Do Not Resuscitate

The disappointment stings. No, that’s not right. It aches. It hurts. It takes my breath away. It rips into my chest and yanks my heart out.

Dad was supposed to pick me up. He was supposed to take me out for ice-cream, which I wasn’t planning on eating because I can’t eat it but still. He was supposed to talk at me about Mom and her decisions and try to reassure me that things are going to be okay. He was supposed to spend time with me.

Instead, he was too busy, probably drinking beer with his band members, so he sent Val.

I don’t want Val. I want Dad. Val’s not my mother. She’s my step-mother. She did not birth me. She did not make me the way I am. I don’t hate her for it. This isn’t her fault. I just wish my parents wanted to be around me, too.

I’m not giving him enough credit. He could be in the car with Brooklyn, waiting with the air conditioner running, and we’ll go get ice-cream together. A patchwork family spending time with each other.

I won’t get my hopes up.

Val’s planted near the couches, standing in place and clasping her hands. There’s an unnatural gleam of wetness in her eyes. Her smile wobbles. Relief has taken the tension off her body and forces her shoulders to droop. She might get hysterical in a moment. Calm down, Val, I was sleeping. I didn’t get kidnapped.

I’m surprised she hasn’t put Brooklyn in a bubble yet.

“There you are,” Val says, warm.

Where’s Dad?

“Dannilynn,” the principal says.

He’s going to reprimand me. I can hear it. I’m well-versed in his “you tarnish the name of our school” rant. I’ve been on the receiving end many times. More so in the last year.

Things kind of went to shit.

He waits for a response. He’s not going to get one, and he should be aware of that. I was in his office last week. He talked and talked and talked and waited for me to defend myself or say I understood and kept talking to fill in the silence. I stared at the obnoxious, striped pattern on his wall.

Bright orange on light, pastel pink is never a good idea.

Today, I keep my eyes trained on Val. Her smile, though wobbling due to her overwhelming emotions, is much nicer.

Maybe she’s pregnant again.

Wouldn’t that be a treat?

I won’t be around to see the new baby. If there is a new baby gestating in Val’s stomach. Such a shame. I love babies. I wonder if they’ll tell stories about step-sister Danny. But what stories would they tell? I haven’t done anything worthy of story time. Nothing good, at least. I’ll be Brooklyn and The Unborn’s cautionary tale. “Don’t be like Danny.” Words to live by.

The principal sighs. I always make people sigh.

“I understand you’re ill, but you can’t skip class.” He doesn’t sound apologetic. He doesn’t sound concerned. He doesn’t sound like he cares at all. “Go to the nurse next time. I can’t have you running around the halls. That was completely irresponsible of you.”

Dad actually used the sick card on Principal Hardass. Thanks, Dad, you saved me from a write-up or detention or suspension. I’m not sure where I stand on the discipline scale, but Dad definitely saved my ass.

Where is he?

Val’s gaze swings to the principal. Her eyes narrow, her back goes ramrod straight, the grip on her purse tightens, her jaw clenches.

“Dannilynn is sick,” she bites off. “She is exhausted. She fell asleep in the library because she was forced to wake up at the crack of dawn to come to school today. Your staff didn’t bother looking for her. She could have been hurt, and you didn’t lift a finger. You didn’t even call us.”

There’s a hardedge of steel in her voice, brooking no argument, which makes the principal go silent. He’s not used to someone taking my side in these charming conversations. He’s used to Mom nodding and agreeing and saying I’ll do better. A damned lie. I won’t do better.

In their defense, I deserve the scolding.

I deserve it now, too. I’m the one who fell asleep in the library. I’m the one who didn’t set an alarm just in case. I’m the one who skipped school two days in a row and didn’t do her homework. I’m the one who’s refusing to eat. Val’s convinced this isn’t my fault, but she doesn’t know. Everything’s my fault. Her devotion to her husband’s child is admirable, though. Touching, sweet, nice.

I think I’m going to cry again.

So melodramatic.

The principal recovers from his shock. “I apologize, Mrs. Sanders. It won’t happen again.”

Wow. I’m impressed. Showing remorse is a big step for him.

“It better not.”

There’s an unspoken threat in the statement. I hope she has a plan ready to carry through with her threat. This will happen again. Soon probably.

“If we’re done here, I need to get her home,” Val says.

She doesn’t wait for his answer. She strides across the room to me, wraps her arm around my shoulders, draws me close, and whispers an encouraging “Let’s go” in my ear. And then I’m being shepherded out of the office. She walks slow and keeps me nestled against her.

“Do you need to stop by your locker?”

She’s done a complete one-eighty, from shark mom to worried stepmother in point five seconds. Weird.

“Dannilynn?”

Huh?

“Your homework, books, binders, should we go get them?”

Oh, that. No, no, I don’t need my homework.

She brings us to a stop, waits for my answer. I could keep walking, straight down the hall and out the double doors, but that feels rude, and after she took the time to stickup for me, I don’t want to accidentally hurt her feelings.

So I don’t do anything.

“Your backpack feels a little light.”

Val, my backpack is heavy as fuck.

We stand there, Val holding me, me not saying a word. The sigh is going to come soon, paired with insistence that we go to my locker to grab books and papers I won’t bother using.

“Okay.”

She begins walking again with me at her side. That’s it. A simple “okay” and she’s bringing me out of the school to the car. I don’t understand. What game is she playing? Letting me off the hook on something my parents consider the most important thing in my life. Mom’s going to attack her for this.

Well, Mom would. Under normal circumstances. When I’m at Dad’s for a couple days, not indefinitely. Circumstances aren’t exactly normal right now. Mom’s given up. Dad’s confused. I’m dying.

Homework is pretty unimportant.

The car is empty. Dad isn’t inside, waiting and smiling his dimpled smile. Brooklyn isn’t in the backseat and bopping along to whatever pop song she’d force Dad to play. It’ll be me and Val for the trip back to Dad’s. Good thing I didn’t get my hopes up or they’d be crushed. Again.

Val opens the car door for me. She lets me settle in before shutting the door and walking around to get into the driver’s side. I sink into the leather, watching her as she slides into the car. Whatever is going on, I’m not getting caught blind. There’s been enough of that over the past couple of days, thanks.

“Buckle up.”

I do.

She starts the car and pulls out of the school lot. She doesn’t put on music to fill the silence. She doesn’t start rambling the way Dad did the minute he pulled out of the driveway this morning. She drives along, smiling. I’m. So. Confused.

We’re halfway home. I’m ready to throw myself out of the car or scream. I’m antsy. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t like it. I’m going insane not knowing.

We stop at a red light.

“School sucks, doesn’t it?”

What do you want from me?

The light turns green. The car jerks into motion again.

“A lot of kids have a rough time in high school.”

Are we about to have a heart-to-heart? Fuck, Dad, stop sending Val to do your dirty work. Cheap shot.

“I did.”

I don’t want to know, Valary. Don’t try to make me put my situation in perspective.

“Most of it was teen angst, though,” she laughs, shakes her head, gets this faraway look. “A bunch of stupid drama.”

Tell it to my dead body.

Silence while she reminisces about the good old days. Stressing over homework, sleepovers with the girls, flirting, pining after Dad, dealing with mean girls and pimples and self-consciousness and weight fluctuations. Super fun.

She casts a look in my direction that I don’t know how to read. Soft, sympathetic, sad, something. She’s facing the road again, the look is gone. Is the conversation over? Is she done pointing out that every teenager has problems and insinuating mine aren’t more than over exaggerated drama? Because I’m done listening.

“I don’t know what you’re going through.”

No shit.

“I’m not going to pretend I do.”

… Okay.

“What I do know is that it’s okay for you to hurt.”

Oh.

“Your feelings are yours, and no one can tell you they’re wrong or they’re stupid or they’re unimportant. You might have everything a teenager girl could want and need, but it’s okay for something to be wrong. It’s okay for you to be unhappy.”

She parks the car in the driveway, turns in her seat to face me, holds my gaze captive with eyes full of loving empathy.

“It’s okay for you to say it, Dannilynn.”

I blink. Tears fall. I can’t stop the errant droplets. I can’t help it. I wipe the wet tracks away with the sleeve of my sweater. I don’t burst into uncontrollable sobs. I count that as a success.

“Oh, honey.” Val reaches over and gently rubs my cheek with her thumb. “It’s not fun to hurt alone.”

She’s attempting to coax words out of me. The sad thing is she makes me want to talk to her, to hole up in the living room and devour ice-cream and chat, regular girlfriends having a sleepover.

Sneaky, Dad, real sneaky.

“When you’re ready, we’re here. Your dad, your mom, and I love you. We want to help. We won’t judge you.”

Not true, Val, but good effort.

Her hand drops, and she watches me. Watches me holding in my words. Watches me desperately biting back tears. Watches me teeter on the edge of breakdown and total hysteria. She’s giving me the chance to talk, the opportunity she thinks I’ve been waiting for. Her intentions are good, but I don’t believe her.

Sorry, Val.

“Let’s go in. Dad wants to talk to you.”

Good for him.

I have to throw my body weight at the car door to open it and getting out is rough. Val’s ahead of me, already at the front door by the time I slam the car door shut. I hobble after her. Walking hurts. Pretending it doesn’t is impossible.

She holds the door open for me, lets me enter first. The house is deadly silent. The sounds I expected—loud TV, cheering or arguing or laughing band members, Brooklyn demanding pony rides—there’s none of it.

Why didn’t Dad pick me up himself?

“Danny,” Dad calls

He’s in the dining room.

Guess where I’m not going.

I pass the dining room and keep heading straight down the hall, to the stairs at the end. The progress is slow, but my point is made.

“Danny,” Dad calls again, louder.

I heard you, Dad. I’m not coming.

I don’t burst into tears on the first step. I don’t cry at any of the steps, even though it’s painful. Surprise, surprise. I pause at the top. Breathe. Realize how long the walk to my room is. In another week, I won’t be able to make this walk at all. I make it to my room eventually and shove the door open.

What tornado came through here?

There are things tossed around, not in the right place at all. The mattress is off-center on the bedframe. The comforter is on the floor. My duffle bag is sitting on the bed, open. The closet door isn’t shut. The drawers of the vanity and dresser are open. Wide open. A pair of pants hangs over the top dresser drawer. The light in my bathroom is on. It’s not right. Nothing is right.

I drop my backpack, turn around, and head back the way I came. Dad better have an explanation, and it better be good.

I step into the dining room, stay in the doorway so he’ll understand I’m not here for some longwinded conversation. Dad is sitting at the head of the table, facing me. His forehead is resting on his fists, his shoulders are slumped. He must sense me because he looks up, and from this distance, there’s a red-rimmed quality to his eyes. It’s not normal. I don’t like it. I stop looking at him. Completely. My eyes jump around. To the point over his shoulder. To the abstract painting on the wall. To the door to the kitchen. To the window. To Brooklyn’s forgotten highchair. To the Altoids box and pile of shining razors on the table.