Expelled(13)

Here’s to you, Dad, I think, tossing a shot back. I hope being dead has worked out for you. It’s been pretty shitty for us, if you want to know the truth. Everything’s a lot harder than it used to be. I pour another shot—it’s starting to go down easier. I know it’s dumb, but I can’t help thinking there’s been some big mistake, and that you’re not really gone—you’re just, like, out of the country or something. And then every single day I have to figure it out again: you’re never coming back.

I pace the gazebo, kicking up dust and fly carcasses. Someone really needs to sweep up around here.

It was my birthday the other day, Dad. Not that anyone celebrated. That’s okay. I’ve decided to have my own party here tonight. It’s a nontraditional birthday party—more of a pity party, really. But I don’t mind. I’m out in the woods, hanging with a bunch of little arthropods, and I can hear some frogs, too, and there’s probably at least one family of mice in the walls. And of course there’s Mr. Knob Creek here. So I’ve got company. I’m not lonely. Not one bit.

Somehow talking to my dad is kind of nice. As if somewhere, in some other dimension, he might actually be able to hear it.

Like I said, we believe in plenty of things we might never see.

It’s time for another whiskey—a big, generous pour this time. I’m pretty sure it’s making me feel better.

I got expelled, in case you wondered. I don’t even know if Mom remembers—that’s how busy she is. But I think if you’d been here, then none of this would’ve happened. You would have defended me. You would have made them believe you. You would have been able to convince them that I was telling the truth.

I don’t even notice the taste of the whiskey anymore.

Honestly, I’m pretty pissed about it all. I’m mad at a lot of people, including Palmieri and whoever did this to me. But I’m also mad at you. Let me say it again: if you’d been here, none of this would have happened. My life wouldn’t even suck at all, because you would still be in it. Is that really too much to ask for—an okay life? Apparently it is.

I sit down on the couch and put the whiskey next to me like a friend. But first I take another slug. Then I close my eyes, just for a little bit…





12


There’s a woodpecker hammering its beak into my temple.

I open my eyes. Oh, God, that hurts. The sun, burning through the gazebo screen and into my face, has just lit my eyeballs on fire.

My mouth tastes like something died in it.

Gritting my teeth, I manage to sit up. Blearily I reevaluate the situation and realize that the woodpecker is actually on the roof, not my head. The sun is still a blazing inferno, though. And every part of me aches.

What happened last night is clear: someone snuck into the gazebo, beat me with sticks, dragged me outside, and ran over me with a 4×4. Then whoever it was brought me back to the couch, took off my shoes, and threw a blanket over me.

I look around the gazebo, and right away I see the perpetrator of this violence: the whiskey bottle, lying in the corner. It’s now incontrovertibly empty.

Dear God, I am never, ever going to do that again. Enough of the pity parties. The only way to make any of this better is to prove that I didn’t post that picture.

I reach for my phone to call Jude. Every once in a while the satellites and weather patterns align and I can get a signal. But not today.

There’s only one thing to do now. Only one way to get out of here.

It may not work, and it’s also scary as shit.

Here goes nothing.

I hobble over to the old tin shed, which is where my mom keeps tools for the big garden she’ll probably never have and where my dad kept his ancient dirt bike.

The bike is covered in a fine coat of dust and mouse droppings. I don’t know if it runs anymore, and it’s definitely not street legal. But it’s currently my only option.

I roll the bike out of the shed and brush the dirt off the seat. The musty helmet squeezes my head like a vice.

Ignition, check. Choke on, carburetor throttle open. Clutch in.

I slam my foot down on the kick start, which sends pain shooting through my entire body… and fails to start the engine.

It’s probably just another symptom of my near-lethal hangover, but I feel like crying.

After three more kicks, though, the engine starts. And that’s when the real agony begins. Between the rattling, shaking engine, the for-shit shock absorbers, and the rutted Property road—well, let’s just say it’s like riding a jackhammer. To hell.

Once I get to the highway, the bike runs a little smoother, and the wind in my face starts to wake me up. I race past fields and green hills, the sun glinting off the reflectors on the pavement. I can’t say it’s pleasant, but it is sort of cinematic.

Twenty minutes later I pull into Jude’s driveway and cut the engine. He’s in the garage, cleaning paintbrushes.

He squints at me. “On the one hand,” he says thoughtfully, “it is legitimately badass to show up on a vintage dirt bike. On the other hand, that thing’s like a dirtier, two-wheeled version of Zelda.”

I pry the helmet from my head, and the ache inside my skull lessens infinitesimally.

“You look like shit,” he observes.

“That is unsurprising,” I say.

“You want some breakfast?”