The Parade

Chapter 3

One side effect of going to sleep at your middle school bedtime is that you wake up at 6:36. One side effect of waking up at 6:36: you have a lot of time to think.

Thinking, for me, would include thinking about what I'm actually doing with my life. I swear, I'm going to die young, because I'm already having my midlife crisis. Why am I just now realizing I'm doing it all wrong? If I realized it earlier, I could have improved my grades. Now, I'm a senior with only average grades, probably going to an average college. Crystal Waters Community College, maybe? I stare at my faded stars on the ceiling. They appear to be clinging to their shine. My eyes fill up with years. Call me emotional, but that's so sad. Poor little stars, just wanting to be like the cool kids hanging out in the sky. I pick the stars, one by one, off of the ceiling and toss them into the waking sky. Gravity pulls them down. I start to cry. Fuck. I just ruined the star's dreams. Maybe it's better to let them do what they can, not letting them try something they can't.

Fucking stars. They aren't even real. Just plastic, glowing cutouts. I pull on sweatpants and run downstairs.

Euca is downstairs, in front of the TV, practically begging me to watch Modern Family. Okay, she's sleeping, but I want to watch Modern Family. The K-Cup machine is bubbling wildly, again, begging me to use it. Nothing is my fault, if you think about it. I'm constantly being tempted.

I drink straight black coffee. That's the only way to drink it, in my opinion. I don't take Crappucinos from anyone. Not even from hot girls. But if a hot girl was talking to me, I probably would take the coffee. Sourly.

There are no hot girls in my house. Only hot messes. Elizabeth stumbles down the stairs, her hair falling out from being teased and tossed in every which way. Thick, black, crayon eyeliner is smudged under her eyes. There's a pink bathrobe on over a black minidress. Gross. She looks like she just got back from a really bad concert.

"Don't...tell Mom...I got home two...ugh...hours ago...don't tell Dad," she brings her finger up to her lips and groggily lays on the couch.

"How many cups?" I ask, being the A-plus big brother that I am.

"One Smirnoff. First time drinking. Parties suck. I hate my friends," tears roll down her cheeks.

"What makes you say that?"

"I hate it! I hate the stupid giggling girls who hang on boys that don't care about them and just want to see them naked! I hate how cheerleaders and football players, gosh, how they get together in the bathroom and don't lock the door. I don't want to kiss hot, drunk bastards! I don't want to get back with Roger! I want to talk about books with Jessica! I hate my life!"

"Then change it," who was a logical response, in my opinion. Elizabeth gaped at me like I was crazy.

"I can't, you lunatic. I'm stuck with Brock and Company, those sleazy, boozy douches."

"His name is Brock? That's literally so American-teenager-novel."

"I know. I asked him if he was joking. Of course, he's dating Ashley. Brock is the quarterback and Ashley is head cheerleader. She calls him names that are so...repulsive. I call him Jocky Cocky Brocky. He doesn't get it. But, he's nearly always holding a red cup, so that makes sense."

"Princess Brocky-Pie," I add. We both grin and giggle.

"Do you know Caleb?"

Caleb's our linebacker. Tall, blonde, green eyes. Punk fanatic,

"I know of him."

"He's gay."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I was crying in the guest bedroom and he came in to join me. The boys were calling him gay and he said Jason let it slip and they're trying to kick him out. Really! He loves Harry Potter, he said, and he just wants to go back to fourth grade and eat granola bars and read. I said maybe we can do that sometime. He said he'd love that. We kissed, actually. In a drunk, sloppy, friendly way. In a gay-guy-and-straight-girl way."

Chuckles slip out of my mouth. She's obviously still drunk.

"Well, I should tidy up. Bye, bro!"

I miss the good person Elizabeth used to be. The person that hated cliché nicknames like Ellie or Beth, the little girl who wanted to go by Zabby. I believe in that little girl. But maybe she's far too gone, lost in the world of red cups and cheerleaders.

I think about our cheerleaders. Good, sweet girls who go to church on Sunday morning even though they have hickeys under their chins and headaches from their ridiculous hangovers. They're the pride of our school. And they are so cute. Cute, little angels with tight skirts and hair poufs and big smiles. Big, white smiles. Tall, slim bodies. Loud, happy voices. Hickeys. Sore legs. Dirty minds. Rich families. It's the American dream, and I'm not on board.

Mom slumps down the stairs, sleepily brushing golden curls out of her face. She basically dumps an entire bottle of hazelnut creamer into her cup.

"Don't use it up, that's my favorite!" I laugh hysterically. She knows I loathe creamer.

She clenches her jaw and groans, her eyes filling with tears. "Emmanuel Tyler Johnson, do not joke around. I'm not in the mood," her voice stings with raw, obvious irritation. She smoothes her eyebrows like they hold the key to life. Or the key to make me shut up, with I know she'd prefer. "I don't like your tone. It reminds me of your depressive tendencies. I think that's what it roots back to. It's unsettling."

Oh, not this again. Everything is about my depressive tendencies. My entire life roots back to my depressive tendencies. As does human existence, the extinction of the dinosaurs, and Shia LeBouf's personality, I'm sure.

"Not everything is about my depressive tendencies, Mom," I say, my frustration firmly engraved in my words.

As soon as I open my mouth, Mom sighs. Not a casual, mid-life-crises sigh. A long, overly dramatic sigh.

"If you sigh any harder, you might die," I laugh.

She bangs her coffee down on the table. "That's it, Emmanuel. I'm fucking done," she fixes her hair calmly and shoots me a sharp stare.

In that moment, I realize how broken my mom is. Lines of age creep around on her face. Her lips are cracked and dry, like she's been put in a desert. Her foundation hides it all, but she's old. Sagging skin has replaced the firm, clear, Neutrogena face. She regrets her life. She wishes she never had me. I know it. We have the same eyes. I can read everything.

Suddenly, I have another realization. I am a failed son. I've failed my entire family, especially my mom, who's done nothing wrong. My mom has lost everything by having me. I know it, I can read her face like a Little Golden Book. We're losers, my mom and I, living in this winner of a world.