Sweet Blood of Mine (8 page)

Mr. Turpin raised an eyebrow when I entered English class. "Did you have an accident, Mr. Case?"

"I tried to beat the crap out of someone's fist with my face."

"I see." He regarded me for a moment longer before starting the lesson.

I wondered how a guy could go from boxing one day to teaching English the next. Maybe he hadn't taken too many blows to the head, or maybe English was something you didn't need many brains cels to teach—or learn for that matter. When the bel rang, Mr. Turpin motioned me to his desk.

"I take it Mr. Spelman and his ilk are the cause of your bloody lip?"

"More or less."

"Remember that it doesn't matter how big they are if you knock them down first."

"Uh, thanks," I said, edging toward the door. "I'l remember that." I walked down the halway shaking my head. How in the world was I supposed to knock them down? What did that even mean? Crazy old boxer dude.

What he should have told me was to work out until I had muscles as big as his and then smack Nathan in the nose with a set of brass knuckles.

Somehow I made it through the rest of the day.

When I got home, I went to my computer and thought about Googling for "How not to be a complete loser." Instead, I found an envelope taped to my computer monitor. My name was on the front of the envelope in my mom's handwriting. I figured it might be a birthday present a few days early. A birthday party seemed like a moot point unless I invited only the Goths. Or maybe they were emo. I didn't realy know the difference, come to think of it, and hadn't even asked.

I tore open the envelope and puled out a letter.

Justin,

You mean the world to me and it agonizes me to
have to do this, but your father and I have decided to go
our separate ways. Remember when I told you about
tough decisions? This is one of those. I love you so
much but there's another person out there who needs
me more than you and your father. I have to do this. I
have to make right a mistake I should have never
made. I already hate myself for it and I pray you won't
hate me too.

But if you do, I'll understand.

Please don’t blame your father and especially
not yourself. I'm the one to blame.

I love you. Always.

Mom

I stared in shock at the letter. My mind stopped working. My body froze. This—this couldn't be true. I mobilized my muscles and ran into the den. Dad was snoring on the couch. Empty beer and liquor bottles littered the coffee table. He hadn't shaved and he smeled like a medicine cabinet. I slumped into the easy chair next to the couch and stared at the mess. At the mess our lives had become. She had practicaly told me she was leaving and I hadn't done a thing to stop her. A ragged gasp tore from my throat. Who else in this miserable world could possibly need her more than me and Dad? How dare she leave us like this? Was she running into the arms of another man?

The thought made me sick. The woman who gave birth to me had no right to be out galivanting around like a slut. She needed to be here. I yeled something incoherent slut. She needed to be here. I yeled something incoherent and swept the empty bottles off the coffee table and onto the tile floor where they clattered, bounced and broke. I grabbed the table by the edge and flipped it. The table smashed against the floor, breaking even more bottles.

I hated her.

Dad jerked awake. He looked at me with glassy bloodshot eyes and burped. "It'l be okay, son." He pushed himself up and staggered down the hal to my parents'—his bedroom.

I ran after him. Grabbed his arm. Jerked him around. "How could you let her leave, you stupid bastard?" I screamed in his face. "What kind of an idiot are you?"

Rage contorted his face into an inhuman snarl. He punched the wal with a thunderous crack that seemed to shake the house, inches behind my head. Family pictures rained from the wals, the glass shattering. I yelped and fel on my butt. Tears cascaded down Dad's face as he stared with disbelief at the fist embedded in the drywal. He wrenched it free and held it toward me as if to help me up.

I scooted away on my butt through the broken glass until I was back in the den and puled myself to my feet.

Dad opened his mouth to say something then turned and shut the bedroom door behind him.

I stood there panting while grief knotted my throat.

I stared at the broken glass and torn pictures on the floor, trying to derive some meaningless analogy from it. Broken bottles, broken lives. Except I'd been the one to break the bottles. If a lesson waited in those shards of glass, I was hard pressed to find it. I went to my bedroom and slammed the door shut as hot tears flooded my vision. Anger and resentment toward my dad boiled over. He must have done something to lose Mom. I know they say most kids blame themselves for their parents' problems, but I was a master at deflecting blame.

Obviously, Dad's lack of steady work and laziness had contributed to pushing Mom away. She was a successful accountant. Why should she have to support a deadbeat artist husband? I wasn't exactly the most adoring or thankful kid in the world, either. Or maybe she'd falen in love with someone else and couldn't stand to be without him. Could be that was the tough decision she had to make. Anger coiled up in me like a snake, ready to lash out at anything breakable. But what else was there to break? I was already broken.

I took a deep shuddering breath. At this point, going emo was the only avenue left to me that made sense.

I could dye my hair black and cut myself to feel better. Or, I could try to dig my way out of this hole. Stop feeling sorry for myself. Get off my lazy fat ass and take charge for once.

Something had to change. Since the world wasn't about to do me any favors, I decided I had to be the one to take action. Real action this time.

Chapter 8

Change
is an easy word to say but a pain in the rear to folow through on. So I started off easy and made a checklist on my computer:

1. Haircut

2. Join Gym

3.
New Clothes.

The tiny list looked pitiful on the vast expanse of empty computer screen, but at least it was a start. It was particularly pitiful in light of the fact that I had stayed up most of the night alternatively making that list and resisting the urge to punch holes in the wals. I'd once heard someone on TV say, "It's al about the G-T-L. Gym, tan, and laundry." At the time, it seemed awfuly shalow advice. But maybe they were right. I looked like a shaggy overweight slob and felt horrible. Why should anyone else like me?

To do anything on my list I'd need money so, I sneaked into Dad's room while he snored away and found the shoebox he and Mom used for storing their rainy day funds. I'd looted from it before and since I was having a hurricane month, I took al of the cash—several thousand dolars—and stuck it behind a fake panel I'd built into the drywal in my closet a couple of years ago. Considering what my parents were putting me through I didn't feel guilty one little bit.

* * * * *

The next day during classes my head bobbed every few minutes as I dozed off. I actualy face-planted on my desk in homeroom which amused Jenny and Annie to no end. My eyelids felt like they had tiny but chubby sleep fairies hanging on the lashes and puling them closed. I think I must have sleep-talked something to that effect while dozing because Nancy Sanders asked me if sleep fairies gave out money for teeth too. Then she giggled hystericaly. Our Literature teacher was not amused.

At lunch I found Crye and the gang and took an open seat.

"Hi," I said, feeling uncomfortable and unsure if they'd accept me back at their table again.

"Hey," Crye said and then yawned so hard and wide her jaw cracked. Apparently I wasn't the only one puling al-nighters. Even with the powder-white makeup and dark rings of eyeliner, I could see the fatigue in her face.

Ash eyed me. "You look tired. Go to a rave or something?"

"Nah. Just did a lot of reading." I bit into the soggy square cafeteria pizza and forced it down my throat while muling the list I'd made. "Do you guys think I'd look better if I cut my hair?"

Ash shrugged. Crye stood up and walked around the table, her black Victorian-era dress rustling as she walked. She wound some of my hair around her fingers and sniffed it. I noticed her black fingernails matched her lipstick.

Her violet eyes seemed to see right into me. They were not the peaceful color of flowers, but sparkling, fiery, and ful of life despite the dark bags under her eyes.

"Do you wear contacts?" I asked, staring into those amazing irises.

She jerked from her reverie. "Yes—yes of course.

Nobody has eyes this color."

"Looks cool," I said lamely. I'd almost said

"beautiful" but figured that would've been over the edge.

Crye stared again at my hair as a tarot card reader would look at my fortune. "Your hair is a mess."

"I know that, but—"

She put a finger to my lips and shook her head, so I shut my mouth. Sometimes the hardest part of asking for shut my mouth. Sometimes the hardest part of asking for advice is actualy taking it to heart. I'd done things my way for long enough and look where that got me: relying on a Goth chick for fashion advice.

Crye held my hair so it stood on end. She looked from Ash to Nyte to me and grunted like a doctor who'd just found a potentialy hazardous anomaly in someone's brain scan. "You have coarse hair. I think you should cut it to about six inches and spike it."

"Spike my hair?"

"Her mom owns a fancy salon. I'd listen to her,"

Ash said.

Crye wore her long black hair straight with a simple part down the middle like the matriarch from the Addams Family. The day before she had worn it in pink-bowed pigtails. If it weren't for the shrapnel-like piercings al over her face and the deathly white makeup, she might actualy look cute. I could almost stand everything except the nose and tongue studs. The hygiene issues those posed made me want to barf.

"I can get you a friend's discount," she said.

A lump formed in my throat. I couldn't understand what I'd done to deserve a friend's discount from people I'd more or less looked down upon until a day ago. I hadn't done a thing to deserve the kindness of these people except turn myself into a social outcast. I cleared my throat, but my reply stil came out a little gravely.

"Thanks," I said. "I'l do it." I gave her my number and went to class.

After school, I went to a gym I'd passed a milion times before on the way home, and inquired about personal training.

"I want someone who wil realy whip me into shape," I told the short skinny guy who signed me up. I hoped he wasn't a trainer. His arms looked like noodles.

He pursed his lips and looked me over. "I know just the person."

I looked around the gym and spotted several people with the blue trainer shirts on. One was a stocky black guy with arms thicker than this guy's waist. "How about him?"

"George?" He tsked. "He's booked right now. I can put you on the waiting list."

I scanned the area but the other trainers looked just as out of shape as their trainees. I wasn't about to waste money or time. I needed results. "Yeah, put me on his list, please."

"In the meantime, I'l put you with one of our best.

Vic."

Vic sounded like the name of a swarthy Italian guy from New Jersey. A guy who could teach me street smarts and help me get six-pack abs al at the same time.

"Sounds good, thanks." I paid for two months up front and hoped by then I would know what I was doing and wouldn't need a trainer anymore. I couldn't afford to keep one for long anyway. The cash I'd stolen from my parents wouldn't last forever, and since neither Dad nor I worked, we had zero income.

Come to think of it, I didn't know how he was paying for the house or utilities. He'd been buying enough beer to supply a frat house, and I didn't have a clue where the money was coming from. Things looked bleak. Al my ambitions could come crashing to the ground if we got kicked into the streets. Being homeless seemed like the crown jewel on my mountain of fail. I would have to do something about his issues sooner or later.

After school the next day I had my first appointment with my trainer. I put on my gym shorts, a sleeveless T-shirt to show off my chubby arms, and examined myself in the mirror before I left. I puled up my shirt and grabbed a rol of pale jely bely. My bely button was deep enough to store a short stack of dimes. My man boobs sagged from lack of a man bra. Vic had his work cut out for him.

lack of a man bra. Vic had his work cut out for him.

I went to the gym and looked for someone fitting the profile of a low-level thug from a New Jersey mafia family before giving up and going to the trainers' desk. A redhead with ripped abs and enough freckles to form constelations on her otherwise forgettable face looked up as I approached.

"I'm looking for Vic."

"That's me," she said. "Justin?"

"Yeah," I said, trying not to voice my disappointment. I needed someone like George to get me in shape, not an aerobics queen. I hoped George's waiting list wasn't too long. "How does a girl get a name like Vic?"