The Parade

Chapter 6

What does a mom say when their kid is going off? Specifically to a mental facility? Dad's already told me to wear protection. Elizabeth says to have fun. For a few days now, Mom has been pacing around the hallways, wondering what to say. It's her fault, anyways. She can't tell me to make friends, I don't make friends. She can't say have fun, because Elizabeth already said that, plus it's ridiculous, I never have fun.

We've already been through what it's going to be like. Basically, I transfer this room to the room there through suitcases. I don't have to have a roommate, and I've already decided to avoid that.

I think of Tracey Von Vaugh, off to Kenwich Community College. A few months ago, her parents were distraught and sobbing, already missing their little girl. Now, what is she? Not their little girl. I wonder how they feel now.

I think of Elisse Jane. Pink and thin. Off to be a big girl in the real world. Moving in with her Jack Frost boyfriend in Chicago. Finding work as a fashion designer. I hope she's okay. Strawberry sweethearts usually get mugged.

I think of Roger, how he blew off Elizabeth. He toured some Florida school. Already hooked up with some sorority girls. I saw on his Facebook wall, him posing with orange girls in an orange room. Pink lips and white-blonde hair poufs. Big gold hoops and chains. Short shorts and white shirts over lacy leopard bras. The taste of freedom. Sometimes I'm jealous of gum-smacking Jersey girls. They're free. They can love whoever under anybody's roof. Twirl around in American flags until they die. But it's not like they have a future with anyone. It's not like Roger has a future with them. I can see Roger's future. Playing drunk football on Thanksgiving while his tiny blonde wife with boobs cleans up dinner and tells herself that divorce would ruin their future frat boy child. I have no doubt that Roger's dad is patting him on that back and his mom is telling herself that it's too late for a divorce. My mom can't even speak to me.

My senses are awakened. Footsteps. Back and forth downstairs on bare feet. Crying. Next room over. Elizabeth's tears. Beer. The intoxicating smell of alcohol. Yelling. Yelling from the TV. The game must be on. A game, anyways. Euca's fur. She knows I'm leaving. I know she knows. I love her.

Again, I hear Elizabeth crying. Screaming. Heart-wrenching guttural wails that pierce the house. I don't know why she expected him to stay. Did she? Then, it hits me; he took her virginity. It kind of burns me, somewhere, deep in my chest. But then again, I don't care. She doesn't care about me. She wouldn't give a shit about my virginity, so I don't give a shit about hers.

"Did you expect him to stay?" I scream at her. She comes over to my room, the next room over, and shakes her tiny head. I remember Tracey all at once. Roger's a tornado, scattering everything in his path. Tracey changed because of him. She loathes herself. I don't pity her. She kind of deserves it. I mean, she's a bitch.

In one second, I feel where pity could be for Elizabeth. Her hair is in a top bun, a loose ball. Makeup from several days ago is in clumps on her skin. Her pale, naked eyelashes are soaked in tears, her blue eyes drowning.

"I did," she chokes out like a frog, "because he changed. I saw Tracey. I asked him about her and he said she went nuts and had sex with his ex. He cried and I felt so bad. He was so damaged by her. He...he cared so much. About her safety. He said I fixed him. I FIXED HIM, DAMMIT. I HELD HIM IN MY GOSH DARN ARMS AND SANG TO HIM AND MADE HIM BETTER." She throws herself on the ground and screams.

"That's such a didn't situation. He didn't care. You didn't fix him. He wasn't broken."

"I'm going to dye my hair."

She wants me to fold the tinfoil in, so I do. The box makes it look reddish-brownish. It's a beautiful color. Deep, dark brown and chestnut swirled with red accents. I kind of want that hair. But I'm a Jet Black Baby.

She dips her hair into the liquid and lets it dry. The blonde is completely unseen. Out of sight, out of mind. I like the new hair more. Elizabeth puts on a clean Joy Division tee and black shorts. We look like punk rock twins, which is almost cool, except we don't really talk.

Mom seems to like it. She sobs at the sight and pills out her whiskey flask, all while cursing God and saying how her family ties have been torn. She mutters that she wants to have a normal American family, while downing some prescription pills. Gotta love my mom. She's a real winner.

"EMMANUEL I KNOW YOU TOOK THE LAST GINGER BEER YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT," she half-yells-half-psychotically-cries at me.

"It was Dad."

"I MARRIED A MORON AND HAD MORON KIDS FUCK YOU ALL!"

Elizabeth's blue eyes morph into otherworldly planets. Like Saturns on her face. Her hair is stringy and damp. She runs upstairs, and Mom follows, up to Dad's room.

"GIVE ME A SIP!"

"No."

"Please...I'm so sad...I need it please love I love you."

"You're drunk."

"Not yet give me the beer I love you baby."

"No."

"PLEASE I NEED IT IN MY BODY!"

I feel Elizabeth vibrate, shake, and hide under the table. She runs her fingers through her hair and crumples into a ball.

"It's all my fault."

"Yeah."

"I hate myself."

"Sorry."

Her voice quavers as she mutters how scared she is. I'm pretty used to this. It happens a few times every year. Never like this, but it's just a level up. I guess I never considered us to be a broken family. But this is it. Mom trying to convince Dad to give her his beer up in a the bedroom, while the kids listen down below. She's trying everything. Everything. Sparks collide inside me. I scream to let them out. Mom tells us to go outside. We do, and we sleep on the back porch until it's safe to come in.