I don't care

Author: Rachel Wells
Translator: Liu Wenyong
Country: United States
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2002-06-01
Features: "Roxy Ross." Mrs. Shepherd called. I looked back at Roxy. Her face was hidden behind her hands, concealed beneath her tangled black hair. Her green pants were covered in markings, and her T-shirt was pulled up so high that the pockets were above her shoulder blades. She didn’t answer. Come on, Rocky, I thought, though I never called her that again. I knew there would be very interesting things in her bag, even mysterious ones.
"Roxy Ross!" Mrs. Shepherd called again. "I’m not ready." Roxy mumbled through her fingers.
"Not ready?" Mrs. Shepherd asked, as if those words tasted sour. Roxy lifted her head and stared directly at Mrs. Shepherd.
"Not ready?" Mrs. Shepherd asked again. "Yes," Roxy shrugged. "That’s unacceptable."
Mrs. Shepherd took off the marker cap and started writing randomly on her pants again. "Clean up your things," Mrs. Shepherd said, looking at her watch. "Go to the office." Roxy stretched out, put the marker back on, and threw it into her large backpack. She pulled the backpack up to her knees, swept her notebook, pen, and crumpled paper into the backpack with her wrist, and flattened the backpack with her hand.
Sighing, she stood up, slung the large backpack over her shoulder, and struggled through the hallway, walking out the door. Mrs. Shepherd gently but firmly closed the door behind her, looking suspiciously at the rest of us.
"Anyone else not ready?" No one dared to move, not even breathe. She waited, the clock ticking. For a second, I desperately wanted to raise my hand, imagine myself packing up, rushing to the lobby, catching up with Roxy, maybe becoming friends again—no matter how strange and unpopular she was. At least then I wouldn’t have to stand in front so quickly, showing off my own pockets. Of course, I didn’t do that. I sat very quietly.
"Let’s move on," Mrs. Shepherd said. I also prayed to God, hoping to be as holy as my dad. He didn’t let us follow him to church every day, but on Sundays, I’d gather all my strength to pray to Saint Christopher.
Saint Christopher, please protect us, my hands tightly clasped together, kneeling in the church with my dad.
Saint Christopher, please protect us, because I read that phrase on my dad’s holy medal, which he always wore after his morning shower. When he was showering, I’d sneak in and touch that medal. I placed it on my knee, gently tracing the saint’s face with my fingers, starting my morning prayer:
Saint Christopher, please protect us.
Then I quickly ran back to my room, no one noticing how foolish I was. Later, I thought that Fourth of July was simply a disaster, though at the time, we all thought it was normal. We went to school to watch the fireworks. Ned wanted to take a blanket to the parking lot because it was more lively, but Mom was still the same: No, we should go to the grassy field—it’s more comfortable and quieter.
Well, it turned into a terrible thing. They were pulling the blanket like in a tug-of-war, and Dad yelled, "Forget it! Why do you two always fight about everything?" Everyone turned to look at us. I stood behind Dad’s legs. His legs were spread wide, his feet angled outward.
"Eddie," Mom called softly.
"Oh, God," he said, turning away from them, muttering, "I’m so tired of this, I’m so tired." I followed him like a little shadow.
Then he stopped, knelt down, and looked at my face.
"Go back to Mom."
"But I want to follow you," I said.
He smiled at me, a charming smile I’d never forget.
"I’ll kiss you when you sleep. Now go back to Mom."
He turned me around and gave me a push from behind. A firework exploded overhead, scaring me. I rushed back to where Mom and Ned had been standing. They weren’t there. I searched for them all night and finally found them sitting on a blanket in the parking lot when the fireworks ended brilliantly.
On Saturday, Mom was busy in the kitchen alone, and Dad had a talk with me and Ned. He told us the whole story: how for the past few weeks, he’d been driving from construction site to construction site, just like he always did, but this time he didn’t know who he was anymore.
"I don’t know who I am," he said.
"You’re Dad," I reminded him. "You’re Eddie Miller."
I thought maybe he’d lost his memory or his mind. I hoped Mom would call the doctor from the kitchen. Ned and I sat side by side on the sofa, his hands crossed over his chest, his wide, cold face expressionless.
"No, Maggie," Dad said. "I mean, on my own, there’s something wrong. There’s something between me and God. It’s hard to explain, hard to understand. But I think I have to leave for a while."
She reached for, and pulled at a deep red cherry. The cherry didn’t come down, so she pulled more, and more, and more.
"This is," she tugged at the branch so hard that it bent to her waist. Finally, she managed to pick up a cherry wrapped in layers of tape. She held it up to her eyes and then slowly turned her face to look at me.
"Morgan," she said.
I glanced at the cherry.
"Mmm, that’s magic," I said.
"You stuck the cherry to the tree?" she asked.
I stared at the footprints in the grass.
"This must be magic," I stammered.
"These stuck-on cherries are at least twenty pounds," I laughed to myself but didn’t say anything—in fact, I only spent eighteen pounds.
"Oh, Morgan," she sighed.
"Try it," I suggested.
"How are we going to get all the cherries off?" I shrugged.
"I think this tree isn’t barren anymore, is it? Haha? We should call Dad."
She suddenly threw the cherry onto the grass.
"How can you still be like this? He’s left us, and now I’m the center of attention here. Is that it? Can’t you stop making excuses for him, even just once?"
"I didn’t," I said.
"I’m not like you, going crazy," she was so angry that she grabbed my shoulders.
"Don’t you understand? I really don’t understand why you’d do something so stupid."
As I walked back into the house, I still heard her asking:
"How am I supposed to get all the cherries off? They’ll rot."
"Don’t slam the door," Ned said softly.
We gave each other a wry smile, and then he shrugged.
"You know, he’s living with a girl. That bitch dragged him away from us."
"Don’t joke," I replied, completely stunned, though I tried hard not to show it.
"I’m not sure if you know this."
"I know," I said, barely able to breathe.
"Isn’t it obvious?" Ned whispered. "Did he meet that girl during mass?"
"I know," I struggled to answer. I knew he went to mass every morning at seven, but I was only nine then, and I never thought about anything else. All I thought was that Dad liked doing that, and I even thought he was holy.
Ned shook his head.
"He’s a energetic idiot."
"He’s moved out to live with her," I added, not sure if it was true or not.
"Clearly so," I said, staring at the TV.
"I’m not sure if you know this."
Ned put the bowl of refilled popcorn back into the sofa. We used to be best friends, Maggie and Ned, when we were kids—we always played together, at least until he went crazy in seventh grade. People used to say we had a perfect family.
Ned went back to his room and turned on his loud, noisy punk rock music. I turned the TV volume down so I could eavesdrop on Mom’s phone call. I pressed my ear against the wall and heard Mom scream,
"Is this how it always is?"
I slumped onto the sofa, knowing in my heart that Dad wouldn’t be sending a check this month.
"Eddie, what am I supposed to do? You have to make some money, I don’t care how bad you are, your dreams! You’re an adult, Eddie. I hope your little girlfriend doesn’t—what? You think I have a spy who works sixty hours a week? Don’t tell me I’m hysterical, you useless idiot, what? Ah? Well, then, get your head out of my teeth, I hope you bite it off. Ah? You’re the one!"
I heard the phone slam onto the door. This was our fourth new phone this year. I turned the TV volume back up and threw the remote control hard at the bookshelf, the batteries rolling under the sofa. This was our third remote control.
I went back to my room, quietly closed the door, picked up a pencil with a sharp tip, and took out a small, square, blank notebook to use as my diary. I wrote down everything that happened that day, seventh grade. I wrote and wrote, until Mom yelled at Dad, and I found out the real reason Dad left us. Then I started erasing, using a new eraser over and over again. I didn’t like any of it. I wanted to erase the whole day.