Maybe I Will Page 9

  I sat on the table in the dusk with my notebook and started to write.

  I am everything.

  I am nothing.

  I could be anyone

  Or no one at all.

  I once had everything.

  Now I have nothing.

  I’m trapped in the darkness

  Behind a brick wall.

  What happened to everything?

  I laugh and think nothing.

  I’m not turning back.

  I’m not willing to crawl.

  Where is everybody?

  Now that I’m nobody

  All of my friends

  Are just bricks in the wall.

  I shoved my notebook back into my backpack. I needed a plan. A plan to get through the night and the weekend. A plan to get through my first session with Erin TheRapist. Mom’s voice: Well, the first thing you can do is stop calling her that. Her name is Dr. McMann. I needed a plan to get through my first session with Dr. McMann or to find another therapist. The Rapist. Counselor. I needed to find another counselor. I lay down across the top of the table and using my backpack as a pillow closed my eyes and went to sleep.

  When I woke up it was dark, and there was someone shaking me.

  “No!” I shouted, struggling to get up and away.

  “Sandy, it’s okay.” My eyes focused on Mr. Washington standing barefoot in his taekwondo uniform. “What are you doing here?”

  I stood up, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. “I just . . . “ I started. Mr. Washington waited. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I was just looking for a place where I could think.”

  “Well, it’s a little too cold and a little too dark for me to just leave you out here thinking all night long. Come inside with me.” He motioned for me to follow him in the back door. We walked through the same storage room I’d been in this morning, but it seemed a lot darker and more ominous at night.

  “I didn’t think anyone was here,” I said. I rubbed the green rubber dummy’s six-pack abs for good luck as we walked past and into the dimly lit studio.

  “I came back for a private lesson and was closing up shop for the weekend,” he said. “I didn’t think anyone else was here, either.”

  It felt weird being in the studio all alone with Mr. Washington. I wasn’t afraid really, but I didn’t feel like I belonged there anymore.

  “Just have a seat over there while I finish up.” Mr. Washington motioned to some stools by the counter. He erased the weekly white board calendar on the wall and wrote in the stuff for next week. “You got a car?” he asked when he was through.

  “No, sir,” I replied. Taekwondo was all about calling people “sir” and “ma’am.” It seemed funny at first, especially calling Shanika “ma’am,” but now I said it without thinking.

  “So you want to tell me what you were thinking about?” Mr. Washington asked this kindly. He wasn’t pressuring me, but I knew I couldn’t tell him what I was really thinking about. So I decided to talk about the assignment.

  “I have to do a paper on character,” I said. “Due Monday.”

  “Well, I’m flattered that you came here.” He smiled as he shuffled some papers into several stacks by the cash register. “So did you figure out what to write?”

  I shook my head. “I ended up thinking more about honesty and integrity.” And self-control, only I don’t want to say that out loud.

  “Maybe those have something to do with character,” he said.

  I nodded. “Do you ever talk to your taekwondo students about character?”

  “Everything I teach my students is about character,” he replied.

  “So what would you say character is?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m better at just living what I think than I am at putting my thoughts into words.” He came over beside me, pulled out another stool and sat down. “Did you ever hear of a guy called Wild Goose Jack?”

  I shook my head.

  “I didn’t think so. I only heard of him because my grandmamma loved geese, especially the Canadian ones. Anyway, she told me Wild Goose Jack said that ‘a man’s reputation is what other people think of him; his character is what he really is.’ I don’t know if it’s true, but it sounds good, and it’s always stuck with me.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Sandy. I’ll drive you home.”

  18

  Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief

  Convert to anger, blunt not the heart, enrage it.

  —Macbeth, Act IV, Scene iii, Lines 228-229

  MOM AND DAD were NOT happy when I walked in around 8:30 Friday night.

  They both started talking at once. “We’ve been calling and texting for the past two hours!” “Who is this Hector? We don’t want you driving around with people we haven’t even met.”

  I slipped my backpack off and tried to calm them down. “Whoa, Mom. Dad. Didn’t you get my note?”

  “We got the note,” Mom said.

  “But we don’t know anything at all about Hector,” Dad cut in.

  “And we would have liked to talk with you on the phone about it,” Mom added.

  “Where’s your phone?” Dad asked.

  I rummaged through my backpack. “I must have left it in my room. I’ll go get it.” I made a mad dash to get my backpack and vodka-filled water bottle as far from them as possible. I grabbed the phone off my bed and kicked my backpack under the bed and out of sight. Then I walked calmly back into the living room where they were arguing with each other. Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever heard them argue like this before.

  I sat down in the middle of the couch and waited until they stopped arguing with each other and turned their attention back to me. I checked my phone. Ten missed messages. “I’m really sorry,” I said. “I passed my testing and earned my yellow belt. Then I remembered about my paper due Monday, and decided to go to the library. Hector’s in my grade at school. Remember, Dad? I told you he was doing the rank advancement camp this week, too. I didn’t know it was going to be such a big deal.” I’d lied about Hector in the note, but what I was saying now was all true. I was thinking about going to the library; I just didn’t end up there.

  Mom and Dad came and sat on either side of me. “Yes, I remember now,” said Dad. “But Sandy, we don’t know anything about this kid or where he lives or who his parents are. We didn’t even know where to start looking for you.”

  “We called Troy and Cassie and Shanika,” Mom added, “But no one knew where you were. Shanika said that she brought you home after taekwondo, but she had no idea you and Hector were going to the library or which library you were going to.”

  It really bothered me that my parents had called Shanika. It sounded like she’d covered for me okay, but I’m pretty sure Shanika knew I wasn’t at the library with Hector. And Troy. And Cassie. Who knew where they were or what they were doing.

  I couldn’t bring myself to ask about Cassie, but I really wondered whether maybe Troy at least still cared a little. “Where was Troy?” I asked.

  “At his uncle’s garage working on a car,” Mom answered. “He said that he’d been working all week and hadn’t really even talked to you.”

  “Apparently, you haven’t been talking to Cassie lately, either,” Dad said.

  “I’ve been at taekwondo camp all week!” The words came out a little more forcefully than I intended.

  “We know that, Sandy. You don’t have to get all defensive,” said Mom.

  ‘We’re just worried, Sandy,” Dad said with a sigh. “We’re trying to figure out what’s going on with you, and you’re not giving us much to go on.”

  “What is it about taekwondo that has you so worried anyway?” I asked. I was starting to feel a little trapped between them and needed to orchestrate a graceful exit.

  “It’s not the taekwondo,” said Dad. “We’re actually very impressed with Mr. Washington and think that having a sport like that will look good on your college application.”

  Mom put her hand on my knee.
“But Shanika is several years older than you are, and sometimes once the seniors have been admitted to a college, they start to slack off . . . “ Mom let her voice trail off.

  Dad completed her thought. “And party more.”

  Mom looked at Dad and then back to me. “Sandy, we’ve been wondering if the Nyquil was the only thing you’ve taken.”

  My face immediately flushed. Anger catapulted me from the couch. “I get it now,” I said, turning to face my parents. “You think I’m out partying with Shanika because she’s a senior or doing drugs with Hector because he’s Hispanic! I don’t believe you guys!”

  My parents looked genuinely shocked. Mom recovered first. “Sandy, that’s not what we were trying to say.”

  “That’s what you think, though, isn’t it?” I said it an accusatory tone I’d never used with my parents before. “Well, you’re wrong. You really don’t understand anything, do you?” And with that I stormed out of the living room and back into my room.

  If I’d been going for drama and the full effect, I would have slammed my bedroom door, too, but I’d actually surprised myself. My heart was pounding, and I felt so overcome by adrenaline that I really think I could have pulled the door right off its hinges. I sat down on my bed and tried to sort through everything that had just happened. I had vodka in my backpack under my bed and another bottle hidden in my closet, but I didn’t dare reach for it. I was pretty sure my parents would be knocking on my door any second.

  I was trembling, but not because I wanted a drink. I suddenly felt so powerful—bigger than life. The anger was almost more intoxicating than the alcohol. And guess what! I seem to have tapped in to an unlimited supply. It’s all mine, it’s free, and it’s LEGAL!

  I could hear my parents still arguing with each other. I know I should have felt bad about that, but I was just glad they were leaving me alone. I picked up my notebook and pen and started thinking about how good it felt to be angry. If jealousy is a green-eyed monster, maybe anger is a red-eyed monster. But Shakespeare never wrote that. Maybe I will . . . So I sat on my bed and wrote this poem:

  My Red-Eyed Monster

  Such a bitter seed I swallowed.

  No one saw, and no one knew.

  I buried it inside myself Where it took root and grew.

  I felt it pierce my spirit

  And worm into my veins.

  It snaked my heart and arteries

  And bound my soul in chains.

  For weeks I’ve fed this monster

  Stolen spirits laced with pain.

  Still it slithers through me,

  Deftly preying on my brain.

  I feel it now in every cell.

  My body’s not my own.

  And even though it’s steeped in fear,

  There’s strength I’ve never known.

  My timeless gladiator

  Transcends gender, race and age.

  From you, my red-eyed monster,

  I accept this gift of RAGE.

  I flipped back through the notebook and reread all the poems I’d written this past week. By this time, it was after 11:00, so I knew my parents weren’t coming in to see me tonight. I thought about taking a drink, but then decided to relish a bit in my rage. I stood up and performed my white-belt form with more energy and precision than I’d ever imagined.

  I am strong. I am powerful. I felt like I could master everything and everyone. So I ignored Mr. Conaway’s voice in the back of my head whispering, “But do you have character? Do you even know what character is?”

  Once I was certain my parents had gone to bed, I went down-stairs and raided the refrigerator. For the first time in forever, I was hungry.

  19

  Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears,

  Moist it again, and frame some feeling line

  That may discover such integrity.

  —Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act III, Scene ii, Lines 75-77

  WHEN I CAME down for breakfast the next morning, we all just kind of pretended that last night never happened. I was sitting at the table, leaning over my cereal bowl and shoveling it in to make sure my mouth was full at all times. It was one of those April days where it rained nonstop, so when Dad offered to drive me to the library, the idea wasn’t very appealing.

  “I think I’ll just work on the paper in my room,” I said without bothering to swallow or sit up straight.

  Mom came over and sat next to me drinking a cup of coffee. “So, only two more weeks until the school musical.”

  I nodded and kept shoveling. I wasn’t going to encourage polite conversation on any topic. I wasn’t really trying to be rude, but I could still feel the anger bubbling up under the surface of every word I spoke.

  “We were able to get a Wednesday evening appointment with Dr. McMann at 7 p.m. so you won’t have to miss rehearsal.” Mom was staring at me expectantly. I just kept shoveling and chewing. Every now and then I made this slurping noise without really meaning to.

  My father was sitting back away from the table, half hiding behind the morning paper. Occasionally he would glance at me like he was waiting for an apology or something. Or maybe he was debating whether he and Mom should apologize to me. Ha! Not likely. But if he does, I think I’ll tell him maybe he and Mom should go talk to Dr. McMann and leave me alone.

  When there was nothing left in my bowl to slurp or shovel, I mumbled, “May I be excused?” I didn’t wait for a response; I just put my breakfast bowl and spoon in the dishwasher and retreated to my room.

  I ran all the way through white belt form twice to release all the breakfast scene stress. I studied orange belt form a little bit, but then started thinking about my character assignment again. I was thinking that the poem I wrote on character might be okay to turn in, but after reading through it silently and then out loud I wasn’t so sure. It sounded good to me, but was it really any good? It’s not Shakespeare, that’s for sure. Shakespeare would write sonnets.

  That’s when I remembered one of my favorite lines from A Wrinkle in Time where Mrs. Whatsit is talking about writing sonnets: “You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you.” It seemed like a good way to approach this formless writing assignment . . . first define the form I want to use, give myself some boundaries, and then express myself through the form. Maybe it will be liberating in the same way the taekwondo forms seem to be.

  Shakespeare wrote 154 sonnets. I had them all right there together taking up less than 30 pages of my Complete Works volume. The form was pretty simple. Each poem had 14 lines, the first 12 divided into three stanzas and then a final couplet. It was all in iambic pentameter, which meant each line sounded like ta-DA ta-DA ta-DA ta-DA ta-DA. The first and third lines of each stanza rhymed and so did the second and fourth lines, then the last two lines in the couplet rhymed, too. The idea was to set out an issue or a problem in the first 12 lines and then summarize or resolve it in the last two. So I sat down and read all of Shakespeare’s sonnets just to get the rhyme and rhythm pattern burned into my brain.

  A lot of them were about love, like Sonnet 18, which starts out:

  Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

  Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

  I mostly ignored all of the gushy love stuff and read it all for meter. Like this:

  Shall I comPARE thee TO a SUMmer’s DAY? Thou ART more LOVEly AND more TEMperATE. But there were some with great one-liners tucked away in them. Like the final couplet in Sonnet 28:

  But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,

  And night doth nightly make grief’s strength seem stronger.

  I was thinking a lot about what Mr. Washington had said. A man’s reputation is what other people think of him; his character is what he really is. And just like that it came to me: My character is who I really am. Perfect iambic pentameter! All I needed was a rhyme for “am” and I had my final couplet. My reputation’s nothing but a sham. Bingo! It helped to just sit and read
one sonnet right after the other because my mind really was stuck in the meter.

  I was on a roll when Mom knocked on the door. “Sandy?” she called softly as she knocked.

  “Yeah?” I answered coolly.

  “Do you mind if I come in?”

  “You and Dad own the whole house, don’t you?” I was surprised how quickly the monster could surface when I was feeling pretty good just a moment before.

  I could hear Mom take a deep breath, weighing her words carefully. Why is it suddenly so easy to be mean to her?

  “I just wanted to let you know that lunch is ready, if you’d like to join us.”

  Wow. Lunchtime already? Come to think of it, I am feeling hungry again.

  “Okay,” I said. This time I tried to sound a little nicer. “I’ll be right down.”

  Nobody was saying much during lunch. Any other time I’d have been wondering who died. But I knew. It was my red-eyed monster that was controlling the room. Part of me felt a little bad for my parents because they really didn’t deserve to be treated like this, but it just felt so good to be in control for a while. Still, Mom had broiled tuna steaks with ginger dressing and made California rolls, both of which she knew I absolutely loved. I decided to tell them about my progress to make them feel better.

  “I’ve been working really hard on this assignment for World History,” I said. You could almost hear the pressure whoosh out of my parents like when an 18-wheeler releases the engine break.

  “What’s the assignment?” Dad asked. He mixed some wasabi and soy sauce in a little dish.

  “We’re supposed to pick a question from a long list and answer it. I picked ‘What is character?’” I motioned for him to pass me the soy sauce.

  “That’s a pretty big question,” Mom jumped in. “You could write on that for years and still not get it exactly right.”

  Dad nodded. “No wonder you’ve been holed up in your room all morning. How long does it have to be?” He dipped a big piece of the roll in the mix using his chop sticks and stuffed it into his mouth. So not pretty. That’s why I use a fork and cut them in half.