Maybe they never find it.
That would be better.
45. mom on a rampage.
Jessica is sitting on a bench outside the principal’s office. When she sees me, she bursts into tears and grabs on to me.
“I was so scared,” she says.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just a little asthma.”
That just makes her clamp down and cry harder.
“Is Mom in there?”
“She’s on a rampage,” Jessica says. “It would be a good time to move in with Dad.”
“Don’t think I haven’t considered it.”
Jessica laughs a little. She wipes tears out of her eyes.
“Do you want me to go in with you?” she says.
“No way,” I say. I feel guilty enough as it is. Poor Jessica isn’t even in high school, and she’s already in the principal’s office.
“Sit and relax,” I say. “I’ll try to make it quick.”
The second I walk into the office, I know it’s not going to be quick. More like slow and painful. Our principal, Caroline Whitney-Smith, is sitting with a single white piece of paper in front of her on the desk. Mom and Coach are talking in angry voices. They stop when they see me.
“Are you feeling better?” Caroline Whitney-Smith says.
“Much better,” I say.
She won’t let students call her Mrs. Smith, or even Mrs. Whitney-Smith, because she says it makes her feel like a stranger. We have to say her whole name every time. She calls it a bonding exercise. I call it neurotic.
“Caroline Whitney-Smith and I have been talking,” Mom says.
I stare at the paper on the desk. The consent form.
Caroline Whitney-Smith holds it up. “Why don’t you start by explaining this paper?”
“That’s not my signature,” Mom says.
“How did your mother’s signature get here?” Caroline Whitney-Smith says.
“I put it there,” I say.
Coach looks at me like I just pissed in his whistle. “You forged it,” he says.
“I copied it,” I say.
“Semantics,” Caroline Whitney-Smith says.
She’s right. It’s a stupid thing to say. But you say stupid things in that situation. You think you’re going to be really cool, but you’re not.
For a second I consider bringing O. into it. If I wanted to take him down, this would be a perfect opportunity. But then I think of him leaning over me pressing the inhaler to my lips, and I can’t do it.
“You’re right. I forged it,” I say.
“I risked everything to give you an opportunity—” Coach says. He suddenly moans, sits back, and rubs his belly. “I’m dying for a Tums,” he says. He looks at Caroline Whitney-Smith. “Do you have a Tums?”
“I do not have a Tums,” she says.
“I have a Tums,” Mom says. She digs in her purse. Mom doesn’t go anywhere without the contents of a medicine cabinet in her purse.
Coach says, “I had no idea, Mrs. Zansky. Otherwise I would not have allowed this to happen.” PYA mode. Smart.
Mom turns bright red. “What if he died out there?”
I put my face in my hands.
“My husband is an attorney,” Mom says. “This will not end here, rest assured.”
Caroline Whitney-Smith picks up the consent form.
“Pardon me, Mrs. Zansky, but is this your husband’s signature?”
Mom stares at the form, then at me, then back at the form.
“That son of a bitch,” she says, and a pack of Tums falls out of her hand and spills onto the floor.
46. things change.
“How could you not know?” Mom says.
“What do you want from me?” Dad says. “It looks like your signature.”
I’m sitting on the couch in the living room watching Mom and Dad fight. Just like the old days.
“You don’t know my handwriting after all these years?” Mom says.
“I’m sorry I didn’t send it out for expert analysis,” Dad says.
“It doesn’t require an expert,” Mom says, “just a father who pays attention.”
“If we’re going to play the blame game,” Dad says, “I have to point out that I’m the one who knew he was playing football. He felt safe enough to come to me.”
“Exactly,” Mom says. “You’re the irresponsible parent who let your asthmatic son play football.”
“I don’t see why it’s irresponsible to let a boy grow up a little. You can’t coddle him forever.”
“Look at him,” Mom says.
Dad looks at me. They both do.
“Look at his weight,” Mom says.
They both look down at my stomach.
“I hate you,” I say to Mom.
“Hate me all you want,” Mom says. “It’s my job to take care of you. That’s what a parent does.”
“Is this really necessary?” Dad says.
“He needs to hear this.”
“He needs to hear that he’s fat?” Dad says. “He knows he’s fat.”
“I’m going to my room,” I say.
“That’s a good idea,” Dad says. “I’m sorry you have to be a part of this, Andy. Your mom and I obviously have a few things to work out.”
“Stay there,” Mom says to me. She turns to Dad. “This is not your house anymore. You don’t call the shots. As difficult as that may be for you to comprehend.”
Dad takes a deep breath. I can see him trying not to lose his temper, say something he’ll regret later during a settlement negotiation.
“Guys, can I say something, please?” I say.
“No,” Mom and Dad say at the same time.
“He shouldn’t be playing sports in his condition,” Mom says.
“That’s not what the doctor said.”
“How do you know what the doctor said? In fifteen years you’ve never gone to an appointment.”
I say, “Remember how the allergist said it would be good for me to play sports? He said it would expand my breathing capacity.”
He also said we should move to Arizona and I should play a wind instrument, but I don’t mention those things. I spent two miserable years taking clarinet lessons, and I’ve never gotten over it. Fat people should not be forced to play thin instruments. It’s a cruel visual joke.
“That allergist was a long time ago,” Mom says. “Things change.”
“Clearly,” Dad says.
“This is not a conversation about asthma,” Mom says.
“Exactly,” Dad says. “It’s about your misplaced anger.”
“Since when am I angry?” Mom says.
She says it so angrily, it almost makes me laugh.
Dad doesn’t say anything. He goes to the window and looks out through the curtains. The streetlight is on in front of the house, a single pool of light in a black frame.
Dad takes a breath.
“I’m going to New York sooner than planned. Did Andy tell you?”
I hear a gasp from the top of the stairs. Jessica is up there eavesdropping.
“He didn’t mention it,” Mom says.
Mom looks at me. I can see that I’m going to be spending a lot of time in my room in the weeks to come.
“When?” Mom says. Her voice is soft now.
“November first.”
Mom takes a breath. “That’s it, then.”
“Not entirely. I’ll be commuting for a while.”
“Still,” Mom says. “You’re going away.”
“Yes.”
“I wish you well, Edward.”
It gets quiet in the living room. Dad walks slowly to the liquor cabinet where he keeps his scotch. When he opens the door, it’s empty inside.
“Where’s my Glenlivet?” He says.
“Nobody drinks here,” Mom says. “Not anymore.”
Dad runs his tongue across the front of his teeth. He looks at me on the sofa.