chapter four
I waited, sitting in the kitchen, for at least an hour. I did nothing but think (and knock out some homework) until my mom got home with the most guilt-ridden look plastered firmly on her face. I stared at her, waiting for her to speak or do anything to explain herself, but she did nothing but begin walking toward her room. I scoffed, dumbfounded and completely annoyed. I heard her door close, the hyphened shut reverberating against the walls. I felt deflated, complete unadulterated defeat.
It doesn’t feel good to be blamed for a suicide committed by a person you can’t even remember. I thought Delilah White’s journal might make the nights easier to sleep through or at least bring some light to the many odd looks I receive while walking down the hallway. Yet, here I was, sitting alone under the florescent light of a small kitchen while doing my Geometry homework and contemplating my reason for existing.
Ever since I started school and realized how little attention you had to pay in order to pass, I picked up drawing. It was nothing resembling fine art, but doodles and comics sketching life through black-and-white shading. Despite its boring color scheme, the content was entertaining—at least, to me. Because we lived in Aurora, a brewing pot for Hispanics and Catholics, I went to a heavily Hispanic Catholic School with unpassionate teachers and heavy theology text books. Doodling in class was nothing compared to the gang activity and sexual relations in the Church; I was a saint. Although, I must say, it was quite hard to draw The Last Supper playing beer-pong with a Jesus Christ decoration staring down at you.
Nevertheless, drawing was my saving grace; it kept my mind distracted and gave me a sense of something permanent; something even my mind couldn’t erase. Despite the fact I don’t really remember drawing on all those post-it notes around my room, my hands do and they do a fine job at recollecting. In the midst of my adding Peter a frat-boy shirt, a folded notecard landed on my paper. Surprised at the fact someone wanted to talk to me, I didn’t quite know what to do with it first. I looked up, naturally, and studied the classroom for a decent suspect. After skimming the room and meeting with Vincent’s dark, cold eyes, I figured it was from him and gulped heavily. My left eye still hurts when I think of the incident, or blink for that matter.
Meet me after school in the parking lot.
I lifted my head, making eye contact with Vincent once more. This time, his gaze didn’t last for more than two seconds before he dismissed me. I folded the paper back up, my mind rushing with scenarios and explanations over this mere eight-word note. At the end of my teacher’s lecture, I rushed out of the classroom quickly, completely uneducated in the subject of ratios and proportions. Still, avoiding Vincent was far more important than algebraic (and unrealistic) word problems.
In the end, after tuning out Spanish and dedicating my time to weighing my options, I decided against it. Meeting Vincent at the parking lot? Alone? I might have amnesia, but I’m not stupid. I had no intention of letting him finish what he started, even if he was a sappy poet with nothing but tofu and celery in his diet. I refused, and for that, I paid for it.
As you can imagine, I went straight to the buses after school, avoiding the parking lot as much as I could. I wondered what Vincent would do once he realized I wasn’t going to meet him, but I decided against writing my own eulogies for the time being. Instead, I listened to the bus driver’s choice in Christian pop music as I let my mind wander. Delilah White; a common occurrence in the flawed system of my mind. I intended on having a serious talk with my mom when I got home, letting her know how much the journal means to me and pleading on my knees for it back. She didn’t hide it at home, that’s for sure, and I guess she used my amnesia as an advantage, for I had no idea where else she could put it.
I thought maybe where she worked, which was her co-owned shoe-repairing business, but I don’t really know where that is. I thought maybe her car, but every nook and cranny turned out be empty (or full of granola wrappers). Finally, I thought she might have hidden it in plain sight, but the fridge was nothing but mustard and bologna.
I came home, my backpack slacken on my shoulder, when my nose registered a very familiar and warm smell. As I followed the heavenly scent, I made it to the kitchen, where my mom was making pozole, tamales, and Puerto Rican rice; my three favorite meals.
“What’s all this?” I asked, sitting down and grabbing myself a plate. I was a growing, high school teenage boy; my job was to be hungry.
“Peace offering?” She joked, serving me a good amount of rice.
I narrowed my brow, suddenly remembering what my initial task was. I, despite what I may seem, am not so easily bribed with materialistic values so I put my fork down and looked at my mom as she was pouring me lemonade.
“Give me the journal,” I said.
She stopped pouring me my drink and dropped her smile. She sighed and settled the pitcher on the table, wiping her hands on her blue apron. Putting her palms on her hips and taking that stereotypical mom-stance, she glared at me through her brown eyes.
“No, Isaac, I know what I’m doing; you’re not ready, even Mrs. Martinez agreed with me.”
“Who?”
“See! You don’t even remember your own therapist who you’ve been seeing every week for over a month now! Isaac, you’re not ready.”
“Fine,” I spat, “then I refuse to eat.”
“You don’t really mean that.”
I paused, weighing my options. On one hand, I could stick to my word and protest against this injustice, or I could help myself to authentic Mexican food. I sighed; “No, I don’t.”
As predicted, Vincent didn’t take my ditching him very lightly. I came to school, my back sore and my eyelids heavy, and slowly trudged toward my locker. I entered my code, turning the lock clockwise, counter clockwise, and clockwise again until I entered the last number and pulled on the door. Only, it didn’t open. I figured I entered it wrong; as I usually do on drowsy mornings, but after the fifth time of entering it, the door just wouldn’t budge. I was fully conscious by now, especially since I now had precisely five minutes left to get to class. I pulled and lifted with as much strength as I could muster at seven in the morning, but nothing came from it; the thing was completely jammed.
I rubbed my forehead, wondering how I could have possibly jammed it so early in the day. Then, I felt an arm rest on my shoulders and looked toward my right to find Vincent, smirking.
“Need help?”
I glared at him silently, narrowing my eyebrows in disbelief. He laughed heartedly and walked away, a proud skip to his step. I watched him as he turned the corner and vanished, which, not much later, triggered the bell that signaled the start of first period. I sighed, dragged my backpack across the floor, and trudged toward the other end of the school where school services was located. Which wasn’t too big of a walk considering our small school. But still; it sucked.
After the janitor came to “unjam” my locker, we came to the realization that it was not jammed at all; but super-glued shut. The janitor, whose name was Ruben, cackled at the sight of it, calling it a “classic prank” in a heavy, Colombian accent. Annoyed, I asked him to fix it, but he told me it wasn’t that simple and that I’d have to drop off my things at his office in the meantime. I groaned, noting how much I had to walk now thanks to my newly located “locker”.
Ruben, of course, also made me report the incident to the dean. Which, I didn’t quite mind as first period was Health and hearing nuns talk about sex education was just slightly less enjoyable than sex itself. Once I made it to the dean, he asked me if I had any idea who could possibly be capable of doing this. While I know I have yet to recollect a solid third of my education experience and that Vincent had the intent goal of being the bane of my existence, I was not a snitch. I played dumb, which for a boy who not too long ago forgot his mom’s name, was quite believable.
