Catch Me (Synacky)

Chapter One: Zacky

Dad says I'm brilliant. He says I'm a genius, and to never let anyone tell me otherwise. He says what I have, it doesn't make me bad. In fact, I'm just misunderstood. And I understand that. Humans are strange, queer creatures. How can anyone understand them?

I used to go to a normal school. I liked it there, they had special classes for students like me. We would find our happy places and we could count by prime numbers and recite pi. They even let me bring my guitar to school, and whenever I got frustrated, I could play.

But then Mum went away when I was fourteen. Dad said I would have to try harder. He said that he would try for me, he would do his best, but I had to do my part. I would have to get over my loathing of idioms and the color yellow, and I'd have to remember to stay at the house when he was at work. If his work friend sat in my seat at the supper table I was not to throw a fit.

This proved to be very difficult for me.

It was hard when Mum left because Dad had to leave for work. So I had to wake up by myself and make myself something to eat and get myself to the bus. It interfered with my schedule, and that was frightening.

I refused to go to school after Mum left for exactly seven days. Monday to Wednesday of the following week. I was trying to reset my luck, to make everything go back to normal. I did not like the change of routine. It ruined everything.

Dad took some time off. He made me breakfast in the morning. He told me that Mum was on a vacation for a while and I would have to learn to pour cereal and not spill the milk. I asked him who would pick out the yellow pieces of my Froot Loops. He decided to separate them all the night before.

I slid into that routine fairly easily. There were only a few days where I would flee to my room and rock and hug my pet and recite pi until I felt better.

I found solace in mathematics, but I also deeply enjoyed music. They are very much related, music and math. Music notes come in sets of 7 (ABCDEFG) which is marvelous. Seven is good because it is prime. Prime numbers are excellent because they are not confusing. They are easy and simple and at their most basic form.

Even though a guitar has six strings, I still think it is magical. Music is like language, except it is easier to comprehend and easier to speak. I love music, because there are no social expectations. Technically, there is no way you can be wrong, because it is interpretive. It is a language where you can be the sender and the recipient, and that is language in its best form.

No one taught me how to play guitar. I remember on January 23rd, 1988 Mum took me to Granddad's and he let me try his guitar. Something clicked. It came to me. I was learning blues scales two months later, and I've been playing ever since.

My life became orderly again after Mum left. It took some time, but I got used to it. And then, when I turned sixteen, the accident happened.

It was December 11th. My birthday. I am always pleased on my birthday, because 11 is a prime number. Also, my birth month and day fall in succession, which is good. 11, 12, and even though 12 is not prime, I still appreciate the effort.

But on my 16th birthday, I went inside and Dad was at home early. I didn't mind this, sometimes he'd give me some money and we could buy Snickers bars at the corner store. But that day he had a woman with him. And she was everything I despised.

I asked Dad, "Where's Mum?" Because she was still on vacation, and Dad couldn't have a woman here without Mum knowing, right? Surely this was one of Mum's friends, and Mum was in the kitchen making blueberry pie.

He told me that Mum wasn't coming home. He said this woman would be my new Mum. She smelled like the exhaust from my school bus and her handbag was vibrant yellow.

I was frightened. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to rock, to recite numbers, my fingers were itching for my guitar. It was laying on the couch, but Dad was trying to console me. I grabbed my guitar, and I shouted at him. He shouted back. Why can't you understand, Zacky, goddammit!

I ran from the house.

A nice policeman with a sweet dog named Julie found me that night. I had my pet and my guitar and I was running up and down the frets. The policeman asked me to play him a song. I played some Metallica, but my hands were shaking and I was scared.

He asked me if I wanted him to take me home. I told him yes, but only if the lady with the yellow bag was gone. He assured me that she was.

When we arrived at home, I went inside. Dad hugged me, which I only like sometimes. I didn't like it this time because he smelled like that woman. I groaned at him and he made me a peanut butter sandwich, cut into five pieces, like I used to have when I was a child. It soothed me.

The next day, he was still there. He told me I didn't have to go to school today. I asked if it was a holiday, and he said yes, of sorts.

We went to get ice cream, and it was because my birthday was yesterday. He said he was sorry. He said that I have become too smart for him, and I needed to go to stay a while with people like me. I asked him if he was sending me away.

"Is it because of last night?" I asked, "Am I going away forever?"

I didn't mention it, but I was very frightened at the thought of leaving. Dad told me no, it wouldn't be forever, and no, it wasn't because of last night. It wasn't my fault either. It was his.

"I've tried so hard with you, Zacky, and I..." he sighed, "I've fucked up, okay? I just need some time to get myself together, while you get the help you need."

I said I didn't need any help, that I was fine, and he laughed and said, "I beg to differ."

I don't like that. I beg to differ makes no sense.

We went home and Dad helped me pack up. I made sure to pack all of my clothes and extra guitar pics and strings, just to be safe. But then Dad told me I could not take my guitar. He said it might be dangerous to take it where I'm going. People there might not know how to behave with it.

I do not want to live in a place where people will be near my guitar.

I rocked for a while, and recited prime numbers, and Dad stood in the doorway and said, "Please, Zacky, not now."

At 2:04 PM we left the house. I agreed to leave my guitar, but it made me so sad. Dad sent me with all of my CD's, so I could listen to a guitar even if I couldn't play one.

When we arrived at my new home, there were lots of people, and many of them were strange. Dad and I were led through halls and into a room with a man who did not look nice. He told me to take off my clothes, and I told him he could go to hell.

Dad said it was okay, so I did as I was told. The man checked me over for bruises and scars and things like that. He asked about the bruise that was on my arm from when I fell down at school, and I told him I had fallen down. He wrote something on his clipboard.

I put my clothes back on and he checked my blood pressure and shined a light in my eyes and ears and nose. Then another man went through my stuff, and told me that my pet wasn't allowed inside.

I screamed and screamed at him, and Dad explained that my pet had to come with me. Without my guitar, I was nothing. Without my pet, I was even less.

So they agreed to let me keep my pet, after they washed it. That bothered me, because it would not smell like home, but I agreed. It was better to have it smelling fresh than to not have it at all.

Then they took me and Dad to my room. There were two beds and two dressers, and a closet and a window and a little bedside table. One bed had rumpled sheets and there were clothes hanging partially out of the drawers of a dresser.

I had a roommate.

I told them I did not want a roommate. That they would interfere with my schedule. I told them my schedule was already fucked up as it is. The man told me to "not use that language here, young man" and assured me that I would get used to the schedule here soon enough.

Dad said goodbye to me. He promised to visit. He said I could call him every Saturday at 11:00. He kissed my forehead, and hugged me tight. He patted my pet on the head.

And then I was alone.