Status: EDITING (08/25/15)
Gray Matter
one
“No.”
The answer is Adam’s signature. One word. No explanation. And not at all what I had been hoping for.
We sit opposite ends of the small oak table like we do every night. There’s a bowl of tossed salad between us, a plate of garlic bread, and multiple opened boxes of Chinese takeout. And pudding. Always pudding.
I’m scowling and Adam is too, but mostly because that’s his usual expression. Beneath the pale light, his forehead is shiny and his beard is scraggly. During these past few weeks, he’s been crankier than normal. I’d ask him why, but I know he won’t give me a straight answer, so why bother?
Tonight, I’m feeling more rebellious than usual, so I press on. “Why not?” I inquire with a light tone.
The metal chair screeches against the linoleum floor as Adam stands, his head nearly knocking the light fixture above the table. “Your desire to push boundaries,” He begins to say as he turns his back to me, heading through the narrow archway that leads to the kitchen, “Is both a great strength and a great weakness.” He disappears into the next room then, leaving me alone at the table to listen to the clanging of his dishes as he aggressively drops them into the sink.
I’d never thought of my situation growing up as unconventional until I learned how conventional everyone else’s families were. Adam Fisher is the only parental figure I have ever known. Throughout the past eighteen years, for some reason, he has tolerated my misbehaviour, and provided the guidance and structure that has moulded me into a normally flawed human being.
For Adam, I have the greatest respect. Sometimes I’d even consider it love. However, tonight I’m willing to test my greatest strength with or without his permission.
***
Lindsay clings to me once I push my way through the main entrance of her parents’ colonial style house. There’s a red, plastic cup in her hand. The liquid sloshes down my back as she hugs me, but I laugh it off, exhilarated by the atmosphere of the party.
“Harper! You came!” She shrieks into my ear, clearly drunk.
I can count on one hand the amount of parties I’ve been to. And this one is by far the biggest. It’s impossible to escape the unintentional touches of the other guests as I follow my best friend into her fancy kitchen, with its marble floors and multiple useless appliances.
In order to get here, I’d had to wait until Adam fell asleep. He ended doing so at his desk, covering the the surface with a puddle of drool. I’d sneaked through the front door, bracing myself against the squeakiness of its hinges before pulling the ten speed bike I haven’t used since ninth grade out of our nearly collapsed shed and pedalling it across town.
My technique is very reminiscent of a thirteen year old attempting to sneak out to see her secret boyfriend, but I’m proud of my arrival nonetheless.
Lindsay turns toward me, her silky red hair nearly whipping my face, and presses a cup into my hand before giving me a once over. “You’re a wreck,” she says, as if she’s read my mind. “Did you ride your bike here?”
I take a swig of the liquid, wincing against the burning sensation sweeping down my throat. I don’t need any hands to count the amount of times I’ve been drunk. “How else did you expect me to get here?” I retort, “Was I supposed to ask the Sergeant to drive me?”
We burst into laughter together, but our outrageous giggling is eventually interrupted by Christopher Chism, who wraps Lindsay’s dainty arm around the crook of his own and tugs her off to dance.
Leaning against the granite countertop, I examine the environment. The living room has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor. The leather sectional couch has been pulled apart and shoved haphazardly against the walls. Few people sit on the furniture, chatting and smiling, and in some cases making googley eyes at each other. A group of rowdy boys playfully heave each other back and forth in the foyer.
I studiously gaze at the red liquid in my cup, and hesitantly take another sip. It’s like a mixture of cherries and fire and I can’t decide if I’m enjoying it or not.
For a moment, I consider Adam. How he probably remains fast asleep, hopefully receiving a break from whatever he’s been worrying about lately. Guilt tugs at my stomach, leaving a bad taste in my mouth. I take another tentative sip to wash down the awful flavour.
I’ve secretly left the house plenty of times before, but usually Adam’s strict rules nip at the back of my consciousness. If there is one thing he is strict about, it’s the prohibition of the consumption of body-altering substances. Hell, sometimes he won’t even allow me to take Tylenol.
This is the first time I’ve truly outstepped the boundaries. And, despite the subtle pangs of guilt, my criminality sends electricity surging through my veins.
With one last glimpse at the liquid sloshing around in the cup, I lift the brim to my glossed lips and take a swig. This time, there isn’t an ounce of hesitance.
***
At some point during the evening, Maisy Johnston stumbles towards me, skin flushed and blue eyes glossy. Strands of her curly hair stick to her forehead and neck, but she seems happy so I smile.
“Can you believe,” she slurs, leaning slightly towards me so I catch an occasional whiff of her rancid breath, “That we are finally done high school!”
I blink a few times, wondering what it’s like to be in her position- drunk off my ass. Because Maisy Johnston absolutely despises me and she’s acting like I’m worth catching up with.
Smiling cordially, I take another small sip of my drink. I’ve refilled the cup twice. Although I could definitely not drive a car, I could probably still recite the alphabet backwards. “Crazy, hey?” I state drily as I watch the girl embarrass herself.
“Like you!” She chirps. I wince against the pitch of her voice. “Remember in elementary school, you used to believe we were all talking about you. Some imagination you had.”
So much for geniality. I shift uncomfortably, adjusting my arms defensively across my chest. “I was nine,” I assert.
She’s batshit insane. Like some sort of schizo.
Maisy’s voice permeates in my mind, but I swear her lips didn’t move an inch. “Excuse me?”
Her friendly demeanour has disappeared and she sneers, revealing the gaps between her teeth. “I didn’t say anything,” She snaps, her voice raising a few octaves which is something I hadn’t thought was possible. Then she turns on her heel and struts away. If the music wasn’t so loud, I’d be able to make out the click of her pumps against the floor.
Psycho.
Maybe it’s my self respect. Maybe it’s the effects of the alcohol. Normally, I’d let it roll of my shoulders. But for some reason, this time it’s different.
I follow the girl into the crowd, careful not to step on peoples’ heels or slosh booze all over myself. She stops halfway to the front door and begin speaking to a stocky, orange-haired boy who’s attempting to grow facial hair and failing miserably. Maisy is twisting her hair around her finger and popping her hip and doing everything to fulfill the stereotype of a the preppy bitch.
Without thinking, I clutch her shoulder and spin her so she’s facing me. I don’t know why I’m doing this, why I feel the need to defend myself. But it’s an instinct I can’t control at this point. “I’m not crazy,” I state calmly, though I’m not so sure.
“I never said you were.”
I feel like she’s a prophet and to prove a point I need to fulfill her prediction. It's unreasonable and doesn't make sense at the same time it does. So I say, “Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t. But if I had, you’d be doing a really good job of convincing me otherwise.” She smiles wickedly, flicking her hair over her shoulder.
My fingers roll into shaky fists and I step forward, only to be pulled away before the confrontation escalates further. And even though I’m struggling desperately against the hands clutching my biceps, I’m a little thankful. Because a small portion of me knows that I definitely would have.
The answer is Adam’s signature. One word. No explanation. And not at all what I had been hoping for.
We sit opposite ends of the small oak table like we do every night. There’s a bowl of tossed salad between us, a plate of garlic bread, and multiple opened boxes of Chinese takeout. And pudding. Always pudding.
I’m scowling and Adam is too, but mostly because that’s his usual expression. Beneath the pale light, his forehead is shiny and his beard is scraggly. During these past few weeks, he’s been crankier than normal. I’d ask him why, but I know he won’t give me a straight answer, so why bother?
Tonight, I’m feeling more rebellious than usual, so I press on. “Why not?” I inquire with a light tone.
The metal chair screeches against the linoleum floor as Adam stands, his head nearly knocking the light fixture above the table. “Your desire to push boundaries,” He begins to say as he turns his back to me, heading through the narrow archway that leads to the kitchen, “Is both a great strength and a great weakness.” He disappears into the next room then, leaving me alone at the table to listen to the clanging of his dishes as he aggressively drops them into the sink.
I’d never thought of my situation growing up as unconventional until I learned how conventional everyone else’s families were. Adam Fisher is the only parental figure I have ever known. Throughout the past eighteen years, for some reason, he has tolerated my misbehaviour, and provided the guidance and structure that has moulded me into a normally flawed human being.
For Adam, I have the greatest respect. Sometimes I’d even consider it love. However, tonight I’m willing to test my greatest strength with or without his permission.
***
Lindsay clings to me once I push my way through the main entrance of her parents’ colonial style house. There’s a red, plastic cup in her hand. The liquid sloshes down my back as she hugs me, but I laugh it off, exhilarated by the atmosphere of the party.
“Harper! You came!” She shrieks into my ear, clearly drunk.
I can count on one hand the amount of parties I’ve been to. And this one is by far the biggest. It’s impossible to escape the unintentional touches of the other guests as I follow my best friend into her fancy kitchen, with its marble floors and multiple useless appliances.
In order to get here, I’d had to wait until Adam fell asleep. He ended doing so at his desk, covering the the surface with a puddle of drool. I’d sneaked through the front door, bracing myself against the squeakiness of its hinges before pulling the ten speed bike I haven’t used since ninth grade out of our nearly collapsed shed and pedalling it across town.
My technique is very reminiscent of a thirteen year old attempting to sneak out to see her secret boyfriend, but I’m proud of my arrival nonetheless.
Lindsay turns toward me, her silky red hair nearly whipping my face, and presses a cup into my hand before giving me a once over. “You’re a wreck,” she says, as if she’s read my mind. “Did you ride your bike here?”
I take a swig of the liquid, wincing against the burning sensation sweeping down my throat. I don’t need any hands to count the amount of times I’ve been drunk. “How else did you expect me to get here?” I retort, “Was I supposed to ask the Sergeant to drive me?”
We burst into laughter together, but our outrageous giggling is eventually interrupted by Christopher Chism, who wraps Lindsay’s dainty arm around the crook of his own and tugs her off to dance.
Leaning against the granite countertop, I examine the environment. The living room has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor. The leather sectional couch has been pulled apart and shoved haphazardly against the walls. Few people sit on the furniture, chatting and smiling, and in some cases making googley eyes at each other. A group of rowdy boys playfully heave each other back and forth in the foyer.
I studiously gaze at the red liquid in my cup, and hesitantly take another sip. It’s like a mixture of cherries and fire and I can’t decide if I’m enjoying it or not.
For a moment, I consider Adam. How he probably remains fast asleep, hopefully receiving a break from whatever he’s been worrying about lately. Guilt tugs at my stomach, leaving a bad taste in my mouth. I take another tentative sip to wash down the awful flavour.
I’ve secretly left the house plenty of times before, but usually Adam’s strict rules nip at the back of my consciousness. If there is one thing he is strict about, it’s the prohibition of the consumption of body-altering substances. Hell, sometimes he won’t even allow me to take Tylenol.
This is the first time I’ve truly outstepped the boundaries. And, despite the subtle pangs of guilt, my criminality sends electricity surging through my veins.
With one last glimpse at the liquid sloshing around in the cup, I lift the brim to my glossed lips and take a swig. This time, there isn’t an ounce of hesitance.
***
At some point during the evening, Maisy Johnston stumbles towards me, skin flushed and blue eyes glossy. Strands of her curly hair stick to her forehead and neck, but she seems happy so I smile.
“Can you believe,” she slurs, leaning slightly towards me so I catch an occasional whiff of her rancid breath, “That we are finally done high school!”
I blink a few times, wondering what it’s like to be in her position- drunk off my ass. Because Maisy Johnston absolutely despises me and she’s acting like I’m worth catching up with.
Smiling cordially, I take another small sip of my drink. I’ve refilled the cup twice. Although I could definitely not drive a car, I could probably still recite the alphabet backwards. “Crazy, hey?” I state drily as I watch the girl embarrass herself.
“Like you!” She chirps. I wince against the pitch of her voice. “Remember in elementary school, you used to believe we were all talking about you. Some imagination you had.”
So much for geniality. I shift uncomfortably, adjusting my arms defensively across my chest. “I was nine,” I assert.
She’s batshit insane. Like some sort of schizo.
Maisy’s voice permeates in my mind, but I swear her lips didn’t move an inch. “Excuse me?”
Her friendly demeanour has disappeared and she sneers, revealing the gaps between her teeth. “I didn’t say anything,” She snaps, her voice raising a few octaves which is something I hadn’t thought was possible. Then she turns on her heel and struts away. If the music wasn’t so loud, I’d be able to make out the click of her pumps against the floor.
Psycho.
Maybe it’s my self respect. Maybe it’s the effects of the alcohol. Normally, I’d let it roll of my shoulders. But for some reason, this time it’s different.
I follow the girl into the crowd, careful not to step on peoples’ heels or slosh booze all over myself. She stops halfway to the front door and begin speaking to a stocky, orange-haired boy who’s attempting to grow facial hair and failing miserably. Maisy is twisting her hair around her finger and popping her hip and doing everything to fulfill the stereotype of a the preppy bitch.
Without thinking, I clutch her shoulder and spin her so she’s facing me. I don’t know why I’m doing this, why I feel the need to defend myself. But it’s an instinct I can’t control at this point. “I’m not crazy,” I state calmly, though I’m not so sure.
“I never said you were.”
I feel like she’s a prophet and to prove a point I need to fulfill her prediction. It's unreasonable and doesn't make sense at the same time it does. So I say, “Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t. But if I had, you’d be doing a really good job of convincing me otherwise.” She smiles wickedly, flicking her hair over her shoulder.
My fingers roll into shaky fists and I step forward, only to be pulled away before the confrontation escalates further. And even though I’m struggling desperately against the hands clutching my biceps, I’m a little thankful. Because a small portion of me knows that I definitely would have.