Sent: 12:03AM: what no reply?
Sent: 12:05AM: You stupid hoor.
Sent: 12:06AM: I haet u
Sent: 12:07AM: and stupid brad
And those were just the first few. They got worse until the legibility and word order resembled the incoherent ramblings of a dyslexic monkey. Some were just numbers and random characters. Katie didn't reply until around ten in the morning, at first asking if someone stole my phone and then cussing me out and telling me to leave her alone with no less than five F-bombs.
My face went numb. What in the world had I done? I opened Facebook. I had only one status update around 1:00AM: Katie Johnson is Brad's dirty tramp. There were about thirty comments underneath, almost unanimously condemning me and several telling me to seek immediate help from a professional. People had posted random insults on my wall, some going so far as to threaten physical violence if I didn't stop bugging her. Out of my one-hundred or so friends, not a one came to my defense except Mike Gigrassio which didn't help at all, since people voted him most likely to become a pedophile. Not that I deserved anything but condemnation. I deleted my status update and set security so nobody could see my Facebook wall. I scrolled down my list of friends. Despair tore at my heart when I realized Katie was no longer there.
Manic laughter edged with sobs erupted from my throat. My world had disintegrated overnight. I had to go back to school and face these people. I wanted to dig a hole, pull the dirt on top of me, and die.
I started pacing my room. "Oh God. Oh my God. What am I gonna do?" Plastic surgery and a false identity seemed really good options.
Captain Tibbs sat atop my computer desk and watched me with pity. See, I told you so, his green eyes seemed to say, and he was right. Drinking was no solution. It just led to more problems.
I went into the den. It was already late in the afternoon and Dad was just waking up. He looked as bad as I did: unshaven, bloodshot eyes, and breath that could kill a dog and bring it back to life as a zombie.
"What's wrong, son?" he asked.
"I messed up bad. I don't know what to do."
He nodded groggily. "I know how that feels." He went into the garage and grabbed some beer. I almost projectile vomited just looking at the bottle. He sighed and lifted the bottle to his lips. After his first swig, he looked at me like he wanted to say something. Instead, he trudged into the den. Only a loud fart or an ass scratch on his part could have perfectly capped off that father-son conversation.
I wasn't letting him off so easy. I followed him into the den and took a seat far enough away to avoid his breath. "Where's Mom?"
"Dealing with the Conroys."
"Who?"
His red-rimmed eyes widened for a moment. "Funeral stuff for Aunt Petunia."
"Is she the reason you and Mom have been fighting?"
He rubbed the sleep from his face and gave the wall a blank stare. "Yes."
"And now you plan to drink yourself into oblivion?"
After a long pause he spoke in a voice thick with emotion. "The great affliction known as life sometimes requires medication to ease the side effects." A long gulp of beer followed the statement.
"Yeah? Well alcohol doesn't work." The urge to slap the bottle out of his hand jerked me from my chair. I wanted to knock it from his hand and watch it smash to pieces. I wanted him to look at me and listen. A firestorm of anger blazed through me, growing so hot my body felt as though it would burst into flames. A sudden realization threw cold water on the flames. Nothing I did would stop him. It would only postpone the next drink by minutes. Mere words certainly wouldn't change his attitude. I stormed from the den feeling useless and unwanted. Slammed the door to my room shut behind me.
I used homework as a non-alcoholic crutch to keep my mind off the catastrophic condition of my social life while Captain Tibbs sat atop my computer desk, purring contentedly. A door slammed. I glanced at the clock and saw it was just past eleven. Keys jangled.
"David?" Mom said. A loud slap echoed through a stunned silence.
"Ouch," came Dad's reply.
"This won't solve anything. You'd better snap out of feeling sorry for yourself. I will not…" her voice lowered to an indistinct mumble I couldn't make out.
I slipped into some shorts and flicked the lights off before climbing into bed and acting like I was asleep. Mom usually checked in on me before she went to bed. Maybe if they thought I was conked out for the night they'd talk more freely about what was really going on.
Except I fell asleep and woke up late the next morning without any answers.
I jumped up from bed and went into the hallway. Mom and Dad's door hung open. The sounds of someone showering emanated from the bathroom. I went into the kitchen and ate a bowl of cereal, staring at the trashcan overflowing with beer bottles. I cursed myself for falling asleep. Something was definitely going on with my parents. Usually they made me sick by kissing all the time and saying lovey-dovey stuff. Now they were making me sick with worry. I had to find out what in the world was going on. Captain Tibbs hopped onto the table and meowed. I gave him some milk and figured I'd also need to buy him some cat food so he wouldn't starve to death.
Dad emerged from his bedroom as I finished breakfast. His tired face looked almost inhuman. In fact his skin had a bluish hue and his eyes—usually a dark hazel like mine—looked pale as arctic glaciers. He zipped up a hoodie and made for the front door.
"Where are you going?"
He jumped a foot into the air and spun to face me. He apparently hadn't noticed I was sitting there feeling sorry for myself.
"I have to run an errand. I'll be back soon."
"Where's Mom?"
He stared blankly for a moment before answering. "Work."
"On a Saturday? Don't you guys usually go for hikes on the weekends?"
He shrugged and gave a smile that never warmed the icy blue in his eyes. "Duty calls." He grabbed the doorknob. "Oh, and take the trash out when you have a chance."
I stared at the door as it shut behind him, my mouth hanging open. Yeah, right. He could clean up his own beer bottles. And forget sitting around. I wanted answers. What the hell was wrong with him, and was he wearing blue contact lenses? After grabbing my jacket and pulling a ball cap low over my face, I dashed outside. Dad hadn't taken his car. I ran to the nearest crossroad and looked down the narrow sidewalks, spotting his figure a few blocks down near the small shopping center where Mom used to take me to get my hair cut. I hadn't let that old barber touch my hair for years now. It would totally ruin my long elf warrior 'do.
I jogged after Dad. Maybe he was going for a haircut. But when I arrived at the stores, I found him sitting in the Laundromat of all places. Like the other businesses in the old strip mall, long plate-glass windows yellowed with age offered a view inside. A flickering neon sign advised passersby it was open twenty-four-seven. I edged to the end of the glass and peered inside. Dad sat, one leg crossed over the other, watching a couple of gray-haired women as they tossed clothes inside a washer and gossiped.
He continued to watch them even after they took adjacent seats and pulled out smartphones to show off pictures, from what I could tell. Did my dad have a fetish for old ladies? Was he a stalker? Gross! My social life was in the toilet and my parents had gone completely off the edge. I was so screwed.
Thirty minutes later, Dad stretched, stood up, and left. I hurried into the barber shop next door so he wouldn't see me. Old Larry, the barber, stopped shaving some poor kid's head with a pair of clippers and gave my shaggy mane a hungry look.
"Justin Case? I haven't seen you in years, boy. Looks like I'll need to haul out my dog hair trimmers to get through the mess on your head."
Dad trotted past outside. I hid behind a magazine and pulled the ball cap lower. "Thanks, Larry, but I think I changed my mind."
I stepped outside and watched Dad jog toward home. All sorts of horrific nightmares danced through my mind about why he'd gone to a Laundromat without laundry to stare at old women. No wonder he and Mom were having problems.
I wanted to jog after Dad but in my physical condition I wouldn't make it more than a few feet before oxygen deprivation dragged me to my knees and murdered a few million brain cells. I had a flashback to my fight with Nathan. It was a wonder I'd made it to the janitorial closet and back without passing out. I entered the front door of my house and found Dad chowing down cereal. His skin looked perfectly normal again. He glanced up with lively hazel eyes. "Why didn't you take out the trash?"
It was all I could do not to gape at his sudden transformation. Maybe he'd taken to wearing colored contacts so old women would like him better. Creepy couldn't even begin to describe this situation. After I dumped the bag of sour-smelling beer bottles in the large stinky garbage can outside, I went into my room and stared at the wall. Mark and Harry hated me. There was no Kings and Castles tournament today. Katie despised me. My dad was stalking little old ladies, and my family was falling apart. Hopelessness welled in my heart. I didn't know what to do with myself.
I jumped up and went into the bathroom, splashed my face with cold water, and dried it off. My trampled history essay sat atop my computer desk so I grabbed it and averted further misery by typing it out on my computer and polishing it until I looked up from the finished product hours later and saw the sunlight outside my window was long gone. Captain Tibbs had curled up in his now-usual spot on the desk and watched me through heavy-lidded eyes as I stretched. I scratched him behind the ears. He meowed.
"You're my one true pal, aren't you? You'd never abandon me."
He purred, which told me in no uncertain terms that he'd be my true friend to the end no matter what obstacles life threw our way.
The garage door opened and shut. Keys clattered on the kitchen counter. I cracked open my bedroom door and found Mom in the hallway with her back to me, staring at a picture on her smartphone. I strained to make out details. It looked like a little girl with bright blonde hair in pigtails. I crept forward. A creaking floorboard betrayed my presence.
