October 12: Riley

Riley

I light another cigarette and take a long drag of it. The smoke mingles with the taste of Evelyn, sweet and spicy in my mouth. My skin is still damp from our extracurricular activities in her car. I’ll take that over English any day. Then I remember how she freaked out. Maybe I grabbed her too hard. Perhaps I am turning into my stepfather. But that could never happen; I could never let that happen. Images of my mother’s bruised neck this morning flutter through my head. I lean against my bike to steady myself. No, I could never do that. I am not him. Maybe Evelyn is just on edge this morning. Something is wrong with her. But hell, something is wrong with all of us. And I’ve got too many of my own wrongs to worry about hers.
I smoke the cigarette slowly to put off time until the second period bell rings. When it does, I slink in through one of the side doors and mesh with the crowds of kids in route to their next class. It is like I was never gone- not that any of them would notice anyway.
Statistics has come surprisingly natural to me. I have found myself doing the homework at the shop while business is slow- and I know Mr. Thomas was shocked when I started turning assignments in. I was even more shocked when he handed me back A’s. I decide that statistics is a class I could actually pass with a good grade, so I may as well take advantage of it. Something about numbers makes me feel good- the way they are perfect and calculated and concrete. Numbers do not lie.
They are far better than words.
“Nicely done, Mister Sutton.” Mr. Thomas hands me my test from last week. At the top of the first page is a ninety-eight in bright red marker. The dork next to me with dirty glasses and terrible jeans looks at my test, then back at his. I catch a glance at his grade- ninety-one. I guess maybe I will keep coming to statistics for now.

I am walking to Psychology with my iPod playing in my ears and my mind wandering when someone bumps into me. I pull my headphones out and spin around, ready to hit someone.
“Watch where you’re going, white boy.” Manny Aviles. And three of his homeboys. I could knock him out right now. I tighten my fist, consider it.
“You ran into me,” I growl.
He steps closer to me, his friends right behind him. “I already let you get away with talking back to me once.” He puts his finger in my face. “Don’t think it will happen again.”
“Violence is for the weak, boys.”
Gabe DeCarteret walks past us and rolls his eyes. Manny and I both look at him. But which one of us is going to be the idiot who punches a gay kid in the face? Neither of us, and Gabe knows that. He keeps walking, unfazed.
“Go to class,” I tell Manny. “Learn something. English, maybe.”
I see in his eyes the kind of anger that I see in Art’s and sometimes in myself: dark, evil, primal anger. His pupils go black and fire ignites in him. I realize that he wants nothing more than to hit me in my jaw, knock me out, and make me disappear. I also know that he won’t, for the same reasons I won’t hit him. We both know it is not worth it. Right now. A write-up and expulsion, possibly juvie? Not taking that risk. But something is going to happen; I can feel it in my core.
He mumbles something in Spanish and walks away with his friends trailing after him. They talk junk all down the hall, but I ignore it and lean against the wall to cool off. I need a cigarette, but the bell is going to ring any second. Samantha West hurries down the hall. I am so thankful that she is here for me to take out my aggression. My entertainment for the hour.
She rolls her eyes when she sees me. I know she probably thinks I am waiting for her; she is conceited like that, thinks everything is about her. I follow her into the classroom just before the bell rings and sit down behind her. I lean up in my desk and put my face next to hers.
“Will I get to see you sling those pompoms today?”
“You’re disgusting,” she sneers.
Mr. Reid starts passing out a diagram of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. His lectures are always boring and rehearsed; I tune him out and keep taunting Samantha.
“Don’t be like that.” I put my hand on her back and she tenses up. I like it. “I was just kidding. I’m grateful to your kind for getting me out of class early.”
She turns around. “My kind?”
I smile. “Yeah. Athletes, preps, rich douche bags. Should I continue?”
“Shut up, Riley.” She turns back around.
Mr. Reid hands me a diagram and looks at me over his glasses. Such a twink. I shake my head and take the paper from him. He begins the lecture and I slide down in my seat and close my eyes. I already know the basic human needs: safety, esteem, acceptance and love and a bunch of other stuff that does not actually exist.
Nobody is safe. And nobody is confident. And nobody is accepted, because nobody accepts anyone. And love; what even is that? Nothing but some made up postcard emotion that people use as an excuse to do crazy things, hurt others, and overdose on their own heartache. Needs are for the weak.
And I refuse to show weakness.

After class I head towards Evelyn’s locker without saying anything to Samantha. I would hate to give her a reason to believe that I want her acceptance. And I hate myself for boosting her bleach-blonde confidence. Walking through the hall, I ignore the faces that blur around me like an old painting. A few girls wave to me, some say hey. I give them each a half-smile and do not waste my energy waving. But there is one face that stands out from the blur. In fact, her face is not blurry at all. It is crystal clear- porcelain and perfect, pale and soft, and I can’t take my eyes off of her.
“Audrey.” I don’t recognize my own voice when her name rolls off my tongue. I wipe my hands on my jeans and step closer to her.
She looks up from her locker and smiles. She is so awkward and I find it unbearably hot. “Hey.” Her voice is so soft, and sweet like cream.
“What’s up?”
She just shrugs and I’m not sure what to say next. The color in her faces deepens; her cheeks are flushed with rose and her lips turn crimson. The way she becomes smitten makes me even more so. I stuff my hands in my pocket and try to think of something to say.
“Are we still on for tomorrow?” My mind reverts to our woodshop project. “We’ve got a birdhouse to make.”
She nods. “Sure thing. Two o’clock, right?”
“You got it.”
She stands there and for a moment, I wonder if maybe I am misreading her. Perhaps she is not smitten with me. Maybe she’s annoyed, irritated. Maybe I don’t know girls as well as I thought I did, although Audrey is hardly like any other girl. Her clothes, her hair, her makeup (or the lack-of), her presence are all different from any girl I’ve ever met. She is nothing like Evelyn.
Evelyn. I feel a set of fingernails close around my arm. Evelyn stares up at me with hard eyes and a straight mouth.
“I’m ready. Let’s get out of here.”
“Whatever.” I snatch my arm away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Audrey.”
Audrey smiles and Evelyn groans. She stomps away, making a scene that the people around us are too self-involved to watch. Before going after Evelyn, I smile at Audrey and touch her arm.
“Do me a favor. Don’t ever become a bitch. Stay sweet, okay?”
She forces a smile and nods slowly. “I will, thanks.”
“Good.”
It takes everything in me to pull my hand away from her body and follow Evelyn down the hall. I take my time so that Evelyn can cool off and I can get my hormones back in line. After I get my food, I find her sitting at our table in the back of the cafeteria. She is picking at a baked potato and making every effort for me to see that she is mad.
I sit down next to her and pretend not to notice. After several seconds, she turns to me and smiles sarcastically.
“What’s tomorrow?”
“Saturday, Ev.” I laugh and open my orange juice. “How old are you again?”
“Don’t be a smart ass.” She punches my thigh. “Why will you be seeing Audrey on a Saturday?”
“She’s my shop partner.” I shrug. “And she needs extra help with that birdhouse.”
She huffs. “Maybe I should go over to Tyler’s house and work on our birdhouse with him. How would you like that?”
“I wouldn’t care,” I insist. “I’m not your boyfriend, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.” She turns away from me. “Maybe I’ll sit with him at the pep rally, too.”
I know she is trying to piss me off, and I know just how to push her buttons back. So I take a bite of my pizza and shrug it off.
“Go for it. I’m not going to the pep rally anyway.” I take a swig of juice. “I hate those damn things. I’m skipping for sure.”
“I’ll go with you.” She turns back to me- just like I knew she would.
“You can’t. I’m going to the shop early.”
“Oh.” She sighs. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“Go to the pep rally,” I tell her. “It won’t be that bad, I’m sure.”
“Then why aren’t you going?”
She is so annoying that I want to choke her. I consider getting up and leaving, never talking to her again. But then I remember that I don’t have any plans for the night, and nobody else to make them with.
“I have to get my hours in, Ev.” I finish off my pizza. “You want me to be able to go to the game, right? I can’t just not show up for work.”
“Alright,” she grumbles.
I stand up, relieved, and dump my tray in the trashcan. “Pick me up around seven. Cool?”
“Sure.” She crosses her arms and sulks.
“Good.”
Before she can say anything else, I sneak through one of the side doors in the cafeteria and out to the parking lot. I light a cigarette before I am even at my motorcycle. At the car beside my bike, a group of girls is huddled together. They look up when they hear me.
I realize that one of them is Cordelia; another is Janey. Their weird friends are with them, too. Cordelia nods in my direction and blows smoke out of her mouth.
“What’s up, Riley?”
Janey looks down at the pavement and doesn’t say anything.
“Hey ladies,” I mumble. “What are you guys doing?”
“Nothing,” they all say in unison.
Sure looks like nothing- nothing I want to be a part of. I put my helmet on without asking anymore questions and hurry out of the lot.
My destination is hardly a car garage. I pull into the parking lot of the Better Minds Psychiatry offices and park my bike in the corner. Mom schedules my monthly appointments for me. I guess technically I’m not skipping class since Mom already called the school and told them I’d be leaving early. Evelyn does not need to know that, though.
The waiting room smells like cinnamon potpourri. The lights are low and stacks of health magazines lie scattered on every end table. Red and green couches and chairs line three of the walls. I walk up to the receptionist, who smiles and runs her fingers over her hair.
“Hello, Riley.” She types away on her computer. “You’re a little early.”
“I know.” I rest my elbows on the edge of the counter. “We just had a pep rally today, so I thought I would go ahead and leave.”
“You don’t want to show your school spirit?” She smiles.
“What do you think?”
She laughs and picks up the phone. “Riley Sutton is here,” she says. A few seconds later she hangs up the phone. “Doctor DeCarteret will be with you soon.”
“Sweet.” I sit down in the corner and pretend to read one of the magazines. Mostly I sulk and stew about the fact that I am still forced to see a psychiatrist once a month.
It has been five years since I was sitting in my seventh grade language arts class and my teacher asked me a question about The Good Earth. As if I had actually read that book. Five hundred pages about growing rice? Not my thing. When I told my teacher I didn’t know the answer, he laughed in my face. I will never forget what he said to me that day,
I give up. You are unfixable, Riley. And I am done trying to fix you. Get out of my classroom. Those words cut through me like a dull knife. Me, unfixable? Because I hadn’t read a book? I stood up, gathered my things, and walked to the front of the class. Maybe I should have just walked out, told the principal about my evil teacher. But I didn’t. I picked up my desk and threw it straight at his head.
“Why would you do that, Riley?” My principal had asked. She stared at me from the other side of her desk with her hands and lips pursed.
“He said I was unfixable,” I said with my arms crossed. My face was still hot with anger.
“They are just words, Riley.” She clucked her tongue. “They don’t mean anything. They are just words.”
That being my sixth suspension of the year, I was told I was not allowed back in school until I was tested by a psychiatrist. Principal Miller told my mom I could not step foot in school until a psychiatrist signed a piece of paper stating that I was not a harm to myself or anyone else. I took advantage of the suspension. Mom let me eat ice cream and play video games all day, and said that everything would be okay as soon as I saw the psychiatrist and the tests said I was normal.
Except I wasn’t.
After talking to Dr. DeCarteret and going through my entire life story with her, she brought me and my mom in to tell me that she did find something.
“It’s nothing major,” she had explained. “But something that will explain a lot of your actions as of late. And maybe it will help you understand yourself a little better. I just want you to know that you are perfectly normal, Riley. Okay?”
I nodded my head and listened as she told me all about my chemical imbalance. Apparently everything wasn’t lining up in my head. She explained exactly why some days I felt completely fine and other days, I wanted to kill myself. She told me all about why I was the way I was, and told me it would be something I would have to live with for the rest of my life.
Bipolar Disorder.
Completely normal. Right.
Ever since then, Dr. DeCarteret has spent an hour out of every month trying to fix the boy who was dubbed unfixable at age twelve. She calls me into her office and I toss the magazine aside and follow her down the hall. Her office is cozy and cluttered. She has shelves stacked full of books and papers to the right. Her desk is big and covered with files and sticky notes. She pulls a pen from behind her ear and sits down.
“Alright, Riley.” She smiles. “Let’s get started.”
“Okay.” I sit down in the big chair in front of her desk and lean back.
“How is everything going?”
“Good.”
“How are you liking school?” She opens my file. “How are your classes?”
“Good.”
She jots something down on a blank page and nods. “And how is everything at home? I didn’t see your mom out there. Is everything going okay?”
“Yes.”
She puts the pen down and sighs. “Riley, don’t do that. You know I hate when you do that.” She smiles. “Talk to me. You know I care.”
Oddly enough, I believe her. Although that doesn’t exactly make me jump at the opportunity to lay everything out there. I look at the cross hanging on her wall. I see one hanging from her neck as well. No wonder she cares; her god requires her to.
“Everything is going okay,” I say. “School is going alright. I really like statistics.”
“Statistics, huh?” She writes something down. “Why statistics?”
I shrug. “Numbers are real. They don’t lie.”
“That’s true.” She nods. “There is something comforting in that, isn’t there?”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
“How are things going with Art?” She leans forward and places her hand under her chin. “Are you two getting along better?”
“I just stay away from him.” I cross my arms. “I hate the guy, Doctor D. That’s going to be the same every time I come in here.”
“I know,” she sighs. “I just have to document this stuff. And I just want to know what’s going on.” She pauses for a few seconds. “Have you been taking your medicine?”
“Yes,” I lie.
She raises an eyebrow. “Riley.”
“Sometimes.” I shrug. “When I remember.”
“That’s something you shouldn’t forget.” She writes on the paper. “That medicine is what helps to balance everything out. It’s what helps your mood swings, you know.”
“I know,” I assure her. “I’ll start remembering to take it.”
“Alright. Is everything else okay? Any new girlfriends or anything I should be aware of?”
“Please, Doctor D.” I laugh. “That’s a little personal, don’t you think?”
She chuckles. “I need to know about these types of things. New relationships and events can trigger different mood swings. I just need to be aware.”
“No new girlfriends.”
“Fair enough.” She makes several notes on the paper. “Is there anything else you want to talk about? Have you had any major lows recently?”
“A few,” I admit. “Most of them have happened because of Art. He’s brutal, you know?”
“I know.” She sighs. “How have you been handling those lows?”
“I go to the basement and punch the fuck out my bag.” I say it without thinking and feel bad when her face scrunches up. “I’m sorry. It slipped.”
She shakes her head. “It’s alright. I’m just glad you’re punching something inanimate rather than other people, especially Art.”
One day, I consider telling her. But I simply nod.
“I’m very proud you, Riley.” She puts her pen down and smiles. “You are handling things very well. I know it’s not easy with your disorder.”
Disorder. That word just sounds cold, clinical. It makes me sound like I’m some sort of freak who can’t get his feelings together. Disorder, noun: lack of order; confusion; to disturb the normal physical or mental health of…
The power that one word can have over a human being.
I answer all of her questions and she buys into everything I say. She checks everything off and I am signed off as (somewhat) normal for another month. She writes out a new prescription so I can continue to have medicine-induced good days.
Uncle Eddie has given me the night off. Despite Evelyn thinking that I am working at the shop, I stop at the gas station for cigarettes and a piece of pound cake. I take the short drive home and finish my cigarette before going inside. Mom is sitting on the couch watching a soap opera.
“Hey, Ma.” I sit down in the chair next to her. It is older than I am; I sink right down and the springs poke through my jeans. I unwrap my pound cake and offer her a piece. She stares at the television.
I take a bite of the cake and chew it up. “How was your day?”
“Fine.” She reaches for her mug on the coffee table and takes a sip from it. “Long day.” She stares ahead.
“Me too.” I take another bite. “I saw Doctor DeCarteret today. She says I’m doing fine. And I got a ninety-eight on my statistics test. Highest grade in the class.”
“That’s nice.”
“I was thinking maybe I would put it on the refrigerator. “ I chuckle. “Wouldn’t that be a sight? Riley with an A.”
“Sure, honey.” She puts the mug down and settles back into the couch. “Could you bring me my heating pad? My back is especially sore today.”
I sigh and go into the kitchen to get her heating pad. I heat it up for a few minutes and sit on the counter while I finish my cake. When the timer beeps, I take the pad out and bring it into the living room. She sits up and I slide the pad between her back and the couch. She sits back and sighs.
“Thank you, honey.” She closes her eyes and lays her head back.
“No problem, Mom.” I stand there for a second, silently begging her to talk to me- really talk to me. When she doesn’t, I rub her shoulders and neck. “I’m gonna go downstairs.”
When I turn away from her, my eyes are wet. I rub them before anything can escape. In my room, I change into shorts, a white shirt, and tennis shoes. Once I am downstairs, I turn up the stereo and put on my gloves. I work on my technique, hitting and kicking the bag over and over again. I don’t stop for water, don’t stop to breathe, don’t stop to think. I just hit the bag constantly, driving my padded fists into it like it is Manny or Art or my bipolar disorder or me.
When I am lightheaded, I lay down on the cement floor and suck in huge gulps of air. I close my eyes and get lost in the heavy chords of the Breaking Benjamin album blasting through the speakers. At some point, I drift off into a calm, alternative-coated oblivion. When a foot crushes against my ribcage a few minutes later, I nearly choke. I open my eyes and see Art staring down at me.
“What are you, deaf? I said turn that shit down.”
I stand up and rip the stereo cord out of the wall. He stands there with his hands on his hips and his eyes glassed over. I take my gloves off and throw them on the floor.
“What are you going to do?” He taunts me. “Are you going to hit me? I dare you, little boy. Let’s see what kind of man you are.”
I ball my fists up. Every ounce of me turns hot. My mouth goes sour, my muscles tighten, my eyes water, and I grit my teeth so hard that I think my head might explode. He must see it in me, because his expression changes. Without saying another word, he walks up the stairs. Two more seconds and I would have hit him.
Instead, I drive my fist into the cement wall with all of the strength I can gather. My knuckles crack against the hard rock. One would think that I would regret that decision, but I do not even feel the pain. I let out a loud growl and tap my head against the wall over and over again, letting hot tears fall from my eyes. Everything in my head goes black and I slump back down to the floor.
It isn’t until I am out of the shower and dressed that I start to feel the pain. All of the adrenaline has worn off, Art has gone to the liquor store, and I stand in front of my mirror with a towel wrapped around my waist and a throbbing hand. A couple of my knuckles are cut, and blood threatens to seep out. I try moving my fingers. They move, so I know my hand isn’t broken. Must be pretty damn close, though. I decide that maybe it would be best if I did take my medicine. I pop one of the tiny white pills and swallow it dry. I chase it with a couple of aspirin for my hand.
I get dressed with one hand, then lay on my bed with the sore one propped on my stomach until I hear Evelyn honk outside. I grab my jacket. My mom is still sitting in her same spot on the couch, only now she is watching the Game Show Network.
“I’ll be back later, Mom.”
She does not respond, just stares ahead at Pat Sajak on the television screen. I hurry outside where Evelyn is waiting in her car.
“Hey,” she says.
I don’t say anything. I just close my door and she drives off without pushing it any farther, which surprises me.
A few minutes later, she notices my swollen hand. “What happened to your hand?”
It is still throbbing. It would be nice if she would take it into her own hands, put ice on it, kiss it. But that would show weakness, so I shrug it off like it’s nothing.
“I was boxing.”
“Without gloves?” She knows I’m not an idiot; although, punching cement walls almost qualifies.
“Ev, don’t.” I look out the window so she doesn’t see my eyes watering. “I’m fine.”
“Fine.”
We ride to school in silence and I am grateful for that. I hate when people ask questions, pry. My business is nobody else’s and I like to keep it that way. It’s bad enough I have to spill my guts to Dr. DeCarteret once a month. The last thing I need is another psychiatrist.
I spend most of the game wondering why I showed up in the first place. I hate school sports, I hate the people who play them, and I hate the people worship the people who play them. Samantha does her stupid stunts and cheers down on the track in front of the stands. Ruby conducts the pep band at the end of the home side. Anderson does his football thing- they don’t take him out for the entire game. People show up with their faces painted red and with pompoms and megaphones and posters. It is pathetic and I curse myself for having given seven of my hard earned dollars to support this circus.
Evelyn sits close to me, with her arm through mine. I decide not to fight her on it. She tries to make small talk, but gives up by the second quarter. The pain in my hand has dulled a little, but it is still there. Whenever I think about it, I get pissed off all over again. Shortly after halftime, Evelyn moves her face close to mine.
“Want to get out of here?”
I’m not in the mood for sex, but to my surprise she suggests something else. “I can get some weed and we can just chill somewhere. What do you think?
Relieved and desperate for a pick-me-up, I nod. “I need to chill.” And that has never been more true. She gets up and I follow her. The people behind us mumble something about her low-cut shirt, but she ignores it so I do, too.
When we are out in the mix of the Five Points’ student body, she grabs my arm. “Just let me find Brian. I’ll meet you at the car.”
I’d rather not hang out around with Brian and his crew of lames, so I agree to wait at the car. She goes one way and I go the other. On my way to the car, my phone buzzes. It is a text message from Audrey, who says she cannot make it tomorrow and that she is sorry. Sure she is. Girls. I close my phone and sigh. While I wait for Evelyn, I smoke a cigarette and stare up at the sky. I blow the smoke out slowly and remind myself that I need to quit; Audrey is allergic to cigarette smoke, she said.
I hear Evelyn’s voice chattering away to someone on her cellphone. I finish my cigarette before she can ask for a hit and stomp it out.
“Let’s go girl,” I say. My mouth start to water for a good high.
Then I see it in her face: something is not okay. She looks pale, panicked. I put my hands on her shoulders. “What is it?”
She doesn’t respond, just listens to the voice on the other end. Finally, “Is she okay? Tell me she’s okay?”
She. It must be her mother. For some reason I start to panic, too. A moment later, Evelyn gets off the phone. “I’m on my way,” she says before hanging up.
“What’s going on?” I ask her.
“My mom is in the hospital.” Her eyes are empty.
“What? What happened?”
“There was a fire at the hotel where she works. I’ve got to go.” She pulls her keys and the bag of weed out of her pocket. “She’s in the hospital and I have to go. Here.” She hands me the weed.
“Don’t be crazy. I’ll drive.”
She unlocks the door with shaky hands. “No. I need to go alone. I’ll drop you off at your place.”
Something comes over me; something weird, sensitive. “Evelyn, you are not okay right now.” I rub her back.
She spins around. “Riley, I don’t want you to come with me.” Her voice is cold, on frosty edge. “I just need to be alone, okay?”
“Okay,” I surrender. “But call me. Call me if you need anything?” I don’t know where this is coming from, but I go with it. Because she is obviously hurting, and for some reason that makes me hurt.

“Yeah.” She gets into her car.
“I’ll find a ride home. Don’t worry about it.”
She pulls out of the parking lot a few seconds later, leaving me standing there with a bag of weed and a huge lump of confusion right next to the rock where my heart used to be.

Instead of trying to find a ride home, I decide to walk. I realize that it is too many blocks away to count, but for some reason I don’t mind. I wrap myself up in a coat of soft green herbs. I smoke most of the weed and give the rest to a couple of kids outside of the movie theater.
“Thanks, dude.” The one with the shaggy blonde says. They run off and I don’t feel bad at all.
I walk down the sidewalks, busy with people living their lives. The street lights and headlights blur in my head like one of those fancy pictures. I smoke the rest of my pack of cigarettes, making each one slow and delicious. The high is a peaceful and painless bliss. I do not feel my hand, I do not acknowledge the thoughts fogging my head, I do not feel my hand as it throbs. This is perfect- not feeling anything. Yet somehow, I feel everything. For so long I have been able to feel nothing, but today I realized that it is possible for me to feel something. It is possible for me to need something.
I feel like a wreck, like a screw-up with nothing in front of him. I am just a rebel with no cause, a broken hand and a chemical imbalance. And maybe I am scared. But I need to feel like maybe I can be okay if I try. I need more than sex. I need something real, something more than words. Because words don’t mean anything. Although, they could mean everything. And I want something, too. I want something- and that something has the devil’s hair and the voice of an angel. And I want her to want me. I’ve got my own hierarchy of needs.


And I vow to satisfy my needs.