Looking At Us

11. cris

Did you see Darrin beat up that kid today?

     Yes, I did, and it was ugly. I’m sorry, but your brother’s kind of a jerk. No offense. 

     None taken. You should see him when he’s really pissed. 

     ‘‘Cris! Where’s Darrin?’’ Dad called. 

     I looked up from my phone briefly. ‘’At Cody’s with his friends. They’re watching a movie or something.’’

     ‘‘Did he say when he’d be back?’’

     ‘’No. Sasha was with him.’’

     I could imagine Dad’s face; he did not approve of Sasha Hawk, the girl who mixed her body with Darrin’s, manipulated him, twisted him. A night of fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds playing with drinks and drugs and girlfriends in front of horror movies was not what my father recommended for Darrin. He was ADHD, which caused him to do impulsive and rash actions. Alcohol did not reduce the chance of him getting hurt or arrested. 

     What’s your new elective this term?  

     Home Ec. You?

     Hey, I got the same. Why would they combine ninth graders with eleventh graders, though? 

     I have no idea. 

     Taking to Megan was like going to a massage therapist after you’ve done bench presses with an eighteen-wheeler. It released the tension in my muscles, soothed the stress, and blunted my nerves. It was my ecstasy, my stillness from the hell I was currently living in. 

     I was an abandoned soul, and she was the angel I got to visit on weekends. 

     I asked: Who’s your favorite teacher?

     Her response: Are we playing 20 Questions? 

     And I laughed. 

     I texted: Possibly. 

     Okay . . . Mr. Rogers. Even though I hate biology. You?

     Mr. Sanchez. Social studies. 

     I hate social studies, too. 

     Which class do you not hate?

     Math. 

     That is incredibly ironic. You are not making sense to me right now. 

     Get used to it. I’m a senseless person. 

     I could the phone ringing downstairs, followed by Dad’s footsteps to answer it. The TV broadcasted a sports game in the background; hockey, maybe. 

     Cris, are you a badass grade eleven who screws girls for fun? 

     Dad laughed on the phone, and I laughed in my head. 

     No. Where’d you get that idea? 

     ‘Cause I was thinking about Cody Spentz, and I was thinking about you and Cori. 

     There was an automatic answer for one of those, and a hesitant answer for the other. 

     I texted: Cody is a dickhead. 

     Yes, Megan replied. 

     Cori and I weren’t that serious. Cody . . . he dared us to have sex once, but we refused. I swear, I am not like that asshole. 

     To my surprise, Megan said: I believe you. 

     ‘‘Cris!’’ Dad called. ‘‘I’m going out! Be back in a few hours!’’

     He left. A second later, the phone rang, and I had to run down to answer it. 

     ‘‘Hello?’’

     ‘‘Cris?’’ It was Darrin, his voice sounding incredibly weak. ‘’Is Dad there?’’ 

     ‘’He just left.’’

     Darrin swore softly. ‘‘Could you come get me from Cody’s? I threw up.’’ 

     ‘‘Yeah, okay.’’ I grabbed my keys. ‘’Did you make a huge mess or anything?’’ 

     ‘’No. Well . . . no. It’s fine. I just need a ride home.’’ 

     I told him that I’d be there in five minutes, and I took my phone with me incase I needed to call Dad or Emily or whoever. But even though I knew not to text while I was driving, I wanted to feel the buzzes of Megan’s incoming messages in my pocket, to feel like I was shivering while she was running her hands over my skin.