Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.
ROGER
I don't remember the dream, only the transition. One minute I was warm, wet but warm and very comfortable, like a bath, except that this was a 'personification' type of dream that left my shorts soaked. In the next moment I'm cold, uncomfortable, and tired.
"Roger! Roger!"
Sarah's distressed whine can cut through any dream. I moan, open my eyes and rub my face. "What?" I ask. It's either very late or very early, either rate an obscene hour at which to wake. "Huh…" My brain rediscovers my body; as it does, I become aware of a strange smell and cold wetness to my pajamas. This is more than a wet dream.
I know before Sarah admits, "I had an accident. I'm sorry." She's kneeling on the bed, still wearing her soaked nightgown.
Sarah sleeps in my bed. Some nights she falls asleep there. If my parents are home, she falls asleep in her own bed, wakes up a few hours later and runs into my room. They don't want me to baby her. Fuck that. Fuck them. She's a little girl, a terrified child who believes that when the lights go off she can see demons. She'll stop with that once we stop indulging it, Dad said, and he confiscated her nightlight. The man has no idea how to raise a child. I think I'm fair evidence to that.
I force myself to sit up. "Unh…"
"Roger, I'm sorry."
"That's okay. Come on." I usher her off the bed, then strip the sheets. "Go get cleaned up in the bathroom," I tell her. "You have other pajamas, right?" She nods. "Good. Clean up and change. Go on." She flees. I bundle up the sheets and sniff the mattress, then the quilt. By some miracle, the quilt is dry and when I strip the mattress pad, the mattress is dry, also.
The house is dim; I stub my toe repeatedly. From my parents' bedroom comes the sound of my father snoring. The luminous hands of the clock label this six a.m.; Mom's already gone to work. She seems to constantly have a different shift. And six isn't too late. We'll leave for school in two hours.
I push everything into the washer. When Sarah joins me with her soaked nightgown and underpants, I consider. Dad's still not happy about Sarah sleeping in my bed. If he finds out about her 'accident', he'll blow a fuse. She's seven. If that's too old for nightlights, it's too old for accidents.
"Do you like these pajamas?" I ask. Sarah shakes her head. "Good. Run and get me a trash bag from the kitchen, under the sink. Don't touch anything else, just bring the bag." She obeys, and I shove her clothes into the bag.
"What're you doing?" she asks.
"Sarah, listen. You didn't have an accident. You weren't in my bed last night. You understand?"
"Okay," she says.
"Good girl. Do you think you can go back to sleep now?" When she gives her head a solemn shake, I say, "Okay. I want you to wait for me in my room. I have to do a couple things."
In the bathroom, I scrub my legs where they're sticky from being peed on, then pull on my sweatpants. I toss my soiled clothes into the washer and start the cycle. If my parents notice at all, hopefully the smell will be gone. Gee, sorry, Dad, I just woke up and I was humping the bed, couldn't help myself… He probably won't speak to me for a week, which is okay by me.
I cram the bag with Sarah's nightgown into my backpack. It's going into the school Dumpster today.
She's sitting on my bed, her knees hugged close to her chest, shivering. Naturally my sister has not the sense to wear something flannel, or at least warm on this rainy morning midway through November. "Sarah…"
She raises her face, and I can see she's been crying. "I'm sorry!" she says. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
"I'm not mad," I promise. The things with kids like us, kids who are raised as Sarah and I are--completely without love--is that we get to be needy. We want to be touched. We want people to love us and never believe that they do.
I hug her tightly in the hope that one day she won't be like me.
When Sarah has stopped crying, I say, "You know what? There's no point in going back to bed now. Let's have something to eat, okay? Will you read to me?" She nods. "Yeah. Okay, then let's go."
I situate her on the counter and she reads aloud from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Overall it's not an awful morning. I transfer the laundry to the dryer before Dad wakes up, and Sarah and I eat chocolate-chip pancakes and bacon for breakfast. "Okay." I check the clock; how did it get to be seven-thirty? We need to leave soon. "Go upstairs and get dressed for school." Sarah hops off her chair and I hear her feet on the stairs, then in her room. I tackle the dishes.
In fifteen minutes she's back, holding a hairbrush and ribbons. "Braid my hair?" she asks.
"Okay." I lift her onto a chair. "Hold still." School uniforms are ridiculous; my sister is blessed enough to look cute in her pleated skirt and button-down blouse. Despite the cuteness, I maintain that no seven-year-old should wear a tie, regardless of gender. I can remember plenty of days in which I stormed into the house and ripped the thing clean off my neck, sometimes ripping the tie in the process. Inevitably I would stuff these torn ties in the back of my closet or the trash, and inevitably they were discovered and used for spankings. I hate ties.
Braiding is simpler than most boys think. Once my sister's hair is tied off, she leaps off the chair at just the moment Dad wanders in. "That's dangerous," he warns. "You could fall and break your neck."
"Sorry," Sarah says.
"We were just heading out," I say. "Sarah, grab your bag." My backpack is by the door, slumped like an unconscious drunk; I swing it onto my shoulder and dash out the door. If I'm lucky, Dad won't notice the stuff in the dryer and I'll be able to make my bed when I get home from school.
---
Sixth period, Trask's class and what appears to be all of the Junior boys are gathered in the auditorium for an assembly. Trask is standing by the door with his arms crossed, not looking at all pleased.
Mark and Collins sit together about five rows behind me; I can hear them talking in the pre-presentation freedom. My head feels tight. I miss Mark. It isn't fair: he was my friend first. This is my fault. I avoided him. If I had only had a few moments alone with him, a chance to explain what had happened, we could have stayed friends. But he was always with Collins, so now whenever I look at him he looks away. I've never been so miserable.
The man giving the presentation is dressed in a crisp military uniform and shiny black dress shoes that make audible taps as he walks. He's got a buzz cut and mean eyes, but he stands before us, smiles, and asks, "Hey, how are you guys today?" A few kids answer, saying that they're fine, and someone in the back asks how he's doing. There is scattered laughter. "Yeah. So, junior year, huh? You're all juniors, right?" Again, scattered affirmative responses. "One more year, huh? How many of you are going to college?" I can't discern any words, but the gist is positive. "You know how much a college education is costing these days?"
That's a pathetic approach. He's going to try to guilt us into joining the army. I know the man's only doing his job, but I have such resentment for the body he represents that as he's presenting a series of numbers and telling these kids how the military will pay their way, I raise my hand.
"Yes?"
"Hi. I'm Roger Davis, I'm a junior and, uh, I know it won't be easy for my parents to pay for college," I say, bullshitting more than a little. My parents can easily afford to send me to college. "So I've been thinking about the military," I conclude. The recruiter nods and gives a little smile. "But… what's the percentage of people who actually leave and go back to school?"
"Well, I'm not equipped with the numbers," the recruiter responds smoothly, "though it is true that some find the military a difficult place to leave."
I nod. He answered that well. I have a little respect for this man. I'm still going to crush him. "And, there are stories of 'gay-bashing' within the army or dishonorable discharges for homosexuality. Are this true accounts?"
"The army doesn't condone that type of violence," the recruiter says, and my respect is gone. He sounds like the priest in my church. "And if a man chooses to flaunt that attribute, the army is not responsible for the retribution he earns."
"So, let me get this straight: a guy can be beaten literally to death--killed--by his peers, by his own side, just for the way he was born?" There's a turn in the crowd, disapproving murmurs. Good.
"Well…" He's at a loss.
I ask, enunciating clearly, "Yes or no?"
"That army cannot be held responsible," he says certainly.
"Oh. You won't protect your soldiers?" I demand. "Why would we sign up to fight and die, to be shot at if you won't offer us protection?" I allow a little quiet time for this to sink in. Then I tell him, "I don't think you have any more purpose here. Leave. Out!" He starts. "Out," I say, and clap. "Out." Clap. "Out," clap.
I'm not the only one saying it, either. "Out," they say, and clap. "Out." The recruiter begins to sweat.
"Out."
He looks around, slightly feverish. I love this, this power, how they all listened to me.
"Out. Out. Out."
I've started something: a ripple, a riot. Anger flares, and a wad of paper flies from the audience to bounce off the recruiter's chest.
"Out. Out. Out."
We break into a raucous cheer as he heads for the door, clapping and whooping, feeling a swell of power, me more than anyone else. I started this.
That's why Trask leans over and says, "Mimi--" as he has taken to calling me "--would you go wait outside, please?"
My work is done and I like Trask, so I step out back and lean against the wall of the auditorium, grinning. I can't believe I did that. I cannot believe I moved a group of over one hundred people, made them agree with me and bend to my will. It's a rush. I think I want to be a lawyer.
When the door opens I straighten, expecting Trask and a lecture, but it's Collins who emerges. Mark slips out after him. Collins doesn't say a word, just looks at me and holds his hands out from his sides. A part of me wants to say, Fuck, yeah, but I don't, I just go up next to him and wrap my arms around him, and he does the same.
I don't ask for hugs, but I always want them. It seems like for years only Mark and Sarah have touched me with any love, and though I love them both, Collins has the best hug ever. It helps that he's bigger than me, but his hug is gentle and warm and overall very nice.
Collins and I break the hug, and I grab Mark and hug him, and he just squeaks, "Roger!" And like that, we're friends again.
Collins claps me on the shoulder. "You're a real powerful guy, Roger," he tells me.
"I know," I say. I am not the king of modesty at this moment, nor do I need or desire to be. "I started a riot," I say, amazed, and giggle.
"You did," Collins agrees, grinning. I'm so proud of myself.
Trask emerges, takes one look at us and says, "Oh, I'm glad. The Wonder Twins… Triplets, I guess. They're back together. Good. Bring that energy to the stage." We all blush, Mark more than the rest of us. "Okay, Collins and Cohen, inside. Don't worry, I'm not gonna skin him or anything," Trask assures them, interpreting my friends' faces.
When it's just us two, he says, "Davis…" and shakes his head. He's laughing. "You're… oh, G-d. That was impressive. But it's dangerous. You should know that, starting protests like that, it's a dangerous game and you're lucky there was no violence." I give a solemn nod. Satisfied, Trask says, "And I'm really proud. Come back inside."
As I step in, Collins shouts, "Anarchy!" and a cheer is raised. And I feel great. It's the best I've felt, probably ever. This has become a great day.
---
I'm sitting at the kitchen table finishing an essay when Marcy storms in, protesting, "And I told you that I can't! I have a date, Mom! G-d."
Mom follows her, looking tired. She's worked all day, and now has come home to her hormonal, eternally dissatisfied bitch of an eldest daughter, who retrieves a can of soda from the refrigerator and spots me. "Make Roger do it," she says. "He's sixteen, he can drive."
"Do what?" I ask.
"Pick up Grandma Davis from the airport," Mom says.
I wince. A moment ago I was ready to do anything she asks, but this… Grandma Davis, my father's mother, has about all the kindness and maternal instinct of a barbed wire fence experiencing pre-menstrual syndrome. She dropped cigarette ash on my father, as a baby, as she nursed him. "When?" I ask.
"A week from Thursday."
I nod. "Okay, I can do that," I say. Mom thanks me with obvious relief. "Someone needs to watch Sarah, though."
"I have an early shift," Mom says. "I'll watch her." There is irony here, that the mother is secondary guardian, but I accept it without laughter. Mom's sad enough already.
Now, I think, is a good time to ask, "Can I sleep over at Mark's a week from tomorrow?"
TO BE CONTINUED!
