Page 25 of Peaches

Is it okay to call it that?

I mean, my father never hits me. He’s never even raised a hand towards me, or anyone else that I’ve noticed before.

But the pain, the anxiety, the sadness I’m already suffering and trying to choke back is all consuming. We walk a little in silence, the only sound between us the crunch of the gravel beneath our feet.

“Your father is waiting in the library, Master Brettly. A phone call came through about an hour ago from Kingston Academy,” Wadsworth says as he opens the front door and I pass through.

Well, there goes my chance at drawing out the inevitable and trying to hide my grades for a day.

“Was he mad?” I hesitantly whisper as he takes my bag from my shoulder and I look up at him with fear in my eyes.

I can hear my old man now.

An F, Brettly. Damn it, Cs are average. This is below that. Hell, you aren’t even trying. Grades represent every damn thing about you, they show the world how seriously you take your self-worth. If that’s the case, you’re a failure. Are you a damn failure, Brettly? How the hell do you manage an F in English! Do you know what kind of an embarrassment this is!

Embarrassment! He doesn’t know the half of it. Going through school with a learning disability you try and hide for your families’ sake, that’s the embarrassment. I couldn’t care less about myself, but knowing and hearing the constant shame my father feels for it, it’s enough to tear me apart.

Every damn time I mess up in school and a classmate laughs, points his finger, makes a stupid comment about me being some sort of retard, I feel it hit my chest like a brick! What’s worse, is I know I’ll never hear the end of it, at school and at home, making that brick heavier than you could ever imagine. That’s an embarrassment my father will never know. So, forgive me if in all actuality I’m not sorry I hurt the family name by something I’ve never been able to control, but I’m sorrier for the abuse it brings in its wake.

ADHD is a bitch!

Ask anyone that’s ever suffered from it.

You’re forced to be normal, told you’re not trying hard enough, when most of the people who tell you so never know the half of how hard you areactuallytrying, or how much I’m beating yourself up and stressing oversomethingthat is entirely out of your damn control!Somethingthat comes so damn easily to the rest of the world.

I stay up late. I force myself to study. I look over the same damn words over and over again telling myself I am pathetic because I can’t for just a few damn minutes focus. I bet I only retain half of what I attempt to. Half is better than none, right? But according to my old man, it still isn’t good enough. I’ve tried meds, but that shit makes me too tired, too lazy, and I hate the way I feel. You’d think I’d stop trying. Most kids my age with my condition have. But for me, it’s become an addiction to prove the bastard I call my dad wrong. If I ever can.

“He has been in better moods,” Wadsworth suggests. “But I think he’s slightly consumed with what is going on with Mrs. Knight to really pay much attention to the call, Master Brettly.”

Letting out a sigh of relief, I head off in the direction of the library and hang my head low.

I love to write. I love to fucking read. What I am into, that is. But the shit my English teacher is forcing down our throats, the shit that’s responsible for that F, I just can’t get into. It’s fantasy and too farfetched for me. I’m way too analytical and more of a “have to see it to believe it” kind of guy.

The class tests forced my grade down because I just couldn’t grasp the book we were reading, no matter how hard I tried. If she’d been grading me on writing or say a book that actually held my attention, I’d have aced the course, no question about it. And actually, that’s one of the injustices I think school teachers and the system create without even knowing it.

There would be a whole lot more kids interested in reading if you let them read what sparked their interest. Not force literature down their throats just because somebody somewhere said it was deemed important enough to be considered “educationally worthy” of teaching. Give me modern, relatable, something I can learn from in the here and now, that’s what interests me.

After all, I’m a guy, aren’t we supposed to have a one-track mind? All things considered that track moves in one direction, and it isn’t towards wizards and fairytales.

Reaching the door to the library, I hear my father’s muffled tone on the other side and hold my breath. His voice is raised, angry, disturbed, as I hear him address someone on the other end of his desk phone. I wait for a pause, for a break in whatever rant he’s currently giving someone who he’s decided is inconsequential in his world. When the moment presents itself, I knock lightly on the door and wait for his command.

“Enter!”

I hear him shout a moment later, causing my breath to catch in my throat as I reach out with a sweaty palm and grab the doorknob. I twist it slowly, obviouslytooslowly, as another moment passes and I hear my father scream again.

“Come in, damn it!”

With more haste than necessary, I swing the door open quickly and hear it bang against the wall a moment later. Gritting my teeth, I step into the room and mouth “sorry” to my old man who has his phone still held up to his ear. He gives me a roll of his eyes and gestures for me to close the door behind me, which I quickly do, quietly this time, before stepping into the room further and making my way to a seat in front of his desk.

“I don’t care what it takes! You make it happen! No fucking excuses, you got that!”

I hear a muffled man’s voice coming from the other end of the line and I tense up more than I thought I would. He’s irate. Fueled by my grade and whatever the hell is going on with work. Whatever he has to say to me won’t be good,at all. I grab a hold of both arms of the chair and feel my grip tighten around the wood. The wait is painful, agonizing, distressing, as I lower my eyes and wait for the inevitable.

“I’ll give you one week, one fucking week, and if it’s not a done deal then you’re through, do you hear me? I will make sure of it.”

The person says something in response, but I don’t hear much as I flinch when my father slams down the phone and grips the sides of his desk. I look up to find his head hung in a similar position to the way mine was a few moments before. His shoulders are strained, rigid, as I see his knuckles turn white the harder he grips the wood in front of him.

I wait him out. Not sure how to begin. But when too much time has passed, I sit up a little straighter and try to think of something to say. Something to at least calm the fight between us so he doesn’t deflect and take his rage out on me like he’s done many times in the past.

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