Part 111

A pile of sweaty bodies shove past me as I make my way to the island in the kitchen. Ryan invited me to a house party today; he still has no idea what's going on. Honestly, nobody does right now either. I manage to get through the crowd, and I begin to pour the vodka into my red plastic cup. I really don't care about shots; I just down this and pour some more.
"Yo, Evan!" My back is slapped by a hand.
"Dude, what the hell?" I spill my drink.
"Wanna smoke weed?" He asks. I stare at him with a diffident look. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out five joints. If I didn't know any better, I would be out there with him smoking right now. Instead, I say, "Just give me like two, and I'll be out in a couple." And voila, he hands me two and walks away with his friends. Now, I can go outside and smoke by myself.
I take the bottle of vodka with me because I don't want to feel anything at this point. I want to feel like I am in the Empyrean and that I have wings and can fly. It's a good thing I have an extra lighter with me. A haze seems to linger in the dark as I stumble out the door. The music and voices dwindle to a soft chatter, and hopefully, after a few hits of this joint, it will subdue all noise. After a few hits of the joint and painful sips of vodka, my body starts to feel numb, like really numb. I rest my head on the wall behind me and struggle to keep my eyes open. Then a body comes crashing down next to me.
"Are you good?" A voice asks me, a concerned yet very comforting voice.  I stutter out words like, "uh" and "uhm" before I finally reach the point in telling her that I am long gone.
"I think you need to take this away from me." I hand the girl sitting beside me the joint and the lighter. In the dark, I see the flicker of fire lighting the edge of a joint. Somehow, in the darkness, I see the smoke that comes out after as well.
"Why are you out here?" I turn my head towards her. Barely even looking at her, I can tell she's pretty.
"I don't know. Same reason as you, I guess."
"Well, I don't know how I'm getting home," My words seem to be shocking because she looks at me even more concerned.
"Do you need a ride," She asks after blowing a puff of smoke out her mouth. I nod my head.
"I would like one," I try to continue speaking but hesitate.
"Where do you live?"
"Not too far from here. It's probably like a ten minute drive."
"Do you wanna leave now?" She takes another hit of the joint.
"It's not like I have much to go home to. I have a mother who's slowly dying in front of my eyes because of cancer. I have no father because he was a dickhead, and my house isn't much of a home anymore."
Holy shit.
I had no intention of getting this sentimental with a stranger.
A stranger.
Alcohol makes me more maudlin than I would expect. Now my eyes are red and I'm lachrymose. I am devoting my transparency to a goddamn stranger right now.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to dump all that shit on you. Let's go."
I stumble on my feet and stagger to my car. A very pretty girl is right behind me and is currently watching the worst possible state I could be in right now. When I get into the passenger seat, she is already in the driver's seat. I shut my eyes and let the noise of nothingness bless my brain.
We reach my home. I'm surprised she knows where my house is because I don't even remember telling her.
"Thank you," I say smiling, "what's your name?"
"Willow."
"Thank you, Willow," I say while opening the car door.
"Wait, stop, let me help you."
Willow runs out the car and helps me stand. The ten minute drive didn't make me any more sober. I feel just as crossed as before; maybe even worse. She helps me to the front patio and into the foyer. My legs tremble as they struggle to support my weight. Suddenly, I'm rested on the couch.
"Do you want water?" She asks me.
"I think I'm going to pass out soon. Thank you so much, Willow."
My words seem to diminish because she sighs and I hear her say something but I couldn't make words out of it. The front door slams shut and so do my eyes.
A luster mottled my curtain at 7 AM this morning. My hands are glued to my chest, and all I can think about is last night and that insanely kind girl. Getting up, I first saw my reflection. My mirror is on the right side of my bed, the one I usually get out of.
I look like absolute shit.
I pull a shirt lying on my bed over my body and scamper to the hall bathroom to brush my teeth and hair. My mom is in the hospital currently getting blood tests, and I'm here in my bathroom. I'm here in my bathroom getting dressed for school to then come home and dress for work to then come home to cook myself food to then shower and do all the homework my teachers feel the need to assign. Everyone always said junior year is the best time in high school; that is, if your mother doesn't have cancer. It has been like this for two months now.
It wasn't as bad in January; February was the tipping point, and now, in March, I'm drowning in water I can't tread.

I arrive at school, and by my locker, I see the girl from last night. I think her name is Willow.
"Hey," I say, inching towards the locker. Willow gives me a look of ambivalence and sighs, "Guy from the party, right?"
"Sure is," I say, smiling. Willow just leans against the locker next to mine.
"I never got your name."
"Evan," I respond.
Willow raises an eyebrow and says, "Here, you left this at the party last night." She hands me my lighter. With a disgruntled smile, I wave the lighter.
"Hey," I say before she leaves, "How did you get home?"
"I had a friend pick me up."
"Ah, okay."

The school day has gone by in one big swirling motion. I'm in sixth block right now, tapping my pencil for that damn bell to ring. I only have one more, and I'm out.
There it is.
Students' book bags are rushed to their shoulders; binders are shoved in them, and chairs are not pushed in. The teacher says my name before I exit the door.
"Yes?"
"You haven't completed your homework in the past two weeks, you have failed the four quizzes we took this month, and you have not been using your full potential to participate in this class," She says, "Knowing you, I know this is highly unlikely. You're an above-average English student with a high GPA who always writes eloquently in his essays. What is going on, Evan."
And now the lachrymose from last night reappears in the corner of my eye, hot and begging to come out.
I swallow hard.
I swallow hard again.
And again.
"Evan?" My teachers voice sounds worried.
My voice breaks, "I don't know what you want me to do."
The tears welling in my eyes seep out into a flood of the things I didn't say this week, last week, and the weeks before that.
Everything I held in comes out angry and mad— a feeling I can't describe because I'm hurt so why am I furious?
The job.
The school work.
My mother.
Everything.
Slithering out of my eyes are hot and salty teardrops; they are rough on my bumpy skin, and they fall off the sharp hairs of my jawline.
My stomach hurts, and I feel the solace of a hand touching my shoulder. My quivering body was locked in a cage, and now it has escaped, telling the story of a boy who is completely and utterly broken.
My stained glass is now clear, and I have never felt more vulnerable until now. Even when my father gave me hell on Sunday nights, I walked into school on Monday like the world had nothing against me, but it did.
The world had everything against me.
I wanted to have a childhood with a father who carried me on his shoulders while going around the house asking his wife where I was. I wanted to have a childhood with a father who pretended to be hurt by a fake sword fight.
I wanted to have a childhood with a father who treated his wife like a princess, so I could look at them and pass it on to my future wife.
I wanted a childhood with a father and a mother, and the father was a king who used his sword for good—a sword that dripped the blood of the people who hurt his family, not blood from his own family.
All that is unprecedented because now I can't just hold it in and pretend to be okay.
Nothing is okay.
My mother is dying in front of my eyes.
Hallways and lockers are blurry in my vision while being walked down to the guidance office.
"Mrs. Winslow, we have a student here for you."
"Bring him back."
Mrs. Cassidy, my English teacher, pats my back and points in the direction of the room. I gingerly make my way to my guidance counselor's office.
"Hey, Evan," she says with a warm smile, "how are you?"
"Not good," I say while sitting down.
"Do you want to talk?"
I nod my head like a child.
"What's going on?"
"Well," I start, "My mom has cancer. I found out a little over two months ago. My mom told me in January, and I took care of her for the time I could."
My eyes start to well with tears again.
I stop talking until I know they're gone.
I continue, "She isn't home anymore, and she's not working, so I've been working at a grocery store to pay off some bills. I've been working six-hour shifts after school and then coming home exhausted," I say, stopping to look down at my leg that is shaking uncontrollably.
Tears cannot escape from the eyes.
"I don't have time for homework," I say.
"On the weekends, I visit my mother in the hospital. She is fighting every day of her life."
A dejected look crosses Mrs. Winslow's face. The most sympathy I've gotten is this look. Silence fills the space around us. I look around her room, and then she starts speaking.

"Evan, I can't even begin to know how terrible this may feel. I need you to know that you cannot be putting this much pressure on yourself. You are only seventeen."
My eyes met hers after staring at the ground for a while. When she said my age, I couldn't help but stare at her.
I'm only seventeen.
"I know," I say as my voice trembles. I can't help but cry. I am so beaten down, and I feel like the world is plotting against me in every corner. There's no possible way for me to cope with this.
How can someone cope in circumstances like this?
These tears aren't angry, nor are they resentful. The tears that dangled from my eyes finally let go and fall— they just fall.
This is pure sadness.

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