Capítulo 10: Timber Tantrum: Part 2
Cliché warning: the rest of therapy went by in a blur. Austin told me some story about throwing up on a roller coaster, I drew on my hand with permanent marker, and Dr. White concluded the session with an itinerary for the semester. He dismissed us like a preacher at the end of a sermon, complete with a prayer to whatever religious figure we deemed suitable.
I shot out of my chair as if it had just burst into flames.
Dr. White had other plans.
"Thank you for coming in today, Ben," Dr. White said. "I hope we'll get to see you again soon."
No. I would not be coming back. I didn't want to be here.
I nodded anyway.
He pulled out a yellow sticky note with a picture of a Red Delicious apple on it. "Before you head out, would you mind writing down your parent's contact information for me? It's just procedure."
Some thirty-something-year-old man way too invested in the lives of teenagers…asking for a number to reach me at any given moment? Seems legit.
I stole a gold pen out of his desk in hopes it would blend into the notecard. My hand froze, the ink smudged over the corner. Dr. White needed my contact information. I was, at the time, the only one who could give it to him. I had the power here.
The best of the worst plans in the history of this planet scooped up a portion of my brain and dove for the deep end.
I scribbled in our home-phone number and slipped the paper back to him.
"Perfect." He didn't look at the note. "Now, there's just one more order of business we need to attend to."
I swear he talks like this. You can't make this stuff up.
Dr. White reached for his duffle bag and stuck a dictionary-heavy book in my hand. At first, I was sure he had given me a copy of his bestselling autobiography, A White Heart in a World of Grey Solutions. I flipped through it to amuse him.
My chest jumbled at the inkless pages, a creamy color composing the stationary. I slammed it shut. Its cover had my first name on it.
"For your story," Dr. White said.
"Aw, sweet!" Gravity pulled to my side. Austin. "We all got one once we became members. And I know what you're thinking, but don't think of like a diary or a journal or anything sissy like that. It's more like a book."
Dr. White smiled. "A novel, if you will."
"But I'm not a writer," I said.
This thing needed to be chucked against a wall. It needed to dematerialize and it needed to do that now.
"Neither was I," Dr. White said. "But, hey, I decided to write my story down. It became a bestseller."
Way to rub it in, Tiny Person said. The bestseller list is a joke anyway. Everyone knows that.
Dr. White patted me on the back and sauntered toward the other end of the classroom. As soon as he was out of hearing range, Austin ripped the epic out of my hands, snapped off the cap of a navy-blue pen, and scribbled all over the cover. He pulled out metal shears, hunching over it like some goblin in a fantasy trilogy.
"What…are you doing?"
"Just making some adjustments," he said, yanking out strips of orange construction paper. At least…I think it was construction paper. "A lot of clubs have crazy initiation processes. This is way cooler."
It was my job to destroy this book, not his.
I reached for the binding. "Yeah, okay, Austin. But my driver's probably waiting, so…"
"Done!"
He tossed it back.
Where my name had once been was a white space. He must've glued a notecard or something over it. A sandwich bag with orange-peel-color letters hung in the corner beneath a slip of tape.
"Alright, so come up with a title. And a penname, too. That's half the fun." He looked like a crazy uncle giving iconic lines to his superhero nephew. "Remember, think of it as a book. Write your story. Don't talk to it or anything. And don't break the fourth wall — I've done it enough for five lifetimes. You said it yourself. We're not writers."
Saliva slipped down my throat and threatened to come back up with friends. "I won't have to share this or anything, right?"
"Heck, no!" Then he contradicted himself, "But remember, for all you know you could be writing the next bestseller, so be careful. And keep that fourth wall crap out of there, you hear? It's an absolute nightmare to deal with. No publisher would bother picking it up!"
You of all people would know that I never broke the fourth wall. I obeyed like a perfect little angel.
✎✎✎
Austin and Dr. White didn't try to make me meet everyone else, so escape was possible with a minimal amount of socializing. I circled the halls. I had to ensure that my driver waited as long as possible.
I stepped outside.
Ed was back.
He didn't say anything when I skidded into the back seat. I guess he was still mad about that whole "run-away-instead-of-waiting-like-I-clearly-told-you-to" incident. I wish I cared enough to apologize and make him feel better. Instead, I took the time to stuff the blank novel underneath my sweatshirt. No way was I going to explain that thing to my parents.
I stepped inside our Greek palace to an anxious mother. When you don't include dialogue, especially for the first line of a conversation, it creates detachment with the reader. So, I'll tell you that Mom asked me how it went.
I attempted sarcasm. "Great."
"Oh, that's wonderful. Well, I'm supposed to tell you that Dad and I are going out with his boss tonight, but you're welcome to order a pizza. We're taking his limo, so we asked Ed to stay in the neighborhood in case you need anything."
I had no idea what poor Ed was going to do for six hours.
✎✎✎
That night, I started writing.
Everything from the day and the events that led up to it flooded back in vivid images. Dr. Conner. The fat man. The cop. Nancy Clemmings. Then today. How easily Mom thought I was serious when I told her therapy had been great. How Dr. White said he would give our numbers a call if we were absent, but he'd give about a week before he scheduled a meeting with the parents. How simple it seemed to trust the therapy-attending cult.
As this information constructed before my eyes, I became a baseball and realization the bat. No justifications could comfort me. No real reasons why. All I knew was, I could find a way to avoid therapy.
No, not avoid. Ditch. Get out of. Say adios.
The plan that had so feebly entered Tiny Person's vicinity that morning knocked me out with full force. I stuck the journal in my pillowcase.
The next day, I didn't give anyone a hard time about therapy. I completed my schoolwork without question (not that my computer would've listened anyway). I didn't complain when my parents went back to their normal schedules. They would arrive home fifteen minutes after I did.
Perfect.
Ed knocked on my door and told me we had to go. He crinkled his eyes at my calm reaction, but he didn't question it. I bid him farewell when he dropped me off.
Then, I bolted.
✎✎✎
Don't ask me how I got the janitor's keys. I am well aware that stingy readers will try to find invalid points in everything they read, but there are no plot holes in this particular situation. My life is full of plot-holes. This is not one of them. All you need to know is, I robbed the janitor of his keys and locked myself in that closet. I must have been a really good hider, or the school's security system was very weak.
No one caught me.
I asked Ed to pick me up early. I got out just before everyone else did. He asked me how it went. I told him that Dr. White made up a lame story about a lion and a lamb who became friends.
"That's one whack-job doctor. Remind me never to get in a coma," Ed laughed with an edge. The blade sliced empty air. He had no idea that his comment would one day…
Anyway, we got back. I dashed inside and shouted a thanks to Ed, who immediately pulled out and headed home. I stampeded for the home phone. Dr. White had left a message.
Delete.
This pattern—this little routine—went on for a couple of centuries. Let me tell you, it drains a teenage boy's development. So many lies. So many days in hiding. Guilt didn't stir my insides. I refused. This was simply wearing me down like those blue jeans with the faded holes in them.
SPOILER ALERT: Like any other plan that involves lying and cheating, I got caught.
✎✎✎
I should have known that day was destined to go to Hades when I checked the mailbox for Kyle's letter. I expected the usual empty cave. Instead, I found my letter in its place, sent back with no response, no note, nothing. The envelope was still sealed shut.
The whole thing had been nothing but questions. After all, Kyle didn't need to know about me. I needed to know about him. College. Friends. Girlfriends. The food. Had he talked to the dean about last year's failed classes? How was his car holding up? Were there other "Bens" out there, or was I really the only one like he said?
My chest ached. But Tiny Person told me to toughen up for now. We could deal with this later — after another successful day of defying society's wishes. I tore up the letter and scattered its scraps on my room's bookshelf. Then I spent the rest of my day sulking inside, my music blasting out the window as I read Shakespeare.
✎✎✎
The plan itself all started out normal enough. I got in the janitor's closet. No one saw me leaving. The car was exactly where it was supposed to be. I jumped in as I usually did, scribbling notes into my stupid journal before stuffing it in my pocket.
"Hey, Ed," I mumbled and snapped the buckle.
No response. I glanced up.
Dad was behind the wheel.
✎✎✎
Let's pause for a second. You all want to know how I got caught. What was the flaw in my plan?
Dr. White would call the home phone. There was never an answer. No reason for my absence. He excused it for a while. But here's the most disastrous oops: Dr. White knew where we lived. While he may have "forgotten" to get my parent's phone information upon setting up the meeting, Dr. White also found Dad's phone number with no difficulties. Since, you know, he was working for the future governor of the whole freaking New York state.
The simple equation: Me. Equaled. Busted.
✎✎✎
I'm going to skip the conversation in the limo and keep this a no-swearing zone. We'll fast-forward how much we yelled on our short walk into the house. You don't need to hear how Mom bawled her eyes out, screaming stuff about disasters on repeat. It doesn't matter that Dad's face was redder than a tomato. Actually, that last part's okay.
✎✎✎
It all happened in three stages…
The Blame:
Mom (dabbing pink eyeliner): Ben, I don't understand. You were acting so happy all the time. I thought you loved therapy."
Me: Happy how? I hate therapy!
Mom: Honey…
Me: You'd know that if you listened to me. You never listen!"
✎✎✎
The Variable:
Dad fixed his ratted hair with his fingertips and took a deep breath. I watched a mature, calm adult sneak past the laser beams of his tiny person. "Alright, Ben. You say we don't listen to you. Well, now we are. It's just you and your parents here. Tell me, exactly, why you hate therapy."
He dares to try solving this with communication? Tiny Person demanded.
What a pig.
✎✎✎
The Ripple Effect:
When I didn't answer, they yelled. And when Dad yelled, Mom cried. Then it's a dismissal, I can go think about myself in my room, come down when I'm ready for a civilized discussion. But I don't want to say anything.
I stormed up to my bedroom like a thirteen-year-old girl. Their whispers lingered behind me. I let my door fall shut on its own.
The sad truth gnawed my skin raw: I didn't have an answer to his question. I didn't know why I hated therapy. The "what" was the easy question. "Why" involved digging, but if I tried, I'd be in a hole I couldn't jump out of.
✎✎✎
Look, I know what you're thinking. Same thing as Tiny Person. Great, Ben's freaking out again.
This time was different. It had been different the moment I opened that stupid mailbox. Empty is okay, because empty means there's hope for a response, no matter how long it stays that way. When hope dies, I simply send another letter and it all starts over again.
But it wasn't empty. My letter stood as if I'd never sent it.
I rested my head on my pillow and felt the notebook, my non-bestseller, hard against my skull. Its thoughts melted into mine. My life's cycle was endless. Assign blame. Change a variable. Repeat. My copy of Romeo and Juliet stared back at me, Shakespeare's judgmental eyes repeating every thought, asking me why I try, who I am, what exactly the problem is.
Then I saw the scraps of my letter to Kyle sitting on the bookshelf.
✎✎✎
Staring at the ceiling, each blank tile, feeling my unsteady heartbeat, I realized I'm nothing but a bubble. A bubble that floats around the atmosphere and annoys the crap out of everybody. A bubble that refuses to pop.
✎✎✎
Mom must have told Dad to let me duke it out with myself. Neither of them tried to get me out through the night.
✎✎✎
The sun poked into my bedroom. I glanced at my clock, a five followed by two red-frosted donuts. You're supposed to feel better in the morning. Sure, the negative stuff blurred, but it wasn't replaced with a fresh bowl of positivity. Tiny Person's engine clicked with jagged spikes and a rusty ignition. He'd hollowed me out into a pit of nothing.
No doubt my parents would wake up soon. They'd try to get me. Or maybe they wouldn't.
They had to know I wasn't worth it. Ben, the troubled kid. The one with no goals, no talent, or any of the drive his brothers had. I couldn't even buy a stupid bottle of water without messing it up.
✎✎✎
5:01. A terrible, awful—don't ever do it—idea knocked on the door of my tiny person's home. It was like he was my sergeant. My soldier-body numb, I agreed.
✎✎✎
5:02. I silently got dressed and rummaged through my closet until I found an old survival kit from Boy Scouts.
Understand something important: I'm not a Boy Scout. This was my oldest brother's bag, Micah Wood Jr. (You have permission to laugh at his name.) He was really high up in the Boy Scout chain before he graduated, left for college, and became a surgeon or something like that. This was one of those things that he gave me a long time ago. I was going to get rid of it, but there was some cool junk inside. Besides that, please know this: I have no connections with Micah Wood Jr. I doubt his name comes up again.
I figured this kit would help me survive a desperate situation one day.
I dug through the duffle bag, pouring leftover contents over the floor of my room. When I found what I was looking for, I snagged it out and dropped it into my pocket. Never before had I felt more like Frodo Baggins.
My fingers wrapped around the window hinge. I sliced through the dirt-speckled screen and climbed outside.
I didn't give the mansion or my torn-up letter a second glance.
Well, maybe one.
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