Interim, p.5
Interim, page 5
“I don’t like people messing with you,” Casey went on.
“She wasn’t messing with me, Casey. I swear. When . . . when I told you initially, I was just a little freaked out. I think I over-exaggerated the whole thing.”
“Uh huh. No one messes with my girl.”
Regan smiled patiently. “I know. And she wasn’t messing with me. She misread the signs, that’s all.”
“You’re my best friend,” Casey reminded her.
“Yes. Now leave her alone, okay?”
Casey pursed her lips. “I’ll try. But if that bitch so much as looks at me weird—”
“She won’t,” Regan interrupted.
Casey glimpsed the back of the room and scowled at Hannah, who was oblivious.
“Go on and give me a look,” she dared.
“Casey. Stop.”
She turned to Regan. “There’s too many weirdos in this school.”
Regan ignored her and pulled out her history book. She watched their teacher walk in and sighed relief. Conversation over.
There was no reasoning with Casey over “the weirdos”—no shifting her point of view. She used to be one, and it was imperative she put the maximum distance between herself and them. She was embarrassed. She didn’t want any reminders. Regan, on the other hand, didn’t have an issue with reminders. She thought she should have tied her finger with string all along. Then she would have never forgotten who she really was.
***
“I saw your tenants moved out,” Jeremy noted as he lay on his back under the car, draining its oil.
“Bought a house,” Roy replied. “You know anyone who needs a place?”
“Yeah. Me.”
“You don’t work enough to afford the rent,” Roy said.
“I know,” Jeremy replied, rolling out from under the car. “But I thought you could give me more hours.”
“What hours? All your spare time goes to that thing,” Roy said, jabbing his thumb to the left where Jeremy’s ’78 Camaro sat. Still dead.
“I need to get out of that house,” Jeremy confessed.
Roy scratched his fluffy white beard. “’Cause you’re not a kid anymore?”
“’Cause I’m done paying his bills,” Jeremy said. He stood up and walked to the sink.
“I thought his disability did that,” Roy replied.
“No, that pays for the booze.”
Roy considered his employee’s position. He knew a little about Jeremy’s situation. He knew Jeremy’s dad was a jerk and that Jeremy was itching to graduate and leave Moutainview. He also knew Jeremy had very little money, so he helped him out when he could. He became a surrogate grandfather of sorts, glad to have a teenager around after his grandson left for college on the east coast. His grandson left behind his snowboarding equipment—lamenting that there were no good places to ride on the Atlantic—and Roy lent it to Jeremy, whose board was smashed last year by a drunken, enraged father. He turned a blind eye to Jeremy’s stolen lift tickets and turn style jumping. He’d bail him out of jail if he were arrested.
“He hits me.”
Roy’s head shot up. “What?”
“Roy, you heard what I said.”
“Jesus Christ, Jeremy, how could you never tell me?! When did this start?”
“Six years ago.”
Roy gasped.
“Look, I’m not telling you this so you feel sorry for me. I’m telling you because I need a place to live. I’ve got nowhere to go. You know I can’t afford your rent. So we’ve gotta figure something out.”
“Live with me and Carol,” Roy said. He didn’t think twice.
“No offense, but I’m nineteen. I don’t wanna live with you and Carol.”
Roy nodded.
“I know you need that income,” Jeremy said.
“No, I don’t.” Roy replied. “I just like it.”
Jeremy held his breath.
“But I don’t give stuff away for free.”
“I don’t want you to,” Jeremy replied. “Make me work for it.”
“Fifteen extra hours a week,” Roy said.
Jeremy’s heart dropped. It was fair, and it also meant he’d never get his Camaro running—the Camaro Roy bought him at a car auction over a year ago for a few hundred bucks.
“I’ll never sleep,” Jeremy said.
“Sleep’s overrated,” Roy replied. “And you’re young.”
Pause.
“My dad beats the shit out of me,” Jeremy reminded him, playing the feel-sorry-for-me card for the first time.
Roy stiffened. “Fine. Ten.”
“Deal.”
“Ten unpaid hours a week for rent. You’re responsible for your utilities.”
Jeremy nodded.
“And you’re required to have Sunday night dinners at my house with Carol and me. Non-negotiable.”
That was fine with him. Carol was a master chef. Her pot roast was his favorite.
“No drugs,” Roy said.
“I don’t do that stuff.”
“No girls.”
Jeremy snorted. Roy glanced his way.
“That funny?”
“It is, actually. Have you not listened to a thing I’ve told you about my social life for the past two years?”
“No girls,” Roy repeated.
“Yes, sir.”
Roy nodded and wiped his hands. “Now, I’m going over to your house.”
“Huh? Why?”
“To beat the shit out of your father.”
“No!” Jeremy blocked his way.
“Well, someone’s gotta do it.”
“Roy, please don’t.”
Jeremy knew short, pudgy Roy was no match for his giant of a father. He doubted Roy had ever been in a fight in his entire life.
“Your dad needs to learn a lesson,” Roy said.
“He will,” Jeremy replied.
And that was the truth. Jeremy didn’t need anyone sticking up for him, though he appreciated Roy’s loyalty. He already had the plan set in place, and it was months in the making. Would seem a shame for someone to swoop in and mess it all up in an instant.
“I don’t want you going back there,” Roy said.
“I have to get my stuff,” Jeremy replied. “I’ll be fine.”
Roy was doubtful. “Let me get your stuff.”
“No. I don’t want you going in there.” The words spilled out before he could stop himself.
Pure shame. He didn’t want Roy witnessing the derelict house in which he lived—smelling the stale odor of alcohol that permeated the foyer when he opened the door. Following that same scent throughout every room in the house, including Jeremy’s, though he tried to mask it with air freshener. He didn’t want Roy seeing the filth he tried hard to clean—piled-up dishes in the sink and ringed toilets. One more reason it was impossible to have friends—his home life. How could he ever bring kids back to that dump? He felt like redneck trash, ashamed of where he came from and the person he was destined to be.
He fought against it. He kept his room tidy, which is why it struck him as almost comical that his dad beat him over an unmade bed. He didn’t even give Jeremy the chance to make it—something he planned to do right before the attack. And his father of all people, concerned about neatness. The same guy who sat in a greasy chair among piles of empty beer cans and whiskey bottles, collecting like the dust on an abandoned mantle.
“There’s no use wasting your time feeling ashamed of someone else’s failures. You start blaming yourself, and that’s not right,” Roy said.
“That house is an embarrassment,” Jeremy whispered.
“Is that your fault?”
Jeremy shrugged.
“Stop shrugging. Men don’t do that.”
He stood up straight.
“You gonna get in and get out?” Roy asked. “Not fool around and waste time?”
“I’ll move my stuff tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?!”
“It’s just one more day,” Jeremy said. “It’ll be fine. I know how to avoid him.”
“I don’t like it. I want you moved in here tonight.”
“Roy, please. I wanna work on my car.”
Jeremy stiffened then jerked his head when Roy brushed his bangs aside. Roy kept his hand planted on Jeremy’s forehead.
“He do that?”
“Do what?”
“You know what. That scar. Did he do that?”
Jeremy pushed his hand away. “Years ago.”
“You move in tonight,” Roy said. “I mean it.”
Jeremy scowled. He had plans. He had plans to fix his car, drive to Regan’s house, steal her, and drive out east until he hit the ocean.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he heard Roy say.
“Huh?”
“Jeremy, stop saying ‘huh.’ It’s irritating as hell. Choose a more decisive word,” Roy snapped.
“Sorry. What did you say?”
“I said obviously that’s a yes.”
“A yes to what?”
“I asked if there was a girl at school you like.”
“I don’t like anyone at school.”
“In that huge high school, there’s not one girl you like?”
“It’s not that huge.”
“In that semi-huge high school, there’s not one girl?”
Jeremy shrugged. “How’d we get on this subject?”
“We came to a decision about your move-in date. I decided to start another conversation,” Roy replied matter-of-factly.
Jeremy smiled. “I’m moving in tomorrow, Roy.”
“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”
“And there’s no girl,” Jeremy said, blushing.
“So there is a girl.”
Jeremy averted his eyes.
“She’s not allowed up there,” Roy said, pointing up where the garage apartment sat empty and waiting for a new tenant.
“I’m nineteen!”
“She’s not allowed up there.”
“Roy, for Christ’s sake, I’m an adult.”
“She’s not allowed up there.”
Jeremy sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”
***
Caroline hung back, shuffling her feet and waiting impatiently for Regan to invite her inside. That was the rule: no entering bedrooms without an invitation. Regan called it the Vampire Rule.
“Caroline, I’m really busy,” Regan said, eyes glued to her laptop.
Caroline groaned.
Click click clack click clack.
Caroline cleared her throat, creeping closer and closer to the bedroom doorway until her toes jutted over the threshold.
“You’re breaking the rule,” Regan said, eyeing her sister from her periphery.
“Please, Regan,” Caroline begged.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Come in,” she huffed, closing her laptop.
Ten-year-old Caroline darted inside and jumped onto Regan’s bed, belly first, landing like a limp ragdoll. She exhaled a dramatic sigh.
“Exhausting day?” Regan asked.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Caroline replied.
“Do share.”
Regan walked to her nightstand and pulled out her brush. She knew the drill and settled beside Caroline, who immediately nestled her head in her sister’s lap. Regan brushed her dishwater blond locks.
“Well,” Caroline began, “I had P.E. this morning.” She glanced at Regan and then clarified: “We have P.E. every Tuesday and Thursday.”
“Uh huh.”
“And I was picked last for basketball teams.”
Regan bristled. “Why didn’t the teacher split the teams?”
Caroline shrugged.
“Stop shrugging,” Regan demanded. “God, that’s so freaking annoying.”
Caroline growled. “Fine. I don’t know why Mrs. McMillan didn’t pick the teams. All I know is that I was picked last, and it sucked.”
Regan ran her fingers tenderly through her sister’s fine hair. Still baby soft. Just like Caroline’s heart.
“It’s hard being picked last for teams,” she said gently.
“How would you know? You’re good at sports. You were probably picked first all the time.”
“Not true,” Regan countered. “I was always one of the last ones because of my size.”
“Hmm.” Caroline was quiet for a moment, thinking. “And then I guess you showed them!”
“Eh, not so much. I didn’t get really good until sixth grade or so.”
“I’ll never be good at basketball. It doesn’t mean I should be passed over like I don’t matter.”
Wow. And at ten years old. Regan wasn’t sure what to say.
“Okay, who do I need to beat up?”
Caroline giggled. “Sam and Teensie.”
“Hold up. There’s a girl in your class named Teensie?”
“Yep. It’s her nickname.”
“I can totally take her,” Regan replied.
Caroline buried her face in the mattress and laughed hard.
“You always wanna beat people up!”
“I know. I’m aggressive. I don’t know where I get it from.”
“Mom.”
“Ha ha. Don’t tell her that.”
“Remember the wasp?” Caroline asked.
An instant vision of Mrs. Walters annihilating a wasp that had flown in through the chimney flue flashed in her brain. The brandishing of her mother’s tennis shoe was amusing. The explanation her mother gave after she’d splattered the insect was scary: “Regan,” she panted, “there’s a difference between killing something and murdering it.” Regan never forgot those words, or the image of that pile of slightly twitching red and black mush.
“Oh my God, you’re right,” she whispered to Caroline. “I do get it from Mom.”
“Don’t worry. It’s better to be aggressive anyway,” Caroline replied.
“How so?”
“Aggressive people get what they want,” Caroline explained.
Regan’s eyebrows shot up a second time.
“Well, they do,” Caroline insisted, noting her sister’s expression. “They get picked first for basketball.”
Regan sighed and conceded her sister’s point. “They get picked first for everything. It’s obnoxious.”
Silence fell as Regan continued brushing Caroline’s hair.
“You can come in my room whenever you want,” Caroline said after a moment. “You don’t need permission.”
“Huh?”
“I just mean that I don’t care if you walk in without me saying you can.”
Regan considered this. “No.”
“No?”
Regan shook her head.
“Why not?”
“Boundaries.”
“Boundaries,” Caroline echoed.
“I know I’m your sister, so our relationship is different. Special. But we still need boundaries, Caroline. It wouldn’t be right for me to walk in without permission.”
“But I’m telling you it’s okay.”
“Nope. You can’t put a blanketed statement on all my future visits to your room.”
“Huh?”
“I need permission each time.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the right thing. What isn’t right is barging into someone’s personal space uninvited. You may decide one day that you need alone time, and then what would happen if I walked right in? Like I owned your room? That’s not very fair, is it?”
Caroline frowned. “I guess not.”
“We always need to respect each other’s spaces. That comes first. Always. It keeps people from getting their feelings hurt. Or getting angry. Or feeling like someone did something to them that was unethical.”
“Unethical?”
“Immoral.”
“Huh?”
Regan smiled. “Wrong.”
“Ohhhhh.”
The girls were quiet for a moment.
“Hey,” Regan said suddenly. “Listen up.”
“Yeah?”
“You can be good at whatever you want. Don’t say you’ll never be good at basketball. If you want to play, train. Practice all the time. You can master whatever you want.”
“But I don’t care about basketball,” Caroline replied.
“Oh.”
“I just care about people making me feel badly for not caring about basketball.”
Regan smiled. “Oh.”
Silence.
“Why did you stop brushing my hair?” Caroline asked.
“Oh, whoops. Sorry,” Regan replied, and went back to work.
~
I think my entire life would be different if I had a sibling—someone to watch out for me, someone to watch out for. I imagine we’d be tight . . . I even see us sharing a room. Whispering conversations in the darkness of the night. Making fun of our dad behind his back. Sharing our secrets and knowing they’re actually safe. I imagine it’s a different kind of connection than the ones you have with your friends. Well, if you have friends. It has to be different. It’s a blood connection, and blood is the strongest adhesive on the planet. It bonds instantly and permanently. It’s worth defending. And life is always a little more meaningful when you have someone to defend besides yourself.
~
He stared at his unconscious father. Blood oozed like thick strawberry syrup from a cut near his left eye, and Jeremy wondered if it would heal into a scar mirroring his own. Eye for an eye, he thought, half amused.
His father wouldn’t listen. Didn’t Jeremy warn him? Didn’t he say never to touch him again? Yet, the alcohol swelled his father’s muscles, transforming him into Mr. Hyde, and he was powerless against the rage. He demanded combat to alleviate the aggression, and so he flew into Jeremy’s room that morning looking for a familiar foe. Unfortunately, Mr. Stahl didn’t count on coming face-to-face with Jeremy’s baseball bat. There was no fight. Just one swing. Mr. Stahl lay curled in the corner of the room, still and quiet.
Jeremy moved swiftly through the room, shoving clothes into a huge duffel bag. Shoving all the books, binders, and notebooks he could find into his book bag. Shoving the . . . He took a quick inventory. Well, there was nothing else. His few collectibles and important personal items were at Roy’s garage, locked safely away in a corner cabinet.
He hesitated a moment, eyes moving quickly over the room, trying to recall one good memory to take with him. It’d be a shame to leave with nothing. He shut up his eyes tightly and conjured the image of his mother. But then his father stood in her way, taking up all the space in the room, in Jeremy’s brain. He had a brand new video game in one hand and a bowl of soup in the other. He brought them into Jeremy’s room and placed them on the nightstand. Then he sank into the mattress beside his son, his weight forcing Jeremy to roll into him.
