A PROFILE OF THE SHELDON FAMILY

Sarah Sheldon: My mother. Obsessed with making sure our house is sparkling clean, hosting Tupperware parties, and smugly lording her gorgeous home and huge bank account over all of her church 'friends'. Thinks I don't know she pours vodka into her orange juice.

David Sheldon: My father. Works at an insurance company, brings home a shitton of cash, struts around like he's a goddamn king. Doesn't give a fuck about anyone.

Robert Sheldon: The protagonist of this sad little drama. Spoiled rich brat who has everything he wants, except what he needs.

.i.

I have the perfect life. No, really, I do— on paper, there isn't a damn thing wrong. Hot girlfriend, shiny sportscar, endless spending money, star position at the helm of the football team. Once I leave Will Rogers with honors, I'm going to get a business degree from OU, join my father's company, and glide into a comfortable upper class American Dream.

So, of course, that's why instead of peacefully slumbering in my canopy bed on a school night, I'm at the seediest beer blast known to man. Blitzed almost enough to be crawling on my knees and still pounding shots every time the tray comes around.

You see, here's the secret behind my perfect glittering family— my old man's never belted me a day in my life, never even threatened to. In fact, he's never done shit to stop me from slamming my head against a wall to see what colors will flash before my eyes, even though I'll freely admit that I deserve it more than anyone, even though I push and shove and rile him up as much as I can. (My bitch of a mother is even worse, but it's not like she's got any right to read me the riot act when she's half-high all the damn time, babbling about Tupperware and church fundraisers like she doesn't just want to stick her head in the oven. Valium is a pretty little pill, so I've heard.)

It's batshit insane, how much they let slide. I smoke weed right on the front porch— they say nothing. I get the paddle time and time again— they say nothing. I'm suspended from school— they say nothing. The cops haul me in for fighting, loitering, theft— nothing, nothing, nothing. Not even a token cuff upside the head. They just don't give a fuck. My buddy Randy catches it real good every time he lies or steals or comes home trashed, and he was completely awestruck when I once let it slip that my house is, oops, devoid of discipline. You lucky bastard, he'd said, envy shining clear through his face. You can just do whatever the hell you want, whenever?

I guess so, I'd said with a smirk. But instead of reveling in my good fortune, all I could think of was this time when we were twelve, thirteen, getting off the bus from a six-week summer football camp and meeting our parents; how his dad had put an arm around his shoulders like he'd really missed having the kid around. Of course, Randy tolerated that for about half a second before squirming free, but I'd looked away, and not just out of polite consideration. I was jealous.

My old man never touches me, one way or another. I'm there or I'm not; it doesn't make any difference to him. And tonight, that's going to change.

"Bob? Are you sure you haven't had enough? You look a little sick."

I have this girl, Cherry Valance. She's pretty and she's a cheerleader and she hates it when I fight— we're maybe kind of in love, and she's got the All-American Girl look down pat, curled hair and shy smiles. If I ever went clean, it'd be for her, and I almost feel bad that I dragged her here. She doesn't belong at beer blasts, as popular as she is at school; it's obvious from the unfashionable length of her skirt, the awkward way she's wrapped her arms around herself. Her brow is furrowed, her face worried and pale. I swear, sometimes she seems like a better mother than my actual mother.

The music's so loud I can barely hear her speak. "It's okay," I shout. "It's okay, baby." I don't know who I'm reassuring. Then I pour another one back, let it burn its way straight down my throat. It's fine. I don't feel anything at all.

.ii.

I drive home late, once the last stragglers have stumbled to their cars or collapsed on a couch and the liquor's run dry. I'm hardly in any kind of condition for it, and I have to pull over a couple times to vomit on the side of the road; my hands are shaking so hard that it takes all my effort to keep them on the steering wheel. Maybe this wasn't the best idea, because I want to kill myself just to remove the pressure from my skull, but it's too late now and the worse I look, the better this'll work. Even fucking idiots like my parents will have to do something.

After I pull up in the drive (miraculously still alive, I have no idea how), I get out and pound on the front door. I might have a key? Doesn't matter. That's not what I'm here for. If I didn't want to get caught, if I had anything to fear, I wouldn't come back at all.

Slow footsteps, and it creaks open. Mom's wearing a bathrobe and slippers, her hair a tangled mess, and I realize how late it must be. "Bobby? Are you just getting in?"

"No shit," I say loudly. Always the actor, and now it's time for my grand spectacle.

And on cue, there's my old man, lumbering down the stairs and into the hallway like a jabberwocky. "What's going on?" he blearily asks. "Damn it, I've got work tomorrow."

Then he catches sight of me— wrinkled sweater, flushed face, eyes I know must be glazed. And for a second, I think (hope) he might actually blow his stack, because I'm as trashed as hell and even he can't cover it up, can't deny it. "You're... drunk?"

He's not angry, I can tell from the impatient tone of his voice, the way he's tapping his foot. Exasperated, maybe, that he's up so late dealing with this when he has Very Important Business Deals coming up. But not scared, not mad, and this enrages me, the first real thing I've felt in a long time. All this effort, all this life-ruining work to piss him off, and I get lukewarm jackshit in return. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I don't answer, instead look at the crystal chandelier dangling above my head, the authentic Persian carpet I'm standing on. Our perfect, perfect little house that's been scrubbed clean enough to eat off of a thousand years, except there's me. I'm the first footsteps on virgin snow. I fuck up everything.

So I'm just here, staggering, collapsing. "Well?" I finally demand, or I try to demand— my speech won't come out the right way. "C'mon. What are y'all gonna do?"

My mother steps forward and takes my arm real gently, like I'll shatter if she doesn't treat me with kid gloves. She's a fucking joke; my life's kind of an enormous fucking joke and nobody's laughing. "It's three A.M.," she says, soft and hurt. I want to hit her. I wonder what'd happen if I did. "Go to bed, Bobby. Sleep it off."

"This is... this is your fault," I choke out, wildly gesturing at both of them. A last-ditch attempt, my hands up in surrender. They look like they've been struck. "Every goddamn time... every goddamn..."

I can't finish; the words lodge themselves in my throat and even drunk I can't say it. There aren't any words. I turn around, and I run to my room with staggering jerky steps and slam the door hard and fall onto my bed without even pulling back the comforter. Pretend I am not here, I do not exist, I am nothing more than throbbing head and dry mouth and nauseated oblivion.

It hurts less that way.

.iii.

When I open my eyes again, far too bright light assaults my retinas— and my parents are standing beside me. Mom's face is red and tear-stained; I can't feel guilty about it. Dad has his best suit on, his hair neatly slicked back, and I realize I'm probably making him late for work. Good.

"Oh, Bobby," Mom cries once she notices that I'm conscious. (I wish I wasn't). "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been run over by a truck, what do you think," I snap. And of course, any normal father would jump right on me for mouthing off to my mother that way, but mine just leans forward.

"We were worried 'bout you," Dad starts hesitantly, artfully. "And I've been thinking—"

Bullshit. If he was worried about me, he'd be raising the roof right now. He'd be pulling off his belt and hollering loud enough to wake the dead and grounding me from all and sundry, you little dumbass, putting your own life on the line like that.

Mom breaks in before he can finish the sentence. "Have we driven you to this, sweetheart?"

Yes yes yes you have.

Dad gives her kind of a half-glare, and tries to surreptitiously look at his watch— I see, though. "If you feel like you're under pressure, you need to tell us. What are people going to say if they find out that my son's drinking?"

Dear God, the man's finally cracked. He thinks I give a flying fuck about his 'son, Sheldons always end up on top no matter what' speeches? He thinks he's put too much pressure on me, that's the problem? And of course, the only thing he cares about is the good family name— the only occasion he comes close to scolding me is when he thinks his beloved boss might think badly of his second-rate kid. Of course.

"Now, David," Mom soothes, "you know Bob loves being a go-getter. He needs a little break, is all. Baby, how does Santa Monica sound? My old sorority's going next month. You could take a couple of friends, maybe that Cherry girl you're sweet on?"

I couldn't make this up if I tried.

Dad nods slowly. "Seems like a fine idea. What d'you say, champ? Some time off to recharge those batteries."

My head is pounding and I feel dizzy, and it's not only because I took God knows how many shots last night. They're serious— they're looking at me with these eager expressions, as if they've found the magical bandage to plaster over their fucked-up son. Nobody's going to holler or belt me or take my keys. Better to send me away and pretend there isn't a problem. Takes a hell of a lot less effort.

"It digs all right," I mutter, deadpan. My fury's drained straight out of me as rapidly as it came. No fireworks. I just want them to leave. "Cherry's gonna like the beach."

"Is there something else you want, darling?" Mom fusses with a nonexistant wrinkle on my duvet. "Just tell us."

I roll over and press my head further into the pillow. "I ain't feeling so good," I side-step, and it's the truth. This entire conversation makes me want to hurl.

"Robert," Dad sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. It's never been more obvious to me that he wants this to have never happened. "Listen, son, I've gotta hustle— ol' Marconi isn't exactly the patient type. But we can talk some more when I get home, okay?"

By the time he gets home, he'll have forgotten the whole damn thing. "Yes," I still say— Randy would catch hell if he was in trouble and left the 'sir' off, but my father doesn't deserve it and he never insists.

Why am I comparing myself to Randy? If Randy pulled this kind of stunt, he'd have been bent over and howling the second his old man smelled the alcohol on his breath. Lucky bastard never has to go to these lengths and end up empty-handed.

"I think I'mma stay in bed," I proclaim, sprawling my limbs out further on the mattress once I hear the front door slam. It's a moot point, anyway. The school day's already half-finished.

"Of course." She adjusts my blankets again, like I'm fighting off a nasty flu instead of nursing a very self-inflicted hangover, and heads out the door too— probably to the kitchen. "You're so far ahead, I'm sure it won't make any difference to your schoolwork."

Well, she's got that much right. I'm a good student— not because I'm real interested in going to a good college and becoming a good employee at Dad's company, but as yet another thing to rub in the greasers' faces. I'm better than them in so many ways it hurts. That's what I keep telling myself.

"Bobby? Should I bring you some lemonade?"

I snuck out of the house— on a school night, no less. I got completely blitzed on vodka and beer and coke. I stumbled back in at three in the morning after driving stone drunk, so trashed I couldn't stand, cursed out my own mother, and they still don't give a damn.

Another day. Another failure.

"Yeah, sure," I call out. "I want ice in it."