"Zigmund Novak!"
And there it was, his full name, out in the open. His mother was screaming at him, but he didn't feel like it was him she was aiming her animosity towards. She was disappointed in herself for not being able to provide for her child, for teaching him values but giving him no real incentive to follow that way of life. Zig, internally, had always known right from wrong. He had always known what was ethical and kind and true, but he hadn't had anyone to apply it to.
Then Maya came along. Sure, she was friends with the materialistic, beautiful Tori Santamaria, but they couldn't have been more different. Maya was it—his dream girl, the one he hadn't even known he'd been waiting for. But of course, by the time he actually realized this, he was foolishly in a relationship with Tori and she was in a relationship with Cam. He couldn't even get started on Cam, since his tragic end didn't really allow for him to bash him in any way. But while he was alive, sure, Zig hadn't despised him. He was simply jealous of him. That Cam didn't understand, care for Maya the way he did.
Was he supposed to be feeling those emotions for another girl while he was in a (kind-of) committed relationship? Probably not. But he couldn't help it. Maya had drawn him in, with the upturning of her lips, her soft eyes, her love for every note of her cello— from the sharpest to the softest. He also particularly noted that he liked it best when she didn't wear makeup—there was something about the bareness that was so natural, so uncharacteristically beautiful, by no conventional means. And when he'd hurt her, when other people came into play—the regret and the apology upon apology came rushing out of him. Because this act of kindness, it didn't just affect him, it affected the people he cared most about. He came to realize that he didn't really give a shit about himself at all.
And that's probably why he ended up here.
This summer's been torture for him, that all his classmates went off to Paris while he had to stay home working at the convenience store. He loved his mother to pieces, more than he loves Maya even, he supposes. He knows that she'd been trying. But he's a teenager—and he wants, no needs to have a little bit of fun. And, G-d, being poor sure has its disadvantages in that department.
"Zigmund Novak," his mother repeated, her voice coming closer and closer to him, "What were you thinking?"
When he'd kissed Maya? He was thinking he was in love with her. When he'd stood in front of their entire French class and apologized publicly for how he'd treated his friends? He was thinking he was being a shitty friend (and person in general) and needed to make amends. When he'd stolen the hundred dollars from the cash register at the local supermarket? He was thinking he could help. He wasn't really thinking at all. Because this wasn't the moral, upright route he was supposed to be following.
Yet he couldn't help it. He knew what was the right thing to do, in all these situations, yet only in one of them he was really able to do the right thing. The moment his fingertips touched the dollars bills in the register, the rush he felt wasn't even slightly appropriate. He realized that morality came at a price—that you couldn't feel the excitement, the elation, the rush of doing something you weren't supposed to be doing. And who, really, was this affecting but himself? Aside from the person he was stealing from, of course. But that person was an unknown, distant being; as long as he didn't see their faces, those people didn't need to be real. Not really.
"Don't you ignore me, Zig. Tell me. What were you thinking?"
"I wasn't."
"Damn well you weren't."
He was foolish for thinking he wouldn't get caught. He was just a kid, after all, so the owners let him off with a warning. And a call to his parents. He had to return the money, of course, and his mother didn't say a word as she drove him home. The expression on her face was one he'd never seen before—her eyes cold, her lips flat and emotionless, her cheeks pale. Under her eyelids were dark; she looked tired, more tired than she ought to have been. He wished she would say something, but he knew she had nothing to say to him. Because he didn't care¸ he hardly even felt guilty about anything anymore.
He was just going through the motions, like a hopeless romantic who'd tried everything to win the attention of the object of his affection on numerous occasions, but failed time and time again. That the feeling, the passion had fizzled, but the empty determination was still there.
"I don't even know you anymore."
His heart hurt just a little. The submissiveness with which she said it, the lack of sympathy, emotion, understanding—his heart just ached. He wished he could amend this situation, somehow, but he'd pulled too many stunts such as this that he couldn't expect his mother to forgive him. Not this time. It was then that he knew that knowing right from wrong wasn't enough; in fact, it doesn't mean anything unless you act on it. Unless you're faced with an ethical dilemma upfront and personal and you choose the right path to follow.
And he'd failed. G-d, he'd failed with flying colors above and beyond his worst nightmares.
"I'm sorry, mom. I really am."
"Sorry isn't going to cut it this time, Zig. I've tried, your father and I have both tried to provide for you, to straighten you out, but you don't appreciate any of it."
"I'm—"
"It's enough, Zig."
He'd had enough, too. Enough of the emotional abuse—by his parents, his teachers, Maya. Right now, he had nobody; Maya hadn't contacted him months, and they'd been friends above their whole complicated relationship. Everyone else kind of just disappeared, as if they'd never been a part of his life. He didn't have many friends to begin with, but he doesn't remember the last time he'd hung out with anybody since school had ended. Except for those he met at bars, parties, on random escapades he'd take—but they were often too high to even remember his face, let alone his name. Would he even have any friends entering Sophomore year? Since when was he ever that loser who'd sit alone at lunch, walk along the schoolyard kicking cans to the curb?
They'd given up. Instead of trying to understand, they'd just stopped listening to what he had to say. They'd only watched his actions. Which to be fair, he totally understood, but he was their son. They had caught him smoking a cigarette outside the convenience store once (though he had to admit, that wasn't the first time he'd picked up a cigarette). They had caught him with more cash than they knew they'd provided him with. He'd been out late, like past one am sort of late, countless times that summer. Doing G-d knows what with G-d knows who—just to numb the pain, he argued to himself. And it did, for a while. But it didn't take long for him to realize that endless alcohol and girls and blasting music wasn't a substitute for much of anything. When he arrived home late at night, the pain of being totally and completely alone in the world was still there. It was still so fresh.
So maybe he was being dramatic. But how was he supposed to feel? Was he supposed to sit around and let himself sink into this boredom? Take revenge at the expense of everyone around him? Or maybe he could choose to hurt himself, because at least he'd feel something tangible, something that would get him on a high—often literally, he had to admit. It wasn't anyone else's fault, even though he'd like to blame his parents for not digging deeper and trying to understand what was going on with him, blame Maya for breaking his heart—no, shattering it. He wanted control of his life, and this was his control, as twisted as it might seem.
"Fine, mom. What do you want me to say?"
"I don't want anything, Zig. Your father and I have come to a very difficult decision."
Now this definitely couldn't be any good.
"What is it, mom?"
He didn't particularly appreciate the hesitation, and to be perfectly honest, he was afraid. His mother was usually so straight forward with him, and the fact that she held her breath for even a moment wasn't a good sign. His expression suddenly dropped, as if he didn't understand the gravity of the situation until that moment. As if he didn't notice that in his attempt to make himself feel something, he was hurting the one person he cared most about, unconditionally.
"We can't do this anymore Zig. Your father and I. We're giving you an hour to collect your stuff, and until you get your act together, you're no longer invited into this house."
"Mom?"
The tears were there, but he wiped them before his mother could see. He didn't know why he didn't think that they'd eventually get sick of him. He had no counterargument, no real excuse to get himself out of this.
"Where am I supposed to stay, mom?"
His mother wasn't as strong as he was, of course, and he could see the tears fresh in her eyes as he turned to face her.
"You should've thought of that before you started acting in total disregard for anyone in this family, Zigmund. Our decision is final, you understand me?"
He felt such a rush of anger that his knuckles collided with the wall of the convenience store, knocking over a few cans that were neatly placed on a shelf a few feet away.
"Loud and clear."
Except the words were still fuzzy, still sinking in, still fresh like the scratches on his knuckles. He eyed his mother with contempt, his dark, hard eyes meeting her soft, hazel ones, before he walked up to his room and slammed the rickety door shut. He guesses now that they'd never really come around to fixing it after all.
Giving in was easy, he realized after the past few months. As he was rummaging through the clutter in his room—clothing, bed sheets, papers, old photographs—he picked up a photograph of Maya and him at that talent competition that year. Her eyes were sparkling, and his smile was so big and genuine that it almost looked fake, practiced. He knew better. He began to tear it slightly before he decided against it and threw it into his duffel bag. What he didn't realize was how easy it was for them to give up on him.
He picked up any piece of black clothing he could find and stuffed it into the fraying duffel bag. Any color was almost blinding. Running his fingers through his mop of hair, he hated the innocence of it, the Justin Beiber-esque style of it. He could spend some of that money he'd saved on a haircut.
He'd show them how rebellious, how dark he could really be. He no longer needed anyone's permission. (Not that he ever really did.)