My chest is burning. Mom always makes everything too spicy for me. She likes hot sauce on everything, and she refuses to believe that I don’t. I like shrimp and rice, but my mouth was on fire by the time I was halfway finished, and even a gallon of cold water didn’t cool my tongue.
Of course, Jake, my ten-year-old brother, had to brag about how much he likes hot food, and he wolfed down the shrimp like it was candy, making faces at me the whole time, slobbering rice down his chin.
He doesn’t know he’s a total sitcom character, but he is. The little bro who acts so smart and superior and always competes with the older bro, and always WINS.
So why does my life have to be a sitcom?
Dad is sitting there shoveling in his dinner without even tasting it, as usual, giving Mom an endless account of how he installed some new refrigeration units at the box factory in Martinsville today. Dad is a hardworking dude, no question. But why does he think anyone at our dinner table is the tiniest bit interested in refrigeration units?
Meanwhile, my life is falling to pieces. And he’s running on about how the cooling ducts didn’t fit, and he had to change the compression gauges. Or something like that. I wasn’t listening. I was watching Jake suck the burning hot shrimp down his greasy mouth with that crazy lopsided grin on his face.
Jake is cute. And he knows it.
He’s just too much, you know? Always shouting, never speaking. Always pounding me every time he walks past. Too energetic, too all-over-the-place. I wasn’t like that when I was his age. I was quiet. Studious. I have no idea how we ended up with him.
So now it’s more than an hour later, and I guess I have what you call heartburn. Believe me, it’s not the first time. Maybe it’s from Mom’s shrimp, or maybe it’s from the stress, the aggravation that Poppy is causing me.
She’s giving me the cold shoulder—the silent treatment, literally ignoring me, shutting me out entirely. Do I deserve it? No way.
Well, okay, maybe I acted a little stuck-up about their pet-store riot. It turned out to be pretty funny, and no one got in trouble. Maybe I should have hung around, but I have to be careful.
Poppy doesn’t understand the pressure I get from my parents. She knows I’m on the waiting list at Tufts. She knows I can’t do anything to screw it up, or my dad will kill me. He had to drop out of Tufts to go into his family’s refrigeration business, and now he’s desperate for me to go there and finish.
If it doesn’t work out, well, I’m kind of not sure what he’d do.
It puts a lot of stress on me. I’m not making excuses. Sometimes I’m too quiet and too cautious, and Poppy doesn’t like it. I know that. But I can’t change who I am. And I think she knows how much I care about her. I mean, it isn’t easy for me to talk about things, but I’ve tried to tell her how much I care.
She’s the first real girlfriend I’ve ever had, not counting the two weeks I went with Trisha-Lee in fourth grade. So . . . maybe I care too much. And maybe it hurts me too much when she doesn’t want to hang out or she won’t answer my texts and calls.
I know what she thinks. She thinks I’m this straight-arrow, no-fun guy. Especially since that strutting freak Jack showed up. But it’s not true. I know how to relax and how to unwind and how to let loose. I know how to party.
It would be easier if I liked Poppy’s friends. Ivy is so stuck-up, totally high on herself, waving her hair around and posing like she thinks she belongs in those gossip magazines she reads. She’s pretty, but she’s not as awesome as she thinks she is.
And Jeremy is just messed up. He can’t pour ketchup on his cheeseburger without reading the ingredients on the bottle first. Like maybe he’s allergic to tomatoes. I tried to bond with him—you know, connect in some way—but either he’s off in a cloud or else he’s so totally into himself and his problems, trying to talk with him is just . . . awkward.
Manny is fun. He’s big and loud and funny, but we don’t have much in common. I like to play Madden Football. I don’t like Call of Duty or the other war games he’s so obsessed with.
So my chest was burning. I was still burping up the spicy shrimp, and my head was kind of ringing, like a high, shrill whistle in my ears. I tried calling Poppy for the tenth time. And when I got her voicemail, I grabbed my dad’s car keys, made my way out the back door without telling anyone, and backed his Mazda SUV, the one he bought used a few months ago, down the driveway.
Where was I headed? To Poppy’s house, of course. It was a foggy night, not raining, but low clouds blocking the moon and the stars. I eased the car into drive and started to roll down the street. I had to make a hard stop when a family of raccoons came strolling across the street right in front of my car.
I counted at least six of them, two adults and four little ones, walking close together in a straight line, walking rapidly, silently, eyes straight ahead, as if the car headlights weren’t even on them.
My heart was pounding. It got me a little shook. Because I almost ran over them. I might’ve rolled over all six at once, wiped out the entire family, and then I’d have to think about it for a long time, probably remember it for weeks. I guess maybe I’m oversensitive when it comes to that kind of thing.
Peering out into the fog, I drove slower than usual. I’m a careful driver, but I was super careful and cautious, and I made it to Poppy’s house on River Road. She only lives fifteen minutes away. I slowed down, but I didn’t stop. Because I recognized the pickup truck in her driveway.
Jack’s truck. And then I spotted Ivy’s mom’s car parked at the curb, and then I could actually see them through the front window, Poppy and all her friends except me. I could see them all in the family room with that dark-green furniture.
I floored the gas pedal. The car lurched forward with a scream, like it didn’t want to pull away but I was forcing it. The car screeched and I hoped they heard it inside the house. I hoped they heard it as I roared away, gripping the wheel but not really in control. Not really driving. Just shooting into the swirling wisps of fog, snakes of mist dancing in the light from my headlights.
The growl of the engine as I sped up River Road matched the roar in my head. Like we were one, the car and me. And I lost all caution, forgot about being so careful. I made my dad’s car squeal into the turns as the road climbed, the river out of sight, lost in the fog far below. And I whipped around the curves like a thrill ride, a roller coaster at the state fair. Whipped around the curves, roaring and squealing, and man, did that feel good.
Too bad, Poppy. You’re missing it. You’re missing my wild moment, my rocket trip through the fog, through space.
And when I pulled back up the driveway to my house, I didn’t want the roaring to end. I didn’t want the roar in my head to leave me. I needed it to drown out all the thoughts about Poppy. Poppy and her friends in her house, without me.
I could still feel the speed, the power of the car in my head. The house was dark. My parents had gone to bed. I walked to the liquor cabinet against the wall in the dining room, the floor tossing beneath my feet, shadows bouncing. Squinting into the dim light, I found the Jamaican rum.
That will do, I decided.
I grabbed a glass and carried the bottle to my room in the back of the house, tiptoeing on the wooden floorboards. I didn’t want anyone to wake up and interrupt my night.
Sipping, sipping, feeling the warmth go down my throat, I stood staring out the window at the curtains of fog, shimmering gray against the purple night. Stood at my window, listening to the ocean crash inside my head, letting the liquid roll down my tongue. My chest burning even hotter now.
And then I walked to my desk and picked up the Swiss Army knife. Who gave me this knife? Was it a Christmas present from my great-aunt Clara?
I rolled up the sleeve of my T-shirt. I found the blade I like. Not too big, not too small, but sharp. The waves crashed in my skull, and I raised the blade to my shoulder and made a little cut.
Cut. Cut.
Not too deep. Just like before. Just like the other cuts crisscrossing my shoulder.
Cut. Cut.
Do you see, Poppy? Do you see?
You think you know so much, but I’m not what you think.
You’ve got me wrong.
You’re so wrong. You don’t know how wrong you are.
I made another cut, this one a little longer. Just an inch or two. I felt a warm trickle of blood. I felt the pain of the blade slicing so tenderly into my skin.
Cut. Cut.
It felt so good.
Just the right amount of pain.
