When it came to a title, I couldn't decide whether I wanted to state a fact or use a pun to put some lightheartedness on the situation. On one hand, facts abbreviate the situation and create important emotional detachment. On the other, a bad pun can be a turnoff for readers, which would make them burn this book at the stake. So, I did both.
My eyes trailed the clock's minute hand, watched it circle around the circumference thirty-six times. That's when the cop's radio went off. (It might have been a phone, I wasn't paying attention.) He spoke murmurs into the speaker. I focused on the buzzing of the ceiling lights.
He set the device down.
"Your parents are here." His right hand found my shoulder. "I'm sorry you had to wait here so long, Son. And you don't need to worry about any of this. It's all been taken care of."
My voice reminded me of a drone in a space film. "What does that mean?"
Tiny Person planned my trial. If I couldn't do anything more with my nonlife, I'd climb the ladder of ultimate unusualness. Maybe there'd be a halftime show. Fireworks could be latched to my head when they burned me at the stake, make it entertaining and worth a match. No. I got it! I'll be the first televised execution with caterers. Everyone will touch the sweet buttermilk frosting to their tongues while I take my last precious breaths.
Great, now I want cake. Actually, waffles. Chocolate chip waffles sound good.
The cop's eyebrow bristled. Either he was trying to figure out what was going on inside my brain, or he was building some muscle tone in his temples.
I wish he was an easier guy to hate. These insults are getting harder to coin up.
"Your parents worked out a deal with Richardson." The cop unshackled my hand and helped me up, drawing his eyes to the ceiling. "No doubt they shut him up with some of their billions."
I blinked. He didn't think I could hear him. I pretended that was the case...for the sake of both of us.
Tiny Person did not approve.
The cop gestured his clothed arm at me. I slouched alongside him. "Are my parents picking me up?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that what I said?"
I scratched my head and shrugged. I guess this guy wouldn't know Ed's purpose.
We walked like a couple of sloths. Tiny Person latched to a word he'd been using. Was that curiosity in my chest? No...I wanted to get out, desperate to leave. That's why I engaged in conversation. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the "movie best-friend" vibes I'd gotten earlier. You know, before he insulted my parents and became a TV friend.
"Why do you keep calling me 'Son?'" I asked.
He paused. "What would you rather be called?"
"I don't know...my name."
"Okay, Benjamin."
"Ben."
He smiled and opened the door.
I squinted as a blinding light flashed over my gremlin face. Then another. And another. And another.
Reporters have this magical, demonic ability. They can find what they want to find when they want to find it. But rather than using this gift to end world hunger or smooth out the Middle East, they decide it's a better idea to exploit a seventeen-year-old kid's problems. Ruining my life was and is their top priority.
I knew each reporter outside the station was asking me a different question, but all of their words blended together. It sounded something like this:
"Ben— Mr. Wood—over here—your parents get off—hurt the—Mr. Wood—family? Over here! Reputation. Ben Ben Ben Ben Ben. Hey! How come we didn't, wait—over here—please, one question. How this will affect—selfish—election polls! Blab la blah blah blah."
A claw snatched my arm. Assuming it was a news reporter, I jerked back harder.
"Excuse me, Ben?"
I turned around to find two men. With guns. One spoke, "We're responsible for your parents' security, and we're here on their behalf. You can confirm this with your driver. We need to go. Now."
Too blinded to give my cop friend a second glance, I let them guide me to the car.
When I could see like a normal human being again, I glanced to my left. Then to my right. The creepy security guys had sandwiched me between them in the back seat. They must've been twins, both looked like FBI agents without the cool jackets.
I heard a grumble. Poor Ed glared at me through the rear-view mirror as I stared down at my lap, recognizing a smugness in my chest. I wish I knew why. Maybe it was the power I held at my fingertips. Maybe I needed to enjoy my last victory.
The feeling didn't last long.
The car window froze over my "Greek palace" of a house. The non-FBI dudes grabbed my shirt and walked me to the front door like I was an antsy Golden Retriever. When my foot crossed the border, my hazy vision climbed into a pencil sharpener. I wanted to throw up.
My parents were side-by-side, on our couch, staring at me.
I'd like to pause here to put some emphasis on this moment.
My face was equivalent to a dog who just tore up the couch and got caught in the act. Dad's expression was the face made by James Bond interrogating a suspect. Mom just sat there, twisting her wedding ring around her finger. Imagine pausing a horror film when the monster comes out to strangle its victim.
Yup.
You should have an idea of my parent's physical appearance, not just their emotional state. My mom, Stephanie Wood, looked like a prom date. Her blonde hair climbed into an up-do, drawing all eyes to her diamond earrings as they dangled in threes.
Dad, Mr. Bill Wood, private secretary (or something like that) for Mr. Peterson: a candidate, previous mayor, and player, now running for governor. Suit and tie assembled, Dad dressed like a model on the front of one of those fancy magazines targeting business executives instead of teenage girls. His straight, jet-black hair swooshed to its side. Even his facial hair was freshly trimmed. And he...
Sorry, I had to put my pencil down. Describing stuff is a lot of work.
Back to the underworld.
"Um...hi," I said.
I tiptoed for the staircase to my bedroom. Maybe they would stare at me so hard they wouldn't realize if I disappeared.
When Dad cleared his throat, I knew that wasn't going to happen.
"Sit," he ordered, his finger pointing to the couch corner.
"I-I'd rather not."
He raised an eyebrow. I stared back at him. This went on for a while.
"Ahem," Dad pointed again.
"I want witnesses."
"For what?"
"For when you kill me," I said, "And cause my untimely death."
"Oh, just sit down."
This time I listened. Mom held a distant gaze far from this room. Still playing with that stupid ring. And a strand of her golden hair. Dad's dress shoes echoed off the wall and I tried to read it off the pitch. Loud. Heavy. Angry. Impatient.
"So...how was the meeting?" I asked.
The way they were dressed, I knew they'd been at a dinner party, not a meeting. Still, I didn't smell alcohol. My misadventures must have cut the fun short. But I wasn't going to bring it up. I needed to make sure that they knew the facts: I didn't know and I don't care.
Then what did you ask for? Tiny Person demanded.
"Ben, you're just... You're out of control!"
Tighten the leash then, Tiny Person said.
I imagined a world with the purity of fiction, where every word counts, every action matters, every character moves the plot forward. Where every conflict is resolved. And everything makes sense in the end.
Ha.
Dad threw his hands in the air. "I mean, every other week we're getting calls that you're not cooperating with your therapist-"
"Therapy is stupid."
"You're sneaking off to who knows where-"
"I have a right to go on walks."
"You tried to bribe your driver to let you get behind the wheel-"
"I only did that once."
I recognized his shut your chocolate-chip-waffle-hole face as he clicked on the television set. "And now there are reports that you stole from a gas station? You need to understand that the world doesn't revolve around you, Ben! Don't you understand...do you even get that what you did tonight... It could ruin everything?"
The television screen paused to show my face in front of the cop's station. There were many captions below it; still, nothing about a water bottle. Juvenile delinquent. Rebellion for a nickel. Life of the teenage nuisance. My favorite: strange boy with psychological issues changes election predictions, Peterson down for the count. I had no idea my face was so pale.
"Ben!"
"I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment."
He sank into the couch. "That's a cheap shot."
I shrugged.
"You're...Do you have any idea how hard we work? You're just a-"
"Honey." Mom touched her fingers to his knee, and his face whitened. "You know we love you, Ben. But...I think it's time to try something else."
He turned to his wife. "What would you suggest?"
"Well, according to his psychiatrist, a new environment might serve as an effective stimulus for better behavior..."
She went on like a textbook.
Believe me, Mom's not book smart. But you have to be a little more than a prima donna to live in a mansion like we did. Especially when you grew up rich. You'll do what you can to keep it. She paid attention to what mattered.
He sighed, "So...another therapist then?"
They gazed at each other a while.
"We'll be more selective this time around. Find someone different." She kissed him right on the lips. I was too angry to be revolted.
I flagged my arms towards the ceiling fan. "Hey, I'm still here."
"I think that's what we'll have to do," Dad said. "We should get ahold of Doctor Conner for a list of possible programs."
"Do I get any say in this?" I asked.
"No," he said, "Go to your room."
"WHAT?"
"Now."
"Could we talk about this?"
"Go!"
His forehead flattened like a brick wall. I searched my mother for help, but her fingers sped across her phone's screen. Any argument I had, which I didn't, would be ignored by him and countered by her. My legs collapsed to the quicksand.
I trudged for the staircase. "Fine."
As my feet got heavier, I couldn't help but appreciate a typical conversation in my home. In all but five minutes, my parents were done talking to me. Would it help if I stopped acting like an alternative love interest in a romance novel? Maybe. Perhaps I could take charge in my life by cutting the brat act and listening to the insane voices around me instead of the tiny person in my head. But I have a role as the rebellious teen offspring. I wouldn't want to subvert expectations. Not like Micah, or Nick. Even Kyle.
"We love you, Sweetie," Mom said.
I kept walking. Mom tried too hard. Dad didn't try at all.
***********************************************************************************************
If you like what you see, please don't forget to help me out by voting and commenting! :-)
~TBHughes