refused, sticking to my hand by static electricity. The resident weatherman on campus told us that it would be a dry few days in Northern California. 2020. Perfect accuracy weather prediction technology. So I smoothed my hair down as much as I possibly could and threw a hoodie on for good measure. With my hood over my face, they’d never be able to tell that I looked like shit, anyway.

My doorknob shocked me when I grabbed it to open the door. Figures. The fact that I’d almost been expecting the shock didn’t stop me from yelping in pain and pulling my hand back like the door was on fire. After all of the needles jabbed into my arms, the shit put in my eye, the concussion I got when I was 12, and the frequent injuries I got at school--you’d think that I would have a higher pain tolerance than that. But no. Pain tolerance was at an all time low for me, especially in the morning when pain unlocked a new level of thinking for me.

I started down the hall, taking slow and soft steps. If, by some miracle performed by a higher power that I didn’t even believe in, Harry and Donna were still asleep--then I’d have nothing to worry about once I got downstairs. It was just getting to the stairs that was a challenge. Either way, I could alert them to my presence if I made too much noise. Footsteps in the hallways upstairs were all too audible in the cavernous bowels of our lower level. The carpet naturally dampened them, of course, but the stairs were hardwood and hollow. Those were the footsteps to be worried about.

Somehow, I made it to the end of the hallway. The stairs--all 24 of them, straight down to the rough, crunchy carpet of the dining room. After a paranoid glance behind me, I was off. Each footstep was my foot falling flat on the wooden steps, as softly as I physically could, aimed with precision and (something not so much like) grace. I ducked when I got to the fifth stair from the bottom. This was my last chance to stay hidden if Harry (or Donna, but most likely Harry) was in the dining room. Judging by the time--now 1:42 PM--they were possibly both there. Lunch time. Of course.

Their Saturday lunch was one of the times I was ordered into my room--really, they would’ve kept me in my room all the time if they could justify it. But no. Between 12 and 1:30, they ate their lunch and talked. I was out of sight, out of mind. Knowing my luck, I guessed that they’d gone later than usual (they were never late, but they never left early) and that I was about to be in big, big trouble.

My legs unfolded slowly and I looked up, over the edge of the staircase. Donna and Harry were indeed there, at the table, eating lunch. Mandarin chicken salads, by the looks of it. Of course, Harry sat at the head of the table--the chair facing the staircase. And, of course, he’d just been looking to get the time when I stole my glance.

“James?” he asked, loud enough for me to hear and definitely loud enough for Donna. She looked over, right where I was, and saw me just before I made my break up the stairs. I didn’t care how loud I was being this time--they knew I was there, it was no use pretending I hadn’t been there. God, I hope I can outrun them. Up the seemingly endless stairs, alright, great--I somehow made it. The hallway stretched in front of me. I never knew it was that long.

The sound of Harry running up the stairs, his fancy Italian loafers earthquaking against the hardwood steps snapped me out of my temporary disorientation. I took off down the hall, my feet scraping and burning against the rough, starchy carpet. Of course, I thought, Saturday. The housecleaners. My breaths were coming in short and burned my nose. The air felt too cold. My eyes stung by the time I pushed open the door to my room. I slammed it shut--rare for me--and hastily turned the lock. Too bad I didn’t have a padlock.

He was at my door in record speed, Donna hot on his heels. But, as usual, it was Donna who started yelling at me. “James Smith!” They never said my middle name. It was like it scared them. Just four letters. Pete. “You know the house rules!” I tuned her out--or, at least, I tried to tune her out--right at that point. The house rules. They were the most important thing to her--for me, at least. For Emma, they were constantly bent and broken.

I huffed at my door and crossed my room, meaning to lay back down. Donna would finish her tirade and leave, Harry following like a sick husband/puppy. I would never want to be that--what Harry was for her. Sometimes I felt almost bad for him.
But a deep purple jewel case caught my attention. It was thinner than that of most CDs, and seeing the homemade CD inside reminded me. Ally had burnt a number of CDs for me, all albums by bands she’d thought I’d like. That pretty much meant My Chemical Romance, Fall Out Boy and, naturally, Panic! At The Disco. All bands I once swore I’d never listen to.

Maybe I was that desperate for friends.

I picked it up and inspected Ally’s neater than neat handwriting. “Fall Out Boy,” she’d written on the top half of it. “Folie à Deux,” on the bottom half. The madness of two. Alright. I shot a glance at the door, the source of Donna’s shrill yelling. Maybe I didn’t have to be passive all the time. Maybe I could resist, for once. Not five seconds later, I was grabbing the CD from the case and putting it into the ancient device that I called my CD player. It was something unwanted by the Smiths, who preferred newer methods such as the Cloud Streamer 20k. Whatever. Ally and I had found a common interest in still listening to music on CD.

I cranked up the volume and hit play. It started with a slow, soft, high organ note. “I’m coming apart at the seams,” a heartbreaking (and somehow familiar) voice started. “Pitching myself leads in other people’s dreams.”

No. That wasn’t what I needed. I needed something with more aggression. So I hit the fast forward button, skipping to track two. It started with a fast drum fill, followed by pounding guitar. Yes. That was exactly what I needed. So I proceeded to rock the fuck out to this song I’d never heard before, by a band I’d sworn never to listen to. “Say my name and his in the same breath, I dare you to say they taste the same,” the vocalist sang. “Let the leaves fall off in the summer and let December glow in flames.”

I wasn’t quite about to admit it to myself, but I really did like this song. It filled me with shivers of familiarity, though. Tears sprang up behind my closed eyes. Why? I’d never heard this music in my life--what the hell was going on?

I’d just begun to puzzle over it as the third track started. And that was when the door to my room swung open and a very, very angry Donna Jessica Smith stood at my door. Fire was in her eyes, and it made me stand stock still. I had never seen her even close to this angry.
“James,” she hissed. I could hear it, cutting straight through the music. “CD player. Off. Now.” I swear to fucking Christ, that woman was Medusa but I was a nice, obedient statue. I silenced the music. “Let’s have a nice chat in the living room, shall we?” It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command. “Now.”

I walked mechanically to my door. I followed Donna down the hallway. Down the stairs. Harry was sitting at the dining room table, staring at us. He wasn’t angry, though I couldn’t quite place what emotions were in his eyes. Betrayal, maybe. Regret. Donna ignored him and continued, past the kitchen, into the living room. The huge TV screen set into the wall was turned off, eerily matte black. Donna sat down in one of the many armchairs littered about the room and pointed me to the one directly across from that. Her lips were a very thin line against her face, stark white with rage.

“Not only did you break one house rule today, James,” she started, in very controlled--but angry--tones. Her pitch made me shiver in fear. She had never been this angry with me, and the way she was talking was worse than her rage. “But two.” Yes, one of my rules was that I wasn’t allowed to play music past a certain volume level--at least while the whole family was there. Of course, Emma played it past this level all the time--but I digress. “One of which is a very, very vital house rule.” I wondered which one she was talking about while she paused for emphasis. “What do you have to say for yourself, James Smith?” She acted like I had no middle name.

I looked down at my knees. “I’m sorry,” I muttered.

“What did you say?” Donna was almost screaming. I was still shaking and hoping that this was the worst of it. “Say it to my face, for once.”

“I’m sorry,” I stated again, meeting her cold blue eyes.

There was a moment of silence between us, and I though that I was fine.

“Liar,” she hissed in reply. Donna stood up and walked across the room, picking me up by my shoulder. Even she had a few inches on me--especially in those heels she was wearing. Her lips were by my ear and the nine words she whispered in there drained me and chilled me to the bone. “Keep your fucking emo music out of my house.” She let me go and walked away in silence. I stood there until I couldn’t hear the click-click-click of her heels on the kitchen floor.

I did the first thing I thought of, then, which was to run back up stairs and hide in my room. I shut the door quietly and didn’t even bother to lock it--I had a sick feeling that Donna and Harry would ignore me for the next week. My life was getting worse by the second. I grabbed my iPod from my desk, jamming my earbuds in the wrong ears. I didn’t give a shit. The Music app opened automatically and I scrolled down through the albums. A... American Idiot. Green Day. Great aggro music. As soon as I hit the first track, though, it felt entirely too aggressive. I needed something calmer. God, there was nothing that could help me. I turned my iPod off and threw it against my bed.

I sank into my desk chair, my elbows falling against my desk. The shaking on my desk made something fall off and hit the floor with a dull thunk. The noise startled me and I looked around to see what had fallen--just my cell phone. With a groan, I pulled it up. The for sure lack of texts was going to fucking depress me even more--I wasn’t sure why I bothered turning it on.

“One text message,” the screen read. My eyes widened in shock. It couldn’t be a refill prompt--I barely even used my phone--and I had no friends. No, I had Ally. Ally!

“How’s it going?” the text read under her name and contact information.

Finally, I had someone I could scream this to.

I slid my phone open and started texting back, rapidfire. “Feel like shit. Fucked up badly today, big time, Donna wants your emo music out her house.” I bit the inside of my cheek in contemplation. “I’m alive though. Wish I had better parents.” A pause. Was this going to sound ungrateful? “I wish I knew my real parents.” Sent.