11
Five Years Earlier
Through the silence, Dad taps his index finger against the top of the steering wheel. His jaw is clenched, his eyes are set on the road ahead. He hasn’t turned on the radio. That’s how I can tell that he’s not just annoyed butseriouslyangry with me. And I know why. It’s because I was supposed to be redoing my math homework that he tore up last night. I shouldn’t have gone to Dean’s after school. I should have just asked Hugh to take me straight home. I should have known better.
“I was…I was going to do it tonight,” I quietly volunteer. I’m playing with my hands in my lap, interlocking my fingers over and over again. I can’t look at Dad. Not when he’s mad at me.
“YouknowI wanted you to work on that homework right after school,” he says through gritted teeth. I see his hand tighten around the gearshift lever. He once told me only real men drive stick shift. “We know exactly what happens when you leave everything until too late in the evening. You start whining that you’re too tired, that you can’t concentrate as much.”
“I’ll do it right after dinner!” I tell him, glancing up, my eyes wide. Maybe there’s still time to salvage this. It’s not like Iwasn’tgoing toredo that homework. I just wanted to throw a football around first, like how Dean gets to.
“Tyler, just be quiet right now,” Dad says. His voice is low but firm. As always. His eyes are locked on the road and with his free hand, he rubs his temple. “Please.”
I drop my eyes back down to my backpack on the floor by my feet. I give it a small kick, frustrated. Like Hugh said, it’s only seventh grade. I wish Dad didn’t take it all so seriously, like my whole future would blow up if I failed one test. I’m not even in high school yet! No one else studies as hard as I do, but that’s still not good enough for Dad.
I do as he says and keep quiet for the rest of the ride home. It’s not too far, only five minutes, so I stare at my hands and trace the lines on my palms. Without the radio playing to distract us, the tension is more noticeable, the silence unbearable. It’s just after four, and Dad always works from home in the afternoons, which is a routine I’ve grown to hate. It means that for a couple hours every day, I’m alone in the house with Dad. Mom is usually down at her office until at least five thirty most nights. She’s an attorney who always has case after case to work through. That’s why her car isn’t in the driveway when we pull up.
The silence continues even as Dad is pulling his keys from the ignition and stepping out of the car. I slip my backpack on and scramble after him across the lawn, but dread is weighing me down. I thought I knew what I was in for, but now I’m not so sure. It’s still early. I can still have that homework finished by dinner.
“Dad, I’ll go and do it right no—” I splutter as we’re walking through the front door, but my words are cut short when Dad abruptly slams the door shut behind us.
“Get upstairs,” he demands, setting his green eyes on me. Grabbing me by my backpack, he drags me down the hall and then upstairs. Hisstrides are too wide, so I have to fight to keep up or risk being knocked off my feet. Dad shoves open my bedroom door and hauls me inside behind him, then throws me down onto the chair in front of my desk. “One hour, Tyler. ONE,” he states very clearly, his voice raised. He yanks my backpack straight off me, almost twisting one of my arms as he does, and then he begins rummaging around inside it. He throws a handful of chewed pens at me. “Disgusting,” he says, still searching through my bag. Finally, he pulls out my math homework and slams it down on the desk, dumping my bag on the floor. He grabs my shoulder, one hand resting on the desk, and he crouches a little so that we are at eye level. His gaze is intense, his vibrant eyes piercing straight through me. “Every single one of these questions better not only be done but becorrecttoo. Got it? Your mom wouldn’t want to know that you’re slacking, so c’mon. Impress her.”
I nod, already reaching for paper, a pen in my hand. Dad’s grip on my shoulder becomes even tighter, his fingers pressing into my skin. “Got it,” I mumble. An hour to complete this entire worksheet again? I run my eyes over the thirty different equations. There’s no way.
Dad finally lets go of my shoulder and turns away, kicking my bag to one side. “El trabajo duro siempre vale la pena, Tyler,” he mumbles under his breath. Whenever Dad speaks Spanish, the hint of an accent is clear. Grandmaisfrom Mexico, after all. “No lo olvides.Okay?”
I don’t know what he’s saying. I should, because he’s been teaching me since the moment I could talk, and I’m pretty close to fluent now, but my mind goes blank as I try to process his words. I try to translate them in my head, but today, I’m just not getting it. My heart is pounding in my chest. What did he ask?
Dad doesn’t like my silence, and he is obviously waiting for a reply, because he glances back over his shoulder, sees my blank, wide-eyedexpression of confusion, then slowly swivels around to face me again. “You don’t even know what I just said, do you?” He shakes his head as though I’ve betrayed him, and he places his hands on his hips, narrowing his gaze at me. “Do you?”
“No. Lo siento,” I apologize. Saying sorry is all I can do. I’ve messed up twice now today. There’s nothing more I can do. “Lo siento,” I say again, quieter. I don’t even know why I still attempt to appeal to Dad’s better, sympathetic nature these days. I discovered a long time ago that he doesn’t have one.
“God, do we have to go over basic fucking Spanish again tonight too?” he yells, his hands in the air. He’s swearing now. That’s a bad sign. “I was trying to tell you that hard work always pays off. Do you understandthat?”
I nod fast and turn my eyes back down to my homework in front of me, but it’s a blur. My hands are trembling. Dad doesn’t like it when I don’t answer him, but I can’t bring myself to open my mouth right now. My chest is tightening, restricting my breathing. I can’t breathe. I can’t.
Dad’s hands are grabbing my shoulders, dragging me up out of the chair, slamming me against the wall. He shakes me. Says something. I can’t hear him. I’m tuning out, focusing on a tiny scuff on my wall at the opposite side of my room, forcing my mind to be anywhere but here. The numbness sets in, my head is fuzzy. Dad is yelling. I still can’t breathe. One second I’m here by my desk, the next I’m over by the door. Then back again. I’m on the ground. Dad’s hold is too tight. I close my eyes.
12
Present Day
I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my head propped up by three pillows. My TV is on, but I’m not watching it. I have my earphones in, listening to music. Depressing shit. Shit that gets me overthinking. Shit like You Me At Six and All Time Low that I would never tell anyone I listen to. I’m supposed to be heading over to Tiffani’s in an hour, but ever since I got home earlier, I’ve managed to think myself into one of my bad moods. It’s frustrating because it usually only happens when I’ve forgotten to take my pills, which is often, but I definitely took them this morning.
I do this a lot. The overthinking. Most days, I am fine. Most days, I can bear it all. It’s easy when all I have to do is act. But then there are the days when I’mnotfine, when it all spills over for a little while before I force myself to get back in check and continue beingtheTyler Bruce.
But I’m okay just being me right now. I am alone in my room with no one to perform for. I can lay here for as long as I want with my hood up and my earphones in, questioning my life and wondering what the fucking point is. And no matter how many nights I spend trying to figure these things out, I am still no closer to finding the answers.
I just wish I knew where I was headed. I’m too scared to think about my future, because I am terrified I don’t have one. I keep on messing things up for myself, because the only thing I can focus on is surviving another day without having an absolute breakdown, and the only way I know how to survive is by distracting myself from all of my fucked up issues.
I tug on the drawstrings of my hoodie and roll over onto my side, staring at my wall. I stare into space sometimes, mostly out of habit. I became real good at zoning out when I was younger, but right now, I am finding it difficult to put my mind elsewhere. It is in overdrive.
I wish Iwasthe Tyler I pretend to be. That guy doesn’t care. That guy is cool. That guy has the hot girlfriend, the nice car, the biggest group of friends. That guy is happy. But what people don’t know is that the hot girlfriend doesn’t care about him. The nice car left him with an empty trust fund. The big group of friends is all fake.
And all that is left is me, the pathetic Tyler. The Tyler who doesn’t know who he really is, the Tyler who hates disappointing his mom, the Tyler who carestoomuch, the Tyler whose dad ruined his life.
Sometimes, I wonder if there are even words strong enough in the dictionary to describe the hate I have for him. It tears me up inside every day, starting in my chest and spreading through my body, until the anger becomes too much. I lash out at Mom. At my brothers. At Tiffani. At my friends. At teachers. At strangers. I can’t control it. I am an angry, impossible person, and for that alone, I will forever hate him.
