MARCH
My alarm clock beeps, but I've been frozen in the same spot for hours. I never closed my eyes.
My stomach grumbles. I pinch it.
Cut all the fatty meat off with a butcher knife and let the demons feast.
The cupboard is a scary place. It's full of all the foods I've pushed out of my mind. All of my cravings in one place, with all of the bags open.
Chips. Cookies. Donuts.
Once I get to the bottom of the pack, what's left is a nice, filling serving of Regret, either wedged in the corner with the crumbs or chewed up and stuck in my teeth with everything else.
I go to the cupboard only to look, because I'm a fucking basket case.
Of course, it's super fucking early. The sun is just now streaming through the blinds.
I also realize how unappetizing everything looks. The chips and donuts are too greasy and the cookies are too stale and bitter. At best, the rice cakes have no taste and the least amount of calories, but they're Candace's, so I can't eat them. With this in mind, I go back to bed.
Shove it down your throat and deal with her in the morning.
No.
I drop to the floor and do fifty pushups, taking a breather every ten. Because of all the running I've been doing, my upper body strength is terrible. I never really bothered to lift weights or anything. The most exercise my arms have gotten is when I'm riffling through the cupboard and shoveling shit into my mouth.
It's another goal for me to set. The weights will get heavier and heavier until I'm totally fucking ripped.
After that, I can stop.
I do another fifty pushups before switching to situps. I can see my face looking a little thinner, but my stomach is what bothers me.
All the fat is just there, oozing off my torso like clay.
I close my eyes as the room spins. I don't deserve food, anyway. Most people can control their eating habits, so they deserve to eat. I can't control it and I'll just eat more than what would be considered healthy. What's the point?
I'm supposed to meet Gio soon to help him fix cars. There's one part of me that thinks I'll need food to focus and another that is positive I'll be fine without it.
It won't kill me.
Instead of taking my car, I walk to the lot where Gio is.
When he sees me, he silently throws the toolbox at my feet. I assume it's too early for him to feel like talking and he's clenching the wrench so hard that his knuckles are white. I'm not going to question it. Gio is cool unless I piss him off, except he won't tell me when I piss him off and I'll have to try and figure it out myself. By the time I do, he's already over it.
My teeth chatter as I slide under the car. It's the last wave of cold before spring comes.
"Hey," Gio says suddenly. "If you had to get your mami a present for Easter, what would it be?"
"Chocolate," I reply without thinking. "Or, y'know, nothing." Food is always the go-to gift when you don't know what to get somebody, which is another reason to avoid it.
"Yeah, but my family expects real gifts on Easter. They don't expect me to get passing grades or anything. I can ditch and do whatever I want. It's not like I'll become a famous actor when I finally leave home. I don't know what I wanna do with my life long term, not like any of it matters."
"I'm not even gonna bother figuring out that far ahead. We'll all be dead soon, anyway. Most people don't live past seventy. And isn't Easter a month away?"
"I plan to die in a cool way, in a derby or during a fight, or overdosing on meth in a few years. People who die young are always remembered. And it is, but I need something to do besides smoking weed and car repairs."
I sit up and toss the wrench into the toolbox. "They say to go out and make something of yourself because your only purpose in life is to push society forward in some way. If you're lucky, you'll be remembered. I sure as hell won't be."
In the long run, whatever we do will be helping the world, but it will be small compared to how far other people push their limits, so our tireless and hard-working efforts to advance will be forgotten. Soon enough, they'll find some faster way to do what we wasted our lives doing, so why bother doing anything?
Besides, I shouldn't even think about what my future will be like when I can't even remember to grab my fucking cigarettes before I leave. "Pass me a smoke, dude. I need one."
"Do you even eat anymore?"
"I'm too full of self-loathing. It's making me fat."
"You sound anorexic."
What makes you think-"
"Drink this non-diet soda, then." He rolls a Fanta across the concrete.
I check the calories - a whole two hundred.
"What're you looking at the nutrition for? You used to down three in one sitting."
"Just because I look at the calories doesn't mean I'm anorexic. Calling me anorexic would be like calling you an addict."
"Don't pull that shit, man. You drink and smoke way more than I do."
I grind my teeth. "Isn't it too cold for soda, anyway?"
"No normal person stalls drinking a soda this much."
"Fuck off, would ya?"
"Bottoms up," he snickers.
I slowly pop open the can. I tip it so the liquid touches my lips, but doesn't enter my mouth. "Happy now?"
"Drink the whole thing and I will be."
"Okay, Mom."
I snuff out my cigarette and continue pretending to drink the soda. Every so often, a swig escapes the can and runs down my throat like acid. I haven't had soda in so long that it feels foreign to my body.
Tired of the charade, I toss the full can in the trash.
Gio glares at me suspiciously. "Did you drink all of it?"
"Yes," I groan, exasperated.
"Mhm, sure. How many cigarettes do you smoke a day?"
"Like, three or four to ten. I dunno, however many I feel like."
"Jesus Christ. Why'd you call me an addict, again?"
Because I need to act like I have more stability over at least one other person. "Your parents love you enough not to let that happen to you."
"They hate that I'm gay, though."
"How do they act when you don't bring it up?"
"Treat me fine unless I bring a guy home. They yell at me if I do that."
"Sounds good enough to me."
"That's because you have no fucking family, man."
What I have is a migraine, and I'm itching for another smoke, but his pack is empty. I may hate myself, but I also have too much pride to admit that Gio is the closest I've ever had to a family, like an older brother.
"Are you coming to school today?" he asks.
"I guess."
Gio says, "I wish I could just not show up, like I want to prove something to my parents. If they see me get an education and succeed, they won't care what guy I'm with. I need 'em off my back. You're goddamn lucky your dad doesn't care about you." He throws the toolbox into his car and shuts the lights off. "I think we're done. Let's go."
I lag behind him, kicking gravel and litter. Call me a dumbass for giving up on school three months before officially graduating, but I'm sick of it.
I'm sick of the facade, that my average grades are telling me it's going to be okay when I know that's not true. I'm not smart, I'm a memorizer. I don't analyze or truly look into the bullshit I write and fill in. The most thought I put into anything is my art. If I could draw or paint an essay, I'd easily be at the top of my class. Expressing emotions through art comes naturally because I have time to think, when writing is just another form of talking. It's rare for anyone to let you think before forcing you to talk.
And I'm not good with words.
I'm only going so I don't not graduate for having too many absences. My stomach rumbles and I start walking faster. Today is one of those days where I love the pain in my stomach, rather than it being bothersome. It means I'm doing something right.
There was this article I'd read in a teen confessions column about a girl who said she was anorexic because she thought people were disgusted by her. In a supreme twist of irony, her friends actually did become disgusted by her appearance when they saw her ribs and hip bones jutting out. She warned people against it and said she was entering some kind of recovery program.
I don't give a shit if Gio is disgusted in me. I want space between my fingers when I circle my wrists and to not have my stomach be as doughy as it is.
The thought only pushes me to run faster.
No girl would ever want to be seen with you.
Alaska will. She's going to love me. She's probably embarrassed of me now, but she won't be in a month. I may have only lost around eight pounds last month, but this month, I'm going to be 145 pounds, then 125, and ultimately, 110. 110 is healthy, balanced, with both directions open. I can gain or lose a little weight from there and it not be a big deal.
Alaska hasn't said anything yet, so I must not be trying hard enough.
There's so much power in having an empty stomach as I watch everyone else eat around me. While these fucks sit in a damn McD's all day, going to town on slop from the grease fryers like they'd die without it instead of from it, I've gone twelve hours without eating. I don't have precooked diabetes staining my chin. My throat does a little hitch, and now I'm nauseous, not hungry.
Perfect.
"Fuck," Gio murmurs.
"What?"
"Just...fuck. All of it. Mami's making me go to church and pray and kiss girls on the cheek and I hate it. She's hosting this Christian get-together thing on Sunday and she wants to know if you wanna come...or whatever."
"Only if we don't really have to participate and find some way to get out of it. If not, I think I'll pass."
"I wish I could." He makes a face. "They're probably gonna send me away," he mutters. "I'm just waiting for them to make it official. That'll be my Easter gift."
I dig my nails into my palm. "Gio, what's it like kissing a dude?"
He pauses to think about it. "Same thing as kissing a girl, except it's a lot rougher most of the time and there's a lot more spit. I can't explain it. Whenever I do, everyone always asks, 'Why can't you just kiss girls, then?' but they don't get it and I don't know how to make them understand." He sighs. "I can't be myself and it fucking sucks."
"I need to smoke, but I can't and it fucking sucks."
"I can't be left alone and it fucking sucks."
"I want to die and it fucking sucks."
"Maybe we fucking suck."
"Maybe you're fucking right." The bell sounds. "Fucking hell," I spit.
Gio pushes himself up. "I really don't want to go to Physics."
"I have to go to English and he's doing a book report check-in. I haven't even started the damn book."
"Just ask somebody else to read it for you and pay them ten bucks to summarize it. Works for me."
"Because you have money."
"Not really. I'm just good at bribery and persuasion."
And that's all he has to say about that.
• • •
I end up going to Gio's house on Sunday because it's not like I have anything else to do or anyone else to hang with.
His whole family's here, crowding the lawn. He spots me and pushes through them. "What made you decide to come?" he asks.
"I got bored and Alaska was busy with college stuff."
"I'm freaking out. I dunno what they're gonna do."
"Prolly just gonna make you recite some Bible verses and pledge your loyalty to Jesus."
"Ugh. I don't wanna go to that conversion camp, but I don't wanna stay here either."
"Looks like your house is a conversion camp."
"¡Hijo, ven aqui!"
"¡Si, Papi! Come on, man. I'm gonna introduce you to my train wreck of an extended family. I dunno why they're all here. It's not like this is a big deal."
He leads me through the ocean of people, introducing each grandparent, aunt, uncle, and cousin.
One of his aunts stops us. "Gio, this is a big day for you! Finally, you'll be ridding yourself of your demons. It's just Satan whispering in your ear, Sobrino. Don't listen."
Gio laughs nervously. "Yeah."
"Is this some kinda exorcism?" I ask him as we walk away.
"Nah, my 'demons' are my homosexuality and previous boyfriends. If I have anymore, I'm pretty sure they'd only want to get rid of the gay part of me, anyway. They think my boyfriends manipulated me into being gay or something."
We reach his dad, who says, "We're getting started in a few minutes. And don't stand so close together." (We're standing about arm's length apart).
Gio looks at me. "One more thing. Never speak about this outside of today, to anyone. This is about to be the most embarrassing moment of my life."
"Don't worry. I'm already feeling secondhand embarrassment."
"Wanna bet ten bucks this is gonna suck?"
"Wanna bet ten bucks that I'll definitely be giving you those ten bucks by the end of this?"
We go inside, finding that his entire family has managed to gather in one room.
His dad drags Gio to a table. On it are platters with shots of wine. His family each take one. They offer me some, but I shake my head. Gio drinks, too, and his dad pulls out a battered Bible.
He flips through some pages, stopping at certain parts and forcing Gio to read them.
I have no idea what's going on or why any of them wanted me to come. To an extent, I'm intruding.
They put a cross around Gio's neck, cheering.
He approaches me with his mom. "She wants to know if I still give off a sinful, homosexual aura," he gripes.
I'm at a loss for words. If he's expecting me to keep his ass from a conversion camp, then he may be out of luck. "Uh...no?"
"Oh, thank the Lord!" his mom sings.
She has her attention on me. "We thought you'd like to stay for lunch."
"Yeah, thanks," I say, to be polite.
They have all the food already cooked and sitting in the fridge. It's mostly appetizers and the main course is fajitas.
I don't make a proper fajita, leaving out the wrap (they use pita bread) and taking very little meat, tossing peppers all over it. I chop up my half-full plate into smaller-than-bite-size pieces, pushing it around and squishing it with a plastic fork.
"I swear to fucking God," Gio says when Mrs. Rodriguez turns her back. "I don't want to do that ever again. If they make me start praying every night before bed, I'll run away. I'm not kidding."
"I honestly expected them to bring in a virgin girl and have you kiss her on the lips to purify yourself."
"Don't give them any ideas," he hisses before digging into his food.
That's what food does. It helps prolong conversation. It's the one thing good about it.
It keeps you alive, too, obviously, but I don't want that. I would rather die looking how I want, rather than stay here at triple digits and hating every second of it.
It is four in the afternoon.
I haven't put a single piece of food in my mouth all day and it's starting to get to me. I chop what's on my plate into small pieces.
Smaller-miniature pieces.
Miniature-miniature pieces.
Death is sinking its claws into my ugly pink insides, twisting them so much it hurts.
But I'd like to keep it that way.
"Alright everyone," Mrs. Rodriguez announces. "Clean up and meet back in the living room."
Gio groans.
I clump all of my food into the side of my plate to make it look like I ate something, smile at his parents, and dump it into the trash, carefully putting my plate in the sink.
We gather around Gio's mom. She has wax candles clenched in her hands.
She passes them out to all twenty-two family members, to Gio, to his dad, until finally grabbing one herself.
I don't know why they don't leave me out. This feels pretty family-orientated, but one of his older cousins shoves a candle at me. I take it, confused. "Gio, what do I do?"
"You just light it and then we're gonna say a prayer. You don't have to, though. Sometimes we do it in Spanish. Just make sure you close your eyes. They'll never know if you're not speaking."
"What exactly is this?"
"It's a family thing. Sometimes she guilts our neighbors into coming, too, because they believe in the same things. She does it at the end of every month. Sometimes it gets really annoying because they'll talk about sins and shit-"
"Gio!"
"...stuff and they'll be staring at me the entire time. We've never had food before. I guess Candace said something."
I'm uncomfortable, even more intrusive. I don't want to be here anymore.
"Light your candles in three, two, one," his dad says. "Gio, would you like to lead the prayer?"
"No."
His dad huffs. "I'll do it."
Sure enough, it's in Spanish.
I squeeze my eyes shut, grinding my teeth.
God comes in and covers my mouth, tears Gio's hair out, and wraps his family in warmth.
The room is cold when our eyes open.
The rest of the candles are pinched out at 1:30 PM and they're all hugging and kissing each other on the cheek and goodbye-ing.
Gio slaps me on the back and his family smiles and, in a daze, I finally walk home.
The dizziness is the worst part. Though it usually subsides if I lie down for a while, it's the one part of this I don't really have a say in. I have a say in what and how much I eat, not when and if I'm going to pass out. Sometimes it's euphoric, this heaviness that feels like I'm swimming freely under water.
Times like this, not so much, so I try to get some of my strength back before going to work. I have a massive migraine, but that's a given.
I dig out my CD player and listen to Pod by The Breeders during my walk to work.
Standing behind the counter, all dizzy and tired, I have a staring contest with the grinning hamburger mascot that's staring into my soul from across the food court. Motherfucker's mocking me with his huge smile and dead eyes.
My dad took me to a McDonald's, during the gap in time where Mom's abandonment was still a fresh wound, but he hadn't met Candace yet. Dad's face was frozen in an "I want everything here dead" look and his answers to my questions were short and sharp.
As I finished the fries and picked off the cheese that was sticking off my Big Mac, he stared at me, eyes cold and voice dead serious - "You know a cow died so you could eat that, right?"
"What?" I asked, biting into the burger.
"That burger is made out of beef. Cow is beef. The cow you're eating went through excruciating pain before she died. The chicken that makes up your nuggets suffered, too. Just the female animals."
I put my food down as he started explaining factory farming to me. I didn't understand most of it, but he'd succeeded in making me feel bad with his condescending tone alone, like I was doing something wrong for eating a combo meal.
He left my food on the table without throwing it out. "Your next lesson is going to be about capitalism," he muttered.
We drove past a farm on our way home. Dad's voice got more strained. "See those cows, Tyler? They're all going to die, hanging by their tails on a conveyor belt to their dooms. And you contributed to that. It's going to be partially your fault. Did you enjoy that food, now?"
I shook my head, eyes watering. "Poor cows."
"Exactly. Are you going to stop eating meat, then? Or do you want to be the cause of innocent animals' suffering?" His face was threatening in a "say yes or I'll start yelling and possibly hit you" way. I nodded.
I never paid attention to what he ate, but it did start clicking in my head as to why he never ate the pancakes or meat loaf Mom made.
This was when I discovered he was religiously obsessed with kale. He started steaming it for me, and after I gagged on it, he blended it up with all this other stuff, so the taste wouldn't be as strong. The politics didn't make any sense and I couldn't understand why he chose, of his own free will, to eat vegetables this much.
After months of this bullshit, including Gio complaining we couldn't share lunches anymore because of how gross mine was, I learned in class that trees were used to make pencils and paper. I learned that plants were alive and contributed to the ecosystem.
And I had, at the time, what I thought was an epiphany.
I went home, absolutely mind-blown and freaking the fuck out. "Dad? How come it's okay to eat plants, but not animals? Plants are alive, too."
He sighed, kneeling down. "Son, you don't understand anything about anything, so just...shut up, okay?"
That's all he ever said, all he still says. Either "shut up" or "go away." I thought it was better than no answer at all, and I was eventually grateful for them as he did start to ignore me when he brought Candace in, and I became her problem. But I was just as confused at that moment as I was at the McDonald's. He hadn't even answered my question.
I almost called him a plant murderer, to get back at him for making me feel like shit, but I decided to keep my mouth shut.
To just shut up, like he told me.
My heartbeat is heavy and loud, like my heart's trying to break from my chest, but doesn't have the strength to.
The hunger dissipates and my stomach is cold, that stupid, childish tingle of fear gnawing at my flesh.
Why am I scared? I'm not a child anymore. Dad's not supposed to chalk me up to just his mostly naive, slightly idiotic son. I'm practically paying for the fucking house he lives in, for him to be in a fucking drugged up state all the time.
Why does he still treat me like I'm in his way, like a fucking burden, when he rarely acknowledges me?
My thoughts range from Fucking hell to I hope that girl puts the clothes back on the fucking rack instead of just leaving them in the changing room, so that I don't have to fucking go in there and put all the fucking size tags back on before going all around the store and putting them back in their specific fucking areas, because I'm half lazy and half pissed off. How fucking hard is it to put shit back where you found it?
She surprises me by putting the clothes back, but discards her empty smoothie cup on one of the shelves.
How fucking hard is it to throw trash away?
Fuck.
I call Gio and ask him if he thinks a hamburger is a sandwich.
"Don't you have more important questions? Like, 'Hey Gio, what the hell are you gonna do after your parents kick you out'?"
"No, because my dad might kick me out, too, and I can try to get Alaska on board, and we can just leave."
"Fine. There's a piece of meat with lettuce, tomato, and condiments between two pieces of bread. I guess so."
"Okay."
"Is that it? Is that really what you think about all day?"
"Yes," I lie. I'd rather have him think I'm an idiot rather than a freak.
"You're so fuckin' lame, man."
"I know."
He hangs up and I'm alone again, in an empty fucking store, with my CD player.
I'm still listening to Pod. Kim Deal tells me I should forget everything and go fill a room with bad sex and bad TV, or start painting again. One or the other.
I go towards the closet, planning to curl into the corner and sleep, before remembering the last time I tried to have some privacy.
My boss makes a rare appearance and ushers me and the goth guy I still haven't learned the name of into his office. He gets straight to the point. "I'm closing the store and Everything Must Go. Advertise it, bribe people to come if you have to."
"This is just your last ditch effort to make money," I say flatly.
"Exactly."
"Where am I supposed to work?" the goth guy asks. "I don't have any skills."
"Just be glad you're my son. My brother has a cherry farm in Michigan. We can work there."
That satisfies him, and he says, "Fuck this store," and walks out.
My boss sighs. "You know, Tyler. You're the only one who looked like you cared about this job-"
"I needed to make sure I always had side cash," I answer honestly. "That's it, but I have nowhere else to work."
"That's what I was going to say. I put in some good words for you and that ol' place is interested." He nods at the burger joint with the evil smiling hamburger. "The lady over there seems to like that you can...stand in one place for long periods of time and stay focused, except you'll probably get more, uh, interaction over there."
"Wow, thanks. I'll look into it."
"No problem, kid. We're closing after most of this crap is gone." He waves his hands around the store.
"Have you ever thought about having, you know, different kinds of clothes that fit the seasons?"
"I thought fashion sense was dead with you kids. I at least expected the punk rockers, or whatever you call yourselves, to be in here since your generation doesn't give a shit about what you wear anymore."
"Uh, yeah. Anyway, thanks again, sir."
Jesus Christ, what am I gonna do? I can't actually work in the food court. All the grease will drive me off track.
I look around the store one more time. He said we'd close as soon as most of the junk was gone, and there's a lot of it. Based on the mess, and what's in storage, I have a little over a month to try and save my own ass.
Because Candace won't support us. When she hears I'm out of a job, she'll leave. As much as I'd love that, Dad will let his addiction really run us into the ground, all while blaming me for how terrible his life is. We'll be homeless and I'll be worse off than this damn store already is.
Or something. Probably.
Who the fuck knows?
I have a month to figure it out.