Blazed Page 2

  “I can’t stop,” she barks. “I need this. It’s the only way I can deal with this horrible life.”

  Shaking my head slowly, I go, “Then maybe it’s time for me to go to San Francisco.”

  This bloodcurdling scream just unleashes from the pit of my mother’s gut and she runs at me, grabbing my shoulders and pushing me into the wall.

  My head slams so hard that chunks of plaster rain down.

  “Stop it,” I tell her. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Take it back,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Your father did this to me,” she barks. “He did this!”

  Then—

  POW!

  Her right fist slams into my left eye. The rings on her fingers gouge flesh on my cheek.

  My ears ring.

  Then—

  WHAM!

  The same knuckles pound against my temple.

  This time, though, I grab ahold of her arms and beg for her to stop while she furiously tries to shake herself loose.

  My grip tightens.

  And she starts crying.

  “Just stop it,” I beg again. “Leave me alone.”

  Her whole body goes limp. She looks so worn.

  She stops fighting, and I let go of her, and she falls down, curling up into a fetal position.

  “I’m so sorry,” she sobs, over and over and over. “I’m so sorry for bringing you into this hell.”

  Blood’s running down my face.

  I grab a paper towel from the kitchen and hold it against the cut.

  I wanna vomit.

  I don’t recognize this lady right now.

  The greatest woman that ever lived.

  At least she used to be. Until a minute ago.

  The only things I’m thinking are how pathetic she’s acting and how skinny she’s gotten.

  How beautiful her skin and hair still are, and how fucking thrilled I am knowing she won’t remember any of this tomorrow.

  She’ll never know what she did.

  I’ll never tell her.

  My mother, she deserves way better than that.

  She deserves my silence.

  6.

  IT’S FOUR A.M. WHEN THE Morrissey records stop spinning downstairs. I can hear stairs creak next. Every time one does, I wince and my body shakes.

  I hold my breath until her bedroom door finally shuts.

  A couple minutes later, I smell the dope she’s smoking.

  I’m sitting at my computer. Three lines of Oxy remain on the cover of the book Our Band Could Be Your Life.

  I’ve read it twice since someone recommended it in this Sonic Youth chat room I was in a few months back.

  I lean down and go.

  There’s only two lines now.

  That Youth Lagoon song “Montana” is playing on my computer. This is the third straight time I’ve listened to it.

  Their first record changed me.

  “July” was the first song I heard from it.

  The music ripped a hole in me. It struck an emotional nerve so deep, I felt debilitated by the time the song was over. Never in my life has music pierced me so hard I felt like my life had been stolen from me once the music stopped.

  I cried when I listened to it the second time.

  And when I played the entire record in order, the spell of nostalgia that was cast over me was so potent and heavy, it was like I was still clinging to a beautiful dream when the final track had concluded.

  The music is mesmerizing.

  It’s not sad, but it makes you yearn for those afternoons or mornings or nights when you felt so damn alive and attached to the moment. Those times when you were really experiencing life instead of thinking about how you wished you were experiencing it.

  The feeling is gorgeous.

  Its beauty lies somewhere in the sentimentality of the past. It doesn’t matter if the memory was of a great moment or an awful moment. It was an important moment.

  And the nostalgia gives you all the comfort you need in the present.

  Everyone needs the comfort of nostalgia.

  This is the genius of the first Youth Lagoon record.

  When the song ends again, I grab my acoustic guitar and continue writing this new song of mine called “Black Vulture.” It’s pretty good right now, but it can be so much better.

  It’s sorta hard to concentrate, though, as my face keeps swelling from the vicious hits of my mother’s angry fist.

  She has to be passed out right now.

  Images of her losing her mind two hours ago and attacking me smash through my head.

  I set the guitar down and stand in front of the mirror on my door.

  My left eye is turning more blue.

  It’s so ugly.

  I put my finger against it and wince.

  I hope my mother is lost in some kind of gorgeous dream of her own right now. Somewhere far, far away from all her demons and monsters.

  I hope she’s standing in the middle of a thousand meadows filled with beautiful flowers.

  I hope she’s writing her name in the wet sand of a gorgeous beach.

  Barefoot.

  Humming.

  All her horror kept at bay.

  Back at my desk, I lean down and go again.

  One line remains.

  I scroll through my iTunes and play the Future Islands song “Balance.”

  After that, I upload the video of me reading my new poem to my Tumblr page and my YouTube channel and write an entry about it.

  Twelve hours ago, I couldn’t wait to get home from school and play my mother the new tracks Washed Out posted on their Bandcamp page.

  I was so fucking excited to hang out with her.

  It just goes to show how quickly things can turn against you.

  In a matter of seconds, your life can get turned upside down without your consent.

  My mother will never know what she did to me tonight.

  This is exactly how silence becomes deafening.

  7.

  THAT LCD SOUNDSYSTEM DOCUMENTARY SHUT Up and Play the Hits is playing on the laptop in the kitchen. My mother is still sleeping, and I’m cooking us breakfast: bacon, omelets, fruit cups, and coffee.

  Even though I cook for the two of us all the time in the morning, it’s rare she ever sleeps in this late, no matter how smashed up she got the night before.

  But it is nice to have the kitchen all to myself.

  I’ve watched this documentary eight times, and I take something new from it every time. The idea of bringing your band to a halt at the height of its success in order to go out on your own terms is one of the most intriguing concepts I’ve ever heard. But then to go through with it while the cameras are actually rolling, like, that’s brutal. It’s brave. And most of all, it’s real, which is hard to find in music anymore.

  And I value that.

  I fucking love it so much.

  I was seven the first time I heard them. I woke up really late one night when my mother came home with some friends. They were listening to the Sound of Silver record, and I crept downstairs to hear it better.

  It took me thirty seconds to fall in love with their music.

  For the next six months, I tried to learn their songs on the piano and the guitar. It didn’t go very well. But I became so much better at both instruments. By the time I was ten, I could play every song off of This Is Happening.

  And although I don’t know shit about my father, I do know that he’s a huge LCD Soundsystem fan. I know this because my mother walked right out of this piano lesson of mine once after I cut into the song “All My Friends.”

  I stopped playing. I was stunned and totally pissed off because I was doing so well at that moment. My instructor, he told me not to take it personally.

  “How could I not?”

  “It’s the song you’re playing.”

  “She loves this band.”

  “She found out that your father and his new wife flew to New York for their last s
how and hung out with James Murphy afterward.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So she can’t listen to the music anymore?”

  “Jaime,” he said. “You know your mother.”

  “Right. I do. At least she’s consistent,” I said.

  He shook his head and grinned. “Your insight into other people’s emotions. It’s so impressive.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’re one of the brightest and most talented kids I’ve ever taught, Jaime.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I can’t believe my father kicked it with James Murphy. Like how?”

  “What do you know about your father?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Google him,” he said.

  “No. I would never do that to my mother,” I told him. “Never.”

  Back to breakfast now.

  After I flip both omelets and turn the bacon, I get a new message in Google chat.

  It’s from this girl Cheyanne, who lives in Chicago and goes to DePaul University. She’s a freshman majoring in journalism. She’s been a huge fan of my video blogs and my writing on Tumblr and WordPress for almost a year.

  Loved the new video, Jaime. So gorgeous. The mood, that nostalgia in each line, it was so suffocating. But so liberating, too.

  Thank you, I type back.

  I’m going to work on getting you published in a cool lit mag.

  That would be incredible.

  I can’t believe you’re only fourteen.

  It’s just a number. I’m a fucking geezer if you’re going by experiences.

  LOL. Right. So what are you doing right now?

  Cooking breakfast for me and my mom. I Googled my father, too.

  You don’t know him???

  No.

  What’d you find out?

  That he’s way successful. He lives in San Francisco, but I already knew that.

  I love SF. I went out there last summer to see some family and fell for the city. What does he do?

  He runs some big-time hedge fund, owns two art galleries. That’s about it. He’s got a stepdaughter, too. She’s seventeen and looks like Ivanka Trump. It’s scary how much they look alike.

  Scary? Why?

  Cos I always thought that if there was a God, he’d be one cruel bitch to only make that kind of beauty once.

  OMG, dude. You’re too much.

  You love it.

  Of course I do. And I gotta go. Later, duder.

  Word. Have a great day.

  I close out of Google and walk back to the stove to begin plating the food while LCD Soundsystem sings about losing their edge.

  8.

  I’M ALREADY EATING WHEN MY mother finally emerges from her slumber.

  It’s hard for me to look her in the eyes at first.

  Even though she gave birth to me and has raised me and gives me a hundred dollars each week just to buy records and books with, she punched me.

  Twice.

  My goddamn eye is black and blue.

  It feels like a fucking amp got dropped on my head from twenty feet.

  My mother, she walks slowly through the kitchen. She’s holding her right hand.

  “Hey,” she says.

  I can tell she doesn’t remember anything, so it’s gonna be easier to carry her through this.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “My hand.” She lets it go and holds it up.

  I’m five feet from her and I can see how swollen her knuckles are. They’re big and bruised and so sore.

  “I don’t know what happened,” she says.

  This is when she really notices my face. Whatever sort of life is in her just drains immediately. Tears begin running from her eyes.

  “Jaime,” she gasps. “No. No.” She peels her eyes from my face to her hand. “No.”

  I stand up and go, “You didn’t do this to me, Mom.”

  She looks horrified and sick.

  This is the first time in my life that I’ve seen every single trace of beauty and class completely vanish from her face.

  Her body starts shaking violently.

  “Mom,” I say. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

  “No,” she goes again. “Jaime . . . what is this? What happened?”

  “I got into a fight.”

  She covers her face with the hand that’s not busted and says, “What did I do? I don’t remember.”

  “You didn’t do anything. When I was picking you up from the bar, there was this man. He was attacking you. When I was trying to pull him off of you, he punched me. And that’s when you punched him. That’s why your hand is messed up.”

  “What?” she shouts. “Where was this?”

  “Outside the Checker Board. You called me and asked me to pick you up. I did and there was a fight.”

  I try to wrap my arms around my mother now, but she turns away and leans on the kitchen counter. When her hand touches the surface, she screams out in pain and throws her arms around her waist. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m a monster,” she says.

  “Mom,” I say. “It’s over. Everything is fine now.”

  “No,” she sighs, shaking her head wildly. “No, it’s not. None of this is fine.”

  “But it’s over, okay? It’s over and there’s nothing we can do about it. You should see a doctor about your hand.”

  “I’m such a monster,” she says again.

  “No, you’re not. You’re the furthest thing from a monster. Look at this gorgeous house, and look at all the nice things we have. You’ve done all of this for me,” I say. “Nobody else has this.”

  “Bullshit. Goddamn it! This is no good.”

  Reaching toward her now, I slide a hand over her arm. “It’s over, Mom. I have to go to school now. We have to leave in five minutes.”

  “Shit,” she says. “I can’t drive you.”

  “It’s too late for me to take the bus.”

  She squeezes her forehead and goes, “I’ll call a cab.”

  A good chunk of my anxiety falls away when she says this.

  That car ride would’ve been so miserable.

  And I go, “Okay. I’m gonna go grab my bags.”

  “All right.”

  After I’m done jamming my backpack full of notebooks and novels—The Human War by Noah Cicero; I Steal Hearts and Knives, a short story collection by James Morgan; Black Spring by Henry Miller—and this Sony camcorder I carry most places with me, I crush an Oxy on my desk and just snort the whole pile.

  There’s no time for lines right now.

  Then I grab my iPhone and earphones and hurry back downstairs.

  My mother is standing at the front door.

  “You look so handsome,” she tells me.

  “I guess I look tougher now too,” I tell her back.

  Her teeth grind, and she forces a smile.

  “You’re going to pick me up from school, though, right? I’ve got a piano lesson.”

  She nods her head. “Yeah,” she whispers.

  Then she looks back down at her hand.

  She looks disgusted by it.

  When she looks back up at me, she says, “You wouldn’t lie to me about what happened, would you?”

  “No,” I say. “Never. Why?”

  She leans toward me and touches the side of my face that’s all fucked up. “No reason.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I’m just hoping you wouldn’t lie to me.”

  “Mom . . . ,” I say.

  She bites down on her bottom lip. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell her. “And so will you.”

  “I hope so.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, as the cab pulls into our driveway. “Just have a great day at school for me.”

  �
��All right,” I say.

  She hands me forty dollars and goes, “There’s no way I would’ve attacked you, ya know.”

  My face turns red. “Yeah,” I sigh. “There’s no way.”

  Her eyes tear up. “Good,” she whispers. “And don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  Pause.

  “I really will, Jaime.”

  9.

  I ATTEND THE MOST PRESTIGIOUS and expensive private school in Joliet, Illinois. It’s also one of the most expensive and prestigious private schools in the entire state.

  And I hate it.

  I’ve been going to private schools my whole life. I don’t have any friends here. Which is fine, actually, because none of the kids who go here have good taste in music or books or movies.

  None of them listen to Beach House or Deerhunter or Grimes or the Fresh & Onlys.

  None of them have ever even looked inside a Sartre book, let alone read a page. And they’ve never touched House of Leaves or even know about Joan Didion’s Play It As It Lays.

  The girls in my grade, it’s like they’re mad at me because I don’t stare at them in class. I don’t ever try and talk to them. I never give them any attention during the day.

  Like, why would I?

  Not a single one of them is even close to the girl I used to have. She listened to Purity Ring and the Growlers. Her favorite movie was Black Swan, and her favorite author was David Foster Wallace.

  And then she turned out to be really evil.

  So these girls I go to school with, I already know that none of them are real.

  School uniforms are mandatory here.

  Dudes: brown khakis, white button-up shirt, a solid black tie, and a navy-blue blazer.

  Chicks: Gray skirts, black leggings, white button-up shirt, a solid black tie, and a navy-blue blazer.

  The rule is enforced rigorously. On me, at least.

  Just this year I’ve been given detention four times and a two-day in-school suspension for making “modifications” to my uniform.

  I made my khakis into shorts.

  I turned my blazer inside out and spray-painted the Wu-Tang logo on the back of it.

  I took a knife to my shirt.

  And I took white paint to my black tie to make it look like a bandanna and hung it out of my back pocket. That day I also wore the pair of brand-new, hot-pink Chuck Taylors I bought with the money my mother gave me for grading out higher than any of the 140 other piano players, ages twelve through twenty-two, at this statewide recital at DePaul University a week earlier.