You, Me and Nobody

Ch.1-The Root of All Evil

Every night at about eight o'clock, amidst the sounds of clearing the table after dinner, my parents started screaming.

Maybe screaming was a bit harsh. Besides, they didn't want me to hear, so probably it was more like an enthusiastic discussion. Regardless, it happened like clockwork, and usually I wouldn't concern myself with the words of other people . . .

Unless it was about me.

And those enthusiastic discussions were always about me, about my maladaptive behavior, about my screwy attempt at existence.

I shut the book in my hands and dropped it on the floor, rising from my bean bag chair. A quick glance at the clock showed it was five minutes before seven. Of course, we were having guests over for dinner, rationalizing the exception in pushing their daily enthusiastic discussion forward. Still, I found the raised voices odd at this time of day.

I pulled open my bedroom door and leaned against the wall, able to hear their words perfectly from my vantage point, despite what they believed.

"This is ridiculous!" my father cried, the loud bass of his voice preceding an aggressive clank of dinnerware.

Mom reciprocated with equal fervor. "I'll tell you what's ridiculous, Sam. Our daughter never leaves the house, and when she does, it's because we've forced her to. What the hell did you expect me to do? We're two people with backgrounds in psychology and we can't even treat our own daughter."

Dad sighed, and I imagined him running his hands over his hair, his cheeks, straightening his tie with robotic aggravation. "Because there's nothing wrong with her, Elsie. "

"She'll be nineteen in December. When I'm in town I hear kids her age talking about going off to college. All she wants to do is-is read books all day. What kind of a future is that?"

"Ruby is an extremely intelligent child."

"I'm not saying she isn't!"

"Then what are you saying?"

"I just . . ." a chair creaked. Closing my eyes, I imagined the scene. She did the same thing before the accident, when I still went to school and would get in trouble. She'd fall into a chair and drop her head in her hands and click her teeth in a repetitive motion. I could picture the moment. Click. Click. Click.

Another chair skidded across the floor. The smell of pot roast drifted up the stairs. "Honey," Dad started, voice softer and more controlled. "What happened to her . . . you know as well as I that some things take time."

Mom sniffed. The thought of her crying hurt. "It's been two years, Sam. How much longer does she need?"

"However long it takes."

She said nothing.

"As such," he continued, "I'm not sure sending her to some kind of special needs camp is the best option."

Paper rustled. Probably looking at the pamphlet. I knew every inch of that stupid piece of paper, every bright, primary color, every ridiculous word typed in comic sans. Enough to make me puke.

"It's a buddy program," Mom rebuked. "For people who need a little extra boost socially. Lilia Matthews is heading it and she's very trusted at the high school."

Dad snorted. "Yeah, a buddy program filled with convicts."

"Rectified wayward juveniles."