Disequilibrium

Part 2: Sophomore Year - Scene 2

"Holden!"

Dad's bellowing from outside the trailer. He's been calling like he's having a seizure or something, but I'm in no hurry. He's got a few beers out there with him. "Holden! What the hell, are you deaf?"

I wet my fingers and rake them through my hair, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Do I need deodorant? Would Casper notice the smell of sweat? Or is a shower better?

"Holden! Fuck, am I speaking to a goddamn ghost?"

I grab the deodorant.

"Holden! I swear to God I'll—"

He doesn't finish his sentence. Instead, I hear the front door slam open and the stomping of his boots against the floor, a crescendo in the silence as he heads to my direction. I'm not afraid. He's never touched me; not once in my life. I'm not sure if he's too scared or if I look too much like Mom, but I never question it. That'd be useless.

Dad opens the bathroom door, his mouth half open until he looks me over. His eyebrows press together as he straightens, asking, "Where the hell are you headed?"

"Casper invited me over to his house, remember? I told you on Wednesday."

He shifts. "No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did. I remember saying, Dad, can I go over to Casper's on Friday? And you said, do whatever you want. What do I look like? A fucking—"

"Alright, alright!" Dad waves his hands over his face like he's trying to clear a bad memory. "But come out for a second, won't you? At least give a minute to your old man."

I stop touching my hair then. He won't quit unless I comply, so I shut off the lights and follow the poor bastard out the trailer. He's got the lawn chairs out, side by side. About five bottles rest between them.

"Sit," he says as he takes his own. "I want to teach you something."

I screw up my face but sit down anyway. The chairs are uncomfortable as hell. "What is it?"

"You're growing up. I can see that. I mean, anyone who has enough balls to skip class deserves such recognition, don't they?"

"I didn't—"

He holds up a hand before going for a bottle, throwing it my way. "I want you to have that. Now, don't give me that face. You'll be sixteen this upcoming year, and I know what that brings. I'd rather you do this in front of me than in front of dipshit kids who know nothing, you know? Twist the cap, boy."

He's watching me with those eyes. It's the kind I can't say no to. He rarely uses them, but when he does, I know there's no slipping out of the situation. So I do what he says. I twist the cap, bring the bottle to my lips, and tip it ever so slightly. It doesn't stop the bitter taste from punching my tongue and scratching my throat on its way down, causing this screwed up, idiotic look to rest on my face.

Dad's laughing his ass off, like introducing his son to early alcoholism is the funniest thing in the world. "Man!" He snorts. "Look at the kid's face! He looks like he's dying!" Another snort. "The taste will wear off, I swear. I had my first drink at fourteen; now it's nothing but water to me." He shifts in his seat, tugging out something from his pocket. Cigarettes. "I had these when I was thirteen."

"Dad, I don't think—"

"My dad trained me to see what I liked and didn't like right in front of him, and now I'm doing the same to you." He hands me a white stick. "If you don't like it, throw it out. I won't impose it on you again. Do it for your old man, huh?"

There are those eyes again. I don't know what it is about them, but before I can blink, I find the thing between my fingers, then between my lips, and soon enough there's a flame from a lighter right in front of me.