Comeback Kids

Chapter 2: Jesse

Look. I've made a lot of mistakes in my life. Nobody's perfect, right? Especially not when they're seventeen. At least, that's what I've been telling myself, because lately, I've turned disappointing my friends and family members into an art. A profession. The final result of one of those career tests that every senior has to take in the guidance counselor's office. (The ones that tell you to be a milliner, or some way off base shit like that. You know what I'm talking about.)

Case in point: four months ago, my girlfriend dumped me.

It was right after Valentine's Day, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't deserve it. I had a lot on my mind at the time and being a decent boyfriend was the last item on my laundry list. Margot threw the box of chocolates I'd bought for her -- See's assorted, 40% off at the grocery store -- on the pavement, then stomped on it to prove her point. She got into her car without a word, slammed the door, and drove out of the school parking lot without me. I'd already missed the bus, so I picked up the dented box and walked home alone in the snow.

As I trudged through the car-exhaust-gray slush on 2nd Ave, flurries catching in my eyelashes and melting on the sleeves of my ski jacket, I gotta admit, I felt pretty sorry myself. Not because I was confused about why Margot had broken up with me in front of half the senior class. I knew why she'd dumped me, and like I said, I knew that I deserved it. I'd picked all the wrong options in the Choose Your Own Adventure book of Jesse Brooks's life, and now it was game over. But even with all that knowing, I still felt tears well up in my eyes and pretended not to notice as they froze on my wind-bitten cheeks, keeping my stare fixed on the train of red brake lights in front of me.

I guess I felt sorry for myself because I knew that I'd have to go home and pretend like everything was fine, even though all I wanted to do was fling my backpack on the floor and scream into my pillow for hours. But that would just lead to all the unwanted questions I've been avoiding for months. My mom would sit me down at the kitchen table and drag a hand through hair that hadn't been washed in days and pretend like she wasn't bone-tired after a 12-hour shift at the hospital as she asked me: What's wrong, Jesse? What happened, Jesse? Why won't you talk to me, Jesse?

And I wouldn't have any answers for her. Just more questions. We'd be right back where we started, only my mom would look even wearier, and I'd feel even worse knowing that I was part of the reason she had bruise-purple bags under her eyes and a constant caffeine tremor in her right hand. I rehearsed what I'd say to her instead: Yeah, sorry, I missed the bus because I stayed too late at study hall. Yeah, Margot is at a field hockey event. No, she won't be coming over for dinner tonight...

I don't know when I got so bad at telling the truth. It's not like I take pride in being a liar, or keeping my mom in the dark. I've never been that kind of kid. My theory is this: at some point, all of the words building up in my throat must've gotten stuck there, because every time I try to let them out, I end up choking on excuses.

Homework, of course, is the classic excuse, because parents love it when they think you're "finally applying yourself" and "reaching your true potential". So, after my break-up with Margot, I Applied myself to school like I never had before. (I had a lot of free time to fill now that I didn't have to be a decent boyfriend.) I spent my lunch period chatting up my teachers and skipped all the senior parties I was invited to so I could study for extra credit on my next exam. When I brought home my report card, my mom finally had a reason to smile, and I had a reason not to think about all those unasked questions.

What's wrong, Jesse? Why don't you smile anymore, Jesse?

My next excuse was that I'd suddenly developed an interest in criminal law. (Parents love the word law because it reminds them of law school, which they can brag about to other parents and is also the ultimate example of Applying Yourself.) I kept a bottle of Absolut in my sock drawer and pulled it out whenever I tuned into the Lockwood trial. It was all over the New York Post, and WABC-TV covered it pretty much every other day, so there was no shortage of drama. Once I realized that I couldn't avoid the trial, I figured that I might as well stay up to date about it, even though watching the proceedings left a taste in my mouth almost as bitter as the shitty vodka.