*So my Ducks are finally back at Eton Hall, where I find their adventures
to be much easier to document. The cabin chapters were so frustrating
because I bit off more than I could chew, in wanting to explore all the
characters in some depth. Like you, BennyP, I expected more revelations,
and it really would have been best to have skipped that period altogether,
and later write a separate little insert story about those two weeks spent
in northern Minnesota. Oh well. So this is the chapter whose writing I put
off as long as I could. Lap it up while you can, because it's about as
angsty as I can stand to get:
Fulton's POV:
No one remembered the last time it had rained like this. Early this morning, the water had begun to fall from the sky in buckets, and since then had shown no signs of abating. Those who were outside when it began quickly rushed home for cover, and those inside stayed there.
The clouds hung low in the sky, grown heavy and bloated with moisture, and you could see the paths that the rain took from the clouds to the earth. The dark, blurry lines connected the two in perfectly parallel diagonal stripes; it looked like an Apollo-sized Freddy Krueger had taken his talons to the sky the way a frustrated artist might slash at his own canvas.
The school's courtyards and grass fields had turned to swamps, the puddles shin-deep in some places, and if you looked closely you could see the tiny splashes made from the impact whenever another raindrop struck the already water-logged windowsill. It was as if God had grown sick of watching us fuck each other over, and had launched his own war against the earth, sending in an army of millions of angry raindrops to destroy the world by proxy. Well, we all had to die sometime, and I supposed there are worse ways to go than by drowning, but it was the campaign of demoralisation that was getting me down. There were no colours anymore, no black and white, only shades of grey. The rains had swooped down in a preliminary attack and stolen the blues, reds, yellows and all their derivatives, leaving us with the bleakest of all possible worlds.
Portman and I sat on the couch in our attic, looking glumly out the window as destruction rained down on Eton Hall. The rest of the Ducks had been practicing all day; there were only two regular season games left, and Orien wanted to make sure we finished the year undefeated. Portman and I were exempt for the next two days as a result of the shit that had gone down during last week's game, our second match against Windsor Academy.
The game had been played on our turf, and so with non-biased refereeing, we were up 6-1 by the middle of the third; Portman and I had a field day during all the power plays we got. Then my old nemesis, #29, took a high stick to Portman's left shoulder, bruising it badly. Naturally, I was all over the guy, but I might have gone a little overboard this time, because it took Orien and both the refs to pull me off him. I was tossed from the game, and the only reason I avoided a longer suspension was because of what that goon did to Portman.
I had taken Portman to see our school sports therapist every day since then. Orien was desperate to have him back in action for Wednesday's game. The physio guy had nixed any hockey until Monday, and so here we were, an ice pack held tight to Portman's shoulder by a tensor bandage. Orien had figured the best way to make sure Portman didn't over-exert his shoulder for a few days was to put me in charge of watching over him. You had to give the guy credit, he knew his team pretty well.
Portman's injury hadn't been the only unfortunate occurrence brought about by those Windsor assholes; my game misconduct resulted in yet another sojourn to the guidance councillor, and this time it was serious. McNally was worried that I was choosing a dangerous life path, what with the fighting, the poor grades and attendance and attitude, and the CLOTHES, oh yes, those were the worst of all. Last week there was an alumni meeting at the school, and some very generous benefactors expressed concern upon seeing me walking down the hall. My hair was too long, my pants were always ripped, my shirts often bore troublesome slogans or images, and for God's sake, I didn't really think I could wear a peace button on an army jacket, did I? He also said that several teachers had expressed concerns as well (ten to one "several teachers" meant Benson, Benson, and Benson), and he wanted a sit-down with my parents to discuss these "areas of concern." Now, this wouldn't ordinarily be much of a problem, but McNally had talked to Orien, and when they compared notes, they discovered that the number Orien had for my house was not the same as McNally's. Now they knew that Johnny, who came in last year when I was flunking everything, wasn't my father, and they got my real parents to agree to come into the school on Friday. This was not good.
"What are you gonna do?" Portman asked. It had been several minutes since we'd spoken last, but of course I knew exactly what he was talking about.
"I don't know, but it'll be okay. I'll think of something."
"Like what? He's going to kill you."
"Probably just maim me."
"How can you joke about this?"
"What else am I gonna do, cry? It's hardly the end of the world."
"It wouldn't be so bad if you did cry; at least I'd know you still have blood running through your veins."
I looked up sharply. "I'm sorry Fult," he said miserably. "I didn't mean that. I'm just really worried, and you don't seem to care at all."
"I guess I'm kinda used to it, you know? He's been like this my whole life, and I don't expect he'll change. If I can find a way to avoid a fight, I will, but if not, I'll just ride it out."
Portman shook his head and gave me this sad look that made me want to scream. "You shouldn't have to. It's not right, or fair, or whatever."
What was I, a lost puppy? "Don't do that, don't you ever pity me. Christ, you'd think I was the only person in the world with shit in my life! Fair? When did you ever start expecting the world to be fair?"
He looked at me without saying anything, until the air grew pregnant with the silence. The sound of the heavy rainfall was clearly audible. It won't be long now before Noah starts rounding up all the animals, I thought, before Portman gave a sigh and spoke: "Look, if we argue about this, you'll win. Of course you'll win. You're smart, and I'm stupid. You can make words say whatever you want them to, and you always have an answer for everything. But if your dad comes to this meeting, he's going to tear you limb from limb, and I'm not just going to sit back and watch it happen. I love you too much. Why do you think it's okay what he does to you?"
I sighed, but I could feel a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. Real stupid all right. "You're not just going to let this go, are you?"
He shook his head. "I'm sorry Fult, but we have to talk about this."
"Okay, fine, but can I get some oblivion first?"
"I figured you'd say that." Portman went to go pry up the loose floorboard in the corner of the room that concealed our stash. "You really like that word, don't you?"
"Yeah," I sighed, looking out the window at the rain that hammered away on the glass, as if it was trying to drill inside. "I guess I've always been a big fan of oblivion."
***
"It's not so much that I think it's okay, than I figure there's nothing I can do to stop it," I said, my voice grown husky from the smoke as I cleared the pipe's chamber and handed it to Portman. It was really amazing how marijuana could take the sting out of almost any unpleasant situation. The only problem was that I was blowing smoke in more than just the literal sense, and I knew it.
"That's not much of an answer," Portman said. Leave it to him to see through my bullshit.
"Why are we even talking about this? What good is it going to do?"
"Because I think you should tell someone. Like Bombay, he's a lawyer."
My blood went cold. This was what I had been dreading. I could feel memories start to struggle to the surface of my mind. "You know what would happen then don't you? They'd take me away."
"Better than getting beat on all the time."
"That's where you're wrong. I've been there, and it's not. There are worse things you can do to a kid than hit them."
"What do you mean?"
Portman's voice was coming from far away. The world seemed slightly off- kilter, like in those old movies where the sound isn't always synced up to the picture, then everything began to flicker in and out.
FLASH! I was in a bed, staring up at the ceiling. Faces loomed over me, dark, ugly, masked, menacing. I struggled to free myself, but I couldn't move; my wrists and ankles were bound to the bed.
FLASH! I was in an office; leather chairs, mahogany bookshelves and carefully framed diplomas gave the place a feeling of money and power, but no soul, and the cold that filled the room chilled me to the bone. I was drowning in pills and Ph.D's, in people who knew what was best for me and were going to save me whether I liked it or not.
Images of soft walls and paper-soled shoes with no laces filled my mind. But it isn't real, I reminded myself. I can leave whenever I want to...
"Fulton... Fulton!" Portman was shaking my shoulder, and I was grateful for his touch; it breathed warmth into my body, and I could feel the trembling slow down, then stop altogether. I shook my head to clear it of the past, topped off the bowl and took several deep hits before turning to Portman again. I slipped my hand in his and he squeezed it tightly, infusing me with his strength. "Tell me."
"My dad never let me play sports, he said they were for sissies, so when I joined the Ducks, I had to be careful not to let him find out. He didn't, until after we won the PeeWee championship, and one of his poker buddies saw a picture of me in the paper and asked him if it wasn't his kid. I copped an awful licking for that one, the worst ever, I guess. I could barely walk for a couple days, so I didn't show up at school for awhile. I'd skipped a lot in the weeks before, trying to learn to skate, so they sent a truant officer over to my house. When the guy saw how banged up I was, he called the SS, and they stuck me in a group home until my dad took an anger management class."
"The SS? Like in Germany..."
"No, like in Social Services. They put me in one of those lock-down homes because of my "history of causing trouble," and that was no better than juvie, except that it was probably easier to run away from, because I did it all the time. I hated it there, they escorted you to and from school, and I wasn't allowed to read Poe or anything good because it would "fuel my violent impulses." They wouldn't even let me bring my hockey stick. After I ran away the second time, they tried putting me in a foster home with this crazy religious family. They made me pray and recite Bible passages all the time, and if I didn't they knocked me around more than Dad did, so I ran away. Then they put me with this couple who had two kids, real kids, I mean. They were the worst. They looked all nice and normal, but they treated me like shit. They only took me in for the money, so they could save up for a trip to Disneyland. I slept in the hall closet, and I wasn't allowed to touch anything. They made sure I only got enough food to get by, so they would turn a better profit. They kept locks on the cupboards and would make chicken for themselves and canned spaghetti for me.
Their kids were real pricks too, two boys, 10 and 15. They would always tease me, and break stuff and then tell their folks it was me, so I'd get in shit. They'd lock me in the closet whenever they got pissed at me, or if someone came over or something. They were a lot like Harry Potter's aunt and uncle, except she was fat and he was thin. I know it doesn't sound like that'd be worse that living with my dad, but it was. They made me feel like shit all the time. One day when the kids were teasing me, I flipped out and beat them both up, and that was enough to get me sent to that children's mental hospital over in St. Paul."
I spoke quickly and tonelessly, I wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. My stomach was starting to cramp up, and I was getting all trembly again. "It was worse than the group home. There were alarms and bars on the windows so you couldn't run away, and group therapy with the other kids, as well as individual psych sessions almost every day. The worst thing was the drugs. Whenever I'd get in a fight, or punch a wall or break something, they'd pump me full of medication. It's the ultimate irony, given the nature of my extracurricular activities, but it was awful. It's like there's a curtain between you and the rest of the world, and everything is foggy and unreal. You can't think or feel much of anything because your brain is just mush."
"How did you get out?"
"They started giving me daily doses of meds, so I palmed the pills, and after I had built up a stash, I faked an overdose. It was beautiful, I threw up on myself and convulsed and everything. They took me to the hospital, and it was easy to sneak out of there. By the time they found me, my father had been deemed a suitable guardian, and I got to go home. Portman, if they take me away again, they'll send me straight back there, I know they will." Now my voice was trembling along with my body as I imagined another stint in that hellhole.
"Okay Fulton, okay. Don't worry, you're not going back there, but I still think we have to do something about your dad. I mean, if he kicks your ass you won't be able to play hockey, and Orien will find out anyway; he'll probably already be suspicious of the guy after the meeting."
"You're right, but I think I can fix that. Tomorrow, we'll get one of the Ducks to call my house and cancel the meeting, then I'll call my mom and tell her to come, but not to bring dad."
Portman sighed and threw up his hands. "Great. But what about the next time? Or the next?"
"Look, it's not like my life is in danger or anything. Besides, we go to a boarding school. We're barely home, I can wait another two years."
"You're always saying that! Christ Fulton, the guy uses you for an ashtray!"
"It doesn't hurt as much as you'd think." I saw Portman's expression and decided to switch tactics. I wanted this over with. "Besides, what about you? It's not like of your mom's boyfriends never pounded on you. What about that Dylan guy? And I'm sure there are others you never told me about."
I was playing dirty, and I knew it. I slid over until I was pressed up against him, the day's worth of stubble that covered his face tickling my cheek. "Look, what I'm trying to say is that nobody's life is perfect, and that sometimes you just have to work with what you have. That would blow if we didn't have each other--actually, it blows no matter what--but having each other makes it bearable."
"I get what you're saying, but if we're just supposed to roll with the punches, why do you always mouth off to your dad? Why do you make it worse for yourself?"
Ah, the $64,000 question. I had asked myself that very thing many times before. I remembered how scared I used to be of my father, but the fear was always mixed with anger. I hated being scared, it was like giving in. I hated myself for hiding, and for crying when it hurt, so I stopped hiding and crying, and I started yelling back. It only made me get it worse, but it was worth it, because if you could find ways to fight back then you weren't a victim. After awhile, I even began to see the humour in it all. "If I yell back, then I'm asking for it, and that makes it easier."
"Do you realise how fucked up that sounds?"
"Yeah, but it's true. It simplifies things. Otherwise I'd always be asking myself why, and that's something you never want to do."
"How come?"
"Cause no way are you gonna like the answer. It could be there's something wrong with me, and I just bring out the worst in people, but I can't think like that, or I'd go crazy. I asked my dad once why, and he said because it was all I was good for. That was even worse, so I figured I'd just ignore the question." I kissed him gently. "It's okay to feel angry, and I know it's hard because you want to protect me. I feel the same way about you. Your mom makes me so mad I want to kill her sometimes. The world's full of assholes, but so long as we never let them come between us, we'll be alright. Promise me we'll never let them come between us."
"I promise," he whispered, pressing my head against his chest.
Before long we got to snuggling, then kissing, and as we made love on the dusty old couch, I imagined that we were really in a field of heather and thick green grass that tickled our naked bodies. There were pink ladyslippers between my toes, and when a katydid hopped onto Portman's shoulder, neither of us moved to flick it away. The sun was bright, the sky was cloudless and the world was perfect as we rolled around on the grass, laughing away the very idea of sadness. It was vague and intangible, and it didn't belong here. Happiness lived here, thick and creamy and edible, and it kept everything else at bay.
And what of that other world, you ask? What of reality? I have always scoffed at that word, and at the people who put such importance into it. When Dean and I come together, we form a whole greater than the sum of our parts; we come together to defy reality. But if you must know, in that other world of imperfect people and unhappy endings, we weren't rolling around in a field of grass, we were on a squeaky old couch, and we fell off twice, banging Portman's injured shoulder and causing him to cry out in pain.
In that world we left our socks on while we had sex, and Portman had to help me get my pants off because my shoes got stuck in the legs. In this world, I thought to myself as I fumbled to get my shirt back on, we have school, and I have scars, and we're both going to get old and die. I'd rather be making love in a field of heather and katydids.
"Hey Fulton," Portman called from over by the window. "Come look at this."
I went over to join him, my t-shirt still tangled in my arms. "What is it?"
"Look." He pointed, and I followed his gaze out the window.
It had stopped raining.
*Whew! Like Fulton, I'm glad that's finally over with. The Mighty Ducks are in the playoffs, so let's all wish them luck, only not as much luck as Vancouver. I'm not going to mention a certain loss to L.A., because that will be forgotten when we cream St. Louis in the quarterfinals. Is it just Canadian cities that go crazy with hockey fever come playoff time? Hockey is everywhere, and I love it. I know this was a long entry, and you guys are probably sick of my blathering, but I just have to share a wonderful piece of news: I finally got my copy of the new Elden Henson movie, Cheats! Oh, happy day! And not only that, I just found out he's filming another one as we speak! Sheer bliss! Who needs heroin when you have Elden?*
Fulton's POV:
No one remembered the last time it had rained like this. Early this morning, the water had begun to fall from the sky in buckets, and since then had shown no signs of abating. Those who were outside when it began quickly rushed home for cover, and those inside stayed there.
The clouds hung low in the sky, grown heavy and bloated with moisture, and you could see the paths that the rain took from the clouds to the earth. The dark, blurry lines connected the two in perfectly parallel diagonal stripes; it looked like an Apollo-sized Freddy Krueger had taken his talons to the sky the way a frustrated artist might slash at his own canvas.
The school's courtyards and grass fields had turned to swamps, the puddles shin-deep in some places, and if you looked closely you could see the tiny splashes made from the impact whenever another raindrop struck the already water-logged windowsill. It was as if God had grown sick of watching us fuck each other over, and had launched his own war against the earth, sending in an army of millions of angry raindrops to destroy the world by proxy. Well, we all had to die sometime, and I supposed there are worse ways to go than by drowning, but it was the campaign of demoralisation that was getting me down. There were no colours anymore, no black and white, only shades of grey. The rains had swooped down in a preliminary attack and stolen the blues, reds, yellows and all their derivatives, leaving us with the bleakest of all possible worlds.
Portman and I sat on the couch in our attic, looking glumly out the window as destruction rained down on Eton Hall. The rest of the Ducks had been practicing all day; there were only two regular season games left, and Orien wanted to make sure we finished the year undefeated. Portman and I were exempt for the next two days as a result of the shit that had gone down during last week's game, our second match against Windsor Academy.
The game had been played on our turf, and so with non-biased refereeing, we were up 6-1 by the middle of the third; Portman and I had a field day during all the power plays we got. Then my old nemesis, #29, took a high stick to Portman's left shoulder, bruising it badly. Naturally, I was all over the guy, but I might have gone a little overboard this time, because it took Orien and both the refs to pull me off him. I was tossed from the game, and the only reason I avoided a longer suspension was because of what that goon did to Portman.
I had taken Portman to see our school sports therapist every day since then. Orien was desperate to have him back in action for Wednesday's game. The physio guy had nixed any hockey until Monday, and so here we were, an ice pack held tight to Portman's shoulder by a tensor bandage. Orien had figured the best way to make sure Portman didn't over-exert his shoulder for a few days was to put me in charge of watching over him. You had to give the guy credit, he knew his team pretty well.
Portman's injury hadn't been the only unfortunate occurrence brought about by those Windsor assholes; my game misconduct resulted in yet another sojourn to the guidance councillor, and this time it was serious. McNally was worried that I was choosing a dangerous life path, what with the fighting, the poor grades and attendance and attitude, and the CLOTHES, oh yes, those were the worst of all. Last week there was an alumni meeting at the school, and some very generous benefactors expressed concern upon seeing me walking down the hall. My hair was too long, my pants were always ripped, my shirts often bore troublesome slogans or images, and for God's sake, I didn't really think I could wear a peace button on an army jacket, did I? He also said that several teachers had expressed concerns as well (ten to one "several teachers" meant Benson, Benson, and Benson), and he wanted a sit-down with my parents to discuss these "areas of concern." Now, this wouldn't ordinarily be much of a problem, but McNally had talked to Orien, and when they compared notes, they discovered that the number Orien had for my house was not the same as McNally's. Now they knew that Johnny, who came in last year when I was flunking everything, wasn't my father, and they got my real parents to agree to come into the school on Friday. This was not good.
"What are you gonna do?" Portman asked. It had been several minutes since we'd spoken last, but of course I knew exactly what he was talking about.
"I don't know, but it'll be okay. I'll think of something."
"Like what? He's going to kill you."
"Probably just maim me."
"How can you joke about this?"
"What else am I gonna do, cry? It's hardly the end of the world."
"It wouldn't be so bad if you did cry; at least I'd know you still have blood running through your veins."
I looked up sharply. "I'm sorry Fult," he said miserably. "I didn't mean that. I'm just really worried, and you don't seem to care at all."
"I guess I'm kinda used to it, you know? He's been like this my whole life, and I don't expect he'll change. If I can find a way to avoid a fight, I will, but if not, I'll just ride it out."
Portman shook his head and gave me this sad look that made me want to scream. "You shouldn't have to. It's not right, or fair, or whatever."
What was I, a lost puppy? "Don't do that, don't you ever pity me. Christ, you'd think I was the only person in the world with shit in my life! Fair? When did you ever start expecting the world to be fair?"
He looked at me without saying anything, until the air grew pregnant with the silence. The sound of the heavy rainfall was clearly audible. It won't be long now before Noah starts rounding up all the animals, I thought, before Portman gave a sigh and spoke: "Look, if we argue about this, you'll win. Of course you'll win. You're smart, and I'm stupid. You can make words say whatever you want them to, and you always have an answer for everything. But if your dad comes to this meeting, he's going to tear you limb from limb, and I'm not just going to sit back and watch it happen. I love you too much. Why do you think it's okay what he does to you?"
I sighed, but I could feel a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. Real stupid all right. "You're not just going to let this go, are you?"
He shook his head. "I'm sorry Fult, but we have to talk about this."
"Okay, fine, but can I get some oblivion first?"
"I figured you'd say that." Portman went to go pry up the loose floorboard in the corner of the room that concealed our stash. "You really like that word, don't you?"
"Yeah," I sighed, looking out the window at the rain that hammered away on the glass, as if it was trying to drill inside. "I guess I've always been a big fan of oblivion."
***
"It's not so much that I think it's okay, than I figure there's nothing I can do to stop it," I said, my voice grown husky from the smoke as I cleared the pipe's chamber and handed it to Portman. It was really amazing how marijuana could take the sting out of almost any unpleasant situation. The only problem was that I was blowing smoke in more than just the literal sense, and I knew it.
"That's not much of an answer," Portman said. Leave it to him to see through my bullshit.
"Why are we even talking about this? What good is it going to do?"
"Because I think you should tell someone. Like Bombay, he's a lawyer."
My blood went cold. This was what I had been dreading. I could feel memories start to struggle to the surface of my mind. "You know what would happen then don't you? They'd take me away."
"Better than getting beat on all the time."
"That's where you're wrong. I've been there, and it's not. There are worse things you can do to a kid than hit them."
"What do you mean?"
Portman's voice was coming from far away. The world seemed slightly off- kilter, like in those old movies where the sound isn't always synced up to the picture, then everything began to flicker in and out.
FLASH! I was in a bed, staring up at the ceiling. Faces loomed over me, dark, ugly, masked, menacing. I struggled to free myself, but I couldn't move; my wrists and ankles were bound to the bed.
FLASH! I was in an office; leather chairs, mahogany bookshelves and carefully framed diplomas gave the place a feeling of money and power, but no soul, and the cold that filled the room chilled me to the bone. I was drowning in pills and Ph.D's, in people who knew what was best for me and were going to save me whether I liked it or not.
Images of soft walls and paper-soled shoes with no laces filled my mind. But it isn't real, I reminded myself. I can leave whenever I want to...
"Fulton... Fulton!" Portman was shaking my shoulder, and I was grateful for his touch; it breathed warmth into my body, and I could feel the trembling slow down, then stop altogether. I shook my head to clear it of the past, topped off the bowl and took several deep hits before turning to Portman again. I slipped my hand in his and he squeezed it tightly, infusing me with his strength. "Tell me."
"My dad never let me play sports, he said they were for sissies, so when I joined the Ducks, I had to be careful not to let him find out. He didn't, until after we won the PeeWee championship, and one of his poker buddies saw a picture of me in the paper and asked him if it wasn't his kid. I copped an awful licking for that one, the worst ever, I guess. I could barely walk for a couple days, so I didn't show up at school for awhile. I'd skipped a lot in the weeks before, trying to learn to skate, so they sent a truant officer over to my house. When the guy saw how banged up I was, he called the SS, and they stuck me in a group home until my dad took an anger management class."
"The SS? Like in Germany..."
"No, like in Social Services. They put me in one of those lock-down homes because of my "history of causing trouble," and that was no better than juvie, except that it was probably easier to run away from, because I did it all the time. I hated it there, they escorted you to and from school, and I wasn't allowed to read Poe or anything good because it would "fuel my violent impulses." They wouldn't even let me bring my hockey stick. After I ran away the second time, they tried putting me in a foster home with this crazy religious family. They made me pray and recite Bible passages all the time, and if I didn't they knocked me around more than Dad did, so I ran away. Then they put me with this couple who had two kids, real kids, I mean. They were the worst. They looked all nice and normal, but they treated me like shit. They only took me in for the money, so they could save up for a trip to Disneyland. I slept in the hall closet, and I wasn't allowed to touch anything. They made sure I only got enough food to get by, so they would turn a better profit. They kept locks on the cupboards and would make chicken for themselves and canned spaghetti for me.
Their kids were real pricks too, two boys, 10 and 15. They would always tease me, and break stuff and then tell their folks it was me, so I'd get in shit. They'd lock me in the closet whenever they got pissed at me, or if someone came over or something. They were a lot like Harry Potter's aunt and uncle, except she was fat and he was thin. I know it doesn't sound like that'd be worse that living with my dad, but it was. They made me feel like shit all the time. One day when the kids were teasing me, I flipped out and beat them both up, and that was enough to get me sent to that children's mental hospital over in St. Paul."
I spoke quickly and tonelessly, I wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. My stomach was starting to cramp up, and I was getting all trembly again. "It was worse than the group home. There were alarms and bars on the windows so you couldn't run away, and group therapy with the other kids, as well as individual psych sessions almost every day. The worst thing was the drugs. Whenever I'd get in a fight, or punch a wall or break something, they'd pump me full of medication. It's the ultimate irony, given the nature of my extracurricular activities, but it was awful. It's like there's a curtain between you and the rest of the world, and everything is foggy and unreal. You can't think or feel much of anything because your brain is just mush."
"How did you get out?"
"They started giving me daily doses of meds, so I palmed the pills, and after I had built up a stash, I faked an overdose. It was beautiful, I threw up on myself and convulsed and everything. They took me to the hospital, and it was easy to sneak out of there. By the time they found me, my father had been deemed a suitable guardian, and I got to go home. Portman, if they take me away again, they'll send me straight back there, I know they will." Now my voice was trembling along with my body as I imagined another stint in that hellhole.
"Okay Fulton, okay. Don't worry, you're not going back there, but I still think we have to do something about your dad. I mean, if he kicks your ass you won't be able to play hockey, and Orien will find out anyway; he'll probably already be suspicious of the guy after the meeting."
"You're right, but I think I can fix that. Tomorrow, we'll get one of the Ducks to call my house and cancel the meeting, then I'll call my mom and tell her to come, but not to bring dad."
Portman sighed and threw up his hands. "Great. But what about the next time? Or the next?"
"Look, it's not like my life is in danger or anything. Besides, we go to a boarding school. We're barely home, I can wait another two years."
"You're always saying that! Christ Fulton, the guy uses you for an ashtray!"
"It doesn't hurt as much as you'd think." I saw Portman's expression and decided to switch tactics. I wanted this over with. "Besides, what about you? It's not like of your mom's boyfriends never pounded on you. What about that Dylan guy? And I'm sure there are others you never told me about."
I was playing dirty, and I knew it. I slid over until I was pressed up against him, the day's worth of stubble that covered his face tickling my cheek. "Look, what I'm trying to say is that nobody's life is perfect, and that sometimes you just have to work with what you have. That would blow if we didn't have each other--actually, it blows no matter what--but having each other makes it bearable."
"I get what you're saying, but if we're just supposed to roll with the punches, why do you always mouth off to your dad? Why do you make it worse for yourself?"
Ah, the $64,000 question. I had asked myself that very thing many times before. I remembered how scared I used to be of my father, but the fear was always mixed with anger. I hated being scared, it was like giving in. I hated myself for hiding, and for crying when it hurt, so I stopped hiding and crying, and I started yelling back. It only made me get it worse, but it was worth it, because if you could find ways to fight back then you weren't a victim. After awhile, I even began to see the humour in it all. "If I yell back, then I'm asking for it, and that makes it easier."
"Do you realise how fucked up that sounds?"
"Yeah, but it's true. It simplifies things. Otherwise I'd always be asking myself why, and that's something you never want to do."
"How come?"
"Cause no way are you gonna like the answer. It could be there's something wrong with me, and I just bring out the worst in people, but I can't think like that, or I'd go crazy. I asked my dad once why, and he said because it was all I was good for. That was even worse, so I figured I'd just ignore the question." I kissed him gently. "It's okay to feel angry, and I know it's hard because you want to protect me. I feel the same way about you. Your mom makes me so mad I want to kill her sometimes. The world's full of assholes, but so long as we never let them come between us, we'll be alright. Promise me we'll never let them come between us."
"I promise," he whispered, pressing my head against his chest.
Before long we got to snuggling, then kissing, and as we made love on the dusty old couch, I imagined that we were really in a field of heather and thick green grass that tickled our naked bodies. There were pink ladyslippers between my toes, and when a katydid hopped onto Portman's shoulder, neither of us moved to flick it away. The sun was bright, the sky was cloudless and the world was perfect as we rolled around on the grass, laughing away the very idea of sadness. It was vague and intangible, and it didn't belong here. Happiness lived here, thick and creamy and edible, and it kept everything else at bay.
And what of that other world, you ask? What of reality? I have always scoffed at that word, and at the people who put such importance into it. When Dean and I come together, we form a whole greater than the sum of our parts; we come together to defy reality. But if you must know, in that other world of imperfect people and unhappy endings, we weren't rolling around in a field of grass, we were on a squeaky old couch, and we fell off twice, banging Portman's injured shoulder and causing him to cry out in pain.
In that world we left our socks on while we had sex, and Portman had to help me get my pants off because my shoes got stuck in the legs. In this world, I thought to myself as I fumbled to get my shirt back on, we have school, and I have scars, and we're both going to get old and die. I'd rather be making love in a field of heather and katydids.
"Hey Fulton," Portman called from over by the window. "Come look at this."
I went over to join him, my t-shirt still tangled in my arms. "What is it?"
"Look." He pointed, and I followed his gaze out the window.
It had stopped raining.
*Whew! Like Fulton, I'm glad that's finally over with. The Mighty Ducks are in the playoffs, so let's all wish them luck, only not as much luck as Vancouver. I'm not going to mention a certain loss to L.A., because that will be forgotten when we cream St. Louis in the quarterfinals. Is it just Canadian cities that go crazy with hockey fever come playoff time? Hockey is everywhere, and I love it. I know this was a long entry, and you guys are probably sick of my blathering, but I just have to share a wonderful piece of news: I finally got my copy of the new Elden Henson movie, Cheats! Oh, happy day! And not only that, I just found out he's filming another one as we speak! Sheer bliss! Who needs heroin when you have Elden?*