Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns.
So I'm sitting on a bench down at the police station next to Randy, and all I can think about is how ironic it is that I'm completely calm. I just got arrested for Christ's sake, but the seriousness of the situation must be lost on me. Isn't it always?
It's true I don't care about a single thing that just happened, because even though I instigated it, my record will stand clean; even though I deserve a thorough talking-to and perhaps hard knock upside the head, neither will come; even though I should feel an ounce of remorse for getting hauled in on the principle of getting hauled on, I don't. Fact: you can't fear nonexistent consequences. This is what I tell myself. This is the bullshit I live by.
Randy though… Boy, he looks like a royal mess. Elbows on his knees, forehead pressed into the sweaty palms of his hands, I can imagine what he's thinking. His Dad's gonna lose it tonight guaranteed. Let's just say Mr. Adderson takes his parenting the same way he takes everything else in life—pretty damn seriously. You don't get away with shit at their house, which makes me feel like an ass for dragging Randy in on this.
What happened? Well, in short, we got caught TPing Coach Jacobson's house, and yeah, it was all my idea. It always is. I guess we owe Coach big time. His sense of humor is shoddy at best, but he talked the fuzz outa vandalism charges—told 'em he'd rather handle us on his own time. So technically I lied about no consequences. I'll run my extra laps same as the rest of us, but that's nothing compared to Randy's fate. Technically I lied about no remorse too. I keep saying I feel bad for him, and honest, I really do. I feel pretty damn shitty right now, considering he'd told me multiple times it was a stupid idea, but I just had to insist. I dunno. I was bored, I guess.
"Hey, I'm sorry, man." I clap a hand on his shoulder in a lost effort to make my words count. I know my apology is bullshit when I've gotten in in trouble how many times now? But still, I feel obliged to say something. This is my best friend here. "Shit, I didn't think—"
"Can we not talk about this?" Randy keeps his head down, eyes locked on the floor. This is how he gets when he's pissed off, nervous or both, and it's best not to talk to him then, so I sigh and arch my back against the concrete wall behind us.
I sit and wonder what that pit in your stomach feeling feels like; you know, when you do something bad, that impending sense of doom your folks'll find out what happened? I don't feel that anymore. Every time I have, my parents' reactions fall short and assure me I have absolutely nothing to fear, except to maybe consider how in the long haul, this is screwed up and deranged. I should be afraid. I got arrested, but my father never disciplines me.
Well, okay, he did once. Hard to believe now, but it happened. I was seven. We were at some company party, and of course I ran around and wreaked havoc with the other children. We broke a vase, but oddly enough, that didn't get me in trouble. Being the little shit I was, I pinned it on another kid, and though my father had seen me do the whole thing out of the corner of his eye, he did nothing. He just smirked and shook his head. Probably was secretly amused about it.
No, what I got in trouble for was plain stupid, and to this day it pisses me off a little. As we were prepping to leave, curiosity got the best of me. There was a burning question on the tip of my tongue demanding to be vocalized, so I pointed to Dad's boss and asked if that was the man he and his golfing buddies called "Fat ass Jerry." I'd heard him say this countless times, the funny thing about my old man is he only watches his mouth when Mom is around. It was like that back then, and it's the same now, only I was dumber than a bag of rocks because I honest to God thought that was the man's real name. Excuse me, Dad, for having an impressionable, seven year old brain.
But boy, I wasn't excused for anything. Not that time. Dad's face grew red fast. To make matters worse, "Fat ass Jerry" was standing right in front of us and staring at Dad like he was supposed to do something. My mom must've seen the anger in Dad's eyes then, for she pleaded with him to leave, but he had other plans. Before I could think to run, he picked me up by my waist, dragged me outside to a porch chair, and yanked me across his knees.
I got my first and only licking on that front porch, out there in the open for any passerby to see. It must've been a sorry sight too, me screaming bloody murder and kicking hard enough to bruise his shins, but I had to admit I admired his intensity. No matter how much I protested, he kept on, like he was trying to prove something.
Perhaps he was.
And when he stood me up and demanded I apologize, I dared not try anything stupid. I marched right in there and told "Fat ass Jerry" I was sorry. I wasn't sorry. I'm still not sorry, and I never will be sorry, but it still marks the only time my old man ever really lost it with me.
I wondered for a long time if he'd do it again, but it became clearer and clearer he wouldn't as the years went on. It didn't seem to matter how bad I was as long as it didn't affect his reputation. That was all he cared about that night anyway. He wasn't proving something to me; he was proving it to his boss.
It would seem nothing has changed, considering Randy's Dad arrives before mine. He talks to the officers first thing, assuring them they will never see the likes of Randy in here again, and when he approaches us, he's collected, but it's that scary kind of calm. I can tell by the way Randy's avoiding eye contact with him, he knows this is bad. "Hey, Mr. Adderson, don't be mad at Randy. This was all my idea…"
He narrows his eyes at me. Well, it was worth a shot. "My son knows better regardless of what you said to convince him, but you should still be ashamed of yourself." He turns to Randy. "C'mon, Randy." He motions for Randy to get up once, and Randy begrudgingly pulls himself off the bench.
They walk out in silence.
It seems like forever before my old man shows. I wait another half hour to be exact, and when he finally comes, he looks inconvenienced as hell.
"Sir, just to clarify once more, there were no charges pressed, right?" He lifts an eyebrow at the officer.
"Yes Sir, they're mighty lucky to have a nice teacher like that."
"Thank you."
He shakes the officer's hand and approaches me. "Well, kid, let's go." We walk out in silence too, but it's not the same. Randy's silence had weight behind it, but this silence? It just means my dad's relieved I didn't ruin my shot at attending a big name university.
We get in his car, and the mini lecture comes, the obligatory three sentence long chiding so he can feel like a goddamned father every now and again. "That was a close one, Bob," he says. "You're so close to graduating. Now is not the time to screw up your entire future, we clear?"
"Oh yeah, crystal clear."
His sigh tells me my sarcasm wasn't appreciated, but he just puts the car in drive and off we go.
xxxx
The next morning Mom gets us up and fusses over how we look for church. My little sister Karen's hair is restyled twice, I'm made to change my shirt at least four times, and Dad can't seem to move an inch without her harping on him about something.
She's neurotic as hell.
And once I'm presentable up to her standards, I lean against the kitchen counter to pass the time.
I pinch my brow. I can't think; the smell of Pine-Sol assaults my nostrils, but she always insists on scrubbing every last inch of the kitchen, and when she's done, she repeats the process. And then she'll clean all the other rooms twice over too. Everything must be so clean you could lick the goddamned floor, or it isn't good enough.
Soon everyone's ready to go, and all the while, amidst the commotion, it would seem everyone's forgotten all about last night's arrest. No one says a word to me. No one frowns. We just usher ourselves off to church where we go through the motions so we look like a good God-fearing Christian family. The image is all too important with the neighbors, I hear.
And when we get home, it's time for Sunday dinner.
Always quite the occasion. It starts in silence. The only sounds our forks clinking against the finest of fine porcelain china, and we sit here, dressed in our Sunday best. Can you hear me, Jesus? Are my clothes screaming loud enough for you? Were they flashier than family A's? Were they more modest than family B's?
"So I think I've got a good chance at winning the upcoming spelling bee, Daddy," Karen gloats, making herself the first to engage in what I call an endless stream of useless commentary. "It's on Wednesday, and I already know all the words," she adds, smiling so brightly, I'd love to shit on her moment, but I don't.
Our father promptly praises her: "I have no doubts you'll knock 'em dead, sweetie."
Oh, the overinflated happiness. How I hate thee so. I sit here quietly, making a mountain sculpture out of my mashed potatoes, like I'm stubborn five year old, and tune out all and any words they say until my mother's nagging voice rings in my eardrums. "Bob, you haven't said anything yet."
Well, no shit, Mom. No shit.
I set my fork down and take the opportunity to glance at every single one of them, pausing the longest on my father. "I got arrested last night."
Instant conversation killer, and I knew it'd be. Back to the clinking of forks. Back to the silence.
Just another Sunday dinner in the Sheldon household. Eventually Karen breaks that silence again, assuring my parent's she's their perfect little angel. Oh, and she is in every single way, didn't you know?
Just another Sunday dinner.
We all sit and talk, talk, talk, just to hear the sounds of our own voices, but no one ever really says anything.