knew about Tyler’s date with Sasha, Aaron would unload a barrage of vile-soaked insults at Tyler’s choice of girl. Aaron had never been seen even talking to a girl one-on-one, so Tyler didn’t much care what Aaron said. Besides, the kid could be quite amusing.
“I’m in Mrs. Pulk’s class,” Aaron says before Tyler even opens his brown bag. “She’s doing her usual lecture shit and the class is real quiet. Bunch of zombies in there, man, I tell you. Anyway, she’s talking about some constellation or some shit and then she stops, like freezes, bends over like she’s about to fall and grabs the desk in front of her—Kyle Prescott is sitting there like somebody strung or out or something—and she unloads this ass cheek-shaking fart that sounds like a damn grenade going off. I was so stunned I couldn’t say anything. And then you know what she does? Mrs. Pulk straightens up, looks at us, and says, ‘Bet you can’t beat that.’ I fucking lost it, man. Almost fell out of my seat.”
“She didn’t say that.”
“Fuck yeah, she did. That bitch is crazy.”
“That is crazy.” Tyler actually thought it was kind of great that a teacher, especially an old one like Mrs. Pulk, could be so cool about farting.
“Kyle woke up, started choking, said, ‘Damn, what’s that stink?’ And I yell out, “Look out, she had tacos for lunch!’ That did it—class erupted and Mrs. Pulk had to stand there and take it.”
Delaney and her friends Shannon and Randi joined the table. Usually, the conversations never overlapped or intersected but Tyler didn’t detest his sister the way a lot of boys detested theirs. He never ignored her or pretended they weren’t related. She was a year younger, a bit of a nerd and like to dress up real girly though not trashy like most high school girls. She only owned one pair of high heels and those she wore for her band concerts. They had been really close when they were young, playing all the time, and though he mostly made fun of her now, it was always out of brotherly devotion. She was a cool girl and he liked hanging with her, but that didn’t mean he wanted Paul shoving his tongue down her throat. Or anything else, for that matter.
“What’s up, bro? Dad make you his special PB&J?”
“Haven’t looked yet. Aaron was regaling me with a story of Mrs. Pulk, the amazing farting teacher.”
Delaney frowned. “I love Mrs. Pulk. She farted in class?”
Aaron found a break in his laughter to make an explosion gesture with his hands and shout, “Kaboom!”
Delaney smiled. “That’s horrible. Stop laughing.”
“It was like D-Day!” Aaron yelled. His face had darkened to deep red.
After saying something to Shannon and Randi, Delaney turned back to Tyler and asked about his big date.
“Who told you?”
“Everybody knows, big brother.” She shook her head. “You sure can pick them.”
Aaron quieted his screeches of laughter. “Date? Who you banging, Tyler?”
“I’m not banging any—”
“Sasha Karras,” Delaney said.
Aaron’s eyes went huge. “That weirdo bitch? You’re kidding me? Her mother’s a witch or something.”
“She’s not a witch.”
Sasha’s mother worked the Key Club Fright Fest every Halloween, always dressed up in a black gown with heavy, black makeup. She read fortunes from a stack of tarot cards. Kids said she sacrificed stray cats to her evil witch god.
“Crazy bitch collected Sasha’s period blood to use in her ceremonies.”
“Ew,” Shannon said but she was smiling.
“You made that up.”
Aaron shrugged. Even if he had made it up that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Such was the world of high school logic.
“Don’t do it,” Aaron said. “You’ll be tainted.”
Tyler turned to Delaney. “Thanks, sis.”
“No problem, bro. Just don’t embarrass the family. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“Yeah, right. Tough to keep that nerd persona untarnished.”
Her face crumpled a bit but she fought it off. “Just don’t forget to wear a condom.”
“Yeah,” Aaron said, all serious. “You don’t want to have a kid with that bitch.”
“Shut up,” Tyler said. He finally opened his lunch and found a Hot Pocket in its plastic wrapper. How the hell was he going to microwave it? Thanks, Dad.
2
Chloe wanted her damn pills. She could scream for them, shout at the top of her lungs until her throat cracked and her energy vanished. She could beg for them, cry for them, but Anthony wasn’t going to give them to her. Dr. Carroll had prescribed them, so, sure, legally she could take them, but that didn’t mean she
“Please!” Her plea rolled down the hallway from the bedroom where she kept a constant vigil in bed.
If she really wanted her little coma-inducing pills, she could get out of bed and get them herself. But she wouldn’t, of course, not until her withdrawal became too painful to endure. But he wouldn’t let it go that far. She would wear him down and he would obediently fetch whichever colored pill she wanted.
“I need them.” Her voice was an anger-tinged cry, the sound of an animal stuck in a trap.
He wasn’t doing anything, just standing in the kitchen, cleaning the counter, drinking some coffee, but he wanted to tell her to get the fuck out of the bed this instant, stop being so damn pathetic, take a shower, get some clean clothes on, go outside and stop bothering him.
“I deserve them,” she yelled. Her voice rasped like it was on the verge of collapse.
Dr. Carroll said the pills would take the edge off, but they had done a whole hell of a lot more than that—they had anesthetized her from life. Dr. Carroll was a good man, a good psychiatrist based on the recommendations of a few people from work, but he was awfully quick to prescribe drugs. Anthony hadn’t wanted his son Brendan on any Ritalin or similar Help-You-Focus drug, but the proof was, as they say, in the pudding. Brendan’s grades had improved. So, after that day last month when he discovered the pain so many other parents have suffered and yet still thought his own pain far worse, he turned to Dr. Carroll for help. He and Chloe attended sessions together but, ultimately, Chloe had gotten the script she wanted and found the peace she sought. If you slept all the time, maybe the pain would stay away. Anthony suffered more pain in his dreams where he relived the tragic day over and over or, and this was sometimes worse, dreamt the baby was still alive and then awoke to discover the truth. But Chloe didn’t suffer nightmares; her pills were a forcefield against them. Against everything else, too.
“Why don’t you care about me?” Her words gargled on her self-pity.
Anthony sipped his coffee and squeezed the dish towel in his hand. If he punched her in the face, he could knock her out without pills and the towel might cushion the hit so he wouldn’t break her cheekbone.
That thought lingered for several seconds before Anthony’s revulsion pushed it far away, forced him to set down his coffee, and urged his legs down the hallway to the bedroom.
The room was dark, the shades drawn. The day’s sunlight was forced into the corners where swirls of dust danced in the air. The room stank of old sweat and persistent halitosis. Both were side effects of the pills.
Chloe was beneath the comforter. Her withered body was hardly a lump among the folds. In the dark, her face was a talking shadow, like something from one of his nightmares.
“I’ve been calling for you.”
“I know.”
“Get me my pills.”
He stopped halfway to the master bath. “You should get out of bed.”
“I’m tired.”
“A shower will make you feel good.”
“My pills.”
“I’ll make you some breakfast. The kids are at school. We can talk.”
She paused, thinking. Her lips made a wet smacking sound. “Talk about what?”
“About helping you.”
“Helping me? Helping me? How the hell are you going to help me?”
“I want you to get better.”
