When I wake up the next morning, Craig is nowhere to be found.
I head to my room and grab a pair of sweatpants from the top drawer, pulling them on over my boxers before heading downstairs.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs I see Craig sitting on the couch watching TV and eating a bowl of cereal. He's fixed the pillows and picked up a few beer cans, but it looks as though he gave up halfway through.
"Hey man, good morning," I say, plopping down next to him.
"Morning," he replies dryly, keeping his eyes fixed on the TV.
"How are you feeling?"
He shrugs his shoulders.
"Um, okay." I shift awkwardly on the couch. "Do you want like an ibuprofen or something?"
"No, I'm good," he says, gesturing to his cereal.
I don't know how he isn't throwing up. It's kind of miraculous. He was so out of it last night. It was the worst he's been in a while, but he has been in much worse shape than that in the past. I don't know why he continues to do that to himself. He's going to give himself alcohol poisoning one of these days.
"Are you sure you're okay?" I ask him.
"Yes, Token!" he insists impatiently.
"No headache?"
"Nope."
"Impressive," I murmur.
"I'm an impressive guy," he says with blatant sarcasm and cynicism.
"So, what was up with you last night?" I pry. "Why did you get so damn drunk?"
"It's not anything new," he reminds me.
"I know…" I admit, "but why do you do it? It can't feel too good – especially in the morning."
"I'm fine," he reiterates. "I'm totally fine."
"Okay," I say, irritated.
We're quiet for a minute, and I swear I can feel Craig tensing up next to me.
"Okay," he repeats.
I don't want to let him act this way. I'm frustrated to say the least.
We watch the screen in silence, neither of us wanting to be the one to give in. I swear all he does is try to draw attention to himself—acting so blatantly upset and then insisting that he's fine. It's painfully obvious, but at the same time is fucking impossible to read or maneuver around. I can't tell if by giving him the silent treatment I'm teaching him a lesson, or if I'm playing right into his game.
"Craig," I say finally. I can't act like this. I'm almost an adult. "Can we talk about last night?"
"What about last night?" he scoffs.
"Let's make a list," I say. "First thing you did when you came over was head for the liquor. You got disgustingly drunk and threw yourself at Lola on my parents' sofa. Then you gave me attitude for separating you two. Like, what the fuck, man?"
He shrugs. "Sounds like a typical weekend to me. I don't know why you're so mad."
"I'm mad BECAUSE this is typical!" I exclaim. "It's not healthy, Craig. You need to give yourself a fucking break. You just turned, for fuck's sake."
Craig's birthday party was yet another mess. Clyde and Bebe threw him a surprise party that was held at the Donovan residence. I kind of knew that would be a bad idea and I voiced my opinion on the matter, but they insisted it would be fun. So, it was me and Jason's responsibility to bring Craig to the party without spoiling anything.
As it unsurprisingly turns out, Craig doesn't like surprises. He spent most of the night locked in Clyde's bedroom, refusing to come out. When we finally managed to coax him out, the first thing he did was pour himself a stiff drink. He got so damn drunk that night, we found him passed out in the bath tub the following morning with puke all over his clothes.
Yours truly had to clean him up.
"Whatever," he says, rolling his eyes, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have to not smack him across the face.
I don't know what he's going to do once he gets to college—if he gets to college. People like Craig go off the deep end. Either way, he's screwed.
He drinks too much. He smokes too much. Hell, I don't even know what else he would do if he could get his hands on it. Everyone keeps acting like this is just a phase because we're 17 or whatever, but I'm not convinced.
I don't know, maybe it's our fault for pressuring him to go out. I know Craig hates crowds and gets anxious, but he can't just hide away in his room for his whole life. I know he would if we let him.
Maybe if he had some constructive hobbies that would help. He does sometimes. When it's nice out he likes to work on his bike, but when is it ever nice in South Park?
We have two months of summer and ten months of winter here.
When I can, I'm going to move far away from all this shit. Maybe I'll go to California. Maybe I'll go to Florida. I don't know. I just want to be somewhere warm.
It stresses me out to think about where Craig will be this time next year.
"Craig?"
"Hm?"
"What do you want to do after high school?"
"Nothing," he says. "I'm staying here."
"Why?" I pry.
He shrugs. "Don't wanna go to college. I'll just get a job or something."
"Dude, you can't even keep a job," I comment.
He's had jobs in the past, but he always ends up getting fired. He arrives late, he skips days, he calls in sick too much, he fights with his managers. I don't know why.
"Token, stop riding my ass."
"I'm just worried about you," I say, exasperated, and I swear I fucking see him smile when I say it.
"Why don't you just take care of yourself?" he snaps. "Everything's perfect in your little world isn't it? Do you really have so little to concern yourself with in your own life that you have to busy yourself with mine?"
That's enough. Fuck it. I don't have time for this and he can take care of himself—obviously.
I stand up from the couch and head to the kitchen, grabbing a paper bag from underneath the sink.
I stomp back into the living room and start grabbing beer cans off the floor, the bookshelf, fucking everywhere honestly. I didn't even buy beer. I have no idea where everyone got their hands on it.
Walking over to where Craig is sitting, I haphazardly scoop the cans he's lazily stacked on the coffee table next to him into my bag, looking him dead in the eyes.
He breaks away almost instantly. Good. I hope he feels guilty.
I don't have time for his bullshit – especially since my parents are going to be home tonight. If they come home to a mess, I'm screwed. I need the house to look as good as it did when they left…
It's times like this when I wish our house wasn't so damn big. It's murder to clean, especially when no one wants to help.
I take the cans out and put them in the recycling bin before sweeping up the kitchen, the hallway, the living room, the game room. I wipe the counters and tables and try to be as fast yet thorough.
I ignore Craig the entire time, not even bothering to make eye contact with him. He needs a few minutes to reflect and think about how he's been acting and treating me.
When I'm finished, I do another scan, making sure everything is clean and tidied up. It all looks up to snuff. Hopefully it'll pass my parents' inspection.
I honestly don't even know why I throw parties. I don't ever really get to enjoy them. If I'm not making sure the place doesn't get trashed, I'm babysitting.
When I get back to the kitchen, Craig has moved from the couch and is now clanking around in the sink. I'm pleasantly surprised to see him cleaning out his own cereal bowl. I guess that shows just how low my standards are.
"I'm sorry," he says with a start.
I would hope so.
"You shouldn't have to clean everything by yourself."
"I kind of already did," I respond harshly.
"I know." He sounds ashamed.
"Thanks for washing your dish though," I follow up. At least he did something, I guess.
He faces me, fidgeting with his hands for a moment. "I'm sorry," he says again.
"It's okay," I tell him.
"I don't know why I'm like this," he admits in a murmur.
The confession surprises me because I didn't think he'd be willing to talk about it this soon.
"Well, when did it start?" I pry gently.
"I don't know," he says. "I've been this way for as long as I can remember… I've just kind of… gotten worse as the years passed."
I frown at that. "Why don't you ever want to talk about it?"
"Because it's stupid," he mutters. "It makes me feel stupid… Besides, I'm talking about it now."
"I appreciate it," I say. "I'm glad you're talking to me and being honest."
He shrugs, wrapping his arms around his torso in what looks like an unconscious gesture. "Yeah, whatever…"
"It's scary, you know? To watch you spiral like that," I admit.
"Ugh, I know. Fuck. Token I'm sorry." He says for the millionth time.
"Then stop. I mean come on man. It obviously makes you feel bad."
"I do feel bad, I just—" Craig frowns, "When I'm feeling like that I can't really stop. I don't think about how it makes me feel until after."
"Feeling like what, though?" I ask. "Anxious? Like you have to drink to be able to handle being out? Because you know, we don't have to throw all these parties. I know that you hate them. If you really have that hard of a time you don't have to come to them."
"I don't hate them. Not all the time anyways. It's more than that. I don't know." He shrugs.
"I can't just stop… If I could, then I would. When I'm in a mood, I can't really control myself. I just… get really overwhelmed."
"Hm," I muse. "I don't know, man… I don't really get it. I guess I can't really understand what you're going through because I'm not in your head."
"I'm TRYING to explain it," Craig points out tersely.
"I don't get what I have to do with it, though," I admit. "Why do you get jealous when I'm not paying attention to you?"
"What?" he asks.
"You said that last night," I say. "Don't you remember?"
"No," he denies it.
At this point, I have no idea if he's lying or if he was just too damn drunk.
I let out a sigh. "Well, you DID say it. I just want to know what you mean by it."
"I don't know, I was wasted," he insists, "How the hell would I know what I meant by something I don't even remember saying?"
"Ugh. Forget it." I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "What do you mean when you say you get in a mood? What type of mood? Like how do you feel?"
"Agitated, I guess. Left out or ignored. Fuck, I don't know, just all around pissed off?"
I don't know why he's acting like I should have the answers. I have no clue what he's even trying to convey to me.
"So like what I just said? Like you want people to pay attention to you?" I offer.
"That sounds so fucking whiny." He gives me a frustrated look.
"But it's literally what you said." I point out.
"It feels different than that," he murmurs.
"Like how?"
"I don't know!" he exclaims. "Fuck."
"Chill out," I say.
"It's hard to explain," he murmurs. "It's like… when I get like that, I get selfish. I'm not really thinking about other people. I'm only thinking about what I want in that moment and I feel like I'll fucking die if I don't get it."
"When you feel lonely?" I ask, trying to get to the root of things.
"I guess," he says with a shrug. "I don't like when people leave me alone. I don't like when people reject my presence. I don't like being told to leave. I don't like when people go away…"
I nod along to what he's saying.
"I guess it's normal," he continues. "I mean… people don't like to feel that way."
"Yeah…" I say.
Craig is introverted as hell, so it's surprising that he craves attention and affection like this.
"Sometimes I feel like if I don't make people pay attention to me right this very second, they'll all leave and I'll be left alone. I fucking hate being left alone. If it's my choice, it's fine, but as soon as someone is too busy or they're the ones forcing me to be alone, actively choosing to make me alone, I feel like I freak out. I'll get scared that something I said or did will make them leave forever, and if they do then everyone else will too." He pauses. "If everyone left me, what would I be? I'd be completely worthless. I'd want to kill myself."
For a second, I don't even know how to respond. I can't even wrap my head around that level of dependency.
"Jesus Christ," I say. "That's some heavy shit, Craig…"
"Yeah," he murmurs.
"Thank you for telling me, though," I add.
"Sure," he says simply.
I appreciate the insight, but it kind of makes me worry. Craig gets more high-maintenance by the day. I don't like him mentioning suicide as an option. I also don't know how serious he is about it. Does he actually mean that or was he just exaggerating to get his point across?
"Look," I say, putting a hand on his shoulder, "You know I wouldn't ever pull shit like that, right? I know I get frustrated a lot, but I wouldn't ever tell you to go away."
"It felt like you were last night," he mumbles.
"I was busy with trying to keep my house from falling apart," I explain, wanting him to understand that.
"I know, but that's the problem," he continues. "I know you were just trying to keep your house clean. I know that people were being loud and messy and you hate that. I know logically that it had absolutely nothing to do with me. But then I just have this little voice in my head telling me 'If it wasn't about you, then why would you even be worrying about it?', and then I'm just back to square one."
"Then you just need to push that voice away. You said you know logically that it has nothing to do with you," I offer. "Is it really hard to get away from it?"
"Yeah, it's so fucking pervasive."
Craig sounds legitimately distressed. I don't know what to do. I've never seen him like this before.
I feel my frown deepen. "Do you sleep around for attention? You're with a different girl every weekend."
"It's fine," he says with a careless shrug. "I don't really care."
"Why?" I ask. "Is it fun?"
"Can be."
"So, sometimes it isn't?"
If he was just doing this kind of shit because he sincerely enjoyed it, then I wouldn't make it my business… but something about it rubs me the wrong way. It's the way he talks about these experiences. It's like he has no respect or regard for his well-being whatsoever. It's not about having fun, that's for sure. I don't really know what it's about for him.
"I don't know," is all he says.
"Why do you do it? For attention?"
"I don't know…" he repeats himself.
"But why would you do something like that when it isn't even enjoyable?" I persist. "Isn't it just work at that point?"
"No, it's easy."
I don't think I'm striking any sorts of chords with him here.
"It's just something to do," he adds.
"You sleep with every girl in our school because it's 'something to do'?"
I want to be nice, but I'm losing my patience. I can't decipher this—he's too damn cryptic.
Craig is silent for a moment. I think he's gauging my reaction.
"It's just nice to know someone is there who wants me," he finally mumbles.
"Craig." I roll my eyes. "Clyde, Nichole, Jason and I all want you. We're you're friends. Come on now. You don't need to hook up with random girls for people to want you around."
"You're all too busy for me," he says listlessly.
Okay, now he's just trying to make me feel bad.
"Look," I start, trying to keep calm, "these girls… they don't want you for you. They just want you because they think you're attractive or whatever. They aren't about to get to know you and I know that's what you want, isn't it? You're looking for comfort in the wrong place with the wrong people."
"Well, it's none of your business!" he snaps. "So, drop it!"
"Fine," I say simply. "Consider it dropped."
"Just like that?" he asks, looking somewhat crestfallen.
"Yes," I insist. I move out of the room and into the kitchen, grabbing myself a glass of water.
Craig follows me, naturally.
"If you're trying to guilt trip me, it isn't going to work," I tell him.
He scowls at me. "I'm not trying to do that."
"Okay," I say, rubbing my temple, "Do you want me to give you a ride home or something? You probably shouldn't try to walk all the way across town in this shitty weather."
"Oh," he says sharply. "That's tactful."
"What?" I take another swig of my water, finishing off the glass and setting it in the sink.
"So, I should leave?" he huffs.
Ugh.
"Look man, I just have a headache and want to lie down before I have to start focusing all my energy on homework for the week."
"I seriously just explained a shit ton about how badly that makes me feel and you're immediately trying to kick me out?" Craig asks frantically.
"I'm not kicking you out," I assure him. "I just need to sit down for a minute."
"So sit down." He rolls his eyes. "Fucking take a pain killer and actually listen to me for three seconds."
"I'll talk to you tonight or tomorrow," I say. "I really just want to take a nap, Craig. I'm not trying to be a dick here, so stop making me out to be the bad guy."
"Fine," he hisses, stomping out of the room and down the hall.
I follow him, watching as he slips his boots on and grabs his coat, swinging the door open and then slamming it shut.
I let out a sigh, grabbing my coat and slipping on my shoes. Car keys in hand, I exit behind him. Craig starts walking down our long cobblestone driveway, looking like he's planning on walking home.
"Get in the damn car," I tell him.
"No," he refuses.
"Craig, get in the car," I repeat with purpose.
"No."
"Yes! It's too fucking cold and your jacket isn't warm enough for the frigid weather."
He pauses and turns around, grinding his teeth together. His face is heated up and his cheeks are pink. He looks like he's about to cry.
"Just let me drive you home," I say sternly.
"I don't want to go home," he spits back.
We stand there in the driveway for a minute, staring at each other and not speaking.
"Fuck, fine!" I throw my hands up in defeat. "Come back inside, Jesus Christ. Just let me go relax for a little bit before my parents get home."
I'd expect Craig to be happy that he was getting his way, but he doesn't seem to be. He storms past me back into the house, not even bothering to take his coat off.
I don't say anything. I walk right past him and up the stairs to my bedroom. I can't believe I gave into this bullshit. I'm too frustrated to think.
I kill the lights in my bedroom and flop onto my bed, lying down and closing my eyes.
.
.
When I wake up, I sit and stare at the digital clock on my nightstand.
2:30PM.
Yikes. I slept for a little longer than I planned to. Oh, well.
I get out of bed and head downstairs to see Craig lying on the sofa. He's STILL wearing his coat and shoes. I walk towards him, grabbing one of his ankles and removing his shoes one after the other.
"What the fuck?" he deadpans, sitting up.
"Oh, you're awake," I say.
"I wasn't even sleeping," he mutters.
Then I notice his eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks are damp. It causes a little pang in my chest and I feel sympathetic, but at the same time I think that he WANTS me to feel guilty even though I have no reason to.
I take his shoes into the front entrance and set them on the welcome mat before returning to the living room. I sit down next to him and say, "How are you feeling now?"
"Better," he lies.
"Do you want to make some lunch or something? I didn't mean to sleep so late."
"I'm not really hungry."
Right. Of course not.
I drop it and grab the TV remote from underneath his leg.
When I sit down, Craig scoots away from me. Honestly I don't know what to think about him anymore.
"Are you mad?" he asks.
What the fuck do I say to that?
"Yeah, Craig, I'm kind of irked."
He looks uncomfortable, but doesn't respond.
"I really just wanted to take a nap, man. I wasn't trying to ditch you," I continue.
"I know," he says quietly.
"You didn't need to get so upset. I could have come and hung out later tonight."
"It's not about hanging out."
"Then what?" I ask.
"I already explained it to you as best as I could," he says. "I don't know what else you want me to say."
"So… you just want my attention?"
"You make me sound like a fucking baby," he mutters.
"Well, you're lying down here crying," I point out. "Don't bother denying it," I add when he looks like he's about to protest. "Your eyes are all red and shit. What the hell am I supposed to think about all of this?"
"I –"
Before he can respond, my home phone begins ringing. I reach for the phone on the coffee table and answer with, "Hello?"
"Hi, is this Token?"
"Yeah," I say.
"Hi, hon, it's Laura," she starts. "Is Craig over there? He isn't answering his cell phone. We called Clyde and he said Craig was still over here."
"Yeah, he is," I say. "Want to talk to him?"
"No, that's fine, just tell him Thomas will be by in a minute to pick him up."
"I can drive him over, Laura," I say.
"Don't worry about it, sweetie," she insists. "Thomas has errands to run, so he'll be out anyway."
"All right."
"Thanks!" she says before hanging up.
I set the phone down and Craig gives me a questioning look. "Your mom wants you home," I tell him. "Your dad is going to come get you."
"Oh," is all he says.
Honestly, Craig's parents are really nice. I don't know why Craig is such a hot mess. Even Ruby isn't as screwed up. She's just a troublemaker. I'm sure Laura and Thomas did all they could. I guess the problem is that they both work a lot. They don't have money like my family does, so both of his parents had a hard time with things. Maybe that's why Craig is so damn thirsty for attention.
Laura is a waitress and Thomas is a salesman. Craig spent a lot of time at daycares and with babysitters when he was little. When Ruby came along, Laura had to take time off and they were on a tight budget for a few years. I think it was rough on all of them and it's sad that so many people have to overwork just to be able to live and support their families.
I wish Craig could show them a little more appreciation, but I think he gives them as hard of a time as he does everyone else. Not to mention that he's always struggled with school and that can't be easy for any parent. I've tried setting up times to help him study in the past, but he always either bails or ends up distracted.
"I should probably get ready." Craig gets up from the couch and zips up his jacket again.
"Alright," I say as he walks over to the door and grabs his shoes from the spot I left them.
"Craig, you're okay, you know."
He stares up at me, looking unconvinced.
"Seriously. I mean, don't worry about today. I'm not pissed and I'm not going to leave you," I offer. Honestly, I am still irritated, but I don't think he needs to hear that right now. I don't think it will help.
"Thanks," he murmurs. "Sorry for acting like a dick."
I shrug.
It doesn't take long for Thomas to show up. I guess his plan was to run errands after getting Craig. I don't know why they needed him home in such a rush, but this time he goes without a complaint. I guess because it was on his terms.
I still don't understand what's wrong though, or what he was trying to tell me earlier.
