Hello, I Dislike You Intensely. Have a Nice Day.
Entries #41 and #42.
Alex met me afterplay musical practice today and we walked around the neighborhood, breathing in fall air and the faint scent of burning leaves. I've never liked fall, it just makes me too sad, with all the leaves dropping off their trees and the sun going to bed earlier and earlier like a person who's got no one and nothing to stay up late for. I like spring. Primavera. First green.
It's been three days since Alex told me what he had, about his secrets. My emotions had flipped from hurt to anger to numbness, over and over, like a spinning roulette wheel or a carnival ride that made you sick.
"So," Alex said timidly, "the Drama teacher must be really hardcore, making you guys practice on a Saturday."
The diffidence in his voice needle-stuck me, filling me with fresh, briny hurt. "She kind of is, yeah," I said back, trying hard to keep my voice level, casual. "But it's mostly because we couldn't have the auditorium on Thursday. I mean, since the Orchestra had it. Because they needed to rehearse; since they had a concert that night." Fail. I was a grammatical and emotional mess. "But yeah. We couldn't have skipped a week, because Ms. Greenwood says she goes clinically insane if her routine gets broken even once."
"Ah." Alex turned his face away, and for half a second I thought I saw his jaw clench like he was trying not to cry. Another half-second, though, and he'd turned back to me and said, "So you're positive you don't want to go trick-or-treating tonight? It's not too late to make a costume, you know. I've got balloons. We could blow them up and adhere them to ourselves and go as bunches of grapes." I rolled my eyes. "You're such a little kid, Alex." Meanwhile I wondered at what I might've said wrong earlier. "Aww, fine. If you won't, I won't. Although I think you're crazy for passing up free candy. But I'm sticking with you." I involuntarily perked up at the reference to the Velvet Underground song. "Are you made out of glue?" I asked enthusiastically. "Damn straight," he said, then sang in a quavering baritone, "I'm, sticking with you..Cos I'm, made out of glue." At this, I smiled - genuinely smiled - for the first time in three days. Alex has never missed a reference I made to a song. That counts for something, doesn't it?
Now we're at his house again. Alex is in the kitchen, baking muffins for the trick-or-treaters because everyone had thought someone else had bought candy. I'm in his bed because I plan to take a nap after I'm done writing this. I just want to let the past 72 hours wash over me and leave like it was all a bad dream.
--
I don't believe it. The only thought I can coherently form right now is Oh, my God.
This is so sad.
I was asleep, I don't know for how long, but suddenly I felt something slice my finger and I woke up and realized my arm had slipped over the edge of the bed and something had paper-cut me. Groggily peering over the bed's edge, I saw a corner of a piece of paper that had been wedged between the mattress and the box spring. Maybe I was still tired, or maybe it was because of something deeper and subconscious, but I pulled out the paper without thinking and read what had been printed on it. It was like being sprayed in the face with a fire hose.
The sheet of paper is, as far as I can tell, a patient information sheet for a psychiatric home, describing one Hatfield, Coralie Snow. In some secret yet prominent part of me, I have a strong suspicion of who it may be, but I won't allow myself to think it. Okay, that's a lie - I've already thought it. Coralie is Alex's mother. True, it could be his aunt or his sister or some distant relative, but the more I try to think of other people she could be, the more certain I feel that she could only be Alex's mom.
This must be what he was keeping from me.
I'm scanning the paper, looking at what got listed for the different sections. DOB: 7/17/79. (She was only fifteen when she had Alex, the same age as I am, and this makes me sad.) Marital Status: Divorced. Date of Entry: 5/30/07. Diagnosis: Clinical psychosis.
Oh, Alex.
It's been three days since Alex told me what he had, about his secrets. My emotions had flipped from hurt to anger to numbness, over and over, like a spinning roulette wheel or a carnival ride that made you sick.
"So," Alex said timidly, "the Drama teacher must be really hardcore, making you guys practice on a Saturday."
The diffidence in his voice needle-stuck me, filling me with fresh, briny hurt. "She kind of is, yeah," I said back, trying hard to keep my voice level, casual. "But it's mostly because we couldn't have the auditorium on Thursday. I mean, since the Orchestra had it. Because they needed to rehearse; since they had a concert that night." Fail. I was a grammatical and emotional mess. "But yeah. We couldn't have skipped a week, because Ms. Greenwood says she goes clinically insane if her routine gets broken even once."
"Ah." Alex turned his face away, and for half a second I thought I saw his jaw clench like he was trying not to cry. Another half-second, though, and he'd turned back to me and said, "So you're positive you don't want to go trick-or-treating tonight? It's not too late to make a costume, you know. I've got balloons. We could blow them up and adhere them to ourselves and go as bunches of grapes." I rolled my eyes. "You're such a little kid, Alex." Meanwhile I wondered at what I might've said wrong earlier. "Aww, fine. If you won't, I won't. Although I think you're crazy for passing up free candy. But I'm sticking with you." I involuntarily perked up at the reference to the Velvet Underground song. "Are you made out of glue?" I asked enthusiastically. "Damn straight," he said, then sang in a quavering baritone, "I'm, sticking with you..Cos I'm, made out of glue." At this, I smiled - genuinely smiled - for the first time in three days. Alex has never missed a reference I made to a song. That counts for something, doesn't it?
Now we're at his house again. Alex is in the kitchen, baking muffins for the trick-or-treaters because everyone had thought someone else had bought candy. I'm in his bed because I plan to take a nap after I'm done writing this. I just want to let the past 72 hours wash over me and leave like it was all a bad dream.
--
I don't believe it. The only thought I can coherently form right now is Oh, my God.
This is so sad.
I was asleep, I don't know for how long, but suddenly I felt something slice my finger and I woke up and realized my arm had slipped over the edge of the bed and something had paper-cut me. Groggily peering over the bed's edge, I saw a corner of a piece of paper that had been wedged between the mattress and the box spring. Maybe I was still tired, or maybe it was because of something deeper and subconscious, but I pulled out the paper without thinking and read what had been printed on it. It was like being sprayed in the face with a fire hose.
The sheet of paper is, as far as I can tell, a patient information sheet for a psychiatric home, describing one Hatfield, Coralie Snow. In some secret yet prominent part of me, I have a strong suspicion of who it may be, but I won't allow myself to think it. Okay, that's a lie - I've already thought it. Coralie is Alex's mother. True, it could be his aunt or his sister or some distant relative, but the more I try to think of other people she could be, the more certain I feel that she could only be Alex's mom.
This must be what he was keeping from me.
I'm scanning the paper, looking at what got listed for the different sections. DOB: 7/17/79. (She was only fifteen when she had Alex, the same age as I am, and this makes me sad.) Marital Status: Divorced. Date of Entry: 5/30/07. Diagnosis: Clinical psychosis.
Oh, Alex.
♠ ♠ ♠
Happy Hallowe'en!