I like being able to look out the window without worrying if I’m going to accidentally hit a hobo if I take my eyes off the road.
I don’t actually think I’d hit a hobo, but I might hit a squirrel or someone’s dog, and to be honest, I think I might feel worse about that. Running over a dog would suck because they’re kind of like babies. Someone else is responsible for them, and I’d feel sad about killing something so helpless. Then I’d immediately be mad at the dumbass who let it get out of their yard.
—
Maya sent me a text that night.
Maya: Remember when you jumped into the pool and saved my life?
Me: Vaguely.
Maya: What went through your mind?
Me: That it would be nice if you didn’t drown. What were you thinking?
Maya: How grateful I was that you showed up.
Me: Glad to be of service, ma’am. *hat tilt*
Maya: Was that all you were thinking?
I decided not to mention that at the time I wasn’t one hundred percent sure she was real.
Me: No. I also thought you looked ridiculous clinging to the swimming lanes like a drowning cat. What 16-year-old doesn’t know how to swim?!
Maya: You, sir, are an ass.
Me: Seriously though. How does someone who knows practically everything not know how to swim?
Maya: Easy. My parents tried to get me to take swimming lessons and I refused.
Me: How old were you?
Maya: Four.
Me: You were four and you just refused?
Maya: Yep.
Me: You really need to learn to swim.
Maya: I’ll just avoid water.
Me: And when the ice caps melt?
Maya: Then you better be around to save me.
Me: Is that why you like me then? Because I saved your life that one time?
Maya’s response was delayed and I realized I’d said something stupid. She’d never actually said she liked me. I’d just made it awkward.
But then she finally texted back.
Maya: Nope. It’s cuz you’re tall.
Sweet relief.
Me: Really? My heroism meant nothing?
Maya: Nope. Definitely the tall thing.
Me: But I’m also better-looking than Ian Stone, right?
Maya: *sighs* Yeah, I probably shouldn’t tell you things.
Me: Nite, Maya.
Maya: Nite.
Sometimes I really do think I’m at my most charming in writing.
Do you agree, Doc?
DOSAGE: 1.5 mg. Same dosage. Subject’s discussion of suicide in previous entry has been noted. No action necessary at this time.
OCTOBER 24, 2012
Paul drove me to school yesterday. I would’ve thought it was my mom’s idea, but I heard him ask her if it was okay for him to take me. He made small talk on the way, and he’s developed this weird habit of cracking his knuckles on the steering wheel by pressing all his fingers all the way back, which is really annoying.
“So, Academic Team practice with Maya later?”
“Yep.”
Neither of us wanted to acknowledge that things were different. He’d dated my mom for a long time before they got married. And he never made me feel like a third wheel. He didn’t treat me like a nuisance. In fact, for a long time it seemed like he actually kind of liked me. When he found out I liked baking, he bought me a stand mixer. Which is awesome and not even remotely girlie. Don’t judge me unless you have some idea of what a pain in the ass it is to mix cookie dough with a hand mixer.
Once we even had a moment watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where we both did a Sean Connery impression at exactly the same time during the part when he says, “Goose-stepping morons like yourself should try reading books instead of burning them!” We both laughed.
There’s a giant divide between us now. I went from being the stepson he actually sort of got along with to the monster they had to watch at all times. I know what he sees when he looks at me. I know what he must be thinking. It’s why he cracks his knuckles. To keep himself from saying things he knows he shouldn’t say.
Like what he told my mom when he found out. I can still remember what he said: “Maybe we should think about sending him to a place that can handle him.”
When we got to school, he handed me money for lunch, which I stuffed in my pocket even though my meals were already prepaid. And I got out and walked down the grassy slope toward school.
Paul was still sitting in the car when I looked back. I waved and he waved back. Maybe this is just how it is now.
I can still hear him.
“Maybe we should think about sending him to a place that can handle him.”
Sometimes I’m jealous of people with regular problems. At school I see the self-conscious girls worrying about their hair or if their legs look fat, and I just want to scream. Someone should tell them their problems are stupid.
I get that I’m not supposed to say that. Everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle, right? But what if they’re not? What if the biggest thing they have to worry about is homework and whether they get into a good college? Even if they’ve lost a family member or their parents are getting a divorce or they’re missing someone far away. That is not worse than having to take medication to be in control of your own mind. It’s just not.
It’s a very strange reality when you can’t trust yourself. There’s no foundation for anything. The faith I might have had in normal things like gravity or logic or love is gone because my mind might not be reading them correctly. You can’t possibly know what it means to doubt everything. To walk into a room full of people and pretend that it’s empty because you’re not actually sure if it is or not.
To never feel completely alone even when you are.
I bet you can walk into a Starbucks and order a drink without wondering if the music playing on the speakers is playing for everyone or just in your head. But I guess I should just be proud of myself because I don’t avoid going places or doing things simply because I’m not sure if what’s going on is real. If it’s real, then I’m just living my life and responding to the world the only way I can. If none of this is real, then I’m still just living my life. And anyway, it’s real to me.
—
St. Agatha’s Church is open to the public during school hours, which means anyone can be there. The prayer room off to the right of the altar and the bathroom in the main hall are pretty much fair game for the homeless. The stalls in the bathroom are covered in graffiti that is cleaned up at the end of every month by kids serving detention.
The last time I used it, there were only two things written on the wall.
One was written in all caps in a delicate scrawl.
It read:
JESUS LOVES YOU.
The other, just below it, read:
Don’t be a homo.
I can’t really tell if that was in response to JESUS LOVES YOU. I think it must be. Weird notes to leave on a bathroom wall.
Weird notes to leave anywhere, really.
DOSAGE: 1.5 mg. Same dosage. Despite numerous attempts to engage Adam in conversation, he has remained silent during every session. Will continue to monitor body language for signs of receptivity to treatment. Will advise increase in dosage.
OCTOBER 31, 2012
It’s Halloween, which basically means nothing if you go to St. Agatha’s because no one in high school wears costumes. Maya told me that sometimes the little kids in the lower grades dress up, but they can only come as animals, plants, or their favorite saint. So, worst Halloween themes ever, I think.