Page 10 of However You Want Me

He’s dead.The words land on the worn-out carpet like dust. My heart ticks up a little faster. It doesn’t stay that way. My dad’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. Memories of that man’s face come up like they happened yesterday, but I push them back down. He had the kind of face you could see anywhere, on any guy you passed on the street. That’s the kind of face you can’t get away from, even if you forget what he looks like.

I haven’t forgotten any of it.

My dad hasn’t looked away from me. He’s waiting for an answer, some kind of response. The air between us is tense. He wants something out of this but I don’t know what. He probably wants me to be the same kid I was before he sent me to that place. He’s said it before. How much he regrets it.

“Mr. Jay?” he nudges the suggestion. “The principal of that boarding school you went to?” He tries to get me to remember or acknowledge anything.

I bury more memories of that asshole and the screaming and punishments and sitting up straight. The fact that he’s dead has nothing to do with me.

I bury more memories of the building, and how, when I finally left, I didn’t think the outside world was real. I spent years waiting to be taken back and put in those same rooms and left there for the rest of my life.

“He wasn’t my principal,” I say finally. I want him to drop this. I know he can tell. “It wasn’t a real school Dad, remember?” I tell him flatly, easily. Like I’m unbothered.

He nods and opens his mouth like he might say more, but he doesn’t.

We turn back to the game. I watch dust motes hover in the air and look through the doorway to the kitchen. The same old microwave, plastic all yellow with age, still sits on the counter. The damn thing looks like hell, but it hasn’t died yet. It just keeps living and living, heating up food with a crackling sound and a little rattle where the glass plate isn’t quite even. My dad doesn’t care about that. He won’t buy another one until this microwave burns out and all the wiring melts together.

“Dean.” His voice is thick. The emotion he’s trying to control makes me want to get up and leave, but I don’t.

“Yeah?”

There’s another long silence. Emotion fills the room, but it’s outside of me. It doesn’t make any difference what my dad feels. There’s a twinge, I guess, somewhere deep down, but that’s just as likely to turn into anger.

Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I still expect to see myself at sixteen. I still expect to see him how he was, not this older, grayer version. Some of those years feel like they never went by at all and I hate looking at the evidence that they did.

“Look at me,” he commands and I do.

My dad’s face falls, his eyes shining.

“It has to be—” His voice is even thicker with sorrow. It’s impossible to ignore now. “You know, I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. It’s always easier for him to sound angry rather than sad. That’s fine with me. I don’t need weepy apologies. “I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t know.”

“You already told me that,” I say confidently, offering him solace. It’s true. He has told me that. He’s told me that while he’s crying and yelling and whispering. He was a wreck when he found out what they did. They closed down the school although no one was ever charged. Everyone got away with what they did.

He clears his throat again. Sounds like it hurts.

Part of me softens. Enough that I can make my eyes soften, too. “Dad.”

He meets my eyes. I can tell he’s trying to keep a straight face. I can also tell he wants me to bail him out of all the guilt. I don’t want to see him like this, so I will.

“There’s no way you could have known.”

The breath goes out of him like he’s never heard me say this before. He has. I tell him the same thing every time this comes up. He lives with the pain like I do. It’s just different.

“Does it bring up… anything?” My dad tries. “Hearing that news.”

There’s nothing to bring up. The feelings are always there. The memories too. I bury the screams deep inside—the feel of the rough concrete floor, the knowledge that I’d never get out, that I’d die in that place, and they’d bury my body in an unmarked grave in the yard. I knew it was hopeless. I knew nothing would ever change. I buried those feelings too. It’s not the news that makes them come back. They’re always with me.

I make a sound and shrug. My dad can take it to mean whatever he wants.

“Did you tell your therapist?” he asks, sounding even more gruff. “Are you still going?”

I don’t want to talk about any of this with my dad.

“They just gave me meds and they’re working,” I tell him. “Let it be, Dad. I’m alright.”

He nods, then takes another drink of his beer. I can tell the can’s empty from the hollow sound. He rests it on his thigh, tapping it a few times like that might make it fill itself up again. In a few minutes, he’ll get up and get another can from the fridge. I hope he’s lost interest in this conversation by then. If he hasn’t, I’ll think of some excuse and head out.

My dad shifts in his chair again. Guess he hasn’t lost interest.

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