Page 27 of The Way I Am Now
“You think I’m not trying?” My voice breaks over the words, but I continue. “Every minute I’m trying. So hard. Too hard.” And now we’re both crying. “Do you hate me?” I ask him. “Please don’t hate me.”
He shakes his head, and now he leans into me, and for the first time ever, I’m the one to hold him. My arm falls asleep, but I don’t move.
“Steve?” I finally say after our breathing slows and there are no more gasps or sniffles.
“Yeah?” he answers, his voice ragged.
“You really are a ten, you know that, right?”
He laughs. “You’re a liar.”
“I am not.”
He looks up at me and smiles.
“Can I tell you something else?”
He nods.
“I’m not coming back to school.”
He opens his mouth but then closes it.
“I just can’t handle it there,” I explain. “Too much has happened.”
“I know,” he says, laying his head back on my shoulder. “Can we stay like this just a little longer?” he asks.
“Sure,” I answer.
JOSH
I wake up in my bed. The light coming in from the window is so bright it feels like I’m staring directly into the sun. I close my eyes again, and I have this flash of my dad and Dominic walking me up the stairs. Through my bedroom door. Dumping me onto my bed.
Still in my clothes from yesterday, I check my pockets for my phone. Not there. I sit up, and my body is so heavy, my head pounding. I feel all around the bed, look under the sheets, on the floor. I stand up and am immediately knocked back down by gravity.
Slower this time, I stand again. I check my desk, move papers around, toss books on the floor. It’s not here. I start walking toward my door. I’ll retrace my steps. I must’ve dropped it.
My mom comes in first. “Josh, why are you throwing things around?”
“I’m not throwing anything; I’m looking for my phone,” I tell her. “Have you seen it? I think it fell out of my pocket.”
“Your phone can wait,” my dad answers, suddenly there in my doorway. They come inside like they’ve been standing in the hall all morning, just waiting for me to wake up. Mom flips the covers back over my bed and sits down on top of it, patting the spot next to her.
“We need to talk, sweetheart,” Mom says. “Sit down.”
Dad nods in agreement and steps forward.
I sit. The last time they sat me down like this was when I was ten and our first cat died.
“What happened?” I ask.
“You tell us,” Dad answers.
“What do you mean?”
“Josh,” Mom says, suddenly irritated. “Last night. What the hell happened?”
“Nothing happened.” My head cracks open with each syllable they force me to speak.
